Chapter 8:
Contaminated
Misty curtains of rain sweep in from the north. Tin awnings drum; full drainpipes splutter and choke into pooling gutters. It’s cold as well but he would like to extend his short walk past the Language Academy and continue for hours. He’d like to walk along the waterfront in the rain, go all the way to the Thistle Inn, where Johnny Lennon began playing as a teenager after running away from home in Levin, and have a quiet beer, but he can’t. Climbing the wide flight of stairs towards the sentries at the entrance to his work, he wonders once again if it’s best to avoid Masuda or simply get it over with.
He walks straight up to Masuda’s desk and bows. ‘Good morning, sir.’ He’s suddenly conscious that his ID has been downgraded from green to orange and feels the weight of fluid encased by skin around his eye like a manifestation of sin.
‘Your face?’
‘Sorry. A car accident, sir. My forehead struck the window and the swelling is draining into my eye.’
‘Yes. A nasty bump.’
Chris is so surprised he says, ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s a difficult time for your family. We’re sorry about this accident in Christchurch.’
Chris bows again. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He’s touched.
Masuda nods and his glasses flash a dismissal.
Only later does he wonder about Masuda’s choice of the word ‘accident’. He decides it’s innocuous, a euphemism, and returns to feeling grateful.
Despite the unsettling sensation of weight on his face, more notable when he moves enthusiastically, accompanied by a feeling of seediness similar to a hangover, he enjoys the classroom, the resumption of order and the sensation of losing himself in work and doing a good job. The bruise makes his students sympathetic, and by the time the fluid has descended to make a yellow-and-brown ridge on his jawline in the early evening, staff and students alike are impressed by his dedication. At 8 pm when the principal gets up to leave, thereby releasing all the teachers, Chris asks Masuda if he can attend the conference on non-business English at the town hall the next day. He expects to have to ask three times, but Masuda tells him the entire English team, including himself, will be attending. Chris is happy. His plan was to gauge Mr Endo’s reaction to him in a face-to-face conversation—which would have probably meant jumping out of an alley or following him into a restaurant—to see if his white face elicited any measure of disgust, but as basic as that plan was he knows it would have been ruined by his ghastly bruising, which would affect any person’s reaction to him. It will be much better to sit and watch the man from the audience, listen to him talk and gain an impression of him that way.
Pleased at the prospect of being to be able to do what Patrick asked him, and pleased by Masuda’s and his students’ sympathy, he leaves work with a real spring in his step. Miss Kurosawa comes to mind; she will be in his last class tomorrow after the conference. So good is his mood that he decides that’s also a good thing.
The next morning, the roads around the town hall are closed for the education conference, blocked by soldiers with armoured cars and jeeps with mounted machine guns. Chris has never seen such heavy security. Helicopters troll overhead. Tour buses for those arriving from further afield are parked a couple of kilometres away on the waterfront and searched for bombs. All the fuss and threat of danger puts the teachers in a festive mood. While they are nodded through checkpoints, Chris must produce his ID three times and submit to three searches. His colleagues are so excited to see friends and acquaintances from other schools and academies that he manages to conceal his ID’s new orange colour from them. The crackle in the air reminds him of the build-up to the Night Train’s bouts in Tokyo, even though he only saw them on TV and the crowds and the venue and the sense of anticipation were so much greater.
The town hall is packed with teachers, maybe eight hundred, all in suits and formal dress. They sit in neat rows on tatami mats and cushions in front of the stage, buzzing excitedly. A chopper clatters overhead. Everyone feels important. Kerosene heaters placed along the walls have pre-warmed the room and are now off. He can see why the security is so tight: one bomb would significantly impact the Empire’s educational programme in the lower North Island. Chris’s is one of only half a dozen white faces in the hall, and the only one with extensive bruising. He’s happy to sit down.
