Authors: Anita Heiss
The next day was so busy with the announcement of the
cultural awards that I didn't have a moment to even consider
my time with Mike the day before, which was probably a
good thing – he made me feel uncomfortable anyway. There
was no time for a debrief with Shelley, either, as her cousin
Andrew was in town from Sydney for a week's work. She
invited me to meet them both at a Japanese restaurant in
the city one night, but as I walked down Collins Street right
on seven pm, she called to say something had happened to
the stock market. Not a crash, but not something I could
understand either. I would have to entertain Andrew until
she arrived. Shelley hadn't told me anything other than he
was a podiatrist, and that he always had his head in a 'how
to' book of some description. At the restaurant it was easy
to find him: he was reading
How to Create Peace: Locally and
Globally
.
As I walked towards him I scanned the room, looking
at the tables lined up alongside the train of food making
its way around the restaurant in a loop, as patrons pinched
tiny plates and steaming baskets from it. It wasn't a chain-store
variety sushi train: it was more up-market, full of
businesspeople, some obviously talking work, others just
unwinding; there was the odd couple, and one or two people
sitting alone.
'Andrew?' I asked, and he stood, putting his book down
and extending his other to shake.
'Hi,' he said and I sat.
'So, Shelley tells me you're a podiatrist.' I remembered
what it was like to have James suck my toes – God, I missed
that. And I missed sex.
'Yes, I've loved feet since I was a kid. You probably think
that's weird.'
'Not at all, I can totally relate.' And then Andrew
somehow morphed into James on the other side of the table,
and I imagined him sitting there with my leg resting on the
table and my freshly painted toes in his mouth. I wondered
if Andrew was thinking anything similar.
Was toe-sucking technically sex? Would that kind of
action break my celibacy rule? Then I remembered Liza's
words of advice: 'If one of you has an orgasm, it's regarded
as sex.' But perhaps I could – we could – have an orgasm-free
toe-sucking session. That might be nice. Then I realised
I'd been having a conversation in my head for a few minutes:
the silence was a little uncomfortable. I looked across to the
table next to us and there was a Japanese guy and an Anglo
woman and their gorgeous kid, and not knowing why I
even thought it, let alone said it, I came out with a line that
surprised me:
'I love Eurasian kids, don't you?'
Andrew just looked at me oddly. Was that a racist thing
to say?
'What I meant was that mixed kids are so much more
interesting looking than standard vanilla-flavoured kids.'
'Vanilla?'
Was that also a racist thing to say? God, I could never be
the Minister for Cultural Affairs when I couldn't even get
my own act together.
'You know if an Aboriginal and an Asian had a baby it'd
be called an Abrasion.' And I laughed at my own joke.
'Look, I'm only twenty-five, I'm not really thinking
about Eurasians or Abrasions just yet.'
'Oh no, I wasn't thinking you were. I'm not thinking
about kids either, I don't even like kids, I was just thinking,
or not thinking, perhaps.' I was so embarrassed I just stuffed
more sushi in my mouth, skolled some sake and watched
the train of little dishes pass us by again. The food was great;
it was a shame things were going so badly.
As I put a piece of tempura in my mouth our phones
beeped simultaneously, and we dove for them as if expecting
the message of a lifetime. It was Shelley, saying the same
thing to both of us:
So sorry, lovelies, can't get there, emergency at work. Eat something
yummy for me. Speak later. xx Shelley
Andrew looked relieved. 'Well, I'm done if you are.'
'I'm done too,' I said, as he waved the waitress over for
the bill.
♥
'Never again! How could you do that to me? I made a
complete idiot of myself, and he must be wondering what's
wrong with you, sharing a house with someone like me,' I
said as Shelley walked in at ten pm.
She flopped onto the lounge and kicked off her heels.
'Why? What happened?'
'I hope he talks to you again, cos I'm sure he won't be
talking to me.'
'What did you do?' Shelley asked, taking a sip of my
wine.
'I think I'm racist.' I slapped myself on the forehead.
'You're not racist.' She got up to get herself a glass.
'Then I must be an idiot.' I lay down flat with my head
on the armrest of the lounge.
