However, this penny-pinching had not gone unnoticed. This year I had received only three boxes of chocolates and a few cards. Nevertheless, I happily gobbled down the chocolates.
My exam results had turned up: I had scraped a pass in the Japanese proficiency exam, and was now fully qualified to communicate in Japanese.
February drew to a close. Less than five months remained of my life in Japan.
21
Love at last
My dream of meeting a girlfriend in Japan had all but faded away. With only five months left, I had decided it was time for me to stop looking and hoping, and simply get on and enjoy my remaining time with my friends. I even made a formal announcement to Justin, adamantly stating that my search was over. I was convinced I would never find true love in Japan.
With my search now officially at an end, I was free to meet up with my mates for a boys’ night out at one of our favourite bars. It was there that I met Akko.
Akiko Taketoshi, or Akko, as she introduced herself, was a tall slim beautiful girl who had caught my eye the second she entered the bar. I had tried my best to keep my eyes off her, and to remain focussed on the conversation at hand. However, my self-restraint had sadly been lacking and I had caught myself glancing in her direction, hoping to snatch a glimpse of her from across the bar.
Wij and Matt were laughing about something and Andy was on his phone, desperately checking the final score of an English soccer match.
The beautiful girl on the dance floor vanished. I snapped myself back to reality and rejoined the conversation. Andy was excited. His team had won. It was time to buy a celebratory round. We downed tequila shots, shared stories, laughed and drank some more.
The music was loud and catchy. My feet started tapping on their own, and in a trance I drifted away from the table to the dance floor. I danced happily with my eyes closed. It was good to be out with my mates. The beer and tequila were putting me in a relaxed, carefree mood.
I opened my eyes. The beautiful girl was standing in front of me. A spotlight was shining down on her, illuminating her pretty face and long flowing hair.
She looked at me. I looked back. We both smiled.
Without thinking I stepped forward. We both spoke at the same time.
‘Hi.’ The world stood still. Everything felt smooth. Everything felt fluid. I knew that people were moving around us, but I couldn’t see them. I knew the music was playing, but I couldn’t hear it.
Akko. The beautiful girl was called Akko. She spoke no English, but she laughed at my Japanese jokes and wanted to talk to me. We stood in the middle of the dance floor. Talking. Smiling.
I offered to buy her a drink. We moved to the bar. People parted for us. She drank a cocktail and I drank beer. We talked and laughed. We talked about everything. We talked about nothing. We talked about my life in the countryside. We talked about her life in the city. We talked about life. We talked about Mexican food. We talked about movies. We laughed about Michael Jackson.
My friends were watching me. From across the bar, they smiled and waved, and gestured that I should keep talking. Just keep talking no matter what.
Akko’s girlfriends came to check on her. Who was this tall foreigner she had been talking to for so long? She laughed and waved them away.
We kept talking and laughing. Hours passed. Akko had a soft laugh and a soft voice. She blushed and said that she was usually very shy, but felt comfortable with me as I was easy to talk to. She added that my Japanese was very good.
I waited. The usual request for me to act as a translator so Akko could chat up one of my friends never arrived. Akko wanted to talk to me.
We danced and drank. Hours passed and the bar closed. It was seven a.m. We went for breakfast, arranged to meet up later for dinner. We went to dinner, and promised we would meet the next day for dinner as well. Our time together flowed effortlessly and quickly. We talked. We laughed. We started to fall in love.
Sunday dinner gave way to Monday dinner. We met again on Tuesday. And again on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. There was never a need to nervously ask permission to see Akko again. Fate had finally dealt me a winning hand. Before we realised it, we had known each other for an entire week.
We went for dinner at a restaurant that Akko had chosen. The food was tasty and unpretentious. The surroundings were fun. We chatted as if we hadn’t seen each other in months. So much had seemingly passed in the hours that we had been apart.
We met up with Akko’s friends for drinks in a quiet backstreet bar. Everyone was drunk. Akko held my hand. I felt warm. We looked at each other quietly. The world was standing still again.
