Under the Osakan Sun

by Hamish Beaton

  ‘Great,’ he exclaimed. ‘Let’s go!’

  He took off, beckoning me to follow. I didn’t move, hoping he would forget who I was and find someone else to chat with. Alas, my escape was not going to be so easy. He stopped again and beckoned furiously. I took off down a side street, hoping to lose him in the maze of winding streets near my apartment. Alas, though, four grocery bags were a cumbersome load and I was forced to pedal delicately so as not to drop any of the contents. Hence, my excited friend had no trouble keeping up with me.

  ‘No, no, the library is this way,’ he called out in alarm, and before I could attempt to out-manoeuvre him he blocked off my planned escape route down an alley. As we carried on around the corner he suddenly stopped, leapt off his bike and jumped in front of me, forcing me to either stop or run him over. I skidded to a halt.

  He raced up to the door of a nearby house and it was at this point that I noticed that he was wearing blue plastic toilet slippers. He banged on the door excitedly. ‘Mum, mum, come quick!’ He jammed his finger on the buzzer, and I could hear the bell clanging inside the house.

  Ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong.

  Mum finally opened the door. She looked rather cross. ‘What’s going on? Why are you so excited?’ she grumped.

  ‘Look look mum mum! What’s your name, mum? How do you say your name in English, mum?’ Mum didn’t know and looked baffled. Then she noticed me and looked even more baffled.

  ‘Are you friends with my son?’ she asked.

  ‘Hmmm … no, not really,’ I replied.

  Mum’s face changed from confusion to suspicion. ‘I just met your son. He found me on the road,’ I explained.

  ‘Oh.’ Suspicion was replaced with pity.

  ‘Tell her tell her tell her tell her tell her! How do you say my mum’s name in English?’

  ‘Keiko.’

  My friend was overjoyed. ‘How do you say my father’s name Toshio in English?’

  Mum cut in. Where was I from? Was I enjoying my job?

  Her son temporarily quietened down, but after five sentences he was off again, asking me to translate his entire family tree.

  At last I could stand it no more and started to pedal off. The young man made to climb back on to his bike, but fortunately mum could see what was going on. ‘But we’re going to the library,’ I could hear him exclaiming as I waved goodbye and pedalled away. I quickly decided that I would no longer be talking to strangers.

  A week went by. I continued to take the secluded backstreet route home. The relaxing ride beside the bubbling brook was pleasantly devoid of people who wanted me to repeat their parents’ names.

  May 25 was overcast and drizzly. I left school quickly, keen to get home before the ominous-looking black clouds forming over the mountain range could blow into town. Magnum waved from the town ball balcony as I sped through the rice paddies. There were not many cars on the road, and I zipped down Terada Hill at breakneck speed.

  As I veered on to my secluded trail I scanned the road ahead, keeping an eagle eye out for potential crackpots. I reached the banks of the Ishikawa River and darted through the traffic, across the bridge. A small furry shape moved in front of me. I braked. The small furry shape tripped and wobbled on unsteady legs. I looked closer. A tiny, fluffy kitten was moving intently towards the edge of the footpath, its dazed eyes staring blankly at the busy centre of the road.

  The kitten’s pitiful cries could barely be heard above the roar of the traffic. It teetered to the brink of the footpath, seemingly intent on crossing the road. I jumped off my bike, raced forward and scooped it up, just as it staggered on to the road.

  The kitten mewed softly, and looked around. It went limp in my hands, and made no protest as I bundled it into the folds of my jersey. It shivered slightly, and went to sleep.

  I looked around helplessly. Where on earth had this puny kitten come from? It had no collar and there were no houses nearby. I could not bring myself to leave the poor little thing to its fate in the middle of the Ishikawa bridge. With no better idea springing to mind, I cycled home with the sleeping kitten still tucked securely within my jersey.

  The kitten came awake when I lowered it gently on to my kitchen floor. It curiously examined my fridge door, seemingly unconcerned by its sudden change of environment. I poured a saucer of warm milk, but it seemed unsure what to do with it.

  I conjured up an ingenious solution: I would feed it by soaking the milk in a paper towel. I held the dripping towel enticingly to the kitten’s lips. The kitten paused and sniffed. It licked the towel inquisitively. It was obviously famished. After it had sucked the towel clean, it finished off the rest of the milk in the saucer.

