The New Samurai (17 page)

After nearly an hour, Yoshi decided they had been stewing long enough.

“I have arranged special pleasure for you,” he said, happily. “Japanese massage: is very good after onsen. Paul-san your massage therapist, she is waiting for you.”

“Now you’re talking!” said Paul, leaping out of the onsen.

Yoshi pointed to a short, dumpy woman who was gesturing to him at the edge of the changing rooms.

“You’re serious?” he said, disappointment colouring his voice. Whatever fantasies he had been harbouring were suddenly crushed.

With what shreds of dignity he had remaining, Paul held his small towel in front of him and struggled one-handed into his yukata before uncomfortably following his new best friend.

“You too, Sam-san,” said Yoshi.

By contrast, Sam’s masseuse was a tiny woman of perhaps ninety, with a face like teak and few teeth. Yoshi nodded encouragingly and, feeling like an exhibit at a zoo, Sam pulled on his gown and followed her to the massage area.

Without warning, the tiny grandmother ripped off his yukata and pushed him onto the massage table, throwing a rough towel across his backside. Oddly, she reminded Sam of Elle. It was the first time he’d thought of her in weeks.

She may have been small, but the masseuse’s grip was fierce. Sam felt like a piece of steak that was being ground up for the pot. She kneaded, poked, prodded and rubbed with an intensity that was closer to pain than pleasure. Her fingers dug into his back muscles with such force that he wouldn’t have been surprised to see them sticking out of his chest.

From across the hall, he heard Paul yelp suddenly, and his masseuse shouted something that sounded angry. Then it went quiet. Sam grinned to himself.

As the tiny, old woman worked her way down Sam’s body, she approached his left leg. He twisted round, making a warning sound and holding up his hands to stop her. She peered at the spider’s web of pale scars that ringed his knee and nodded her understanding. Then, with surprisingly gentle hands, she continued with her massage.

After a further ten minutes she rattled something in rapid Japanese, and slapped him on the back.

Sam managed to mutter “Arigato,” before she left the room.

Feeling oddly disjointed, he climbed back into his yukata and made his way to the changing rooms. Paul was sitting limply on a bench, his eyes closed, and Yoshi was pulling on his street clothes with gestures so languid he could have been underwater, his face wearing the blissful expression of a sleepwalker.

“Ah, Sam-san! How did you enjoy Japanese massage?”

Sam smiled. “Painful – but oddly enjoyable. Thanks, Yoshi. I owe you one.”

Yoshi bowed gravely. “You very welcome, Sam-san. Do itashimashite. Paul-san, you enjoy Japanese massage?”

“Er, yeah,” said Paul, who looked utterly forlorn. “It was great.”

Just then some other gaijin patrons asked Yoshi a question and while he was distracted, Sam studied Paul’s face.

“What’s the matter, mate?” he said, quietly. “I heard you yell in there… pretty painful, wasn’t it?”

“It’s not that,” muttered Paul. He hung his head.

Sam frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Have you… have you had massages before?” asked Paul, his expression stricken.

Sam nodded, feeling confused.

“Yeah, sure. I used the club massage therapist when I was playing,” he said. “Before my knee…”

He paused.

Paul’s expression changed. “That must have been rough,” he said, thoughtfully.

“But that’s not what you were going to ask me,” said Sam, astutely.

“No, well… I’ve never had a full body massage like that before,” admitted Paul. “I mean, not from a professional, only from girlfriends and…”

Sam’s brain clicked into gear. “Oh. Oh! You mean…”

“Goddam! It was so… so…”

Sam smiled. “You get a boner, mate?”

Paul grimaced. “Oh, God. Just shoot me now. She… the masseuse… she yelled at me.”

Sam chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about it: it probably happens a lot. Next time just think of something else – practise translating into Japanese; do a maths problem; anything! Or, better still, ask her to get you a fresh towel or a glass of water or something so that she has to leave the room. Do press ups. That’ll calm the, er, situation.”

Paul nodded slowly. “I don’t think there’ll be a next time, but I’ll bear that in mind. So you never…?”

