Carefully, Sam looked back to the stage, keeping his eyes front and centre.
By the second Act, Cio-Cio had been knocked up, given birth and abandoned while the faithless gaijin Pinkerton had sailed back to America to find a more suitable blue-blooded wife. His abandoned wife (or was she his mistress? Sam had lost track) looked out across the harbour of Nagasaki and sang her famous aria ‘Un Bel Di’ as she waited, unaccountably dewy-eyed, for the infamous traitor to return. Mrs Kakaki was inconsolable and Mr Ito’s eyes were suspiciously red.
Sam’s nerves were in shreds by the time Cio-Cio expectantly awaited Pinkerton’s return, espying his ship in the harbour. He wasn’t sure how much he could take, but he knew things would only get worse after the interval.
At least Suzuki, the maid, made comical by her corpulence as she tripped about the stage, provided some comic relief for Sam, but he could have shaken Cio-Cio when she fell asleep just as Pinkerton arrived, accompanied by his new American wife, Kate, with the plan to adopt his half-Japanese son and take him away from his (now ex-) wife. But the coward was unable to face her and Sam groaned. Things were looking bad for the miserable gaijin and Sam saw several people throwing him stiff glances.
Mrs Kakaki was in floods of tears and Mr Ito was just as bad. Sam sank lower in his chair, trying – and failing – to look less conspicuous. He ardently wished that this evening he had black hair, instead of the unusual and eye-catching shade of light brown with bronze lights he shared with his sister.
When Cio-Cio began to pray to a Shinto shrine, Mrs Kakaki let out a low moan and gripped Sam’s arm more tightly. Then the tragic heroine said goodbye to her son, blindfolded him and pinned a small American flag to his chest. It seemed a bit saccharine to Sam, who nearly laughed; he hoped it was almost over – Mrs Kakaki had a surprisingly strong grip.
Then Cio-Cio thoughtfully departed behind a screen before she cut her throat, just as the faithless idiot Pinkerton rushed in, too late to save her. Mrs Kakaki wept hysterically and Mr Ito wailed, digging long nails into Sam’s other arm. Sam felt like wailing, too.
Ms Amori was dabbing her eyes and half the students were in tears: Sam just felt exhausted and wondered if he’d have bruises on his arms in the morning.
He had to help Mrs Kakaki from her seat as she stumbled, blinded by tears. His shirt was damp on one side where she had leaned against him as she’d wept. He sighed. Oh well, if that was the total damage for the evening, it was still less than some dates he’d been on.
The next two days passed in a frenzy of activity. They visited the grave of William Adams, the English samurai (and inspiration for the blockbuster novel ‘Shogun’). They visited the site of the 26 martyrs, death appearing to be a big part of the tour, where Christians were crucified as the Japanese decided to outlaw the Roman Catholic faith in the late sixteenth century. Next was the Sofuku-ji, a temple from the Ming dynasty, followed by a much needed opportunity for R&R at the Unzen volcanic spa where the delicacy du jour was Onsen eggs, boiled in the sulphurous water; not forgetting a jaunt through the jigoku hells, a wasteland of steam and boiling pits where Christians had once been martyred.
Sam was more than ready to return to Tokyo and a comparatively quiet life. It was a relief when Friday afternoon arrived and they got off the tram at Nagasaki station, prepared for their long journey home.
It was still quite early in the morning when Sam finally got back to the hostel in Tokyo, and the place he was currently calling home. He felt mentally and physically drained and was relieved he had the weekend to get his head together. And, most importantly, Tara, of course. Despite his tiredness, his body filled with anticipation at the thought of seeing her, of touching her. It was like a low electric current vibrating through his whole body.
Moving quietly, he walked down the dark corridor and softly opened the door to his room in case she had fallen asleep waiting for him. She hadn’t said she would definitely be there – still, he hoped.
But the room was empty, the futon rolled neatly in the corner, just as he had left it. Disappointment flooded through him. He tossed his duffel bag on the desk and switched the light on. He wondered if it was too early to go upstairs to the women’s floor and find her.
He was hesitating, wondering what to do when Paul knocked on his door. He looked like he was still half-asleep, his hair sticking up in untidy bristles.
