He answered truthfully.
“Not very well. I prefer rugby, er, American futtoburo.”
This surprised them, and a heated discussion entailed before Kazuo ventured another sentence in English.
“You not American, Patterson-san?”
Sam smiled and shook his head.
“No, I’m English. Rugby is a game like American futtoburo but older. And better.”
All the students nodded but Sam suspected that they had only understood the first part of his explanation.
“You like Manchester Oonited, Patterson-san?” probed Noboru, which confirmed Sam’s suspicion.
He looked very serious. This must be a very important question.
Sam smiled. “They’re okay.”
This answer didn’t satisfy them, least of all Kazuo.
“Riberpuro, Patterson-san? Beater music? Pauru McCartney?” asked Jiro eagerly.
Sam laughed. “Sure! I like the Beatles – who doesn’t?”
Noboru was particularly delighted with that answer and kept repeating ‘who doesn’t, who doesn’t’.
Kazuo looked annoyed at the change of subject.
“We play sakka in Nagasaki, Patterson-san?” he asked insistently.
“Maybe,” said Sam. “If we have time.”
Kazuo pouted and Sam smiled to himself. He knew that Japanese people often said ‘maybe’ even when they meant ‘no’ because an outright negative was deemed aggressive and likely to give offence. It was one of the things that gaijin found most difficult about relations with Japanese people, an area likely to be riven by dissatisfaction on both sides. In Sam’s case he meant ‘maybe’.
Mrs Takaki trotted into the buffet car. She looked a little flustered. Ms Amori marched behind her, scowling at her back. Or maybe just scowling. It was like watching a sheepdog chivvy along a particularly dreamy, recalcitrant ewe.
Ms Amori’s narrow eyebrows darted upwards when she saw that Sam had already finished his breakfast. Then they pulled together in a frown.
“Where is Ito-san?” she demanded.
“Er…”
Sam wondered what was the best answer to give, but to his relief he spotted Mr Ito swaying through the carriage.
“He’s over there,” he said, a polite smile on his face.
Ms Amori scowled at him then turned and threw another scornful look at Mr Ito, who wisely stared at the floor as he made his morning bows.
Then she dispatched Sam to make sure the last of the boys were awake before announcing that they would be changing trains at Okayama in 20 minutes.
They changed again at Hakata and finally, having travelled for some 13 hours, they arrived at Nagasaki.
The city was spread out below, a mirage hovering over the glassy inlet, shimmering in the Autumn sunshine.
For Sam it was easy to push away the skyscrapers and buildings and roads, roll back the centuries and imagine the first European ships sailing into the port of this strange and beguiling country, each man wondering what this first contact would bring: riches or death.
He could feel for himself the peculiar mix of irritation with and beguilement by a country and people that could lie effortlessly, but who revered truth; where a single cherry blossom could provoke the most profound poetry in a land where a good death had been the highest aim.
He gazed down the mountain slope, along the narrow valleys threaded with rivers and canals and to the distant sea beyond, enjoying the moment of peace and yet wishing he were less alone and also more alone.
After depositing their luggage at a tiny youth hostel, Sam and the other teachers had escorted their students to the cable car pinned to the side of the 1000 foot Mount Inasa, hunched darkly over the city. Mrs Kakaki had hidden her eyes and refused to look, as the car swung gently on the cables.
None of the pupils had been to this southern city before and so, despite the fact that few had slept well on the train, the excitement was palpable. To Sam they seemed much younger than their 18 years. But, of course, they listened attentively to a long and tedious lecture by Mr Ito on the Portuguese traders, who had been the first European arrivals with the infamous black ships, so-called because the hulls were covered with pitch. Although he seemed to imply a darker meaning, as his eyebrows twitched unwillingly towards Sam.
Mrs Kakaki, who seemed to have recovered now she was standing on the panoramic viewing platform, enlivened the proceedings considerably by her thrilling and dramatically rendered account of how HMS Phaeton had fired on the Dutch enclave of Dejima in 1808, but still sailed away empty-handed.
She approximated a naval salute towards Sam, who laughed out loud and swept her a flowery but courteous bow; the students and several bystanders gave a round of applause and Mrs Kakaki blushed and bobbed a bow.