'But a likable one.' Shelley threw a cushion at me.
'Thanks a million. I think I should go to bed, and then
maybe when I wake up in the morning I'll find that tonight
was just a bad, bad dream. See you in the morning.'
I could still taste the sake as I closed my eyes.
Within minutes I'm in Japan but it's not Tokyo, which
is where everyone thinks of when they think of Japan. It's
Kyoto, the old capital. I'm the Australian Minister for
Cultural Affairs, and I'm treated like a rock star. A limousine
arrives to pick me up and as we drive off I wind down the
window and sign some autographs. It's early morning, but
the city is bustling. There are people everywhere: 'small
dog' walkers; students looking very proper, the girls in their
pleated sailor-like tunics, and the boys in suits; office workers
on their bikes, riding to work and not breaking a sweat, just
sitting upright – helmet free – like being in a convertible
car with the roof down. Almost everyone is busy punching
keys or talking into tiny flip-phones. People are smiling
and hospitable, but I am kneecapped, stifled, choking on my
inability to speak. The only Japanese I know is
konnichiwa
,
sayonara
and
hai
. Why didn't the astral dream booking
agency give me some intensive language lessons before they
sent me here?
My driver, who is hot, hot, hot as wasabi, suggests that
to make small talk I should always tell my hosts that I'm
really enjoying Kyoto, that I haven't tried eel yet and that I
think Japanese rice is the best in the world. He guarantees
that if I do, people will love me, and of course I want to be
loved. He tells me his name is Yoshi, and teaches me to say,
'
Hajimemashite, Peta desu. Dozo, yoroshiku.
' It means, 'My
name is Peta, please be nice to me.' I rehearse it a few times,
then he stops the car, gets out and climbs in the back seat
with me.
'How nice do you want me to be?' he asks, and I'm
wondering if that's a nori roll in his pocket or he's just
glad to see me. He kisses my neck and whispers in my ear,
'Would you like to try some eel tonight?' and I'm thinking
that Mike and the driver would get on really well.
He tells me about hotels you can rent by the hour. We
should go to one, he tells me. I'm celibate, I say. 'Then you
probably
need
to go,' he says, and laughs, but he agrees to
take me sightseeing instead.
Our first stop is a Buddhist fertility temple and I panic
because I don't particularly want to be fertile, but then I
calm down – the temple grounds are really peaceful and lush,
and the cherry trees are blossoming, and I'm thinking more
westerners might go to church if it were so interesting and
tranquil. The only harsh note is struck by crass Americans,
talking too loud in this place of peace. I worry that people
probably think I'm English or American too – I'm in a
business suit, so they're probably never going to imagine
that I'm a Blackfella from Down Under. Perhaps a T-shirt
with the flag on it would do the trick. But would they
recognise it?
Yoshi takes my hand and leads me to a massive wooden
phallus which has just returned from Nagoya and the
fertility festival.
'March is fertility month, you have just missed it.'
'Oh well,' is all I can say. I don't think astral travelling
with a kid would be any fun anyway.
'Pregnant women stroke it for good luck, for easy
childbirth,' he tells me. 'Do you want to stroke it?' He grips
my hand tightly.
'Yes, I want to stroke it,' I whisper in his ear, loosening
his grip and sliding my hand in his pocket.
We both know it's going to be 'on' now, but this is a
religious place, a place of respect, and we have to wait until
we get back to the city.
On the way, Yoshi tells me he's an eco-poet. He's
impressed that I know anything about his genre of work. I
pretend to recite one of Sylvia's poems but make most of it
up as I go along.
'Could you send me a copy of this Sylvia's book, please?'
'Of course,' I say, which is okay, because even though it
hasn't been published yet, commitments made in dreams
don't have to be kept.
In Kyoto we rent a room by the hour. I pinch myself,
trying to wake up, and then I pinch him and he pinches me
gently back and even in a dream it hurts.
He tells me there's no time for foreplay in astral sex, or
where you're paying by the minute, but I want to check out
our room. The toilet seat has all these buttons that I'm not
sure what to do with, but one is designed to warm my arse,
which makes me want to sit there longer. I check out the
mini-bar too: I can't read any of the labels, but I choose
something that turns out to be sparkling chardonnay in a can.
