“I wish you good day, Mr Patterson.”
And with that, Sam was dismissed to his first class.
The pupils stood up when he entered the room and muttered an approximation of his name. Sam swallowed: these were the senior students but their grasp of English seemed seriously limited.
They were all so alike, as if any trace of individuality had been carefully expunged. The uniforms were navy sailor suits with white piping for the girls, blazers and long, grey shorts for the boys. Most of the girls had their hair cut in neat, shoulder-length bobs and blunt fringes, with short back and sides for the boys. Not one of them had tried anything as daring as hair gel and no-one wore make-up; Sam wondered if they were able to break out of the strict regime at the weekends. It seemed doubtful.
By lunchtime he felt exhausted. It had been hard to get anything out of the students: some of the boys did answer a few questions, but the girls had mostly giggled every time he spoke to one of them. He heard the words ‘kawaii’ and ‘kakko ii’ several times and made a mental note to look them up later. The rest of the time the pupils stared at him in unblinking silence. It was clear that they were more comfortable with reading out paragraphs from the textbook than risking a sentence of their own. But it was hard to tell from that whether or not they understood what they were reading.
He sat at his desk at the front of the classroom, as the students filed past with their bento lunch boxes. One had thoughtfully been provided for him and delivered by a nervous-looking junior student. It looked pretty good and smelled even better. The food consisted of fried fish, fried noodles, a fried egg and something that looked like fried croquette potatoes, but all so lightly cooked that there was nothing oily about them. The students watched him owlishly and gave a polite round of applause when he showed he could use a pair of chopsticks without embarrassing himself. Then they collapsed into giggles again and Sam couldn’t help smiling.
After they’d finished their food, the students pulled back the tables and swept the floor, working like a well-oiled machine. Then a group of boys crowded round Sam’s desk and insisted on showing him their various skills, such as folding back their eyelids, or double-jointing their fingers so the digits stuck out in bizarre and painful-looking directions. One boy was proud to show him a long scar running across his arm, chattering away in Japanese the whole time. Another pointed to the small scar across Sam’s left eyebrow, apparently asking what had caused it. His answer of ‘rugby’ baffled them, so instead he said American Football, mangling the pronunciation until it sounded like ‘Amerikan futtoboru’. That made the girls giggle even more, which Sam hadn’t thought possible. But it was good to see them starting to relax around him. They seemed much younger than 17, especially when he compared them with the average 13-year-old kid brought up in London.
At 4 pm, Sam staggered out of the school. He had been provided with a locker in which to store his text books and outdoor shoes. He had been thinking about taking the books back to the hostel to plan out some lessons, but he quickly saw that there was no point: classes were so prescriptive that he simply had to follow the chapters and teach by rote. It sounded dull, but was a lot easier than being inventive every day as in a British classroom. Even so, Sam decided he’d work something a bit more creative in at some point. After all, shouldn’t the students be learning about British culture, too?
Travelling back to the hostel wasn’t so bad as first thing in the morning. Sam was glad to slump into a seat and loosen his tie at last. But his day wasn’t over yet. He had his own language lessons to attend between 5 pm and 7 pm. He just had time to have a quick shower and pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, grabbing a notepad and pen as he ran out the door.
The teacher was a cheerful Scottish woman in her late sixties, who explained that she’d lived in Japan her whole adult life.
“You might feel daunted but, in the early stages,” she said, “Japanese is, in fact, a very easy language to learn at first: they hardly ever use personal pronouns; there’s no male and female noun gender; and no future tense.”
Sam felt cheered.
“The written language, however, is a little more complicated. There are three writing systems: Hiragana, a basic syllabary; Katakana, which is used mostly for imported foreign words; and Kanji, adopted logographic Chinese characters.”
Hell’s teeth! Three writing systems to learn?
“The Japanese language has fewer sounds than any other major world language – hence the difficulty nationals have in learning other languages. But pronunciation is simple and never-changing but you will need to be accurate. For example, the word ‘kawaii’ means ‘cute’ or ‘sweet’ – you’ll hear this a lot, especially from young Japanese women…” she glanced at Sam, who was inexplicably blushing, “…and the word ‘kowai’ which means ‘scary’. It’s all too easy to call someone’s new baby ‘scary’, so please pay attention to the pronunciation of vowels.
