The Spare Room (6 page)

11

One Sunday some time later I arrived at Chisuko's homestay house with a red string bag of oranges under my arm. She had wanted me to come for lunch for ages, but my life was so busy, what with class and work and the boat. When she opened the door I handed the oranges to her. I was nervous. I hadn't been to another Australian home before. She looked at the oranges quizzically.

I bringed them for your homestay family, I said.

She smiled.

Brought. You're a sweetheart, she said.

There were times when Chisuko's way of speaking alarmed me. She spoke English so well and so colloquially that I had to remember it was like speaking to an Australian, but the fact that she was Japanese got in the way sometimes. Sweetheart? I thought. What did that mean?

Are they okay? I asked. Daisy told me to bring something.

Oranges are lovely, Akira. Come and meet my homestay parents.

There was a twinkle in Chisuko's eye which made me uneasy, but I followed her into the house. It was quite different from my homestay house. This one was very modern and open with a bright living area and floor-to-ceiling windows which looked over the city. In the kitchen, two women were standing laughing amid the makings of lunch, with big glasses of red wine in their hands. They made a toast just as we came in, clinking their glasses together.

To us!

To us!

Chisuko called out, Here he is! and they put down their glasses and came towards us, grinning.

I'm Louise, said one, and shook my hand.

And I'm Christine, said the other, also shaking my hand.

I was quite adept at handshaking these days. I didn't have to count or concentrate.

I am pleased to meet you both, I said. Thank you for inviting me to have traditional Sunday lunch with you.

They fell about laughing at this and I wondered if I had been too formal. Or was there a joke I didn't get? Perhaps it was just my accent. Anyway, Chisuko was there. It would be okay.

Nothing traditional in this household, I'm afraid, Akira, Louise said.

Oh, I said.

Do you have traditional Sunday roasts at your homestay house? Chisuko asked.

No. Maybe my homestay father doesn't know roast. He makes Greek, Italian, Spanish, Thai.

Louise said, The husband does the cooking? That's good.

Yes, very good, I said. He is chief cook and bottle-washer.

The women started laughing again but this time I felt relaxed. They were friendly, and they were happy.

And I am learning to cook, I added.

That's excellent, Akira, said Christine.

Chisuko laughed. She said, You won't do any cooking when you go home to Japan, Akira.

Maybe no, I said. Maybe yes.

Christine said, Let's go and sit down, shall we? I'll get you some wine, Akira. Then you can tell me what you've learned to cook.

That lunch was wonderful. Delicious food, lots of laughter. So much laughter. We drank two bottles of wine between us. At first I was worried because, as you know well, Satoshi, my face goes very red when I drink alcohol (just like yours does!). Remember how we used to discuss the various theories as to why that happens — the length of the gut, or blood which is different from other races' blood? At least I know now it's not to do with where you drink or whether you drink Japanese beer. Stolly was quite anxious the first night we had a few beers after work. But I explained to him and he relaxed.

Anyway, that Sunday I was nervous about it to begin with, but no one said a thing about my face. Perhaps they knew from Chisuko. We had a good time together, talking and laughing. At one point I looked around the table and thought how different it was from meal-times at my own homestay house. And vastly different from here at home. It was probably right then and there that I hatched a plan to have a dinner party and try to recreate a bit of this atmosphere.

Louise and Christine asked me a lot about myself and my family in Japan. I told them about my father's business, making women's underwear. I told them it had made him very wealthy. Louise told me that if I went into his business the way he wanted me to, then I would be able to present my business card and say to people, I'm in women's underwear. They found this hilarious and couldn't stop laughing for ages. They had to explain that this was the way you expressed it when telling someone your field of business. In the end, I got the joke. But then I told them that I would never go into the business. It was the first time I had ever said it out loud and for a while I was shocked.

When it was time to go, Chisuko saw me to the door.

They liked you, she said.

I liked them, I said.

I told you they would, she said.

But you didn't tell me everything, I said.

