Mrs Yurano, however, was no pushover, and seemed unconcerned by Mr Kobayashi’s arrival. Although he attempted to firmly guide her in the direction of the ‘conversation room’, she swatted his arm away like a harmless bug. Mr Kobayashi stepped back in surprise. I wondered if this had ever happened before. Eventually, Mrs Yurano allowed herself to be escorted to Mr Kobayashi’s office, but I doubted that she would be the one bouncing off the walls.
My sudden spurt of busyness had come to an end as abruptly as it had begun. I no longer needed to stay at school later than 4.15, or give up part of my weekends to mark homework assignments. Meanwhile, the Kanan Town Board of Education continued to pay my wages.
I started to feel guilty about my lack of productivity and paid a visit to my old friends at the Board of Education to catch up with their news, and remind them that I was still a necessary part of the town’s education system.
Mr Horrii, my supervisor, seemed less than thrilled to see me: a visit from Mr Hamish no doubt meant I needed money or wanted time off. He scattered papers over his desk to give the illusion of being preoccupied.
That was fine by me: I had really hoped to catch up with Magnum, Mr Smiles and kindly old Mr Fujimoto. Magnum was out, apparently fixing drainpipes at an elementary school. Mr Smiles, though, was both present and overjoyed to see me. He listened avidly as I recounted the tale of my bicycle ride to Lake Biwa, and called for the office ladies to come and listen.
Mr Smiles added to my narration by performing an exaggerated mime of my spectacular crash in Kyoto. ‘You are high tension!’ he exclaimed loudly, clapping his hands. ‘Very, very high tension. I am high tension too.’
Mr Fujimoto appeared in the doorway, panting and out of breath. He had recently been transferred to the town’s tax department, but on hearing that I was visiting the Board of Education office, he had rushed upstairs to tell me his latest news. He was carrying one of his trusty New Zealand travel pamphlets and a large road map of the South Island.
‘Mr Hamish,’ he began, ‘how do you say this place-name?’
‘Lake Tekapo,’ I pronounced slowly.
‘Te-ka-po. Hmmm … I will go there next month.’
‘What?’ I asked in surprise. As far as I could tell, Mr Fujimoto hadn’t taken a holiday in years.
‘Yes.’ Mr Fujimoto was smiling happily. ‘Yes, I will go to New Zealand. I enjoyed talking to you about the travel pamphlets so much that I decided that I should go and see the places for myself. I was eventually able to convince my wife to come too, and was finally granted some time off.’
I was overjoyed for my friend, and quite moved that he had been so inspired by our pamphlet-reading sessions during my first summer in Japan. It turned out he had been secretly planning his trip for two years, studying every travel pamphlet about New Zealand that he could get his hands on. At long last he had memorised the locations and pronunciations of all the lakes and mountains he wished to visit, and was set to go.
‘This is my first time to go overseas,’ he explained nervously. ‘I have a brand new passport. I’m looking forward to visiting your country.’
I shook Mr Fujimoto’s hand and wished him safe travels.
Mr Fujimoto and his wife visited New Zealand in December that year. They spent a week travelling through the South Island, and even managed a chartered flight to Mount Cook. They returned to Japan in love with the New Zealand countryside, and raving about all the delicious food they had eaten. Mr Fujimoto replaced the travel-brochure pictures of Milford Sound, which had decorated his desktop at the office for the past two years, with real photos he had taken himself.
Mrs Oki called. She was talking quietly and I could hear little of what she was saying. I finally intercepted the words ‘Mr Oki has been ill’ and suddenly realised that things might be a little grim in the Oki house-hold.
I was confused by the conflicting accounts that Mr Oki was now receiving his meals through an intravenous drip, while at the same time being back at work at his shipyard office. A jumble of words spilled through the phone line, and I struggled to make sense of them.
It eventually became apparent that Mr Oki’s health had stabilised but he was no longer allowed to drink alcohol. Mrs Oki sounded sad when she informed me of this point. ‘We would like you to come around for dinner sometime soon,’ she announced finally.
‘I’d love to,’ I replied. ‘Please give my regards to Mr Oki.’ Mrs Oki bade me a quiet goodbye and hung up the phone.