The first speaker confirms the unhappy fact that English has become the language of world trade, even in unlikely places such as Africa and South America. He talks about the importance of non-business English in business deals, which are often made on the golf course when dealing with US companies. He suggests that business in the US is about building relationships nearly as much as it is in Asia. Perhaps, he suggests, some trusted and properly educated native speakers would be useful? At this point Masuda pats Chris on the knee in a paternal gesture. Chris flushes at the extent of the compliment. Excited, even teary with gratitude, he bows his head where he sits. His future has become clear. It’s on a vast golf course in the sun in America as a trusted and respected envoy. He knows he’d be good at it. He knows it. He feels that a secret path has been dazzlingly revealed.
Applause breaks out as Mr Endo, the keynote speaker, is introduced. Are you a killer? Chris wonders, doubtfully, as the slim figure walks to the podium. He’s about Patrick’s age, maybe in his early thirties, which is young to be the head of non-business English programmes throughout the Empire. The clear-faced man has prestige and power, a much different power from Patrick’s: a power to organise ideas, and convince and coordinate people. Within seconds Chris decides he is not involved in the murder, simply because he’s too busy. The Imperial Japanese Army would get someone else to play charming solo father in the park. His opening remarks are about New Zealand being the only colony in which English is widely spoken. He agrees that English is an asset for trade with the US and Australia, and that fluent and attractive native speakers could help facilitate business deals by providing social lubricant for the Japanese negotiators. There’s a titter and Chris realises he means pretty women, maybe comfort women. He’s gobsmacked. Masuda doesn’t pat his knee again. As Endo drones on about the importance of the work the teachers are doing, Chris’s embarrassment and disappointment slowly subside. Then his heart sinks as Endo moves on to the inferiority of English, its deficiency in articulating honour, its spiritual deficiencies and role in the cultural decadence of the West. The crowd nods enthusiastically. Chris nods as well, for Masuda’s benefit. The chopper clatters overhead. Endo concludes that non-business English be taught to Japanese children only with the awareness that it is morally ambiguous at best and spiritually contaminating at worst. After prolonged applause it is announced that questions will be taken from the floor after a short break.
Chris gets Masuda a cup of tea and generally fusses over him, something he doesn’t mind doing given the praise heaped on him by the tap on his knee, even though it was misguided and embarrassing for both of them. Endo is clearly very conservative and possibly arch-conservative, a man capable of blind hate. I’ll catch the conscience of the king, he thinks. ‘Mr Masuda.’
‘Yes.’
‘What should be done with a Japanese child morally contaminated by English?’
‘Mmmm. I will ask Mr Endo.’
After the break, Masuda raises his hand and is honoured to be able to ask the first question from the floor.
‘A good question,’ Endo says, and there is a ripple of applause. ‘The answer is to remove them from the toxic environment that has corrupted them and heal them with immersion in correct culture.’
More applause.
So if Sarah was contaminated by the English she learned, thinks Chris, what of the blood flowing in her veins? Was it an opportunity killing? Did Endo come across an unclean child at Hagley Park and take it on his own bat to remedy the situation? Just as a side project on his lunch hour, in the service of the Empire? If not, what was he was doing with Chiyo? It seems to Chris that some pressure could be put on Endo—a
married man, he assumes—to explain that.
While walking back to work with his colleagues after the conference, there is an animated discussion about the points the speakers raised. It is noted that some children at the Academy being taught non-business English are only five, and the inherent moral flaws of English are not being protected against at all. Would it be best to wait for an official policy announcement or begin to make changes to the curriculum already? Because his opinion can be given only if solicited, which is unlikely given the enthusiasm of the conversation, Chris’s mind drifts to Endo and then to Miss Kurosawa. He expects she will be discreet in the classroom, whatever her motivation was for doing what she did. It was quite incredible, really. Quite incredible. Something he finds oddly endearing is the way she took her hat off after she’d climbed into his coat. The way she released the fragrance of her hair, and the warmth of her neck and body, seems to him a genuine and personal touch. It was romantic. Or, he thinks, was I getting carried away? It certainly set the ball rolling, anyway. At that point it had been clear that she wanted more than coat warmth. The chatter around him has stopped. He’s been asked a question apparently. ‘Mmmm,’ he says, knotting his brow. ‘I don’t know.’ The chatter resumes.