Chisuko laughed. Better to find out for yourself, I think.

Like most things, I said.

Akira, Chisuko said more seriously, you are younger than me but you seem wiser than your age sometimes.

My parents always told me what to do, but no one can tell you what to think.

Or what to feel, Chisuko added.

She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

Thank you, I said, for the invitation. Please thank Louise and Christine again.

I think I hurried away.

Thanks for the oranges, Chisuko called after me.

Meanwhile, things at work were looking up. Being chief bottle-washer was not the most glamorous job in the world, but I liked it well enough. There wasn't the strain of all that language waiting to trap me out in the bar. I had time to think things through, to muse. I used to go over the day's English lessons in my head while I stacked the dishwashers or scrubbed pans. At first the other kitchen staff must have thought I was bit mad, always talking to myself. I got to practise my English with them too as time went by. They were a good bunch. They liked to joke and create a lively atmosphere. A lot of it went over my head but it was all in a good spirit. The head chef took a bit of a shine to me when he saw how hard I worked. One day I went up to him when I had caught up on all the dish-washing.

Would you like help with the food? I said.

He looked at me in surprise. He looked around at the cleared benches, the whirring dishwashers.

Chop, slice, dice, I said.

He nodded his head thoughtfully, his tall white chef's cap bowing slightly with each movement.

I do this at home, I said.

You're on, he said.

I've always wondered if he thought I meant at home in Japan, whereas of course I meant at home with the Moffats. Perhaps he thought I'd done that kind of work before I came to Australia, or even knew a thing or two about Japanese cooking. Home is a slippery word, I've come to realise. One day in class we talked about that. We had to write down words that came to mind when we thought of home. Then we compared lists. We drew pictures to explain. It was amazing to hear and see what people think of as home. Some wrote about the textures of houses, washing in communal tubs, families which extended to great-aunts and -uncles. Some wrote about the countryside or the sea. Home is still something I am working out. Perhaps we have to build our homes inside us.

The chef began to ask me to do this or that, mostly preparation — you know, chopping vegetables, washing salad greens, peeling and preparing fruit. The more he gave me to do, the more I enjoyed it. I remembered some of the ways my mother cut vegetables to make them decorative — small sculptures really. I experimented with that.

I remember one particular night, the night Stolly and I wound up in the casino nightclub. The chef had asked me to chop some herbs for a soup he was making. I chopped a bit of this, a bit of that, and tossed it all in the simmering pot. The chef came over and smelled the steam from the broth. He put his fingers to his lips and kissed them. I liked this gesture of his. It was so expressive. I tried to imitate it myself at various times, which always sent Stolly into fits of laughter. The chef winked at me and I knew he was pleased. I watched him walk off, singing as he liked to do — Italian arias, he told me they were — and I imagined myself in his shoes, in charge of the kitchen, a happy staff, creating new dishes. I was so lost in this daydream that I didn't notice one of the pans come to the boil. Next minute it boiled over with a loud hiss and steam billowed everywhere.

Shit! I said.

Excellent English! came a voice. There was Stolly grinning at me. He made a cup shape with one hand and tipped it to his lips. Who needs language? I thought.

Eleven? he said.

I nodded.

It's a date, Stolly said.

At the bar of the nightclub upstairs, I told Stolly about the daydream I'd had about being a chef.

Pretty crazy, isn't it? I said.

What's crazy? Haven't you heard of Tetsuya Wakuda? He's probably the best-known chef in Australia, mate. One of the top ones, anyway. Inventive. Creative. Loves Australian produce but does interesting Japanese things with it. You must have read about him. He owns his own restaurant.

I shook my head, but Stolly's words were running around in my mind making me as light-headed as the beer.

Stolly was still talking: He created himself, that's what he did. That's what we all have to do, you know.

Right, I said. And then I had a thought. You know, Stolly, if I'm going to create myself I should get home and do some study.