She called again the following week. Her voice was as chirpy as ever. ‘Heymishi, how is your mother these days?’ she asked. ‘She wears lovely clothes. She is very beautiful, isn’t she?’
I reluctantly agreed. ‘I think she misses her lovely sons,’ I suggested. ‘I live in Japan and my brother lives in France.’
‘Oh, your mother has gone to France?’
‘No, not my mother, my brother.’
‘Who?’
‘My brother, Al. You’ve met him, remember?’
There was a slight pause.
‘So your brother is in France?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmmm.’
The phone clicked and went dead.
Mrs Oki called again the next night. It seemed she had suddenly remembered the abrupt ending of our previous call, and was now keen to finish the conversation. ‘Now then,’ she asked, ‘who’s coming to Japan, your mother or your brother?’
I shook my head in frustration.
‘How’s Mr Oki?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he’s very well. When are you coming round for dinner then?’
I frowned. Had I been invited?
‘How about next Wednesday?’ I suggested.
‘Okay, be at our house at 4.30.’
‘But I don’t finish work until 4.15,’ I protested. I had explained this fact to Mrs Oki numerous times. ‘The earliest I can get to your house is five o’clock.’
Mrs Oki paused, digesting this new information. ‘Okay then, five o’clock.’
She hung up the phone.
When Wednesday afternoon arrived, I dashed frantically from school to the Tondabayashi train station. I was determined to catch an earlier train than usual, in order to arrive at the Okis’ house before five. I didn’t want Mrs Oki sending out her sickly husband on another search mission.
Mrs Oki answered the door with surprise. ‘Heymishi! You’re early,’ she scolded. I checked my watch: 4.55.
‘Oh well, come in, come in.’ I stepped into the Oki home.
‘This is the entrance hall,’ Mrs Oki informed me. ‘Yes, there we are. Now I’ll turn on the light so I can see. Ah yes, now I can see.
‘Now then, where are the slippers? Heymishi! Put on some slippers. That’s right, take your shoes off first. Okay, I’m putting on my slippers. Heymishi, have you put on your slippers? Ah yes, you have. Now then, where’s the cat?’ She wandered away.
I made my way to the dining room. Mr Oki was waiting patiently. I froze and did my best not to look surprised. Mr Oki had shrunk. He was very thin, and had lost a lot of weight around his face and shoulders.
‘Hello,’ he said in his deep voice. His smile was as warm as ever.
I smiled, and sat down next to him. Mr Oki had dressed up for the occasion. He was wearing his old woollen jersey from New Zealand, which had a fluffy white sheep knitted into the front.
‘We’re going out for dinner,’ he announced.
‘Do you like sushi?’ Mrs Oki asked, entering the room. ‘We’re going to go to a sushi restaurant.’
I nodded quietly. Mrs Oki had obviously forgotten the contents of our previous meal together.
The Okis had booked a table at a local restaurant where we had often dined in the past. The plump lady behind the counter greeted us happily. ‘It’s so good to see you again sir,’ she said smiling at frail-looking Mr Oki. ‘I’ve reserved your usual table.’
Mr Oki chuckled and ordered us a plate of sushi and a bowl of fried scallops as an entrée. Mrs Oki grumbled and clucked awa
y about how Mr Oki was not allowed to eat deep-fried food.
‘Hamish can eat it then.’ Mr Oki winked and clapped me on the shoulder.
Mr Oki was in a mischievous mood. He persisted in ordering artery-clogging food for the rest of the evening, piling it on my plate while he quietly nibbled on slices of raw fish and a green salad.
Mrs Oki watched us both anxiously. ‘Mr Oki, you mustn’t eat any of that! That’s right, give it to Heymishi. Heymishi, can you eat that? Can you eat sushi?’
Mr Oki inquired how I was enjoying school. I informed him of my recent cycle ride to Lake Biwa and back. He snapped his fingers at once and signalled for the waitress. ‘A jug of sake!’ he thundered. ‘We must drink a toast straight away.’
‘You can’t have sake,’ Mrs Oki chirped. ‘The doctor said so.’
‘I don’t care,’ Mr Oki replied sternly. ‘We must celebrate Hamish’s cycle ride. It would be very rude not to.’