Chapter 9:
Women and history
At 4:55 pm, as the first of Miss Kurosawa’s classmates arrive for the 5 pm lesson, he finds himself wondering what to do with himself, whether to write on the board or look busy at his desk. He sits down. Her appearance stops his breath like the visit of an apparition. Her eyes are blank yet humorous as she says, ‘Good afternoon, teacher,’ in slightly brazen English.
He stands and bows. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Kurosawa.’
Tall and skinny like a girl, but with wide shoulders and a chest, she has a woman’s elegance. She sits in her spot at the back of the left row, opens her book and adds, after a second’s thought, ‘What happened to your face?’
The rest of the class notice. ‘Oh.’
‘I was in a car crash. I hit my forehead’—he indicates where that is—‘and the swelling has drained into my face.’
‘Ooooh.’
Once everyone has arrived he explains his injury again then instructs the class to open their books to page twenty-three: Transport.
‘Trans-port,’ says someone thickly.
He reads a description of Tokyo commuting that involves a car, train and subway ride, then puts the class in pairs to discuss their commute to the Academy. They can talk about their longest and shortest commutes in the past as well. He walks around looking delighted at what he hears; in moments of silence he’s never less than cheerful.
Miss Kurosawa looks up from her conversation with the woman at the desk in front of her. ‘Teacher? Is it polite to ask someone if they have a car?’
‘“Do you drive?” is better.’
‘Do you drive?’ she asks him.
‘Yes,’ he says. He pauses for a jangling moment. We can fuck in my car. ‘That’s correct polite usage. Do you drive?’
She nods. ‘I understand,’ she says.
His ghastly bruised face feels hot. He turns to the next group and inclines his happy head over their conversation.
The final seconds of the class beat like war drums in his chest. He bows, the students leave, Miss Kurosawa straggles. They’re alone. He sits down at his desk to avoid an unusual display of body language should anyone look in.
‘Hi, Hitomi,’ he says and smiles as she comes to the desk.
‘Hi, Chris,’ she says, a little loudly he thinks. She’s not a person given to smiling; it’s more like lightning flashes cross her face. ‘Park your car here at 11 pm on Friday night,’ she says, pushing a slip of paper towards him. ‘I’ll get in the back door.’
‘Yes. I will,’ he says in Japanese, at normal volume, and stands emphatically. ‘Thank you.’
Her face flashes again briefly and she’s gone.
He has two days to get a Kiwi girlfriend and stand Hitomi Kurosawa up. Trouble, trouble, trouble, he thinks as he pounds up the road towards the misty summit of Mount Victoria the next morning, trouble, trouble, trouble. It’s a huge violation. If they are stopped and found in a car together it will mean his disappearance. He will cease to exist. From the top of the mountain he sees nothing but mist and the steam he’s blowing like a train. He turns back. Trouble, trouble, trouble. The problem with finding a girlfriend by Friday night is that he works from 5 to 11 pm tonight and tomorrow. His daily routine is running, then swimming or boxing at the gym. Running is solo. There are regulars at the pool but no one he fancies. The gym is male only. The mist thickens into drizzle. He thinks of the places women go in winter: shops, the library, movie theatres, the museum. To interrupt a woman without being drunk? Impossible. Or is it? He thinks of Emily again, the busty brunette with a long neck at the New Zealand Culture evening.
Showered and calmer, he rings Marty to find a contact point, but no one answers. He’s relieved. Emily would have shot him down. He checks to see if he has the number of anyone else who was at the party. He doesn’t. He knew he wouldn’t. Again, a sense of relief. He rings his brother. While waiting for someone to pick up he remembers talking to Sarah on the phone: her high-pitched voice, careful but not precise, as she told him about a kite Daddy made for her, or her pet lamb Ewan. She liked to laugh and didn’t need to know exactly why something was funny. The phone rings and rings. He misses her loving directness. Amy unexpectedly answers and her enthusiastic greeting makes him smile. She tells him Patrick has gone to see a mechanic—Dooby, she thinks—and he hears a metallic crash. Sorry, a pot lid, she says.