I wonder what Max the real estate agent wine connoisseur
would say.
Yoshi is sitting on the bed, agitated, but waiting patiently,
because if anything the Japanese are polite.
I turn on the telly, searching for the sumo wrestlers I
must see before I leave Japan. Yoshi says I should stop being
such a westerner. But I'm not a westerner, I'm Aboriginal –
how can I be a westerner? I'm an 'other'. When I find them,
they're serving tea to each other, not wrestling, and they
don't look nearly as big as I thought they would, of course,
on a fifty-two centimetre TV screen. I wonder what I'd look
like in one of those G-strings, and decide that at least if I
dated a sumo-dude I'd look petite, and that couldn't hurt.
Yoshi is polite, but he's horny and he's paying by the
minute, so he turns the telly off and makes me stand up. I
take one more sip of my can of chardonnay because I am
nervous like a virgin. But I don't have time to think as he
stands behind me and quickly removes the kimono that I've
only just realised I'm wearing. When he turns me around
he looks so much like Mike that it takes my breath away,
but I can't stop what's about to happen because the nori
roll is out, everything is happening fast and furious and I'm
on fire like my body has been smothered in wasabi, but my
astral flight to Tullamarine is being called and I have to go,
I want to wake up alone and not with Yoshi the eco-poet
and especially not with Mike the cop.
I'm the only westerner who doesn't want to be a westerner
on the plane. I come out of the toilet and someone asks me
for a blanket. They think I am an air hostess. I laugh and
get them one.
My mobile rang and woke me up.
'Good morning babe, did I wake you?'
'Kind of, what time is it?'
'Seven-thirty, thought you'd be up already.'
'Oh, I'm running a bit late. What's up?'
'Thought I might come down this weekend. Would that
be okay?'
'That'd be lovely,' I said, with thoughts of some serious
toe-sucking flooding my mind.
♥
'So this is Girls Bar, eh? I like it. It's got a nice groove.' I
smiled at Josie and looked around the bar: it was full of all
kinds of women, and a couple of brave men.
'So you think you might make this your regular hang
from now on, then?' Her eyes lit up. 'If you do I'll have to
call Aunty Ivy straight away. God, how I'd love to do that.'
'You're evil.' I toasted her.
'Yes, it's that evil lesbian gene I have.' And we laughed
hysterically.
'James is coming down on the weekend.'
'Are you looking forward to seeing him?'
'I am actually, because in one night I managed to have
waking thoughts about a podiatrist sucking my toes and
then Mike the cop – or a guy who looked quite a lot like
him – appeared in my latest astral travel dream to Japan.'
'You didn't tell me he was Japanese. That's interesting,
I mean him being in the force. I don't think I've ever seen
a Japanese cop in Australia. Or should I say someone with
Japanese heritage, in case they identify as Australian? Gees,
all this political correctness stuff gets a bit boring, doesn't it.'
'STOP! You're raving. He's not Japanese. He was just in
my dream, and I was in Japan. It freaked me out a little. We
were in one of those famous hotels you rent by the hour,
specifically for sex.'
'What? Were you a prostitute in this dream?'
'God, you make it hard sometimes, Josie. Never mind.
So, back to James. It will be nice to see him. I do miss him,
at times.'
'Not constantly?'
'No, not constantly, I'd never get any work done if I
was missing him constantly. Does
anyone
miss
anyone
constantly? I mean, except when you're a teenager?'
'I've missed girlfriends pretty desperately in the past –
mind you, we usually moved in together on the second date.'
'Yes, but desperately and constantly are two different
things.'
'You're right, I guess. You can miss someone to the point
of almost stalking them but still get your work done . . . in
the other two hours of the day.' Josie laughed.
'Back to me, all right? As I was saying, I haven't missed
James constantly because I've been flat out since I got here.
I haven't had the time to miss him. And I'm still learning
the ropes at work. The twelve months will be up before I
know it, and I won't even have started the job properly – I'll
have to stay longer. But there's no way he'll cope with that.