“Nope,” Sam shook his head. Then he smiled, “but the club masseur was an ex-Prop, 6 ft 6 in and weighed 300 lbs so at least I never got a…”

“Don’t say it!” barked Paul. “In fact if you want to stay looking pretty, don’t ever mention it again.”

Sam laughed. “Scout’s honour.”

They finished getting dressed in silence, Paul throwing dark looks at Sam’s attempts not to smile. Then they wandered out into the main entrance where Tara and Helen rejoined them, looking pink and relaxed.

“How’d it go, guys?” said Tara.

“An experience,” said Sam.

Paul was mute.

Helen raised her eyebrows, asking a silent question.

“Er,” said Sam, trying to direct the attention away from Paul, “I think she massaged muscles I didn’t know I had.”

“Yes!” said Yoshi, strolling over. “You will feel new man tomorrow, Sam-san.”

“Promise?” said Tara.

Paul was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Anyone else hungry?” asked Sam, hurriedly changing the subject.

“Yes, I’m starving,” said Helen, catching his tone.

Sam smiled at her gratefully. “Maybe some beer, too,” he said, glancing at Paul.

Yoshi was right. The next day Sam felt wonderfully loose-limbed. He got to school early and wrote up a poem on the board for his first class. It wasn’t in the curriculum or the text books he’d been instructed to use, but Sam had got to know some of his older pupils well enough, so he thought, to think that they might enjoy it: and because it offered an insight into English humour, which was so different from the more direct, literal, Japanese humour.

It was, he knew, an unusual choice: a poem called ‘Summer Dawn’ by the comic Spike Milligan. It had always amused Sam and had worked brilliantly with the pupils at Kidbrooke. Plus, the opening reminded him of some Japanese poetry that Yoshi had translated for him.

My sleeping children are still flying dreams in their goose-down heads. The lush of the river singing morning songs Fish watch their ceilings turn sun-white. The grey-green pike lances upstream Kale, like mermaid’s hair points the water’s drift. All is morning hush and bird beautiful.

If only, I didn’t have flu.

It was a horrible mistake. He read the poem twice in complete silence. They just didn’t get it; the students stared at him, their expressions blank. Then one of the braver pupils, Kazuo, raised a tentative hand and said,

“Please explain English joke, sensei.”

He tried again, explaining about pathos and bathos, about punch lines and puncturing pomposity. Nothing: no response. Zip, zero, zilch. He’d never felt like such a useless teacher, never experienced such a lack of, well, anything. He’d have felt better if they’d played up, given him hell, shouted and sworn; at least then he’d have known what to do. But instead they just gazed at him with the puzzled expressions of scientists watching a failed experiment. The temperature in the classroom was rising and Sam tugged helplessly at his tie, feeling sweat trickle down his back.

After what felt like an eternity of torment in the pit of Hades, the bell rang for the end of the lesson and the start of assembly. Giving thanks to the gods of strung-out teachers, Sam let the pupils pass by him towards the classroom door. He began to erase the poem, and with it the concomitant memory of failure, when he had a moment of inspiration. He allowed one of the students to jostle him. They immediately apologised and Sam shook his head.

“No, I’m sorry… Hige sori!”

The students burst out laughing. For some reason they found it hilarious that the English phrase ‘I’m sorry’ was almost a homophone for ‘hige sori’ – ‘shave my beard’. They ran up to Sam in excitement, delighted that he had, at last, understood the complexities of a Japanese joke.

The boys were grinning broadly, slapping each other’s backs as if they’d won a prize, and the girls giggled happily. It was mystifying, but a welcome relief, too.

Suddenly the smiles were wiped off their faces. The building shook fiercely and Sam was thrown against the side of the door.

“Jishin!” shouted Sam.

Immediately the students responded. They scuttled under their desks, head first, holding onto the table legs as the building shook and shivered above them. There was no screaming and although the pupils looked tense, they weren’t paralysed by fear. A pile of books fell off Sam’s desk with a crash, and one of the windows gave way with a loud crack. The floor of the classroom shook again, more violently, and it was hard for him to keep his balance, even on his knees.

Sam’s heart was knocking through his ribcage but to his relief, after four more, long, long minutes, the tremors slowly began to die away.