  I suddenly wondered where my guest would relieve itself. I brought in one of the pot plants from my balcony, ready to scoop up the kitten and place it on the soil if it started acting suspiciously. The kitten mewed happily, and looked up at me with big needy eyes. My heart melted. I gave it a delicate pat on the head.

  I fetched a cushion and sat the kitten on top. It stretched out and fell asleep. I watched its skinny ribcage rise and fall. What on earth was I going to do now? With less than two months left in Japan, I had just adopted a weak orphan kitten.

  There was a noise on the street outside. My landlady, Mrs Fujita, and her daughters were returning home. Mrs Fujita was a resourceful woman. She would know what to do. I checked the kitten: it was sleeping soundly. I raced out the door.

  ‘Ah, hello,’ I called out breathlessly as Mrs Fujita struggled up the stairs, her arms loaded with grocery bags and Fu-Chan’s pink tricycle.

  She looked at me with a tired smile. ‘Hello, Mr Hamish. How are you?’

  ‘Ah, yes, well, I’ve found a kitten,’ I said nervously. Pets were strictly forbidden in Tokiwa Mansion.

  Fu-Chan clapped her hands. Mi-Chan shrieked. Mrs Fujita frowned. ‘Where was it?’ I explained the story.

  ‘Can we see, mummy? Can we see?’ Mi-Chan tugged Mrs Fujita’s sleeve.

  ‘Can we keep it? Can we, can we, can we?’ Fu-Chan tugged Mrs Fujita’s other arm.

  Mrs Fujita brushed them away impatiently. ‘We should have a look at it. It probably needs to go to a vet.’ She looked at her daughters. ‘Girls, do not touch the kitten. It might be sick.’

  The girls’ smiles turned to teary looks of anguish. ‘Will it be okay, Mummy?’ they chorused as the four of us entered my apartment. ‘Will you and Mr Hamish be able to fix it?’

  I grimaced. Mr Hamish was suddenly feeling very distraught about the health of his kitten.

  Mrs Fujita looked at the kitten carefully. It came awake and wobbled around the kitchen. ‘Oh, it’s soooo cute,’ Mi-Chan chirped. ‘I want to keep it. Can we, mum?’

  Mum was frowning. ‘It looks very weak. I think it has been living on its own for a long time. It is so thin. I think it will not live for very much longer.’

  My face fell. I looked at the girls for support. They were on the verge of tears. ‘Is there a vet nearby?’ I asked hopefully.

  Mrs Fujita considered. ‘Yes, but it is a very expensive place. You would need to spend a lot of money. A lot of money. And I don’t think this kitten can be saved. And if it can, what then? Where will it live?’

  Everyone felt like crying.

  ‘What about the SPCA?’ I asked desperately. ‘Won’t they take it in?’

  Mrs Fujita looked at me blankly. There was no such thing as an SPCA in Tondabayashi.

  The kitten tripped and fell. It picked itself up on shaky legs. Mi-Chan started crying. Fu-Chan hid her face.

  I looked at Mrs Fujita gravely. ‘I’ll figure something out,’ I said.

  The Fujitas departed and I was left alone in my kitchen with my wobbly kitten. I watched it sadly as it tottered around my apartment. It reacted with surprise to the coarse tatami mats. It clawed my old blue cushions, and tried to investigate the gap between my sofa and the wall. It had a soft tortoise-shell coat, and a big round face with pointy
ears and blue eyes. It mewed softly whenever it discovered something new, and looked at me happily.

  I sat down on my sofa, placed the tiny kitten on my lap, and gloomily watched the evening news. There was nothing I could do for the kitten. I was about to leave the country. I could not take care of it, and it certainly could not return to New Zealand with me. I would need to find a home for it.

  I stood up, wrapping the sleeping kitten in my jersey, and set off on foot to explore the neighbourhood. I roamed the streets, hoping against hope that I would find an orphaned animal centre. Alas, the streets were empty, and the homes and warehouses were tightly shut against the approaching storm.

