Under the Osakan Sun

by Hamish Beaton

  Mrs Oki chatted to herself happily as we drove. She commented on the oncoming vehicles, the colour of the traffic lights, and what direction Mr Oki should take at intersections. She inquired about my mother and what I wore to school. ‘Heymishi, what grade students do you teach?’

  I answered her questions and inquired about our choice of restaurant for the evening. She refused to answer. ‘It’s a surprise.’ She blinked and adjusted her glasses.

  Mr Oki laughed. ‘I chose this restaurant just for you. I want you to eat as much as you can.’

  Mrs Oki told him to turn left. We arrived at a large wooden building. From the street it looked like an ornate log cabin.

  Mr Oki clapped me on the back. ‘I think you will like the food here. I hope you are hungry.’

  He ushered us inside. The log-cabin look had vanished, and we were in a regal dining hall. Plush crimson carpet lined the floor, and dark oak tables were set with sparkling silverware and wine-red napkins. Waiters dressed as penguins bustled around silently. Bowing obsequiously, they guided us into a private room with their white satin gloves.

  Mr Oki smiled. His reservation had apparently been made some time in advance. Three huge ornate chairs sat around a thick oak table. A waiter pushed the chairs in for us as we sat down. My chair had large wooden arms and a tall carved back. I felt like a king sitting on a throne.

  The Okis were seated on either side of me. Mrs Oki’s head was barely visible above the tabletop. ‘I’d like a cushion please,’ she squeaked. The waiter bowed and disappeared silently.

  ‘You must order anything you want,’ Mr Oki commanded. ‘Any budget is possible.’

  A man and a woman appeared at the doorway. The man wore a chef’s hat and an immaculately white jacket. The woman wore a black tuxedo.‘These are our very own chef and waiter,’ Mrs Oki said eagerly. She was now propped up on a plush red cushion. ‘You must order anything you want.’

  I was given a menu and started making my way through it. Everything was beef: beef sashimi, beef steak, barbecued beef, prime Kobe beef – a delicacy, a very expensive delicacy. My eyes watered as I looked at the prices.

  Mr Oki was watching me closely. ‘Any budget is possible,’ he repeated.

  ‘You must eat as much as you can.’

  The waitress brought us drinks, while the chef waited patiently. Eventually I ordered a fillet steak. Mr Oki peered at me suspiciously. ‘Are you sure that’s all you want? Why not have two steaks?’

  I explained that one steak would be more than enough. Mr Oki frowned. ‘I don’t think so.’ He turned to the chef. ‘I’ll have your largest steak please, medium rare I think.’

  It was my turn to frown. ‘I didn’t think you liked beef,’ I said quietly. ‘Did the doctors say you can eat meat now?’

  Mr Oki laughed. ‘I ordered the steak for you. I’ll just have salad. You must eat as much as possible tonight. This is our last meal together.’

  He smiled weakly. ‘Yes, our last meal.’

  Across the table Mrs Oki gurgled on her glass of red wine. She spluttered and coughed. ‘Heymishi, what did you order? Did you order enough food?’

  Our chef got to work on the large hot plate that was built into the table-top. The three steaks were carefully cooked and then placed on three ornate plates in front of us. Mr Oki deftly scooped his steak onto my plate before I could protest, then sat back to watch me eat.

  There was little point arguing. I now had over half a kilogram of meat on my plate. I cut off a dainty mouthful. The beef looked succulent and juicy. I put it in my mouth. It was one of the most delicious pieces of meat I had ever tasted.

  ‘Isn’t it delicious,’ Mr Oki agreed. ‘I knew you’d like it. Do you want another steak? Will two be enough?’

  Mrs Oki eyed me. ‘Heymishi, do you like medium rare? I only like well-done. Do you want the chef to cook your steak some more? Is it cooked enough?’

  I shook my head. ‘This is delicious,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘Do you want to try some?’ Mrs Oki blinked in confusion. ‘But I only like well done.’

  I tucked in. I could feel Mr Oki watching me. He seemed thoughtful. I eventually demolished my two steaks. My stomach was full; I could not manage another bite.

  The Okis had been waiting for me to finish. ‘Have you had enough, Heymishi?’ Mrs Oki peered up at me from the depths of her massive chair.