“Hey! Look who’s back! How was the trip, buddy?”
Sam smiled. “Yeah, pretty good. Really interesting actually. You should try and get a visit before you head Stateside. Er… have you seen Tara? Is she upstairs?”
Paul looked down.
“I guess you haven’t heard yet?”
Sam’s heart missed a beat.
“Heard what?”
“Her mom had an accident: fell down some steps and broke her leg. Tara flew home to look after her. I think her mom lives on a farm or something – Tara was freaking out, saying something about having to look after the animals? Well, you’d know more about that than me, buddy.”
Paul’s voice got faster. “So she flew out yesterday. I guess she didn’t manage to contact you before she went…”
Sam felt like he’d been punched in the gut.
“No. No, she didn’t. We were on the train… Did she say when she was coming back?”
Paul looked at him sympathetically.
“I don’t think she was planning on coming back.”
Sam closed his eyes and leaned against the wall.
“Sorry, man,” said Paul.
He patted him on the shoulder before leaving the room.
Sam pulled out the chair from under his desk and sat down, his brain reeling.
Then, filled with anger, he grabbed the duffel bag from his desk and threw it across the room. It made a satisfying thud as it hit the wall.
But lying on the desk was a piece of paper. Sam had missed it in the darkness earlier. It was addressed to him in Tara’s handwriting.
He tore it open and read it quickly. Then he dropped his head into his hands and stayed there for a long time.
Chapter 12 – November
It was early, still dark outside, but Sam was already swimming laps in the hostel’s basement pool. Again.
He preferred it when there was no-one to bother him and, if he was tired enough, it might help turn his brain off. Might.
“Sam!”
He was surprised to hear someone calling him. Helen. Of course. She was the only other person who got up at insanely early hours. He swam slowly, reluctantly, towards her.
“Hi Helen. What’s up?”
“How long have you been here?” she said.
Sam frowned. “I don’t know. Why?”
Helen shook her head like she was annoyed about something. “Well, enough’s enough. Go and get dressed – I’m taking you for breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” he said, “I…” But she wouldn’t let him finish.
“Now, Sam. We need to talk.” She eyed him angrily. Great. The words every man longed to hear:
We need to talk
. He pressed his lips together, frowning at her. “Fine!” she said. “I’ll talk, you listen. Now go and get dressed.”
Suddenly he felt too tired to argue.
Outside the hostel most of the shop fronts were still in darkness, just a few eating houses were opening to cater for the first arrivals of weekend-workers, shop assistants and sales clerks. It was raining heavily, making the grey morning even darker, depressing the day’s start still further. Helen was waiting for him at the hostel’s entrance, by her side a large and lurid umbrella advertising cucumber-flavoured soda. She tried to encourage Sam to shelter under it with her but he refused on the grounds that a) he was a foot taller than her and she’d get wet, b) he had a hood on his sweatshirt, and c) he didn’t give a damn.
Helen threw one of her scolding looks, then led the way to a quiet ramen shop where a yawning waitress wearily provided something that looked like a large condom to stop the umbrella dripping all over the floor.
Sam heard Helen order some food but he wasn’t interested enough to pay attention; his mind was, as usual, elsewhere. The waitress shuffled off and quickly returned with a large pot of green tea.
Sam rested his elbows on the table, staring moodily into the tiny cup of o-cha.
He had a good idea what Helen was going to say: he just hoped she’d get it over quickly so he could get the hell out of Dodge. If he’d liked her less, he’d have already gone – or not agreed to come in the first place.
Helen pursed her lips, staring at him, debating within herself how to start.
“You look like crap warmed up,” she said.
Sam’s lips curved upwards in a small smile.
“Good to know,” he said.
“I mean it,” said Helen, crossly. “You look hideous: well, hideous for you. It’s obvious you’re not sleeping; you’re not eating, you’ve got far too thin… and I’ve had enough of watching you wallow.”
“Wallow?” he looked up at her, his eyebrows knitting together in annoyance.
“Yes, you’re wallowing: I’ve had enough of it – we all have.”
Sam leaned back in his chair, his face stony.
“Fine. Then feel free to leave me the hell alone.”
Now Helen looked really angry.
“Oh for goodness sake! Don’t be so…” she fished around for the right word. “…so childish.”