Ah We Soon Get Old
: learn this mnemonic to help you.”
Sam left the lesson with his brain feeling like it had been stuffed with rice balls. He stumbled back to the hostel, where he found a sympathetic Helen.
“How was your first day, Sam?”
He smiled weakly. “Okay, I think. But my brain is definitely fried.”
She patted his arm. “We’ve all been there. Are you hungry? We’re going out for some ramen noodles. Do you want to come?”
More noodles.
“Why not,” said Sam.
The noodle bar was up three flights of stairs in the fashionable Ginza district. Sam was happy to let the others order for him as the menu was indecipherable, although he found that after five or six glasses of rice wine, the Kanji made more sense.
Watching the other diners, it seemed that the correct way to eat noodles was in short, decisive slurps. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was eating, but it tasted good and the dipping sauces were spicy and delicious.
Sam felt the warmth of the alcohol spreading through him and the laughter as Yoshi tried to translate the menu for them: bee larvae? Could that be right? Yoshi insisted it was.
“I know good place to see next!” yelled Yoshi happily, his cheeks bright red, his round face ecstatic.
“Here we go,” whispered Tara.
Helen nodded and smiled. “I think I’ll give this one a miss,” she said.
“Yup, me, too,” said Tara. “Er, Sam, if you go with these galahs, you’d better leave your wallet with us.”
“Why’s that?” said Sam, surprised.
“Trust me!” said Tara, leaning over and extracting Sam’s wallet from his back pocket. She pulled out ¥12,000, stuffed it in the front of his shirt and put the wallet in her shoulder bag.
It seemed a lot of money for a night out.
“How much is this?” said Sam, looking at the small pile of notes.
“About £100, give or take,” said Helen.
“Surely I won’t need all that just to have a couple of drinks?” said Sam, frowning.
“Just thank me in the morning,” said Tara, standing up to leave. “Try to bring him back in one piece, Paul. Night, boys!”
“Now we have proper fun!” said Yoshi, eagerly.
Sam was reminded of the way Elle’s family had insisted that the women leave the dining room so the men could have their cigars. Yoshi’s attitude was in need of some updating, too.
Reeling slightly, Yoshi led the way through a tangle of streets.
“Where are we going?” said Sam.
“Relax, buddy!” said Paul. “It’ll be an experience.”
Yeah. Like he’d never heard that before.
The club was dark and smoky. A short, chubby woman of indeterminate age greeted them at the door as if they were her long-lost sons. She wore a low-cut dress with very high heels that made her short legs and tiny feet resemble trotters.
Yoshi spoke rapidly, his eyes bright and excited. Two younger women, similarly attired, led them down a set of vinyl-covered stairs into another, smaller room. A third joined them and pointed invitingly to the low, leather couch.
Ok. Now Sam knew what sort of club this was: a hostess bar. He was grateful that Tara had taken his wallet with her after all. If he got out of there with his shirt on, it would be a miracle.
One of the women pushed Sam onto the couch and sat next to him, her thigh deliberately brushing his as she sat down. To his surprise, she handed him a business card with the name ‘Akemi’ written on it in English, something else in Kanji on the back and what looked like a phone number.
Sake arrived in six tiny cups, along with a warm towel for each of them to wipe their hands and faces. Sam’s towel smelt of lemongrass – it was very pleasant.
Yoshi pulled out a cigar and his hostess, who called herself Megumi, lit it for him.
“You very handsome man, like film star,” said Akemi to Sam. “What job you do, handsome man?”
But before he could reply, Yoshi barked an order at her and she pouted unhappily, then said, “How old you? Twenty?”
Paul’s hostess, Hachi, giggled. “You very hairy!” she said to Paul, wrinkling her nose prettily.
“That’s the Italian in me, kitten,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “I’m all man.”
Hachi giggled. “You interesting! I like you!” she laughed.
Akemi pulled on Sam’s arm to get his attention. “You like Japan girls? You like better than English girls! Treat you good!”
Sam ducked his head, embarrassed.
Akemi laughed. “Can you use chopsticks?” she said.
Sam nodded, wondering where the conversation was going now.
“Can you eat raw fish? Can you eat sushi off my behind?”