  ‘Yes, thank you. That was the best steak I’ve ever eaten,’ I said truthfully.

  Mrs Oki smiled. ‘I’m glad you liked it. And Mr Oki is glad too, aren’t you, Mr Oki? Mr Oki?’

  There was no reply. We turned and looked at Mr Oki. He sat in his chair, crying quietly. He looked at me with sad red eyes. ‘This is our last meal together,’ he said in a small voice. ‘I am glad you came to Japan. I am sorry we did not climb Mount Kanan again together, but my health was not so good.’

  I started to protest, but he waved me away and dabbed his eyes. ‘If you ever need any help in Japan or anywhere else in the world, please call me. Please come back to Japan again one day. I would like to see you again.’ He looked away and hid his face.

  I didn’t know what to say. I had never expected to see Mr Oki so upset. He had always been Mr Oki – calm, noble, slightly deaf Mr Oki. I had never seen him display any emotion other than happiness. I had not expected my departure to upset him so greatly.

  Mrs Oki leaned close to me. ‘Mr Oki likes you very much.’

  We sat in silence in our little room. Our chef and waitress had both stepped outside. ‘Thank you both for looking after me in Japan,’ I said at length. ‘Thank you for taking me sightseeing and for taking me out for dinner. I always enjoyed visiting your home.’

  Mr Oki chuckled. He seemed to have recovered his composure. ‘Don’t mention it. You looked after us when we visited New Zealand. You were very young but you were a good tour guide and interpreter. It is the least we could do to repay your hospitality.’

  Mrs Oki nodded. ‘Thank you for looking after us when we visited you in New Zealand, Heymishi.’

  I did not know how to reply. The Okis still seemed to feel deeply indebted to me and my family for a small act of kindness nine years earlier.

  ‘I bought you a present,’ Mr Oki said. ‘I wanted to buy you something bigger, but you only wanted a kimono.’ He passed me a gift-wrapped parcel.

  ‘Please open this in New Zealand,’ he said with a wink. ‘And if you think of anything else that you would like, please let me know.’

  I bowed and thanked the Okis for my meal and for my new gift. They pretended not to hear.

  Mr Oki drove me to the train station. ‘I will drive you to the airport on the day of your departure,’ he said as he dropped me off. ‘See you then.’

  I closed the car door and they drove away. I could just make out the top of Mrs Oki’s head as she peered back at me, waving.

  The train rumbled slowly through the night. I looked around in a daze. Bored passengers sat gazing out the windows, reading newspapers and staring at cellphone screens. For them it was just another day in Osaka, another day at work, another train ride home. For me, it was my last train ride home from Omino Station. I did not have many days left. How many more times would I get to ride a train?

  I was suddenly scared. Riding a train was part of my life in Japan, an experience I took for granted. There would be no commuter trains to ride back home in Christchurch. How many other everyday experiences was I about to lose?

  I started to panic. A part of my life was about to disappear. Time was robbing me of experiences and sensations that I would never be able to recreate.

  The train stopped. Tondabayashi Station. I stepped off, desperately trying to capture and remember every sight and smell: the glare from the soft-drink vending machine; the shrill train whistle; the train conductor with his white satin gloves and robotic manner; the hum of the ticket gate and the polite bow of the station attendant; the empty solitude of Tondabayashi after dark; the soft street lighting of the backstreets; the smell of fri
ed food as I passed Wasshoi pub; the warm summer night air; a neighbour dressed in jandals and a singlet walking his tiny dog at midnight.

  I walked around the block. I walked past my apartment. I kept walking. I walked around the block again.

  I didn’t want to go home. Home meant sleep, which meant another day was over. I walked through the ancient streets of Jinaimachi. I wanted to see all my secret trails. I needed to reassure myself that everything was still as I wanted to remember it. I walked past temples, past old wooden warehouses, past old shops that had been boarded up for the night.

  I found myself on the bank of the Ishikawa River. I stared out into the blackness that was Kanan Town. The air was warm and thick. I did not want to go home.

  My Japanese mothers were waiting for me in Mrs Kiguchi’s dining room. They ushered me to the head of the table.