The waitress paused. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea?’ she asked cautiously. Mr Oki shot her an angry glare. ‘Yes! A pot of sake.’
I did not want Mr Oki to drink alcohol either, but it seemed that trying to convince him otherwise would only make him irate. A small jug of warm sake was eventually produced, and Mrs Oki carefully poured a tiny drop into Mr Oki’s cup. She then poured an especially large quantity into both my cup and her own, and placed the jug firmly out of reach of Mr Oki.
Mr Oki sat back and smiled. ‘It would be impolite for me not to drink a toast to you, Hamish,’ he said happily. ‘I wish you very good health. Well done on your cycle ride to Lake Biwa.’
I blushed. ‘Thank you, Mr Oki. I wish you very good health as well.’
‘Heymishi,’ chipped in Mrs Oki, ‘can you drink sake?’
Mr Oki and I laughed. Mrs Oki continued to stare at me inquisitively until I nodded. Mr Oki drank his drop of sake slowly, savouring what was to be his last taste of alcohol for some time. He grinned broadly. ‘That’s very good,’ he said. ‘It makes me feel a lot better.’
Mr Oki drove me home at the end of the evening. ‘We’ll climb Mount Kanan again one day,’ he said with a smile as I stepped out of the car.
‘All right,’ I replied and closed the door.
19
The Japanese mothers
Mr Oki’s health fluctuated terribly as the cold winter months rolled in. I would often receive frantic phone calls from Mrs Oki, insisting that I come for dinner the following week as Mr Oki had temporarily recovered, or had completed his latest bag of pills and medication. Without fail, though, these invitations would be cancelled the following day. Mr Oki was apparently ‘too cold’ or ‘not so good’ and we would postpone my visit to a more suitable date.
I began to worry that I would not be seeing Mr Oki again for some time, if at all. I was still unable to understand his wife’s rambling explanations and had no idea what was wrong with him. However, given the reluctance of Japanese doctors to keep patients informed of their illnesses, it was likely that the Okis were just as ignorant as I was.
I did my best to put Mr Oki’s health problems to the back of my mind, and buried myself in my Japanese textbooks. I was scheduled to sit the Japanese language proficiency exam in early December.
I had spent most of November preparing myself for this big day. I was determined to leave Japan with some form of recognition that I could speak the language better than when I arrived. I had made little effort to participate in formal studies, having decided that conversation sessions with my Japanese mothers, evenings drinking with the young male teachers, and interpreting for my friends at bars were much more practical forms of learning.
I was now devoting every waking moment to memorising Japanese characters and grammar patterns. My colleagues were delighted with my diligence, and took turns quizzing me on obscure vocabulary and colloquial expressions. My students would often stop by my desk to offer advice for memorising the stroke order of certain characters and the linguistic background of certain words.
I sat the exam on December 7. Although it was by no means easy, I felt satisfied that I was on my way to a passing grade. Results were not expected until mid February, so I would need to sit through the Osaka winter with my frozen fingers crossed.
One week later the Arctic wind was in full force, blowing frost into Kanan Town and sending flurries of snow down from the mountains. I looked out my apartment window and smiled. It was Tuesday morning, but I did not need to go to work. I turned back to my steaming bowl of instant noodles and started watching the first of the five videos I had hired for the week.
I stretched and yawned. I was in perfect health. My apartment was snug and warm, and I was equipped with enough junk food to see me through until spring. School had been cancelled. In fact, school had been cancelled since the previous Thursday as twenty percent of the students had influenza.
Having the flu in Japan has similar social repercussions to having the bubonic plague in fourteenth-century Europe. Nobody wants to catch the flu. People start wearing gauze medical masks in public as soon as an outbreak is announced in the media. Anyone coughing or sneezing is eyed suspiciously, and left on their own during lunch breaks and train rides.
At school, the teachers were petrified. There were news reports of a particularly nasty flu strain that was apparently circulating in Osaka City. Emergency meetings had been called to formulate a contingency plan in case the school became infected. It had been decided that as soon as the absentee rate reached twenty percent in a homeroom class, the remaining students would be sent home so the germs could be passed no further.