This time of night? You've got to be joking. Relax, Akira. Anyway, everyone knows that a bar is the second-best place to study a foreign language.

Second-best place is bar? I said.

Stolly nodded and put two fingers up to the barman for more beers. I nodded too, although I wasn't sure what he meant. I looked away to the dance floor for a moment and suddenly saw Angie. She was dressed in a slinky, glittery dress. I'd never seen her out like this before. She was dancing with a man who looked a lot older than she was. She wasn't even old enough to be there legally. She looked my way, but if she saw me she didn't bat an eyelid. I wondered if she was drunk. She looked sort of floppy, but possibly it was her way of dancing.

Friend of yours? Stolly asked. He'd noticed me staring.

She is my sister, I said.

Stolly said nothing. I looked around at him. He was watching Angie with great interest. I looked back at her. She was very attractive. Beautiful. We both stood there watching her dance.

* *

Later, after too many beers, I remembered what Stolly had said about a bar being the second-best place to learn English.

Stolly? I said. What is best place to learn English?

What? Stolly's mind was on other things by now.

You said bar is second-best …

Bed, he said. In bed.

I looked at him. In bed?

Stolly looked at me intently. Yes, he said. In bed.

The penny dropped. Oh, I said.

Stolly winked. That's right, he said.

I felt confused then. Somehow what Stolly had said and Angie being there became all rolled up into one and I had a fantasy of lying in bed with Angie who was patiently teaching me English. I looked for her on the dance floor but couldn't see her.

Come on, said Stolly, pulling me towards the floor.

I can't dance, I said.

Come on. I'll teach you. Trust me.

Stolly was a good dancer.
Is
a good dancer. I'll bet he's still spending his nights drinking and dancing and trying to impress women. That night he showed me how to relax and go with the music. The beer must have helped. I stopped feeling self-conscious and began to enjoy myself. All the same, I was glad Angie wasn't still there to see my first efforts. As I swayed to the music and watched Stolly moving in on a couple of young women, I started a letter in my head to my parents.

Dear Mother and Father, How are you both? I am well. You will be happy my English is improving step by step. I work hard in class and at night I study hard. I am also learning many things about Australian culture.

12

One weekend towards the end of that summer, Alex took me to their shack. ‘Shack' is what Australians call their holiday house. Many Australians have a shack, which seems extraordinary to us, doesn't it, Satoshi? I mean, imagine people in Japan having a second house. I know some rich people do have another house. Some own a second house in another country, a cheaper country like Thailand. And Japanese companies own such houses for their employees to go to. Not their ordinary employees — usually the executives, or sometimes business associates visiting from overseas. My father's company is too small to have that kind of house. Even this house is quite a strange one to Australians. I remember trying to describe it to Daisy, using her method — drawing. You should have seen the surprise on her face.

But that's more like a hotel, she said, or a department store.

The first floor is my bedroom, I said. The second is my parents' bedroom. The third is the living area and kitchen. The garage is at the bottom.

You mean you have to take the lift up to breakfast? she said, eyes popping.

That's right, I said. But we have intercom so we can talk to each other without changing floors.

She shook her head. Not that people do much communicating in this house, she said. Perhaps we should try using an intercom.

What she said was true, of course. I knew by then it wasn't just my lack of English. Something was definitely amiss in this family. They interacted in as basic a way as possible. Jess was away a lot, at work. Often she didn't have dinner with us. Rather like what happens here with my father, but reversed. Angie was out almost every night. I hadn't noticed so much since I'd been working as well. I was very busy trying to keep up with homework, class, work, giving Alex a hand with the boat, and having some social life, mostly with Stolly but sometimes with other overseas students. The Moffats and I settled into routines which were quite pleasurable for me. I worried about Daisy though, and spent time with her whenever I was there. It was partly that she wanted company, partly that she was happy to talk, but I also enjoyed her company. She was funny and lively and full of questions about Japan. A few times, I felt like telling her about you, but then I'd remember how young she was, and stop myself.

