The New Samurai (24 page)

Finally they turned off the highway and made their way up a bumpy, unmade track, Yoshi keeping up a detailed commentary the whole way.

The Satos’ farmhouse looked more like a Swiss chalet than the image Sam had had in his head. The main house was two storeys, whitewashed with a sharply sloping roof of red slates. A series of long, low barns lay behind the farmhouse and a white picket fence surrounded the property. Fat, black-and-white cattle grazed in the nearest fields and in the distance, blue mountains reared up towards the sky.

There was just so much
space
.

“It’s beautiful!” Sam breathed softly.

His words stopped Yoshi’s torrent of information as a delighted smile spread across his face.

“Thank you, Sam-san! You do my family great honour.”

Sam twisted round to look at Yoshi. “No, I’m the one who is honoured. Thank you for inviting me, Yoshi-san.”

Yoshi blushed with pleasure and Sam detected another small smile on Yumi’s face.

Sam was escorted towards the house, to be introduced to Yoshi’s parents.

He removed his shoes and coat at the entrance, watching Yoshi out of the corner of his eye to check he was making the right moves. A pair of guest slippers had been provided (size large) and Yoshi invited him in to meet his parents.

Mr Sato was thin-faced and serious; he looked more like an accountant than a farmer. Mrs Sato, however, was an older version of Yoshi, cheerful and welcoming, with eyes that crinkled warmly when she smiled, which was often.

Sam bowed slowly and deeply and presented them with a packet of English tea and the traditional words, “tsumaranai mono desu ga” – please accept this boring gift.

He hadn’t had a chance to get anything more elaborate, but Helen had provided him with a small ribbon to tie around it, insisting that a well decorated gift conferred more prestige.

Yoshi assured him that a gift of English tea was perfect. And the Satos seemed delighted, smiling and bowing, ushering him into their living room. Of course, it would have been horribly rude to have behaved otherwise or to have spurned a guest’s gift. Sam had a fleeting memory of the first and only time he’d met Elle’s parents; he couldn’t help smiling at the comparison.

The room was unusually large, certainly when compared with the flats of most Tokyoites – or Londoners, come to that – with a low table of dark wood in the centre. Tatami mats covered the floor and flat cushions were provided to relax on. Mr Sato invited Sam to sit and Mrs Sato and Yumi bustled into the kitchen to bring out the lunch. Dish after dish of fried fish, seafood, rice and steamed vegetables arrived, along with miso soup, tofu and dipping sauces. Yumi staggered in under the weight of a heavy-looking tray, laden with an enormous teapot and tiny, egg-sized teacups. Sam rose to help her but to his surprise Yoshi grabbed his elbow and pulled him back to the floor.

“It is her honour, Sam-san,” he said, quietly. “You will offend her if you help: hmm, how to explain? It would be as if you think she say you causing her too much trouble, so that she need extra help. When we have guest, we must look busy so guest knows everything is taken care of. Guest can now be easy.”

Sam could see in Mr Sato’s face that he had committed a faux pas. He bowed his head to apologise.

“Sumimasen. Wakarimashita.” Excuse me. I understand now.

Mr Sato bowed back and suddenly let out a shout of laughter. Yoshi bellowed, too. Sam was nonplussed.

“My father like you, Sam-san. He think you funny fellow!”

Sam smiled wryly. “Glad to be of service.”

Neither of the elder Satos spoke English and Sam also found their unfamiliar accent quite hard to understand. Yoshi’s accent was noticeably stronger, too. Conversation was necessarily limited and Yoshi did most of the translating. It became clear that Yumi’s English was also good, perhaps even a little better than her brother’s, although she had not yet left school.

The meal was delicious and Sam and Yoshi ate with good appetites, which pleased Mrs Sato enormously. She fussed over her eldest child in a way that reminded Sam of Sylvie, and patted Yoshi’s stomach, implying that he’d lost weight since he’d been from home. Sam found that a little hard to believe as Yoshi seemed to live on a diet supplied primarily by Mr Donut.

There was just one uncomfortable moment during the meal, when Yoshi was momentarily absent from the room. Sam asked Yumi what she was planning to study at university the following year. It seemed an innocent enough question.

“I am political woman, Sam-san,” said Yumi, her voice low and serious. “I will study politics. I wish to go in government and stop all inappropriate erections.”