Sam pushed his chair back and stood up to leave, but Helen grabbed his arm.
“Sit down, Sam,” she said, more kindly. “Please.”
He hesitated but saw only compassion on her face. He slumped down onto the hard chair and stared into his tea again.
“Look, I know I’m not your mother but I feel very… maternal towards you.” She smiled, raising her eyebrows. “And I’m also your friend and I hate to see you in this state. You gave me some good advice once and I’m returning the favour.” She paused, getting to the punchline. “Now, what are you going to do about Tara?”
He sighed. “There’s nothing to do. She’s gone. She’s not coming back.”
“Well, have you heard from her at all?”
Sam shook his head.
“Have you emailed her?”
He shook his head again.
“Why ever not?” said Helen, sounding frustrated.
“Because,” said Sam, slowly, “she asked me not to.”
Helen looked surprised.
“So now you know,” said Sam, still staring at the tea leaves swirling around his cup. “Maybe you can all just get off my back about this.”
“Honestly!” said Helen. “I could bang your heads together! When did she tell you not to contact her?”
Sam shrugged.
“She left a letter. In my room. She said it would be better if I didn’t contact her.”
Helen rolled her eyes.
“And you don’t think that would be anything to do, say, with telling her that you made her wait so long because by Christmas you’d be living on different continents?”
Sam stared.
“Because you made a big deal about this being… what was the word you used, ‘temporary’? You don’t think she said that to spare
your
feelings?”
Sam shook his head, feeling rather dazed.
Helen’s eyes narrowed purposefully.
“So you’re just going to give up on everything – just like that?”
“What do you want me to do?” said Sam, angrily. “Email her, phone her, hack her Facebook page, turn into a sad, delusional fuc… stalker?”
Helen shook her head wearily.
“I’ll just say one more thing, then it’s up to you… when Tara got the phone call about her mother she was in a real state. The first thing she wanted to do was to talk to you. She called your school, she called your hotel in Nagasaki and she even called the mainline station there to see if she could reach you, but you were already on the train – she did all this even though she was worried out of her mind about her mother
and
she had a flight to catch. That should tell you something. And frankly, you’re a fool if you leave it like this – whatever ridiculous thing she put in her note when she was so upset.”
Sam didn’t reply.
“And we’re all going out tonight,” she said. “No arguments.”
“Another intervention?” said Sam, sarcastically.
“Well, I was thinking more along the lines of binge-drinking with karaoke,” said Helen. “But you can call it what you like.”
Sam managed a smile at that.
The food started to arrive and Helen, having made her point, steered the conversation to less stormy waters.
Sam spent the rest of the day wandering the streets of the Akihabara shopping district. It was one of his least favourite occupations but today’s effort had a specific purpose: he was looking for a christening gift for Bella, Wayne and Sylvie’s baby daughter – something he should have done weeks earlier.
He was in a quandary: birth gifts in Japan usually comprised of mere money, so without wanting to do that, plus the tricky fact of looking for christening gifts in a country where the majority of the population followed Buddhism and Shinto, it was making things more difficult than he would have expected. He scrutinised a number of charmless new baby gifts including some ugly egg-shaped porcelain that proclaimed ‘baby girl’ in Kanji, which were naff in the extreme. The mise no hito followed him around the new baby store offering useless suggestions to the point where he felt like yelling.
In the end Sam found himself in the jewellery quarter and decided to be traditional and buy Bella a charm bracelet. Most of the prices were eye-watering but eventually he found what he was looking for: a child-size solid silver bracelet with a choice of charms.
“Irrashaimase!” called the shop assistant detailed to stand by the door.
Sam felt horribly exposed in a jewellery store staffed by all female employees, particularly when they tried to steer him towards the engagement rings, giggling and winking the whole time.
He shook his head quickly and pointed to the tiny silver bracelet in the window, explaining it was a gift for his niece, which was easier than any other explanation.
The assistants were thrilled, crowding around him to tell what a good choice he had made and how pretty it was and what a lucky girl his niece was.
It was more difficult to explain that he wanted a good-luck charm to go on it. At first they brought out several miniature buddhas but Sam didn’t think that was quite in the spirit of a gift for a christening.