  ‘Sensei, sensei,’ Mrs Terauchi crowed, ‘this will be our last meal together. How do you feel?’

  They looked at me expectantly. I smiled weakly. ‘I am sad to say goodbye to you all. I will miss our conversation sessions very much.’ It was true.

  Mrs Terauchi clapped her hands. ‘Oh sensei, I am glad you enjoyed our time together. We will miss you very much as well.’

  Mrs Kiguchi looked at me thoughtfully. ‘What has been your favourite memory of Japan, sensei?’ she asked softly. I paused. The question could open an emotional can of worms if I weren’t careful.

  ‘The people,’ I said finally. ‘Everyone has been so kind and welcoming. I have made many good friends.’

  Mrs Terauchi clapped again. ‘I’m so happy you could meet nice people in our country, sensei, and that you could form happy memories here.’

  Mrs Kiguchi looked at me with a smile. ‘We have enjoyed getting to know you, sensei. You have given us very good memories as well. We are your Japanese mothers. If you ever need help in life, please call us.’

  I stammered out some thanks in reply, and stared at the table. I was starting to feel a little choked up.

  Mrs Kiguchi raised her glass. We said ‘Konpai!’ – ‘Cheers!’ – in unison and took a mouthful of beer. My Japanese mothers were not shy about drinking beer in the middle of the afternoon.

  The farewell banquet had been lovingly prepared. Mrs Matsui had prepared her delicious savoury pancakes. Mrs Tanaka had brought a huge platter of fresh sashimi. Mrs Tsubota had made a large salad. Mrs Kiguchi had prepared a batch of fried chicken and Mrs Terauchi had brought the beer.

  The beer flowed, and we slowly worked our way through the mountain of food. At the end we pitched in to clear the plates away. I was then shooed out of the kitchen, and told to wait with Mrs Terauchi while the others cleared up.

  Mrs Terauchi sat quietly and stared out the window. I was surprised by her sudden silence. The others returned and sat down. No one spoke. ‘I’ve made you some presents,’ I said, and produced a bag of small parcels from under the table.

  I had created a small photo album for each of the women. They smiled in surprise and opened them quietly, adjusting their glasses.

  ‘Oh, sensei,’ Mrs Terauchi laughed. ‘That’s a photo of all of us.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, that was my first time here. Do you remember that day?’

  Everyone nodded.

  ‘And that’s when we all went to visit the temple in Kankoji. That’s the time we cooked okonomiayaki. That’s our Christmas party.’

  ‘My eyes are closed in that photo,’ Mrs Terauchi said shrilly. ‘Oh, I look so foolish. Sensei, why did you include this photo?’

  Everyone laughed.

  Mrs Kiguchi took off her glasses and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘Sensei, thank you for these wonderful memories.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve written a goodbye speech,’ I said. After my final meal with the Okis I had decided I should prepare myself better for my farewell outings. I had come up with a speech in Japanese that I hoped would suitably express my gratitude and deep thanks for people’s kindness and hospitality over the past three years.

  Silence descended. The women looked at me encouragingly. I unfolded my notes and looked down at the table. I took a deep breath and tried to start my speech.

  The words failed to materialise. I coughed. ‘Take your time, sensei,’ Mrs Kiguchi said softly.

  I looked back at my notes. This was my final meal with my Japanese mothers. This small group of cheerful women had been some of my best friends in Japan. They had welcomed me into their homes and shared their lives with me. They had complained about their husbands and divulged their sorrows and secrets. They had given me advice and comforted me in times of my own unhappiness. We had laughed and gossiped together. Happy memories of Monday afternoon conversation sessions flashed through my mind. Now everything was coming to an end.

  Suddenly I started crying. Tears rolled down my cheeks and splashed on to the table. I could hear my Japanese mothers crying as well, but I could not look up. I sniffed and started reading out my speech.

  ‘This will be my last meal with you all.’

  Mrs Terauchi sobbed.

  My lip quivered. I was completely overwhelmed by my sudden emotional breakdown. What on earth was wrong with me? I clenched my fists, fighting to get control of myself.

  ‘Sensei.’ Mrs Kiguchi was looking at me kindly. ‘Sensei, please take your time. Do not hurry with your speech.’ She smiled.