As the laughter died away Ms Amori stepped forward, her face stern.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “we visit the hypocentre.”
There was an immediate and heartfelt silence.
“We will visit the exact place,” she continued, “above where, on 9
th
August 1945 at 11 o’clock in the morning, the second atomic bomb was dropped on our country.”
No-one uttered a sound.
Ms Amori raked her eyes across her audience, her expression unfathomable.
“Then we will visit the Atomic Bomb Museum and the Peace Park.”
After that the atmosphere was muted, and Sam felt uncomfortable as his students’ open and previously friendly behaviour became more formal, even guarded, their eyes opaque. He felt a flare of anger towards Ms Amori. Was this the reason he had been invited to accompany the trip? Was the gaijin to feel guilty for the appalling end to the Second World War and consequent loss of life? Was this some sort of penance?
He stared back at her stonily, meeting her eyes. After a long pause, she abruptly looked away.
That evening they dined at the oldest restaurant in the city, first established in the seventeenth century, the present building a remarkable survivor of 360 years of war, fire and flood.
Unlike many places that Sam had visited in Japan, with their mania for rebuilding, it hadn’t been turned into a Disneyfied version of itself. Instead it was dignified and stained with the unmistakeable patina of age. The long, low, wooden building was set back from the road, an oasis of calm among the busy city streets.
“You will like very much, Patterson-san,” said Mrs Takaki, tugging on his elbow to gain his attention. “Is formerly Geisha house.”
Sam was amused. Did she think all gaijin men wanted to meet Geishas, or was she merely commenting on the historic use of the building? Sam thought of Paul and decided his first guess was probably the most likely.
But truly, it was the kind of place he’d envisioned when he’d first learned he was coming to Japan – the orient, medieval Japan. And the kind of place he could never have afforded to visit in Tokyo.
There were several dining rooms spread out across a large number of tatami mats, with legless chairs arranged around lacquered tables. Kimono-clad waitresses swished along the wooden corridors, carrying a constant stream of colourful-looking food on heavy trays.
They were ushered past a series of large display cases that exhibited the history of the building, into the main area, the dragon room, where the rear wall gave way to views over the lovely and ancient garden.
Sam was relieved that he was to sit with his students: he was still irritated with Ms Amori and didn’t want to risk any sharp words, especially not on the first night. But as he took his seat next to a grinning Noboru, Ms Amori marched towards him. He stood awkwardly as she bore down on him.
“Patterson-san,” she said, “you will speak only English tonight to benefit your pupils.”
It would be easier on him but the students were tired, and they would struggle. He nodded and bowed. It was, after all, what he was paid to do.
Noboru sighed and Kazuo muttered something under his breath that Sam chose not to hear.
Neither, did it seem, was anyone to have any choice in the food. Almost as soon as Sam had re-seated himself, two waitresses carried in a huge bowl.
“This shippoku, Patterson-san,” explained Fumio. “Is to create…” he hesitated, unable to find the English word. “Omoyai,” he finished lamely.
“Sharing,” offered Sam.
“Yes!” said Fumio, happily. “Sharing time.”
The idea was, he’d read, that sharing the large platter supposedly encouraged a harmonious atmosphere – it seemed to be working – and the students were making a big effort to chat in English.
Luckily Sam had also read up on the correct etiquette; he saw his students watching him out of the corner of their eyes.
“Please help yourselves to the o-hire soup,” he said. “Itadakimasu!”
The food seemed to be a mishmash of Chinese and Portuguese-inspired recipes, with a dozen different ways to present fish. It was better than he’d expected. His only knowledge of Portuguese cuisine came from a stag night in Lisbon some years back, which had impressed Sam only as being the land of the salted cod: this was much tastier.
Sam was able to offer one piece of information from his meagre store of Nagasaki history.
“Did you know,” he said, “that tempura is originally from Portugal?”
There followed some heated debate, some of which was in Japanese, enough, in fact, to draw Ms Amori’s eye to Sam’s otherwise cheerful table.
“Is very strange truth,” Patterson-san, said Kazuo, the boldest of the students.
It was a polite way, although an unusually direct way (for a Japanese person, let alone a pupil), of telling Sam he was wrong. The other students looked embarrassed, a little shocked even.