There was a brief pause, in shocked silence, while Sam considered whether it was safe or not to get up. He could hear the feet of other students in the corridor outside the classroom. Standing quickly, the pupils were released from their statue-like state and queued up behind him. He led them quietly out of the building in perfect order, instructing them to line up in the playground, just as they practised every month during their regular earthquake drills. They waited in silence, a prescribed distance from the school building in case of falling masonry. Nobody spoke.

One of the senior teachers hurried towards Sam with a class register and quickly made sure that all the students were accounted for.

She looked at Sam and smiled tentatively, worried, perhaps that the gaijin might start screaming or running round the playground.

“Shoga-nai.” she said, quietly.
It can’t be helped.

Suddenly an aftershock rippled through the playground. Several students lost their footing and fell. Sam gestured to the rest to crouch down. It was more than unnerving to have the tarmac swirl beneath his feet.

The students, who had up until that point been fairly calm, now started to look worried. Several car alarms were wailing helplessly and Sam could see smoke coming from behind a nearby building. A pair of fire trucks pealed past, their sirens adding to the general feeling of consternation.

Mr Tanaka, the Head Teacher, blew a whistle and instantly there was silence. He spoke briefly to the students and instructed everyone to sit on the ground. The severe-looking Ms Amori started moving through the students, a First Aid kit clutched in one hand. Sam walked briskly over to her and gestured to the case.

“I’m a qualified First Aider,” he said. “Can I help?”

She nodded curtly and pointed him towards a second kit. Sam pulled on a pair of thin, rubber nurse’s gloves and went to work. The injuries were mainly minor: cuts and bruises caused largely during the aftershock. One girl, a junior, looked very pale and was being held by her friend, who looked tearful. Sam suspected that she had a broken wrist.

“Amori-san!” he called.

She hurried over.

“I think this one will need hospital,” he said, in a quiet voice. “Have you got any blankets in case she goes into shock?”

She nodded without comment and snapped an order to one of the other teachers, who hurried away, returning with an armful of thick, fleecy blankets.

Another of the students tried to give the injured girl a drink of water.

“No!” said Sam. He didn’t know whether or not the girl was going to need anaesthetic; in which case an intake of liquid was definitely not a good idea.

“Iie. Byoin ni iki-masu.”
She is going to the hospital.

The girl blinked up at him, her eyes wide with fear. Ms Amori laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Patterson-san, I will stay with her. Please see if any other pupils need your help.”

Sam nodded and stood up, feeling Ms Amori’s eyes on him the whole time. He made his way slowly through the lines of students, helping where he could, reassuring where there was nothing else to do. He had no idea whether or not to expect more aftershocks, but he knew it was important to keep the students calm.

After an hour of sitting in the increasingly hot sun, the emergency services arrived to check over the school building. A few cracked panes were removed and the IT suite was closed due to several computers having smashed onto the floor, but otherwise the school had survived reasonably unscathed and they were allowed back in.

For the rest of the day the students were subdued, and several were taken home early by parents anxious to check out the damage in their own apartments.

The rail service was working more slowly than usual and the crowds were horrendous. The Japanese responded with their usual stoicism and Sam merely joined the orderly queues and waited his turn.

Two hours later than usual, he reached the hostel, wanting nothing more than to shower and rest. But when he reached his room, there was a note taped to his door in Tara’s handwriting.

‘Helen hurt in quake. Don’t know how bad. Come when you get this.’

There was an address scrawled below.

Cursing the day he’d decided not to get a mobile phone in Japan because of the exorbitant line-rental charges, Sam flung his backpack on his futon roll, vaguely noticing that all his books were scattered across the floor, and hurried back out, his street map in his hand.

He arrived at the hospital hot, worried and covered in a film of dust, with no idea of where to go to look for Helen.

He tried asking several official-looking people, all of whom shook their heads in dismay when the gaijin tried to ask for information. In the end Sam wrote Helen’s name in Katakana on a piece of paper and handed it to a man who looked like he might be in charge of something.

The man’s face wrinkled in concentration and he wandered off, muttering to himself. Sam had no idea if he’d gone to get help. He stood in the middle of the entrance room, his frustration close to reaching fever pitch, even wondering whether making a scene would be helpful.