I contemplated this bizarre system. Those who were fit and well would be rewarded with a day at home playing video games. And while some classes would get to go home early, other classes with an absentee rate of perhaps only 10 or 15 percent would have to stay at school and do maths. It didn’t take the naughty boys long to figure out that if they acted a wee bit ill and went to the sick bay for half an hour, the whole class could go home and watch TV.
Finally, on Monday afternoon, the teachers had resorted to closing the school completely, hence my long sleep-in. I now had several gloriously lazy days to spend reading books, drinking coffee and eating chocolate. Admittedly, though, this was not too dissimilar from my normal working day at school.
Classes eventually resumed on Friday morning, and the acceptable absentee rate was lifted to forty percent. I noticed that several of the naughty boys were still off ‘sick’ and making the most of their teachers’ paranoia. I arrived at my conversation session with my Japanese mothers the following Monday, chortling about their cunning, and bragging about my relaxing hibernation.
However, everyone seemed ominously subdued. Mrs Kiguchi, our polite host, sat quietly, her face downcast and sad. She barely made any contribution to the conversation, and while she was away making a pot of tea I asked Mrs Tsubota if something were wrong.
‘Mrs Kiguchi is a little sad,’ Mrs Tsubota whispered confidentially.
‘This time of year is the anniversary of her husband’s death. She always feels a little lonely.’
My funny stories and cheeky tales suddenly evaporated. I was deeply saddened to hear that Mrs Kiguchi was so upset. It was a shock to see her in such low spirits, as she had always been so enthusiastic and energetic.
I sat quietly through the rest of the conversation session. Mrs Tsubota, Mrs Tanaka, Mrs Matsui and Mrs Terauchi chatted among themselves, and I made only token interjections.
Mrs Kiguchi sat silently. I was becoming sad just watching her. I was desperate to try and cheer her up.
‘It’s Christmas soon, Mr Hamish,’ Mrs Matsui exclaimed. ‘Will you do anything special this year?’
A light bulb went on inside my head. ‘Yes!’ I said excitedly. Everyone looked at me in surprise. I blushed: I hadn’t meant to speak so loudly.
‘Yes,’ I repeated, more quietly. ‘I think we should have a Christmas party – next Monday. I’ll bring some food, and we can sing Christmas
carols. You are always cooking food for me. Well, now it’s my turn to cook some food for you. It’ll be good fun, and we can all get into the Christmas spirit.’
Mrs Matsui clapped, Mrs Tanaka chuckled, Mrs Tsubota gasped and Mrs Terauchi began to prattle on about how foreign people ate reindeer for Christmas lunch.
‘Oooh, I’ll bring a plate of okonomiayaki pancakes,’ Mrs Tsubota exclaimed. ‘Sensei, you should not do all the cooking on your own.’
‘And I’ll bring some fried rice,’ offered Mrs Tanaka.
‘I’ve been making mulled wine,’ said Mrs Matsui secretively. The women gasped in eager anticipation.
Mrs Kiguchi smiled and looked at me shyly. ‘Sensei, so you will cook for us?’
‘Yes,’ I replied boldly, suddenly realising what I had gotten myself into. I had no idea what dish would be appropriate for such an occasion. Even if I knew, I would probably have neither the recipe nor the cooking skills to make it.
Mrs Kiguchi’s small smile widened. ‘Oh sensei, that is so lovely of you. I’m so happy.’
Back home, I flicked desperately through my one recipe book. Nothing suitable leapt out at me. The dishes were either too small, too boring or too difficult for me to cook.
But I had promised Mrs Kiguchi. I did not want to disappoint her. I flung open my pantry door hopefully. A single can of New Zealand baked beans stared back at me.
During lunch break the next day I decided I would prepare the one dish with which I had had relative success at pot-luck parties – Thai Green Curry. I had hoped to be a little more adventurous, but this tried and true favourite would have to do.
In the event, I surpassed my expectations. The curry, although starting off grey, ended up the right shade of green and tasted fantastic. I managed to find a bowl big enough to transport it in, and the success of the cooking experience began to give me ideas about opening a restaurant that specialised in green curry and baked beans.
Under the Osakan Sun Page 29