But I was telling you about the shack. We drove up the east coast of the island. The views were so beautiful I don't know how to describe them. Blue water. White beaches, or yellow. Bush and mountains on one side and the sea on the other. That old idea of ours about riding around Australia on motorbikes popped into my head and I imagined us roaring up that road, weaving around bends.

Eventually we reached a little community of shacks. They were clustered at the base of a headland where a lighthouse stood. The lighthouse dominated the landscape with its bright white paint and a red strip down one side.

The shack itself was small, made of vertical boards painted white, and surrounded by low scrubby bushes. It had a dilapidated look, as if no one had been there for some time. But many of the other shacks looked that way too, closed up, curtains drawn. When Alex opened the door he had to brush away a huge cobweb from the door frame before he could go in.

Inside also, the shack had a disused air. Things were folded away and stacked up. Dead flies lay along the windowsills. Alex poked about a bit and sighed.

Let's go over to the lighthouse, he said.

As we left the shack, I noticed a motorbike helmet in the middle of a pile of beach things — a windsurfer, boogie boards. I put my hand on its smooth surface for a moment. Again, thoughts of you. But then I wondered who this belonged to, who used it. Alex?

Alex had already gone out and I had to hurry to catch up with him. Underfoot the soil was sandy and criss-crossed with lines of ants. I forgot about the helmet — for the time being, anyway.

The lighthouse stands at the tip of the headland, overlooking the Tasman Sea. I can understand Alex's fascination with lighthouses and the people who used to operate them. There is something so beautiful about their structure and their position above the sea. They are so solitary, like their keepers were, but their purpose is safety of all who travel the seas. Now all but one of the lighthouses there are automated. Only the Maatsuyker Island light has a roster of keepers.

Alex stood looking up at the top of the lighthouse where I could see a railing around the light itself. I looked up for a moment but instantly that old giddiness and nausea hit me. Some things I clearly had not left behind in Japan. I looked away quickly. Alex seemed lost in thought. He snapped out of it and walked around the lighthouse as if this was some kind of ritual, once around, and then he walked to the edge of the cliff and looked out to sea. I hung back. I wanted to go and grab Alex, pull him away from the steep drop. I told myself not to be foolish. Alex was admiring the view. I summoned up all the courage I could and walked over to within a few metres of him. I stood there next to him, not looking down, but looking out. Both of us stood looking away from the land and not down at the rocks below.

That night Daisy sat in her usual place under the table, drawing. When we were through cleaning up the kitchen, I squatted down beside the table and looked at the drawing. She had drawn the lighthouse and the shack and a little girl outside the shack. Inside the shack was another figure.

I wanted to come and visit you too, I heard her whisper.

I climbed right underneath the table and sat beside her. Daisy was adding beams of light shining out from the lighthouse and waves crashing up onto the rocks.

Hello, I said.

Konichi-wa,
she answered.

He lives there, she said.

I didn't see anyone there, I told her.

You don't know how to look, she said.

Meanwhile, work on the boat continued. It was beginning to take shape. The Sunday after we went to the shack, Alex and I were in the shed working on it when there was a knock and someone called out. A man stepped inside the shed.

Hello, Dad, Alex said. How are you?

So this was Gordon. He looked at me, but spoke to Alex.

I'm fine. And you?

Good, Dad. Dad, this is Akira. Akira, Gordon.

Dozo yoroshiku,
said Gordon.

I got such a surprise to hear that expression of greeting come out of this man's mouth.

I am pleased to meet you, too, I said, wiping my hand on my jeans, ready to shake his. I reached out my hand. Gordon looked down and began searching for something in his jacket pocket, pretending he hadn't seen my hand. I was confused. I put my hand down. Gordon found what he was looking for — his pipe.

I'm a bit rusty, he said.

Sorry? I said.

I learned it a long time ago.

I was nodding.

In Burma, he added.