Sam blinked. “Er, pardon?”

“Too many inappropriate erections!” she insisted.

Light dawned. “Oh, I think you mean ‘elections’,” said Sam, a faint blush increasing his embarrassment.

“Correct word is ‘election’?” said Yumi.

“Yes, that’s right,” he said.

“What is ‘erection’, please?”

Sam ran a hand through his hair and looked down. “It means a building… among other things,” he mumbled.

He was glad Yoshi hadn’t been there to hear his sister’s comments: it would have been a lot more embarrassing and Sam was pretty sure Yoshi would have laughed like a drain.

The women folk cleared away the table and Mr Sato disappeared to his work. That left Yoshi to show Sam around the farm.

He was enthusiastic and knowledgeable and seemed very happy that at the end of the year, he would be returning to help his father run the family business.

“I have big plans, Sam-san,” he said. “Diversification is our future. We will change this barn into rooms for guests, like English b-and-b. We will offer authentic Japanese experience but with English-language spoken. You think guests will come?”

Sam nodded. “That sounds like a great idea, Yoshi. It would certainly take away the fear-factor.”

Yoshi looked puzzled. “You fearful?”

“The British aren’t known for being good at languages,” explained Sam. “I reckon more people would come to Japan if they weren’t so worried about not understanding – or being understood.”

Yoshi nodded. “Yes, I think this, too. I will make website for English tourists. You help me, Sam-san?”

“No problem,” said Sam. “I could write about my experiences here on a blog, if you like. Help you edit the text – anything you like.”

“Thank you, Sam-san,” said Yoshi. “You are good friend.” He paused and seemed embarrassed. “I have another favour to ask, Sam-san,” he said, at last.

“Sure, what is it?”

Yoshi stared at the distant mountains. “You have good success with women, Sam-san,” he said softly. It was a statement, not a question.

Sam blinked, then winced as he thought of Tara’s face when she hit him. “Not so you’d notice.”

Yoshi shook his head in disagreement. “Yes, women like you, Sam-san. Even Yumi, who likes no person. What is secret, please?”

Sam raised his eyebrows.

“Yoshi, mate, if I knew the secret of pleasing women, if I knew what women wanted, I would be the richest man on earth.”

Yoshi processed this. “There is no secret?”

“Nope,” said Sam, sketching a smile. “All I can say is, be yourself; don’t try and be anything you’re not. The women I know can spot a fake from a thousand yards.” He shrugged. “That any help?”

Yoshi shook his head slowly and sighed. “Is not Japanese way, Sam-san. Saving face is more important than to be self. Family is important: self not so important. We Japanese prefer to lose as a team, than win by ourselves.”

It didn’t take long for Yoshi to shake off his bout of introspection: he was designed for happiness, and his enthusiasm for life quickly bubbled over again.

“Tonight we meet my old friends,” said Yoshi. “You will like them, I think.”

The plan was to meet Yoshi’s friends in town, where they would collect the motorbikes for the trip, then go for dinner and drinks. Yumi was meeting her friends, too, and Yoshi had reluctantly agreed that they could all eat together.

As they walked over to one of the barns to collect the car, Yoshi confided his misgivings about the joint celebration that evening.

“It is better without women,” he said, shaking his head.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “You don’t mind when Helen – and Tara – come along.”

“That is different, Sam-san. You gaijin. Is different in Japan: men and women do not drink together like this. You will see.”

“I can’t wait,” said Sam, trying to keep a straight face.

Yoshi drove them round to the front of the house to wait for his sister, who had been upstairs getting ready for some hours.

Yumi tripped out of the front door wearing a mini-dress, long, stripy socks and something similar to Converse trainers. Sam tried not to stare at the thick application of cosmetics that made her look like a cross between a Kabuki actress, a child who had raided her mum’s make-up bag, and a hooker. The result was unsettling and mesmerising at the same time. Yumi seemed pleased with the effect on Sam, spectacularly misreading his expression. She certainly didn’t seem much like a serious ‘political woman’ anymore, although Sam figured she might have more luck with inappropriate elections.

Yoshi’s driving was just as bad as Yumi’s. His spacial awareness was particularly lacking: Sam made a mental note that they’d need to include a first aid kit in their luggage before they headed off. If they made it to the following day: which seemed far from certain.