Sam choked on his sake and Yoshi laughed like a blocked vacuum cleaner.
“She like you, Sam-san! She want to be your girlfriend.”
Whatever Akemi wanted, the only thing Sam wanted was to get the hell out of there.
But after precisely ninety minutes of chat and drinks, the mama-san who had greeted them at the door, presented them with a bill for ¥12,000 each and escorted them from the room.
“Aw, don’t go!” said Paul, as Megumi disappeared into the smoke-filled club without a backwards glance.
He was dissuaded from complaining further when two burly men who could have been sumo wrestlers, blocked his re-entry to the club.
“Take it easy, fellas,” said Paul, handing over his money.
Yoshi was still giggling.
“You like hostess bar, Sam-san?”
It had been an expensive evening, but still cheaper than a night out with Elle – and minus the silent hostility over the breakfast table in the morning.
“It was an experience,” said Sam, wincing.
Sam was sitting at his desk, his long legs crammed into the too small space beneath, wearily working his way through his Japanese homework. He wondered idly if a beer would help oil and soothe the convoluted workings of his brain.
A knock on the door was a welcome distraction. Paul poked his head round.
“Hey, man. Studying?”
“Trying to,” said Sam, tiredly.
“You wanna take a break?”
Sam pushed his chair away from the desk and slammed the book shut. “God, yes!”
Paul smiled. “Let’s go get a beer, buddy.”
The night air was cool, although hardly refreshing with the ceaseless frenzy of passing cars pouring fumes onto the crowded pavements.
“Where do you want to go?” said Sam. “Kenji’s or Yamamoto’s?”
Paul was unusually hesitant and just a little evasive.
“Let’s try somewhere new – I think I saw a bar down this way that we could try out,” he said.
“Sure, okay, but it had better not be anther hostess bar because I’m still broke after the last time,” said Sam, raising his eyebrows.
“No, no, I swear,” said Paul, grinning. “Although those chicks were hot! We should definitely go back there …”
They walked in silence for some minutes. Sam was increasingly puzzled as they passed bar after bar, full of salarymen in their dark suits, faces flushed with yet another round of after-work drinks.
After they had ignored several more bars, Sam thought an explanation was in order.
“Okay, so where are we going, Paul? We’ve passed a dozen places already.”
Paul looked embarrassed, shifty even.
“Okay, dude, I’ll tell you. But if you mention this to anyone, I swear…” He left the threat hanging in the air.
“Yeah, and…? What’s the big secret?”
Paul looked at the ground. “Okay, but don’t laugh…”
“Scout’s honour!” said Sam, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.
Paul scowled. “I want to get some protection, okay?”
Sam frowned, imagining some Mafiosi situation. Could Paul have got himself mixed up with the Yakuza? Surely not?
“Okay, you’re going to have to explain that,” said Sam.
Uncharacteristically, Paul blushed.
“Johnnies! French letters! Rubbers, man! Jeez – condoms!”
Sam burst out laughing. “Oh! So, is this… like a date, Paul? Because I’ve got to tell you – you’re not my type.”
“You’re a funny guy,” muttered Paul. “I just want to be prepared: I think me and Tara… well, I know she digs me… and I want to be ready. I looked for some rubbers in the supermarket but nothing doing. So I figured maybe they sold them in a drug store. But I’m damned if I can work out what the hell I’m buying. It’s all in Japanese. So I figured you might be able to help. Aw come on!”
By this time Sam was doubled over, laughing so hard he could hardly catch his breath.
“You promised you wouldn’t laugh!” Paul sounded so indignant that it brought on a fresh round of laughing.
“S…sorry!” wheezed Sam, a huge grin spread across his face. “Okay, okay! I’ll help.”
He tried to stifle another laugh, and keep his face straight.
“This is the drug store,” mumbled Paul, his face like thunder.
The sign above the shop said Yakkokyu: Sam was pleased that he could recognise the Kanji for ‘medicine’.
“Why didn’t you ask Yoshi to help you?” said Sam, curiously.
Paul shook his head slowly as Sam continued to look at him.
“Naw. He talks too much; I thought you’d be more likely to keep your mouth shut… but I could have been wrong about that.”
Sam laughed. “I dunno: what’s it worth?”