I sneak a look around the rest of the top level. There’s one other bedroom and a pod bathroom, similar to the one at my hotel.
I tiptoe downstairs to the kitchen where Masahiro’s wife is cutting up vegetables.
“Hi. Sorry, Masahiro didn’t tell me your name.”
She looks at me blankly. I don’t think she speaks English. I try to remember the Japanese for ‘my name is’.
“Watashi no namae wa Jessica.”
She smiles at my poor attempt to speak her language.
“Watashi wa Chihiro desu,” she responds.
“Hi, Chihiro.” Okay. This isn’t so bad.
She points to the vegetables and says something I don’t understand.
“Lunch? Are you making lunch?”
She motions eating.
I nod. Maybe charades is the way to go.
She pulls out a stool for me to sit on and I watch her work. It’s amazing. Her food preparation skills are meticulous. Watching her slowly chop pickles into thin slices is strangely relaxing. She rolls a ball of rice in some sesame seeds and prepares two bento boxes. She puts one in front of me. I feel quite honoured to be on the receiving end of so much effort.
I try a formal thank you.
She giggles. I’m sure I have the accent wrong.
Her food is so good—and I am amazed that this housewife in the suburbs can make something so spectacular. She puts everyone I know to shame. Even professional chefs.
I eat every last morsel—even the sour plum on top of my rice. Which is not really to my taste, but I want to show her how much I appreciate her efforts.
Chihiro looks pleased. Maybe I can cook her something in return.
I know! I’ll make her family a traditional Australian dinner. My culinary skills are pretty limited, but Chihiro might appreciate having the night off.
I go and get my laptop. I’m going to need an online translator to explain my plan to her.
I find the translation tool on Google and type in I want to cook dinner for you.
A bunch of Japanese symbols pop up on the screen. I show them to Chihiro and she looks bemused. I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t understand the translation or if she’s worried about me taking over her kitchen.
I type in a search for the word dinner just to be sure.
“Bangohan?” I point to myself and then the kitchen.
She raises an eyebrow.
“I want to cook you dinner.” I’m aware that I’m speaking loudly and have to remind myself that she’s not deaf. To make absolute certain that she understands what I want to do, I step over to the kitchen and mime taking a mixing bowl and stirring with a spoon. I then point to myself.
She smiles. “Okay.”
I get out my notepad to write myself a shopping list. But what to make? It’s not as if we have a national cuisine like Japan. I can’t exactly make lamingtons and meat pies. Well I could, but it would be a bit weird.
Maybe I’ll just make a simple pasta dish with pavlova for dessert. At least I know pavlova is Australian. Or is it from New Zealand? Either way, it’s definitely from my part of the world. I’ve never attempted to make one before, so it will be interesting to see how it turns out.
I gather up my bag and act out that I want to go to the shops. “I’ll be back later,” I explain. “Maybe four.” I point to the number four on the wall clock in the kitchen.
She nods.
Piece of cake. I look forward to using my newly acquired miming skills at parties if I ever make it home.
I wander up the road, looking for a supermarket. Surely there must be one around here somewhere. I can’t exactly do all my shopping at the 7-Eleven. Where do people buy their groceries?
Down the road in the distance I see some flashing lights on top of a building. They look like fireworks exploding in the sky. Maybe I’ll just see what they belong to before I resume my mission.
Well, what do you know? It’s exactly what I was looking for. It reminds me more of the Asian stores in Chinatown than my local Coles or Woolworths, but it should still do the trick.
Within seconds of entering the store, I realise I’m going to have a problem. I can’t read any of these labels. Sugar and salt look identical. It could be cocaine for all I know.
I’m going to have to risk it. I’ll just buy one of everything and hope for the best.
I’m not sure where the spaghetti is, so I grab a pack of noodles instead. Wow. That rice is really expensive. How can people afford to eat it all the time when a small bag costs almost fifteen dollars? Is it gourmet? And the apples are five dollars each!
I quickly scan my shopping list to see what else I need. Field mushrooms. The only ones I can find are those little bunches with long skinny stalks. I suppose they’ll have to do.
Gosh, this is tougher than I thought. At least the eggs are easy to spot.
I haul everything over to the cashier and pay. I wish I’d brought a cart or something. It’s going to be difficult getting all this stuff home.
Back out on the road, I lose my bearings. Hang on. Did I come from one block to the left or the right? Oh God. I’m lost again. And these bags are really heavy. Why was I never any good at orienteering? Maybe if I had a compass I’d be able to figure out which way is north. But then I have no idea which way I was facing when I started. I can’t even use Google Maps on my phone, because I don’t know where I started.
All the roads and buildings look exactly the same. And I swear I just passed three convenience stores that I didn’t see on the way here.
Just as I’m about fall in a heap on the ground, I see an embankment. There might be a good vantage point from the top.
I climb up the slippery grass and look out at the scene before me. That’s better. The river is directly in front and I can see Umeda on the other side. And there’s the train line! Maybe I can follow it back to the station and find the house that way.
