by Julie Caplin
Desperate to shake off his hand and stop the ridiculous awareness of him buzzing through her system, she moved her fingers and promptly dropped the lower chopstick. She blushed. Clumsy as ever.
‘Have another go. It takes a while to master and luckily Japanese culture is all about enjoyment of food which means they don’t get hung up on table manners.’ He gave her an encouraging smile but it didn’t stop her worrying about being a complete klutz.
‘That’s just as well, otherwise I might starve.’
‘Not on my watch.’ With a quick, fluid movement he scooped up one of the scallops and held it in front of her mouth. Obediently she opened up and took the dainty morsel, groaning as the flavours hit her tongue.
‘Oh my goodness, that is … mmm.’ The amazing taste distracted her from the thought that being fed by Gabe was a little uncomfortable. A bit too up close and personal. The outside of the batter was so crisp and light while the scallop inside was tender and fleshy with a lovely, slightly sweet flavour. ‘That’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I didn’t think I liked scallops. Aren’t they sometimes a bit chewy?’
In the meantime, Gabe had taken one himself. ‘Not if they’re cooked to perfection, like this. Now try one with the grated daikon and soy sauce. Just mix the two and then dip.’
She managed to catch a scallop after chasing it around the plate; she discovered, greed was a great incentive to improve a person’s skills. Putting a mouthful between her lips, she found that the addition of salty soy and the fresh sharpness of the radish created an amazing burst of flavour in her mouth and she let out another involuntarily moan.
By this time, the chef had dished up a small plate of prawns, which were wonderfully juicy and tender and were definitely the best prawns she’d ever eaten. This was followed by the delicate fillet of fish encased in its light, crisp case, the textures complimenting each other perfectly. Over the next fifteen minutes they worked their way through vegetables which had just the right amount of crunch, melt-in-the-mouth squid and several types of mushrooms with meaty textures and rich juices.
‘That was absolutely delicious,’ sighed Fiona as she polished off the last mouthful of what had turned out to be lotus root. She felt comfortably full but not stuffed as if she’d eaten exactly the right amount. ‘I thought it would be sushi everywhere.’
‘That’s a common misconception. Sushi is actually more for special occasions. A bit like we would have roast beef. And there’s a lot more to sushi than those plastic trays in the lunch section of supermarkets in London.’ As Gabe spoke, she was already busy thinking about writing a blog post describing her first experience of Japanese food.
***
Gabe guided her out of the restaurant and up the street which became noticeably busier as they neared the hub of Shibuya and the famous crossing.
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Fiona, and Gabe smiled. It was the Tokyo of so many pictures, the huge crossing of two-lane highways intersected by a series of zebra crossings surrounded by huge neon billboards flashing with adverts and brand names. It was brash, vibrant, bold and a little bit mind blowing, even to someone who’d seen it a hundred times before. The bemused shock on Fiona’s face as she stared up at the electronic boards had him reaching for the Lumix in his pocket.
‘I feel like I’m in Blade Runner.’ She shot a quick frustrated glare at him. ‘I wish I’d brought my camera now. This would be perfect for my blog.’ She took out her phone instead and busied herself taking lots of snaps. ‘And it’s definitely an Instagram moment.’
Around them were lots of other spellbound tourists trying to capture the brightly coloured images which streamed across the giant screens mounted on every available surface of the buildings guarding the busy intersection. Gabe knew from experience they didn’t photograph well without the right equipment but left Fiona to it, watching her expressive, mobile face, thoughtful and absorbed by degrees as she snapped away.
Intrigued and slightly bemused by the realisation, it occurred to him that for the first time in a very long time, he could feel that creative itch. He wanted to take her picture and capture all that wholesome enthusiasm.
‘Come on, we haven’t got much time. We ought to be thinking about getting back.’ He took a few steps forward as she paused to take one last picture with her phone and then the lights changed and a surge of pedestrians came across the road, like a tidal flood with a fast-flowing stream coming the other way. One minute Fiona was by his side and the next she’d vanished.