Akko blushed. Her eyelashes fluttered. Her pretty mouth curled. I felt warm all over.
We walked to the station. We were holding hands. We stopped walking. I kissed her. She kissed me back.
Sadly, even love and intoxication could do nothing to protect me from the barbs and thorns of the local taxation system. At the end of the previous year I had received a hefty tax bill about which my supervisor, Mr Horrii, had failed to forewarn me. This sudden blow to my finances had knocked me for six, and I had been left with just enough aluminium coins to scrape together a diet of instant noodles and bread to tide me over until my next pay cheque.
From then on I had been keen to avoid a similar debacle, and so, after a few words with my supervisor, it had been decided that the calculation of my tax returns would become the task of the Junior High School staffroom secretary, Mr Yoshimura. Mr Yoshimura was an incredibly efficient office secretary, but he also epitomised the stereo typical bureaucrat. I had once borrowed a pen from him and been forced to write my name on a piece of paper so he could be sure of getting his property back.
I had often watched with amusement as Mr Yoshimura rounded up bands of male teachers to help shift heavy office furniture or appliances. Each teacher would be required to change into a pair of work overalls and don a pair of heavy-duty woollen gloves. Teachers were also forbidden to lift the office printers without the protection of appropriate safety clothing.
However, there was no way that I would be able to fill out my tax returns by myself. The Japanese tax form is a labyrinth of mind-bending Japanese characters and requests for complicated and detailed information. Mr Yoshimura would be ideally suited to carrying out the task on my behalf. At the same time I was concerned that his fine-tuned attention to detail and stubborn refusal to cut corners would turn the already confusing process into a nightmare.
Sure enough, Mr Yoshimura soon began turning up at my desk on an regular basis, wanting to look through my payslips, bank books and various tax records. I had little time for his stammered attempts at explaining the Japanese tax system, and took absolutely no enjoyment from lengthy tales about his pastime of reading accounting and computer textbooks.
However, in early March Mr Yoshimura wandered over to my desk to deliver some good news. ‘Ah, Mr Hamish,’ he began, adjusting his glasses, ‘I have finished your tax returns. I think there was a mistake last year.’ He paused. ‘Yes, last year there was a big mistake. You paid too much tax.’
My mind flashed back to the impoverished weeks of instant noodles.
‘Yes, I think Mr Horrii filed an incorrect tax return for you. So I think you received a very large tax bill.’
Steam started to come out of my ears. ‘Go on,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Mr Yoshimura said cheerfully, seemingly unaware of my escalating anger, ‘you paid too much residential tax. I have filled in a form for you. You will be able to receive a residential tax repayment.’
My anger vanished and I shook Mr Yoshimura’s hand. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ I said warmly.
Mr Yoshimura was overjoyed with his accounting breakthrough. ‘We should go to Tondabayashi Tax Office this afternoon,’ he announced. ‘You will need to fill in some other forms there to receive your repayment. Are you free this afternoon?’
I nodded. I had already taught my two classes for the day. The thought of suddenl
y being eligible for a tax repayment had put a grin on my face. Fill out a few simple forms and the money would be mine.
I ate my lunch as quickly as possible and Mr Yoshimura and I drove off to the tax office.
Here we struck an entire building full of Mr Yoshimuras, each with his own special colour armband, rubber stamp and pen collection. Luckily, Mr Yoshimura seemed perfectly at ease. ‘Please follow me,’ he said quietly. ‘We will need to find the right person to talk to.’
I nodded. There was little I could do but follow my guide through the bewildering rabbit warren of corridors and queues of people. The man in the reception area referred us to a second man, who referred us to a third man, who referred us upstairs to a fourth man, who made us wait for a fifth man, who gave our papers to a sixth man, who scratched his head and went and got a fat lady in a purple jersey.
The fat lady in the purple jersey frowned grumpily while she slowly scrutinised my tax forms. After humming and haahing, she decided that yes, I would be eligible to receive a 30,000-yen repayment from the Tondabayashi City Council. ‘However,’ she announced in a stern voice, ‘this will take two months to process.’