Sam smiled. “I believe it’s true. The word even comes from the Portuguese word ‘tempero’, which is a spice.”
It could also have referred to the word ‘tempora’, the Latin for ‘times’, meaning Lent. Sam left out that confusing detail.
The students looked stunned.
“Gaijin are useful for something,” said Sam, grinning.
Noboru giggled and Kazuo laughed loudly, earning another look from Ms Amori, which all of them were careful not to see.
The students happily tucked into the clear soup, sashimi, vegetables and meat and were particularly enthusiastic about the sweet bean soup – end umewan – with salted cherry blossom. It looked a bit garish for Sam’s tastes. Then the meal ended with castella being served to everyone. It was a sticky sponge cake with a dark, syrupy topping. It reminded Sam of school sponge puddings. He knew by experience that anything the Japanese considered a European-style dessert was going to be unbearably sweet, and castella had started life as a Portuguese cake.
Luckily Noboru was more than happy to have an extra slice, his red face shining in the warm lights.
By the time the meal had been vanquished, night had fallen, and behind the restaurant the light from small paper lanterns flickered in the garden. Sam strolled out with Kazuo and Fumio and several other pupils. A crescent moon hung above the gnarled and stunted pines and the scent of late flowers hung in the still air. As he looked back towards the brightly-lit restaurant, his eyes caught glimpses of other tatami rooms on different levels, waitresses moving quietly in their exotic kimonos: it was like an eighteenth century ukiyo-e woodblock print – the floating world of Geishas come to life.
He was surprised to find Ms Amori once more at his side. He had the uncomfortable feeling that she had been watching him for some time.
“We will take the pupils back to the hostel, Patterson-san,” she said.
The hostel was basic, giving Yoshi’s capsule hotel a run for its money when it came to amenities, or lack thereof. Sam, Mr Ito and the male students were to sleep in a large dormitory with thin futons laid out on the floor and a chilly shower block behind. It brought to mind something out of Dickens but the room was very clean and the staff cordial. Sam had slept in worse places; he’d lived in worse places.
To give the teachers some measure of privacy and distinction, Mr Ito and Sam’s futons were each placed behind large bamboo screens, decorated with cranes and ugly, candy-pink fish.
Mr Ito retired with a nod and soon Sam heard the familiar sound of a lid being unscrewed and liquid sloshing in a bottle.
Sam headed for the showers, stepping lightly through the dimly-lit dormitory, making a quick head count as he went, from habit if nothing else.
On his return, the room had slipped into the soft silence of a dozen youthful sleepers – except one was now missing. Sam frowned. Quickly he re-counted: yep, definitely one person had gone AWOL. Damn it!
He re-dressed quickly and headed for the main door. His plan was to circle the building once, check the tiny garden, and if he found nothing, he’d have no choice but to alert Ms Amori. He really, really wasn’t looking forward to admitting he’d lost a pupil on the first night; if he did, he suspected he’d be jobless by the time he disembarked at Tokyo. Or possibly by morning.
The entrance was empty, but when he looked through the door to the square of grass behind the hostel, Sam saw the glowing tip of a cigarette. He let out a sigh of relief, his job prospects suddenly improving.
“Kazuo, what are you doing?”
The boy jumped to his feet, dropped his cigarette and started to apologise immediately, a look of terror on his face.
Sam spoke slowly, hoping to calm the anxiety he heard in the boy’s voice.
“Are you okay?”
The boy continued to apologise. Sam wondered what he should do: he knew that Japanese law prohibited smoking by people under the age of twenty. He ought to report this – that would be the correct thing to do. But still…
He sat on the wooden bench and indicated that Kazuo do the same. The boy sat, a wary expression on his face.
“Did you just come out here for a smoke or…?” Sam slipped into careful Japanese.
Kazuo nodded.
“Well, don’t let Ms Amori see you – she wouldn’t approve either.”
Kazuo looked worried.
Sam sighed. “I won’t say anything – this time. But don’t leave the dormitory without permission again. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
This time Kazuo gave a small smile.
“Okay,” said Sam, standing up, “time to get back… unless there’s anything else you want to tell me?”