***
Swept along by the rush of people, Fiona suddenly realised how crowded it was. This was worse than Oxford Street on Christmas Eve. Even though she was a little taller than the average person here, she couldn’t see through the mass of people. Where was Gabe? She’d lost him. Trying to stand still and search for him was impossible; she was jostled and pushed in every direction like a piece of flotsam bobbing in the sea. Working her way through the crowd, she did her best to make it back to the place where she’d last seen Gabe but she couldn’t seem to find it and realised she’d lost her bearings. With the changing images, she wasn’t sure if this was the street they’d been on. There were several to choose from at the busy crossing.
Being among this many people was suffocating and her throat tightened. Don’t panic, she told herself. You’ll find him. But even as she eyed the masses of people, her stomach tightened into a hard knot. There was no sign of him and they hadn’t exchanged mobile numbers – her own fault; she hadn’t wanted to ask him. Hadn’t wanted anything that would be too familiar. Foolish now, she thought. He hadn’t even remembered her anyway.
A light sweat filtered its way down her back. Among all these people she was overheating and had to undo her coat. Did she even know how to get back to Haruka’s house? Nippon, Nipple, something like that. Even though Gabe had told her the name of the station they’d used yesterday, the unfamiliar name hadn’t sunk in. Nor the line they’d used. Yamaha? Yama something. Would she even be able to find it? This was worse than when she’d got lost on the beach in Scarborough on holiday with her mum. At least then she spoke the language and the nice lady that had found her had called the police. It had been terrifying but she’d known what to do. Pulling out of the crowd, she rested against one of the shop windows, her breath shallow. Tears filled her eyes and she wished she was back at home in safe and familiar surroundings. The environment here seemed so alien and different from anything she’d ever known. For a moment she wished she hadn’t come and she pushed both her hands in her pockets, huddling into her coat in despair. Her fingers found her rail pass and the little netsuke. She rubbed its smooth surface trying to be brave. Her dad hadn’t made it to her age – he’d died of some undiagnosed heart condition – and the thought of it made her remember that this was supposed to be an opportunity. A once-in-a-lifetime trip. She needed to pull herself together and ask for help.
No one gave her so much as a second look as they hurried by, heads down, with great purpose. There were quite a few Western tourists about but without knowing which station she needed to get to, she could hardly ask for help. Suddenly she remembered that Gabe had said it was a circular line. And she knew it began with Yama. That was a start. On shaky legs, she headed across the road to the station, buffeted by the growing tide of commuters who were starting to head home.
Above the ticket barriers were a plethora of signs, coloured lines and numbers. And then she spotted it. Green. Yamanote. That was it. Light-headed with relief, she wriggled her way through to the correct barrier with her rail pass. She had no idea which platform to choose but if the line was circular she would just stay on it and pray she recognised a station name. She gritted her teeth and made a choice wishing for the hundredth time that she’d never come here.
The platform she chose was already ten deep with everyone wedged up against each other in the neat lines. The pervading silence felt hostile as if everyone was gearing up to go into battle the minute train arrived. She’d barely been there thirty sec
onds before a train thundered in and everyone surged forward with death defying eagerness before it had even stopped. As soon as the doors opened her feet barely touched the floor – it was like crowd surfing at a gig and thoroughly unnerving. Even if she’d wanted to there was no way she could have changed direction. Somehow, she was carried forward onto the train and pinned between several people who held her upright. Close to tears again, she stared glassy eyed at the map on the carriage wall trying to make out the impossibly unpronounceable names. Shinjuku, Takadanobaba, Ikebukuro, all of which sounded as if they were places in a galaxy far, far away. Nishi Nippori. Nippori. That was it. Her heart sped up with sudden excitement. Nippori, she remembered. Thank God. The sudden relief kept her sane through the miserably overcrowded journey.
By the time the train pulled into Nippori, she didn’t care if it was the wrong station or not, she was so desperate to escape the stifling crowd. Limp and exhausted, she staggered off the train, wishing she could catch the next flight home. This place was alien, inhospitable, and claustrophobic, and now, to cap it all off, it was pissing with rain. The only bright side was that at least she recognised the little parade of kiosks opposite the station and knew where to go. She hoped.