It’s just as well Patrick is out, he thinks as he hangs up. Although he hadn’t intended to mention Miss Kurosawa, she probably would have come up. In fact she would have. And the trustworthiness of a Japanese woman is a subject too close to the bone for his brother at the moment. He wants to give Patrick a break rather than aggravate him.
It’s drizzling as he pauses on the steps beneath the Carillon. As if securing a girlfriend in the museum before 3:45 pm wasn’t hard enough, he has the ghoulish remains of the black eye. He looks up the tower. The stone that appears sheer from a distance is deteriorating in places and needs to be replaced. The Carillon is the tallest surviving pre-invasion structure in Wellington and one of the very few remaining public monuments. The only old statues left are nymphs and cherubs on fountains. Yet the light for the Unknown Soldier still burns, partly because the Japanese venerate their dead ancestors, but mostly because the memorial serves as a reminder of the sacrifice the old colonial masters the English demanded of New Zealand. What is England doing now for her loyal colony who gave so many lives? asks the Carillon. Nothing. In 1943, with New Zealand well under heel, Japan issued a proclamation calling for common prosperity and wellbeing based on justice, respect for independence, sovereignty and traditions. Economic development would be accelerated on the basis of partnership, and all racial discrimination would end. The only requirement was that English be banned, along with the local press and radio, Western music and political parties, etcetera. He grinds his cigarette out on the wet step. Stop wasting time, he tells himself, and find a woman in the museum.
Of all the places to talk to a woman it seems to present the best possibilities: speaking is permitted, unlike in a library, and the exhibits inspire comment and conversation, unlike the clothes in a shop. But as the stone edifice of the museum comes into view under its three rising suns, ceremoniously guarded by soldiers with long bayonets fixed to their automatic weapons, he remembers that most Kiwis regard the history inside the museum as propaganda, and stay away. His mother, he remembers, was made apoplectic by the New Zealand history section. He must have been about eight. Her fists had clenched and her arms became rigid as if she were holding invisible skis.
Well, I’m here now, he thinks. It’s 1:30 and he has a couple of hours. He makes for the Egypt section, by far the most popular exhibit in the museum. A class of uniformed boys and girls, aged ab
out eight, chatter in Japanese before the mummy. The sound of children speaking Japanese is enough to reduce the older generations to tears sometimes, but Chris doesn’t feel that pain. They can speak English at home now. It’s been many years since the Imperial Japanese Army tried to stop that. The assistant teacher is a Kiwi. She’s young, stocky, freckled, harassed and a little surly. The Japanese teacher asks for quiet and begins to pick some facts from the pamphlet she holds. The assistant teacher smiles briefly with her mouth at him. He’s sympathetic. He knows the hoops she must jump through to work in education. When the teacher finishes her fact sheet, the class babble excitedly. Walking past, he’d like to say something encouraging to the assistant, but the teacher would hear so he nods instead.
The first panel of the World War II timeline, 1937, has a familiar black-and-white photo of happy Japanese soldiers posing on a steam locomotive. They’ve swarmed all over it for the picture. After the Manchuria incident, says the caption, Japan was hurtled into war with China. Just what Japan was doing in Manchuria in 1937 isn’t mentioned. 1939: the fact that Japan and Nazi Germany were allies is not mentioned. He checks quickly along the wall. No, the Axis alliance between Japan and Germany never existed. He’s had enough, but another school group arrives just as he’s leaving. The Kiwi assistant teacher is tall and slender. Her hair is cut stylishly short and she has large eyes. Unlike the other assistant teacher she is relaxed and at ease. She’s speaking Japanese with one of the kids, and hasn’t seen him. She is light to Miss Kurosawa’s darkness. I’ll make a connection with her today and follow up tomorrow, he thinks. She’s still oblivious to his presence and he feels like a predator, something dark and reptilian, as he follows her and her class into the Egypt room.
The Japanese teacher is middle-aged, short, and severe. Rather than paraphrase the pamphlet as the previous teacher did, she reads it to her class, word for word, to complete silence. The assistant teacher stands respectfully to one side, almost at attention, with one hand clasped over the other. She sees him and raises her eyebrows in greeting. It sets his nerves jangling. ‘Yes?’ the teacher says to him.
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