‘No problem,’ I said happily. My money was on its way.
I glanced at Mr Yoshimura. He seemed thoughtful. ‘Oh dear,’ he said anxiously, ‘Mr Hamish is leaving in July. Maybe there won’t be enough time to process his repayment?’
An obnoxious smile crept over the fat lady’s face. ‘Oh well, in that case, we can’t pay him.’
‘But that’s nearly five months away,’ I erupted, knowing full well that five months was longer than two months.
The woman looked over my tax form again and shook her head. ‘We’ll try and pay you,’ she said coldly, ‘but I can’t promise anything. What’s more, it seems you didn’t pay enough income tax last year and owe us 4000 yen. Please pay that in two weeks’ time.’
I had a mental image of crushing the purple lady with a concrete mixer, but did my best to remain outwardly calm. Raising my voice or making a scene might see my repayment being cancelled, and yet another bill added to my account.
‘I’ll try and pay my taxes this year,’ I muttered to myself, ‘but since I’m leaving in five months I can’t promise anything.’
I arrived at school the next morning to find my friend Mr Higo waiting at my desk. ‘I have an idea,’ he said with his trademark smile.
I listened. ‘Not another running race?’
‘No, no. This will be much more enjoyable.’ Mr Higo laughed. ‘Next week will be the end-of-year graduation ceremony. But before that, the teachers will hold a farewell party for the third-grade students. The graduation ceremonies are always so sad, we think it would be nice to have a happy farewell party as well.’
I nodded. I was already well aware of the plans for the farewell party.
‘Yes,’ Mr Higo continued, ‘at the farewell party some of the teachers will sing and perform dances for the students.’ He paused, working up the courage to make his big suggestion. ‘I would like to do a stand-up comedy routine with you. I think we can be very funny and make the students laugh. What do you think?’
‘That sounds great,’ I concurred. ‘Will we do the routine in English?’
Mr Higo went quiet. ‘Ah, no. I was thinking that we can do a Japanese comedy routine. I have already written the script.’
I paused. I suddenly realised what I had just signed up for.
The Japanese sense of humour is rather different from the Western. The usual Japanese comedy routine consists mainly of puns or slapstick gags. For example, I would hit Mr Higo on the head with a rubber hammer, or he would poke me in the eyes and stamp on my feet.
The puns are even more painful. Take, for example, a joke Mr Yoshimura told me after we had returned from the tax office:
‘Excuse me, Mr Hamish.’
‘Yes?’
‘As you know, I study computers’ (this was the most amusing part of the joke for me) ‘and I was reading my textbook. Look, this is a task bar.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘But you see, I thought it was a tusk bar.’
‘Nope, it’s a task bar. Task means job.’
‘Oh, but you see I thought it meant tusk, like an elephant’s tusk. You see, it’s a joke.’
I suddenly realised that in just a few days I would be standing on the stage before a crowd of five hundred people, delivering jokes that would usually be reserved for Christmas crackers. Plus, the entire comedic routine would be in Japanese. This scared me the most. I hadn’t seen Mr Higo’s award-winning script, but I had a nasty feeling it would be full of jokes I didn’t understand.
I had faith in Mr Higo’s sense of humour, but if I couldn’t understand the gags, or made even a slight mistake with my pronunciation or accent, I would end up being an idiot on stage talking about elephant tusks and computer textbooks.
The farewell party was still a week away. I needed to sit back and relax. I had another important performance to get through in the meantime. The following Friday the third-grade students would graduate. These were the kids I had been teaching since I arrived in Japan. They had started out at the Junior High School only a few months ahead of me, and I had been surrounded by their smiley faces almost every day for the past two and a half years. Now only one week of classes remained.
I was feeling emotional and wanted to make my final class something special. I locked myself away and studiously wrote a ten-minute speech in Japanese, saying how much I’d enjoyed teaching everyone and what a friendly, funny group of students they had all been.