Chapter 3
There it was. Through the sheeting rain, the lamp burning in the window of the pretty little teahouse was a magical beacon and Fiona almost collapsed with relief. She’d made it.
Remembering that Gabe had told her the Japanese never locked their doors, she stepped inside the house, shivering slightly in the sudden warmth, kicked off her sopping shoes and slid her feet into the dry slippers.
Haruka came bustling to the door, concern etched into the worried frown on her face. ‘Come, come. What happened?’
‘I lost Gabe,’ Fiona muttered, wrung out with emotion but also with a slight sense of triumph. Despite all her fears and the awful journey, she had found her way back.
Within minutes, Fiona was wrapped in a blanket and led into a room where two other women were seated at the funny table with its own duvet. ‘Come, sit.’ Haruka urged her towards one of the floor-level padded chairs with its high back and she crouched down into it. The chair was a foot off the floor but as soon as her legs were tucked under the table she felt a delicious heat. It was warm underneath the duvet and slowly the cold in her bones started to seep away.
She slumped in the chair, too drained to say anything, while Haruka called Gabe to let him know she was safe and sound. Apparently he was still at Shibuya looking for her. Fiona couldn’t help but smile at the thought.
Gradually she began to revive, the warmth of the wonderful table bringing her back to life.
‘Mmm,’ she finally groaned, the numbness in her cold toes starting to recede. ‘This is lovely. Is Gabe OK?’
‘He was worried but … I knew you were a sensible girl.’ Haruka beamed at her. ‘Fiona san, this is my daughter Setsuko and my granddaughter, Mayu.’
‘Hello,’ said Fiona nodding shyly, slightly unnerved by being thrust into such close proximity to complete strangers but with goose bumps running riot over her skin there was no way she was retreating from the lovely comfort of this, her new favourite piece of furniture. ‘What is this?’ Would it be rude to lift the curtain of thick, heavy fabric to peer underneath?
‘It’s a kotatsu,’ explained Haruka.
‘There’s a heater underneath,’ said Mayu in flawless English. ‘You don’t have anything like it in England.’
Fiona smiled at her slightly boastful tone. ‘We don’t. Have you been to England?’
‘I spent six months there at the language school in Winchester where Jane Austen is buried.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘I love England. I can practise my English with you.’
‘It sounds pretty good to me.’
‘My dad is American. He’s a pilot with JAL. Japanese Airlines.’
That explained a lot.
‘Would you like some tea?’ asked Haruka leaning forward to the centre of the table to pick up a ceramic teapot. She poured the tea into the small pottery cups and dispensed them with a slight bow. Fiona inhaled the fragrant brew and smiled to herself. After her hellish journey she already felt as if she were in another world. This was a lovely, cosy cocoon, like coming back to shore after being cast adrift in a storm.
‘Green tea, a special mix of my own,’ said Haruka. ‘You must come into the teashop. I will show you around.’
‘You’ll enjoy that,’ said Setsuko with a quiet smile. ‘My haha is quite an expert. Unless you’re a coffee addict.’
‘No, I drink it but I prefer tea. Gabe told me that you are’—she turned to Haruka—‘a master of tea.’
‘She is,’ said Setsuko proudly. ‘And in the teashop there are many, many blends of tea. They can be bought. This is where we hold the tea ceremonies. You should come,’ said Setsuko, checking in with her mother who seemed to have no problem following her daughter’s English.
Haruka nodded. ‘Yes. You must come.’
‘Yes, please, I’d like that,’ said Fiona taking a tiny sip, both hands cupped around the hot china. ‘Mmm. That’s good.’
Haruka nodded approvingly and sipped at her own tea. ‘Apart from your journey home, did you have a good day?’
‘Very interesting.’ Fiona nodded, telling them where she’d been. Surprisingly, as the cosy warmth gradually permeated her chilly bones, she found herself abandoning her usual reticence and raving about the tempura bar and how Gabe had introduced her to the wonderful food.
‘He is a good man,’ observed Haruka.