  I laughed, a choking, embarrassed laugh, and dabbed my eyes.

  ‘Do not be sad to leave, sensei,’ she said soothingly. ‘You had a good life in Japan, but you cannot stop time. Nobody can. You should not be afraid of change: it is part of life. You are experiencing life. Do not be sad for the past. Look forward to a happy future.’

  I paused. The intense sadness that had enveloped me lifted. I suddenly felt calm, clear-headed. The emotional dam that had been building over the past few months had finally burst. I had been dreading my departure for so long that it had taken on enormous proportions in my mind. Every time I had looked at the calendar over the past few months, I had been subconsciously counting down my remaining days and tying myself in knots.

  This sudden outpouring of emotion had been therapeutic. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said shyly and wiped my face. My cheeks were streaked with tears and my eyes felt puffy.

  I looked at my notes again. ‘This will be my last meal with you all,’ I said. ‘Thank you all for being such good friends to me over the past few years.’

  My Japanese mothers laughed and dabbed their eyes. ‘Please continue your speech when you are ready,’ Mrs. Kiguchi said softly.

  I recounted funny episodes from our conversation sessions. Thanked everyone for cooking for me. Thanked everyone for inviting me into their homes. Thanked everyone for sharing their stories with me. Thanked everyone for sharing their lives with me.

  I finished. All the women were smiling. I folded my notes and put them back in my pocket. I smiled at Mrs Kiguchi. ‘Thank you for your advice.’

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t be silly. Now then, who would like a cup of tea?’

  As I wheeled my bicycle down Mrs Kiguchi’s driveway for the last time, my Japanese mothers stood by the letterbox, waving. I looked back, waved, and started cycling away.

  Mrs Kiguchi was right. I should stop worrying about the future.

  In the next two weeks I was taken out for dinner every night and put on three kilograms. The Isoi family took me to a sushi restaurant in Nara. Ryohei, the son, had grown noticeably taller. He had not, however, lost his obsession for me; he gazed at me affectionately and tried to hug me whenever a chance presented itself.

  I went for dinner with Mr Tokunaga. We reminisced about our six camping trips together, and ate at a Korean barbecue restaurant for old times’ sake. Mr Tokunaga still dreamt of one day retiring to a log cabin in New Zealand. He promised he would visit me as soon as he was given leave from his job.

  I had lunch with the Board of Education staff. Magnum told stories about our dancing the night away at the town festival, an event that Mr
Smiles then re-enacted in a typically enthusiastic mime performance.

  The lunch finished and the education superintendent paid the bill. As I was leaving, Magnum quietly took me aside. ‘This is a small present,’ he said, presenting me with a parcel, ‘to say thank you from all of us.’

  I shook his hand and opened the parcel. My mouth fell open: the Board of Education had give me the latest, very expensive palm-top Japanese electronic dictionary. I felt embarrassed that I could only stammer out a feeble ‘thank you’ in reply.

  I had a goodbye picnic with my friends on the banks of the Ishikawa River. We played cricket, laughed, drank beer, and recounted our adventures from the past three years. I was mocked for vomiting on trains, in karaoke booths and in nightclubs. Wij was mocked for falling asleep on trains and ending up in neighbouring prefectures. We laughed about our evenings out drinking, and the tales we had told so we could sneak away on holidays together to the tropics.

  We were about to go our separate ways. Blake, Andy and Wij would return to England. Matt would travel to Canada. Only Justin would stay in Japan. He had married a Japanese woman, Kimi, and wanted to stay in Osaka for a while longer.

  I had now farewelled some of my closest friends, but the list of people from the local community who still wanted to say goodbye seemed to be growing by the day. I visited the mayor in his office, and the staff at the town magazine. I went for dinner with the Tsuboi family. I went for dinner with the Matsumoto family. I went for dinner at Wasshoi and said goodbye to the owner and bartender. People on the street stopped to ask me when I was set to return to New Zealand. They wished me well and thanked me for coming to Japan.

  I was starting to amass a sizeable collection of presents. People appeared to feel I had a great need for paper fans. By mid July I had accumulated enough to be able to return to New Zealand and open a paper fan emporium. My friends and family could look forward to receiving them as gifts for their next several dozen Christmases and birthdays.