I passed it by Mr Higo for some final Japanese proofreading. He appeared at my desk an hour later with teary eyes. ‘This is a very wonderful speech,’ he said solemnly. ‘Did you write it yourself?’
I nodded. ‘Were there lots of mistakes?’
‘No, no.’ Mr Higo sniffed. ‘I think the speech is very fine. The students will be very moved.’ He handed it back to me and quickly moved away to make a cup of coffee.
I shrugged. Perhaps Mr Higo was feeling a bit emotional about graduation day as well.
Monday arrived. I walked slowly down the hallway. It was my final day teaching the third-grade students.
First on the schedule was 3-C class. The first forty minutes of the lesson were spent playing games. I reproduced one of the most popular team games, and everyone roared with laughter as they tried to memorise and place an order for a lengthy and confusing list of fast-food items.
The game finished, and everyone clapped. Only ten minutes with my long-time companions remained. A sombre mood descended on the classroom.
I started my speech slowly, making sure I pronounced every word correctly. I reached the two-minute mark in my notes and had just finished explaining how much I had enjoyed getting to know everyone during our respective first years at the school. I recounted some of the funny moments from our first classes together, and my first impressions of them all.
I looked up. All the girls burst into tears simultaneously.
I blinked in surprise and resumed my speech. I struggled through to the bottom of the next page, and suddenly all the boys were crying too. My voice was croaky and my eyes were moist. I carried on, biting my tongue and pinching the webbing of my fingers to stay calm.
I could hear myself thanking my students for being such diligent pupils, and encouraging them to keep studying English and to travel abroad if they had the opportunity. I thanked them for being my friends and for having made me feel welcome in a foreign country. I told them that I was sad to be leaving Japan in July, and would miss them all very much.
I paused. My speech was finally over. I looked up. Everyone was crying, even Mr Higo. He stood in the corner dabbing his eyes.
The bell rang on cue and everyone clapped. The students lined up to shake my hand and give me a hug goodbye.
I retreated to the staffroom to calm my nerves and prepare myself for the rest of the day. I still had the task of going around the remaining third-gr
ade classes and repeating my speech four more times. It felt as if I were going to a funeral.
By the end of the day, everyone who had been present in my lessons had been reduced to tears – including me. Word of this magical speech that was making everyone cry quickly spread through the staffroom. The owllike school principal, Mr Kazama, made numerous copies of my script and proudly posted them out to all the students’ parents to make them cry too.
I pedalled home slowly. My body felt tired and cold. I was emotionally drained. This had certainly been a memorable day.
It was Tuesday, and Mr Higo was back to his happy humorous self. We were sitting in the secluded confines of the school’s audiovisual room, practising and rehearsing for our performance at the farewell party.
My fears of inflicting a pun-laden yawn-fest on our audience were gradually being allayed. Mr Higo had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to produce a well-written and witty script that resembled something out of a Monty Python sketch.
We had been practising vigorously for the past few days whenever we had both had a free moment. We were confident that our routine was going well and flowed naturally. I was managing to get my tongue around most of the tricky lines, and was actually confident of getting some laughs.
One line still bothered me though: ‘Atatamemasen ka?’ (‘Shall I heat this up for you?’) I needed to pronounce this at speed, raise my voice expectantly at the end, and act like a brain-dead convenience store clerk. Even a slight mispronunciation (which I continued to make, despite Mr Higo’s stern advice) would see me spouting gibberish.
Our skit was loosely based around Mr Higo buying a pornographic magazine at a convenience store and then robbing a bank. I had initially been unsure about the content being suitable for an audience of twelve-to fifteen-year-olds, but the skit seemed almost pedestrian compared to the other teachers’ routines, which included dressing up in drag and showing off knickers and fake breasts. The proposed student-teacher routine devised by a teacher called Mr Hattai involved numerous lewd puns and two giant balloon penises.
Under the Osakan Sun Page 31