  I returned to Ishikawa Bridge, desperately praying that I might stumble across the kitten’s owner. There was no one around. The black clouds rumbled overhead. A cold wind blew in off the mountains. The kitten mewed miserably in my jersey.

  Suddenly my hopes lifted. Lights were on in a small medical centre down the road. I started walking towards it briskly. Perhaps the doctor there could help me? Perhaps he could help me find a good cheap vet or an animal welfare centre?

  I stepped inside the clinic. The nurse looked at me in alarm. The clinic was about to close for the night.

  ‘Can I see the doctor?’ I asked urgently. ‘It’s an emergency.’

  The nurse looked at me suspiciously. I wasn’t bleeding. My limbs were not broken. What was wrong with me?

  ‘I’ve found this kitten!’ I thrust the small animal towards her. ‘Do you think the doctor can help?’

  The nurse’s heart melted. ‘Oh, it’s so cute,’ she enthused, ‘and so small. Wait here, I’ll get the doctor.’

  She returned shortly afterwards with a bewildered-looking man wearing a white coat.

  ‘Ah, Mr Hamish.’ The doctor had recognised me. ‘You taught my daughter English for two years. Now she is in high school. She said you were a good teacher. How can I help you?’

  I explained my story. The nurse clucked and sighed and gave the tiny kitten pitying looks.

  The doctor looked at the kitten intently. ‘I think it is very sick,’ he said slowly. ‘There is nothing I can do. I am not a vet.’ He paused. ‘But I think I can help. I recognise this kitten. I think it belongs to the old lady down the road. I see her feeding her cats every day. Here, let me give you the address.’

  He grabbed a pen and piece of paper and began scribbling numbers and Japanese characters. He held it out to me. ‘Thank you again for teaching my daughter.’ He bowed. The nurse bowed. I bowed back. The kitten mewed.

  I raced down the road, overwhelmed with relief. The old lady’s house was close by. I looked back at Ishikawa Bridge; the kitten had done exceedingly well not to have been run over during its long journey.

  The cat lady’s house was dilapidated. A broken gate opened on to a small front garden full of weeds and overgrown plants. The place reeked of cat pee. I approached the entrance apprehensively. The house was dark, with no lights. I rang the bell.

  A cross voice called out from behind the filthy screen door. ‘What?’

  ‘Excuse me, madam, I’ve found your cat,’ I called back.

  ‘Don’t want it. Not interested.’

  She had obviously mistaken me for a door-to-door salesman or religious nutter.

  ‘I’m not selling anything,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ve found your little kitten. It was on the bridge. The doctor down the road thinks it’s yours. I’ve brought it back for you.’

  There was a pause. ‘I don’t want it. Go away. Leave me alone.’

  Footsteps sounded, and the woman disappeared deeper into the dark house. The wind howled. The clouds rumbled ominously. I was left on the doorstep with a crying kitten.

  Back home, I had one last idea. I grabbed a tea towel from my kitchen and made my way to the local Buddhist temple. I wrapped the kitten in the tea towel and placed it delicately in the donations box outside the temple exit. I said a quick prayer to an unspecified god, hoping that the kind-hearted Buddhist monks would take care of the little sick kitten.

  I started to walk away. The clouds rumbled and burst. Rain splashed down.

  The kitten cried. The rain increased and grew louder and louder, until I could no longer hear the kitten’s feeble calls.

  The rain plastered my hair to my scalp and glued my shirt to my back. I walked home feeling sick and heartless and miserable.

  Over the past couple of months there had been a rash of naughtiness and indecent shenanigans at Kanan Junior High School. The first episode had occurred in late May, when someone had spray-painted three large Japanese kanji characters on the wall of the boys’ toilets. The characters were merely the name of the culprit’s home class but the school had gone into crisis mode, made worse by the fact that Mr Kobayashi was out of town on a business trip.

  When Mr Kobayashi returned the following day, the students were rounded up, yelled at, and threatened for an hour in the school gymnasium. As no one came forward and confessed, they continued to receive a twenty-minute yelling session each day for the next week. But the culprit mysteriously remained unfound.

  The behaviour of the ‘tough’ boys degenerated even further. There were several large-scale brawls in the locker bays, and numerous cases of bullying. Even I was forced to become involved in settling disputes, and had to make a large fat boy in 2-E give a little skinny kid back his calculator. I threw the fat kid’s books in the rubbish bin, and impressed upon everyone that only the tall white guy may do the bullying.