‘He’s a very good photographer. I saw a few of his pictures in the museum. Of a woman called Yumi.’
‘Pah!’ said Haruka, turning away from the table. She let loose a volley of low-pitched Japanese. Fiona didn’t need a translator to surmise that Yumi was not popular with the older woman. ‘She is not a good woman.’
Setsuko patted her mother’s hand with a chiding tut while her daughter, Mayu, rolled her eyes in a gesture that was entirely teenage. ‘Okasaan, you shouldn’t say such things.’
‘Yumi is very famous and very beautiful,’ Mayu chipped in with teenage bluntness. ‘Jiji doesn’t like her.’
Haruka said something else and Setsuko shook her head, ducking it slightly to hide a reluctant smile.
‘What did she say?’ asked Fiona.
‘It’s a phrase we use,’ explained Setsuko, her eyes dancing although she tried to keep her face sombre. ‘The literal translation is “Dumplings over flowers”. It means you should value practical things, like dumplings, that will feed you, over things that are beautiful. Just as you might say something like all style and no substance.’
‘And Yumi,’ Setsuko smiled as Haruka nodded enthusiastically, ‘beautiful as she is, has no substance. Or at least my mother doesn’t think so.’ Setsuko’s gentle tone robbed her words of offence.
Mayu shook her head. ‘But that contradicts Jiji’s other beliefs that we should find and respect beauty in nature.’
Setsuko frowned at her but this time Haruka shook her head before she could say anything.
‘It’s different,’ said Haruka. ‘Wabi Sabi. I don’t know. You young people don’t understand.’
‘No, Jiji,’ said Mayu, with a resigned teasing lilt to her voice, but she leaned over and gave her grandmother a hug, while shooting a naughty wink Fiona’s way.
‘They just think they do,’ said Haruka. Fiona had to take a hefty gulp of tea and do her best not to snort in laughter when, over Mayu’s bent head, Haruka winked at her as well.
Setsuko, who saw all of this, sent her eyes heavenward before giving Fiona a warm smile.
‘You all speak such good English.’ Fiona was keen to divert a family row although, on reflection, there seemed to be so much warmth and genuine affection between the three generations, she thought perhaps her effort hadn’t been required.
‘My husband’s job took us to America for many years. Setsuko grew up ther
e and we spent fifteen years there.’
‘It took me a long time to learn to speak Japanese,’ admitted Setsuko. ‘Growing up in America, I wanted to fit in. I didn’t always want to keep the old ways. Of course, now I’m older, I’m very glad that my mother keeps the traditions alive, so I feel I’m a good balance between East and West.’
‘She’s training to be a master of tea, too,’ announced Haruka, giving her daughter a proud glance.
‘Yeah, it is kinda cool,’ said Mayu, also sending her mother a cheeky grin. ‘Especially when she gets all dressed up.’
‘What, in a kimono? I wasn’t sure if I’d see people wearing them or not? I was sort of hoping I might,’ confessed Fiona. Maybe it was the warmth of the kotatsu, the calm acceptance of the three women or the bliss of feeling safe again but she felt unusually at ease.
‘These days people tend to wear them for special events, like weddings, a traditional tea ceremony, or at coming of age ceremonies.’
‘The one Grandma wears for the tea ceremony is really cool,’ said Mayu.
Haruka bowed her head. ‘It was my soba’s, my grandmother’s, and is very heavy silk, rich with gold threads. It is very beautiful.’
‘I’d love to see that one day while I’m here,’ said Fiona immediately thinking that she could write a really interesting blog post. ‘And learn how you put them on and all the different components.’
Haruka clapped her hands. ‘You can try one. I have several, including my cousin’s. She was a tall woman. Tall for Japanese.’
‘That would be wonderful.’
‘Now.’ Mayu clapped her hands. ‘Let’s do it now.’
‘Oh, but I’m still wet …’ Fiona tried to refuse but Haruka had nimbly leapt to her feet and was whisking her way through the shoji screens. She returned in seconds, her arms billowing full of rich silk fabric, her dark head peeping over the top and her eyes twinkling full of mischief.