The New Samurai Read online

  Apparently these sort of places are popular because not many people have got the space to keep a pet, so it’s sort of designer bling if you can afford a cat, let alone a dog.

  But it was definitely hands-off and sort of innocent really. (Sorry, Keith.) There were lots of schoolgirls coming in and the coffee was £5 a shot, so I headed out soon after that. And it turns out that the word ‘biru’ means ‘beer’, but also means ‘building’. This place is so confusing! I make an arse of myself on an hour-by-hour basis, but I think that’s about average for new arrivals. Although it could be just me.

  The guys at the hostel seem pretty friendly, but they’re already working so I’ve only seen them briefly. Only one of them is Japanese – Yoshi – and I think he’s going to be an interesting person to know. He reminds me of your little brother, Wayne!

  Then there’s Helen, who’s a sort of den mother – she’s decided I need looking after. Does that remind you of anyone, Sylvie?! She’s been here a year now and her husband is planning on coming out in a few months.

  There are quite a few Aussies here so I might be able to sort out a game of rugby, although American football is much better known among the locals. The guy in the room next door, Paul, is from New York so he’s itching to get a game going.

  My job starts tomorrow, and it’ll be really interesting to see what it’s like teaching in a Japanese school – I have a feeling it’ll be a lot different from Kidbrooke.

  That’s all the news that’s fit to print.

  Fi, give Rosa a hug for me. Sorry I can’t Skype – I’ll get a laptop as soon as I get my first salary cheque – assuming there’s any money left after paying for rent and food!

  Julie, say hi to everyone at school (and, by the way, you are not going to win that bet!).

  Sayonara!

  Sam woke up early on his first day of the new job. It was still dark outside as he peered through the small, curtain-less window. Below, the streets were already busy, although in truth, they hadn’t really quietened much during the night. It didn’t bother him: he was a Londoner and used to sleeping through the noise of traffic.

  He trudged down to the basement and was pleased to find that he had the pool to himself. He swam steadily for half an hour, planning how he’d start with his new pupils, trying to frame some polite introductory words in Japanese. A quiet splash made him realise he was no longer alone.

  “Hey, Sam,” said Tara. “Couldn’t sleep or early bird?”

  He smiled. “Bit of both. First day and all that. Plus they’re sending me across the city – er… Ueno?”

  “Yeah? That’s supposed to be a pretty nice area – I think you’ll be okay,” she said.

  Sam tried to ignore how good she looked in her two-piece costume.

  They chatted for another minute before Sam looked at his watch and decided he’d better get a move on.

  “Good luck!” she called after him.

  He smiled and waved, heading for the showers.

  The subway journey was worse than anything Sam had experienced in London. Uniformed officials shoved people onto trains with no respect for personal space. It was organised mayhem and not unlike being in a scrum, except everyone was very formally dressed. Sam was glad he’d worn a white shirt and dark tie for his first day. He’d abandoned his jacket before he got on the train and now it was looking very rumpled, squashed against a short salaryman with a briefcase.

  A lot of commuters stared openly at him – Sam found it unnerving.

  He had to listen hard to the train announcements to make sure he got off at the right station. But it was difficult to make out the words and Sam was afraid he’d miscounted the stops.

  He had decided to try asking the young woman standing next to him for help; she stood with her eyes riveted to a manga magazine. As he glanced at the pictures, he realised that they were extremely violent, if not downright pornographic. Sam changed his mind and asked a man who had been texting silently for 20 minutes.

  “Sumimasen. Ueno desu ka?”

  Sam repeated the question but the man blinked and ignored him. Instead it was the woman who answered.

  “Yes. Ueno is the next stop.”

  “Thanks,” said Sam, feeling relieved. “Arigato!”

  She smiled and bowed politely, despite the lack of space. Sam nodded awkwardly and forced his way through to the train doors.

  It felt good to be outside again after the crush of the train, and Sam loped the last quarter of a mile, carefully following the street map and directions that Frau Brandt had given him. He was aware that if he made a mistake, there was no way reading the street signs would help, all having been written in tangled scrawls of Japanese writing.

  The school was grey and concrete and looked more like a car park than a school. Sam stared at the building doubtfully, but when several uniformed students passed him in their smart blue sailor suits, he figured it must be the right place after all. He wondered if there was some universal law that decreed all secondary schools had to look like prisons. Maybe it was some sort of atavistic architectural memory.

  He followed the signs round to what looked like the main entrance. Several students stopped to stare at him and two girls, who looked about 15, giggled behind their hands.

  Great. More giggling girls.

  “Patterson-san?”

  Sam looked round to see a severe-looking female almost glaring at him.

  “Er, yes. Hello. How do you do? Yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”

  “My name is Amori. I will take you to Tanaka-san, our Head Teacher.”

  Sam followed the woman in silence. Unlike most of the Japanese people he’d met, she obviously felt no need to make him feel welcome.

  He was ushered into a small but smart office. A thin, bespectacled man rose to meet him, bowing formally.

  Sam copied him, remembering to bow more deeply to show that he understood his own relatively lowly status.

  “How do you do, Mr Patterson. Please sit.”

  The Principal waved to a hard, wooden seat and handed him a sheet of paper. “This is your teaching schedule. This morning you have three classes of seniors. Each class has between 32 and 35 pupils – small classes.”

  Sam was taken aback. He hadn’t expected such large classes: it changed the way he’d have to teach. Probably.

  “Each lesson is 50 minutes with a 10 minute break between,” continued the Head. “Teachers move from classroom to classroom whilst pupils remain seated. This leads to a minimum of disruption.”

  After the regular change-over scrums at Kidbrooke where limbs could be lost, Sam could see how that would be an improvement.

  “Lunch is from 12 till 12.30. You may collect a bento box or bring your own lunch. Teachers eat with the pupils: it is ‘a living curriculum’. This will also be opportunity to interact with pupils on more informal level. You are language assistant. But you also qualified teacher, unlike most language assistants. Although you are only here three days a week, you will adopt role of homeroom teacher: an informal counsellor is way to explain role. Naturally you will report important conversations. There will be no problems: students have mastered daily routines and behaviour is acceptable.

  “In afternoon, you will teach three lessons to junior students. Here are textbooks to follow. I advise you spend 50% of each lesson on grammar and 50% on language.”

  Sam nodded slowly. He’d expected it to be a more prescriptive teaching style than in Britain, but not quite this regimented.

  “You will find that students expect quick and constant correction with teacher-led curriculum. Some language assistants find this difficult transition.”

  He paused.

  Sam tried to look alert.

  “You will find students introverted and dislike speak in front of peers. You will find ways to encourage.”

  Sam tried not to grind his teeth. How the hell was he supposed to teach English if none of them wanted to speak it?

  “You will find in reading classes students will read
new words aloud, imitating you. You will explain sentence by sentence, analyse grammatical structures, rhetoric, and style. You will find students prefer visual learning: please no kinaesthetic methods.

  “A student from each class will escort you to next classroom at end of lesson one week only.

  “Hmm. We practise earthquake drill every month: your responsibility as homeroom teacher is explained in memo. Please learn well.”

  Sam was silent. Earthquake drill. Ring of Fire. Right.

  The Head stared at him without smiling. He didn’t ask Sam if there were any questions. He stood up.

  “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.”