He winced as Yoshi took the dirt track at fifty, bouncing over the potholes in a way that made the whole car frame tremble, and the transmission appeared in danger of having a nervous breakdown. Not unlike Sam, who gripped his seat tightly.

The white-knuckle ride ended when Yoshi screeched into a small car park behind a hotel in downtown Furano, and abandoned the car in a space that approximated a parking spot. Sam unlocked his fingers from the seat whilst Yumi trotted off to meet her friends.

Yoshi had parked alongside two large 650cc Kawasaki motorbikes fitted with substantial side panniers and top boxes. With a bit of luck it would mean that Yoshi wouldn’t get his legs crushed if, or when, he fell off.

He introduced Sam to his friends. Isamu was tall and thin with a long fringe that flopped artfully across his face. He nodded briefly at Sam, then stared in the other direction, sucking hard on his cigarette. Masao was shorter and friendlier, shaking hands with Sam and trying out a few words in English. Sam replied in more fluent Japanese and Masao beamed.

“These hogs for us, Sam-san,” said Yoshi, pointing towards the motorbikes. “We have much fun, I think!”

“Er… do you actually know how to ride one of these?” said Sam, staring doubtfully at the heavy machines.

“Sure thing!” said Yoshi. “You worry too much, Sam-san.”

Masao threw a set of keys to Sam and one to Yoshi. Yoshi dropped his. Sam really hoped that wasn’t an omen.

They relocated to a bar in the hotel where Yumi and her friends had already sequestered a booth. The two girls, Aya and Miho, had identikit pigtails – and the requisite short skirts and heavy make-up. They giggled when Yumi introduced them to Sam. They giggled when he sat down. And they giggled when he tried to speak to them in Japanese. Unable to get a single sensible syllable from them, he gave up.

“You see, Sam-san,” muttered Yoshi blackly. “It is no good having women to be social with. Better they stay silent office flowers.”

He was interrupted furiously by Yumi. From the few words that Sam caught in the torrent that followed, Yumi was berating her older brother for his old-fashioned ‘furukusai’ opinions. He answered angrily as Yumi’s friends looked on, giggling behind their hands. Another fountain of words erupted from Yumi.

Yoshi sighed and Sam grinned at him.

“Suck it up, mate,” said Sam, laughing, “It’s the way of the future. Trust me: I’ve been there.”

Yoshi shook his head and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

Isamu didn’t have much to say for himself in any language, seemingly content to stare off into the distance, dedicating himself to the art of being cool. Masao, on the other hand, chatted eagerly to Yumi and it was clear, to Sam at least, that there was a mutual attraction. Sam didn’t mention it to Yoshi, who seemed oblivious: it was one of those cases, he thought, where less was more.

Plus it was something of which he had personal experience: it had been bad enough meeting some of the men his older sister had dated over the years – he couldn’t imagine how it would have felt if Fiona were his younger sister.

Not that there seemed to be anything objectionable about Masao. In fact, unlike Yoshi, he seemed delighted that the evening’s party included Yumi and her friends.

The bar was clearly the hangout place for the local twenty-somethings, although tea and coffee seemed equally popular beverages alongside alcohol. More of Yumi’s girlfriends came over to inspect the gaijin, and soon their booth was overflowing with giggling girls. They stared at Sam and giggled a lot. It was unnerving.

It was also clear that the bar was frequently visited by overseas tourists. Some years back, it seemed, customers had started writing the name of their home town on the walls, on the bar and on the furniture. Every spare inch was covered with messages like ‘Joe Santos, Spicewood Beach, Tx, 2006’ or ‘Maria, Roma, 2009’ and, to Sam’s surprise, a train ticket from Woking to Guildford was pinned to the ceiling.

It wasn’t the only bizarre thing about the place. The resident DJ was dressed as an American gambler straight from a Mississippi paddle-steamer, but the music he played was modern Latin, although many of the songs were sung in Japanese.

Sam tried to concentrate on the conversation between Masao and Yumi, picking up the difference in intonation, emphasis and, occasionally language. He was beginning to understand Jerry’s comments about the way men and women spoke in Japan. He still felt a burn of embarrassment when he thought about the revelation of that evening. Mostly he tried not to.

Eventually the level of the music increased to the point that it was almost impossible for him to follow any conversation. By now the dance floor was busy and when Masao and Yumi headed out to dance, Sam decided to do the same.