Alex suddenly said, Time for smoko then, Akira? He took me by the elbow and steered me past Gordon. I knew it was one of those times when something was happening that I couldn't grasp. I just went along with things. We sat at a table in the garden. Gordon lit his pipe.

Stay for dinner, Dad, Alex said. We're having tortillas.

What are bloody tortillas? Gordon said.

Mexican, I said, smiling. Alex makes excellent tortillas.

Gordon ignored me. I wondered if I had somehow made a mistake, some social gaffe. In Japan it might have been that I had not bowed low enough. Here, I had no idea what I could have done.

I don't think so, Gordon said, speaking to Alex.

Jess's got a meeting, Alex said.

On a Sunday? Gordon said and sucked on his pipe.

Alex shrugged. He looked over at me questioningly.

Sorry, Alex. I'm working tonight. I need to go and change. It was good to meet you, I said to Gordon. He nodded and looked at me. I smiled and went inside.

Dad! I heard Alex say as I walked up the hallway.

What? Gordon answered.

When I came into the kitchen, dressed for work in black-and-white-checked cook's pants, Angie was making a cup of coffee at the kitchen bench. She looked around when I came in but went back to what she was doing without saying anything. I hesitated. Angie had made it pretty clear she didn't want my company, didn't even want me in the house.

I've just met your grandfather, I said.

Angie didn't turn around. That must've been interesting, she said.

Yes, I said.

Angie spun around. Listen to you, you don't get it, do you? He didn't tell you, did he?

Tell me? I asked.

Angie gave a laugh which, if I had to colour it in Daisy's pencils, would have been very dark.

He was a POW, she said.

A peo …?

A prisoner of war.

That's all she said. It took a few moments, but suddenly it all made sense. He learned his Japanese in Burma, he'd said. I stood there letting the realisation sink in.

He doesn't think much of the Japanese, Angie said, picking up her coffee and walking from the room.

I don't know how long I stood there in the kitchen. Too long. When I snapped out of it, I had to run for the bus to get to work on time. But all the way my mind was going over the meeting with Gordon, and over Angie's words. Of course. I'd been so blind thinking that I would encounter only goodwill in Australia. Our histories were linked in terrible ways. Of course, it was before my time. My own grandfather had fought in the war as well. We didn't learn anything about the prisoner of war camps in school. But I remembered the night you and I went to see that movie, Satoshi. What was it called? About the Australian prisoners. We were both crying at the end. And when we came out, young people like us were sobbing in the foyer, saying, We didn't know. We didn't realise. Why weren't we told these things?

I felt the burden of history and of my race then. We are not born free at all but into certain circumstances which have a certain history. We can't simply break out. We must work with what we are given. Perhaps this was the reason for the underlying discomfort in the household. But they had asked for a homestay student.

That night at work I was so distracted that, when I put some stock through a sieve to strain it, I forgot to put a pot underneath and tipped the whole lot straight down the sink. Stolly happened to come in just as I did it and said something along the lines of, Akira, remember it's the journey not the destination. The process not the product. Isn't that what Zen's about?

Right, Stolly.

I knew better than to try telling that to the chef.

A bit later, when things were quiet in the kitchen, I looked out the swing door to see if I could spot Stolly. I wanted to tell him what had happened, why I'd been so distracted. I needed to talk the situation over with someone. I looked among the tables and could see Stolly talking to a couple over by the big windows. Before I could attract his attention I noticed another couple sitting nearby. The woman's hand lay on the man's arm on the table. They had a bottle of wine on the table between them. Although the woman was side-on to me, I recognised her straightaway. It was Jess. The man was a stranger. Not Alex. I stood there staring until one of the waiters pushed past me. I withdrew into the kitchen. Any thought of Gordon was shoved aside. Instead, my head was teeming with this new situation. Jess was supposed to be at a meeting. Who was this man? What was she doing with her hand on his arm? Were they lovers? Did Alex know?

I'm afraid that night I was a less than perfect cook's assistant.