I notice a path running along the water’s edge with dozens of make-shift tents and shelters beside it. Some of them look quite well set-up. One even has a TV blaring from inside. I wonder how they get power down there.
A group of men are playing cards on a wooden bench outside one of the tents. They look up at me and grin. A few of them are missing front teeth. A mangy dog is lying under the bench and lifts its head to watch me walk by. I suddenly feel quite vulnerable.
“Uh, excuse me? Is this the way to Awaji station?” I point to the track in the distance. I really don’t want to talk to them but I’m worried I might get even more lost if I don’t.
“Eh?”
“Awaji station?”
One of the men seems to understand me.
“Yes. Go that way.” He points to his left.
“Thank you.”
The other men laugh.
It occurs to me that he might be leading me in the wrong direction.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. These men just think you are a crazy gaijin—outside person.”
Me, an outside person? At least I don’t live in a shack. I conveniently forget that I would be homeless if it wasn’t for Masahiro’s kindness.
“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you living down here? Don’t you have families?”
“Some of us do. But many of us don’t have a wife, and big companies won’t give jobs to unmarried men.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they think we would work harder if we have a wife and children to support.”
“That doesn’t seem very fair.”
“Tell me about it,” he sighs.
I smile at his use of the common idiom. “Your English is good.”
“Thank you. We have another crazy gaijin who teaches us English. Maybe you know her? Her name is Sarah. She has red hair.”
I stare at him, amazed. Normally I would take issue with that question. As if I’m supposed to personally know every Western person in Osaka. But in this case, I actually do.
“Yes! I
worked with her!”
He chuckles and says something to the other men. They all look at me with renewed respect.
“We haven’t seen her for a while. Tell her we want more English lessons.”
“Okay, I will.”
How many homeless people does Sarah know? Does she often wander the riverbanks and talk to people after a big night out? Or does she go out of her way to personally visit them? From the sound of it, she’s practically best buddies with these guys.
I head towards the train line. How bizarre. I swear the odds of something like that happening are one in a million. Or even less.
Maybe I should give Sarah a call sometime and see how things are going. She probably thinks I’ve gone home. I’m sure she’d be surprised to find out what I’ve been up to.
I get back to Masahiro’s house just after four. I’m not even late, despite my detour. I don’t explain to Chihiro what happened—it would take too long and she might worry unnecessarily. She’s in the laundry ironing a stack of pants.
“Hi Chihiro. I’ll start making dinner now.”
“Okay.”
I open her kitchen cupboards to see what kind of equipment I have to work with.
There’s a shallow frying pan and some saucepans. And chopsticks, but no cutlery. This should be interesting. I’m still getting the hang of chopsticks.
I practically singe off my eyebrows while lighting the stove. I’m not used to working with a gas flame. To be honest, I’m not really used to working with any kind of cooktop. I ate out a lot in Australia, or nuked my meals in the microwave if I stayed in.
But everything seems to be going smoothly—although I’m not sure how Australian the result will be. With noodles, stir-fried vegetables and tofu, it’s more Japanese than anything else.
The pavlova should be more successful at least. I had to make a few substitutions, but hopefully they aren’t noticeable.
***
Masahiro’s daughters arrive home around six. They are followed by an elderly stooped lady, who I assume is Chihiro’s mother. She looks at me suspiciously and calls out to Chihiro.
Chihiro appears and quickly explains the situation. The grandmother looks even more put out.
“I’m going to cook dinner,” I try to appease her. “Bangohan.” She looks at Chihiro for clarification. Chihiro just shrugs.
Then she says something that I imagine translates to ‘the crazy girl wants to cook us dinner—so just humour her.’
The little girls have already disappeared upstairs. Chihiro and the grandmother go off into the living room. I’m left to finish dinner. I hope I get this right.
SIXTEEN
Everyone is sitting at the dining table waiting for me.
I’m sweating bullets. There’s a lot on the line here. Sort of.
Masahiro arrived home just after eight. The girls are already in bed, having eaten a separate meal earlier.
I put the bowls of noodles on a tray and carry it all carefully into the dining room.
“Here we go,” I say cheerily as I place a bowl in front of each of them. “And there’s dessert after.”
“You didn’t have to cook,” Masahiro says. “Chihiro is happy to.”
“I know, but I want to say thank you for letting me stay. I’m not sure I could have handled another night at the internet café.”
He relays something to the women. Both pairs of eyes widen.
I hope he didn’t just tell them I was living at the internet café.
“Come on, eat. Do you have to say Grace first?”
“We say itadakimasu.”
“Oh, okay. Perhaps you should say it.”
He smiles. “It’s fine. We can eat now.”
The grandmother gingerly lifts a mouthful with her chopsticks. She takes the tiniest bite and then chews it about forty times.
“Is it okay?” I ask anxiously.
“It is good,” Masahiro says.
The grandmother says something.
“What did she say?” I ask Masahiro.
“It doesn’t matter. She thinks it has too much salt. But she says the same thing about Chihiro’s cooking.”
“Oh.” I was hoping to make an overwhelmingly positive impression.
Chihiro says something.
“She says it is delicious,” Masahiro translates without me asking.