  But then something happened that would only ever happen in Japan. I went to third-period class as usual, still half asleep and wondering what to have for dinner later that night. The students were straggling in slowly after a swimming class. However, it soon became clear that only the boys were straggling in. The girls were nowhere to be found.

  Looking out the third-storey window, I had a good view of the school grounds. The girls were milling around near the pool entrance. Something fairly frantic was going on. Teachers were running here and there, and even the new principal was taking part.

  Meanwhile, the boys were growing restless and calling out rude words to get the girls to hurry up and come to class. Eventually the girls arrived, but there were seven empty seats. I was told not to ask why.

  After fourth period I raced down to the staffroom to collect my octopus-tentacle lunch-box, and found all my colleagues waiting impatiently. Finally, someone broke the news.

  Some half-baked lunatic, presumably with a penchant for prepubescent girls, had taken it upon himself to sneak into the girls’ changing room during swimming class and relieve seven female students of their uniforms and underwear. Five elderly police officers had raced down from the Kanan Town Police Station on foot, and were now interviewing everyone.

  In due course, a middle-aged man in a blue jersey was identified as the suspect, and Mr Kobayashi flew into a rage, punching the wall and slamming doors, before leaving to kill anyone who looked middle-aged and was wearing blue clothing or anything that resembled a jersey.

  23

  Sayonara

  Three weeks remained of my life in Japan. I was nervous, scared, excited and sad, all at the same time. Not keen on long farewells, I was hoping to keep my head down and slip quietly out of the country. Goodbyes could be said the night before I left, or at the airport as I slipped through the metal detectors. I did not want to be reminded that I was about to leave my happy life in Osaka, possibly forever, and embark on a totally unplanned chapter of my life back home in New Zealand.

  What would New Zealand be like after three years living in Japan? Would my friends still be there? Would we still get on? Would we still have anything in common?

  I knew I had changed, but how much? Was I still the same person whom people back home knew and remembered? Was I still the fresh-faced guy who had staggered down main street of Kanan Town in a black woollen suit on a scorching summer day three years earlier?

  And what would I do for a job? I had done very little work for th
e past three years. I very rarely arrived at school on time in the mornings. Was I still employable?

  And what about Japan? Would Kanan Junior High School notice my absence, or would I be forgotten like poor Mr Doi? Would anyone even care that I was gone? Would I ever see my Japanese friends again?

  Would I ever see my girlfriend again?

  Akko had arranged to visit me in New Zealand four months after my return. We were both excited about her trip but realistic about our future together. A long-distance relationship was a daunting and heart-wrenching prospect.

  I lay awake on my pink futon. It was three in the morning and I couldn’t sleep. I was scheduled to meet with Mr and Mrs Oki for dinner the following evening. Mr Oki had insisted that, on my final day in Japan, he would drive me to the airport and help me with my bags. In the mean time, though, he and Mrs Oki wanted to take me out for one last meal together.

  Mr Oki had called several times, making the arrangements. ‘What do you want for a present?’ he had asked sternly.

  ‘Pardon?’ I replied cautiously, sensing the determination in his voice.

  ‘Your present!’ he repeated impatiently. ‘I’m going to buy you something. What do you want? Any budget is possible.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I pondered aloud.

  ‘Any budget is possible,’ Mr Oki repeated. His voice was eager and sounded strong. I wondered how his health was these days, but did not want to ask.

  I finally settled on a male kimono. There was, I reluctantly decided, no way I could possibly sneak a plasma television on to the plane in my carry-on luggage.

  Mr Oki sounded disappointed. ‘All right then. Come round to our house after school tomorrow at five o’clock. Make sure you bring your appetite.’ He hung up before I could thank him.

  The Okis were waiting as impatiently as ever when I arrived at their home the following evening. Mrs Oki had done her hair and put on big round earrings. Mr Oki was wearing a suit, the most formal attire I had seen him in. I glanced at him quietly in the car as we drove to the restaurant. He no longer appeared frail. His hair was thick and silver, and his voice and gaze steady. It was reassuring to see him in good health again.