“That’s great.” I’m relieved. At least it’s not a complete disaster.
We eat in silence. After the noodles, I bring out the pavlova. It turned out really well, even if I do say so myself. I just hope it tastes as good as it looks.
I cut slices of the meringue and spoon some berries over the top.
Masahiro tries it first. “Wow. This is delicious!”
I beam.
Chihiro follows.
“Mmm.”
By the sound of it, she likes it too.
Last is Grandma.
Come on. Please like it, I pray.
She takes a bite and rolls it around in her mouth.
She begrudgingly says something.
“Ha, you have even impressed Chihiro’s mother!” Masahiro laughs.
Woo! I can cook! I could open my own Western-themed restaurant! There would be pavlova on the menu of course…and…well I don’t know what else, really. I might need to think things through a bit before I get too excited.
After we’ve eaten, I start to clear the dishes. I see a picture of the girls sitting on a shelf. Emboldened by my culinary success, I approach Masahiro.
“Masahiro, how do I say ‘your daughters are cute’ in Japanese?”
“Anata no musume ga kawaiidesu.”
I say it a couple of times in my head. I then find Chihiro and repeat what Masahiro told me. “Anata no musume wa kowaidesu.”
Chihiro frowns.
Uh-oh.
Masahiro snickers.
“You just said ‘your daughters are scary’.”
“Oh no! Chihiro, that’s not what I meant at all. Masahiro, please tell her what I meant to say.”
He quickly explains. Chihiro smiles.
“She forgives you.”
“Good. I think my Japanese needs some work.”
“Maybe we can do a language exchange. You teach me English and I teach you Japanese.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Now, Chihiro will help you make your bed for tonight.”
“Oh, okay.”
We tiptoe into her mother’s room where the lights are already off. I see the lumpy figure of Chihiro’s mother lying in the dark near the wall. Chihiro unfolds a futon mattress and places a pillow and comforter on top. I feel like a real local now.
Chihiro turns to leave. “Good night,” she whispers stiltedly.
I feel a rush of gratitude at her attempt to speak my language. “Goodnight, Chihiro. Thank you for letting me stay.”
I quickly brush my teeth and put on my pyjamas. I wonder how long I’ll be here. It’s all very lovely, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome. I’m going to double my efforts to find a job tomorrow.
***
This is really hard. I’ve combed the entire city looking for an employment agency or somewhere I can apply for a job, but I can’t read any of the shop signs. For all I know there are hundreds of people looking for a capable Australian girl with a poor grasp of the Japanese language.
I even stopped a Western man on the street to ask him if he knew where I could get a job, but he only spoke French. And another one was on holidays, so he was even more clueless than me.
I phone Sarah. Maybe she’ll have an idea.
“Hey, it’s Jess.”
“Oh my God! How are you, babe? Are you back in Oz?”
“Ah, no.”
“So what are you up to?”
“It’s kind of a long story. Are you busy?”
“A little. I can meet you at lunch though if you like. Do you know where Mos Burger is near the station?”
“I think so.�
�
“All right. See you there at twelve-thirty.”
I look at my watch. It’s only eleven.
I try to call my office in Australia again. Surely Violet will be able to do something if I explain the seriousness of my predicament.
“Hello, Violet’s phone, Georgina speaking.”
Who on earth is Georgina?
“Uh, hi. Is Violet there?”
“No, she’s out of the office. Can I take a message?”
Are you kidding me? Is everyone in the entire world taking time off right now?
“Is Meg back, then? Or have they got someone to take her place?”
“I’m sorry, but who am I speaking to?”
“It’s Jess Harper. I work in graphic design.”
“Oh? I work in graphic design too. I just started this week.”
“So you’ve probably seen my name about on other projects and stuff.”
“Actually, no I haven’t. And I’m just pulling up the office contact list and you’re not on here.”
What?
“You can’t be serious! I’ve worked there for two years! I was transferred to Japan on one of their projects but the manager turned out to be a complete nutter and I got fired! And now I can’t get home because everyone seems to have forgotten about me!”
“Hold, please.”
Agh! Has she really just put me on hold? I’m going to have words with her when I get back. I’m sure it will be up to me to get her oriented with the company.
Just when I think my credit’s about to run out, she comes back on the line.
“Ah, this is a bit awkward, but it seems you no longer work for us.”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“I’m afraid not. Your manager was supposed to inform you, but as she’s away on leave, you obviously never received your termination notice.”
“Listen here, Georgina. You need to sort this out right now…”
She cuts me off. “Excuse me, I don’t appreciate your tone. I don’t know what happened to you, but this isn’t my responsibility. Talk to HR if you have a problem.”
She hangs up. She actually hangs up on me.
I bury my head in my hands. HR? Ace’s HR department is a total farce—which was clearly illustrated when Violet enquired about my situation the other day. They have a bunch of women (Chris was the only guy, but he’s in the UAE now) who do absolutely nothing all day and take extended lunches whenever they feel like it. If you want to see them about anything, they refer you to one of a thousand internal forms before they’ll even consider talking to you.
Zen Queen Page 14