eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781776560776 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Victoria University Press |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2015 |
| Sold by: | INDEPENDENT PUB GROUP - EPUB - EBKS |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 224 |
| File size: | 633 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
New Hokkaido
By James McNaughton
Victoria University Press
Copyright © 2015 James McNaughtonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-77656-077-6
CHAPTER 1
The English Academy
Ten Japanese adults, seated in two rows of five in the little classroom, are bent over their books writing their hobbies and the hobbies they guess their partner in the other row has. Chris Ipswitch stands before the blackboard, six foot three, broad-shouldered, the tallest in the room and at twenty the youngest. He wears a black suit and a white shirt, and has buzz-cut black hair and a cheerful expression on his handsome white face. He wants the class to end on a high note, to send his students out on a cloud so he can drift out too, out of the staffroom early and into the evening, into the secret New Zealand Culture Meeting at a house in Mount Victoria. He's worked nights and weekends for three months straight now and it's a Friday night and he wants to have a drink and meet some women. The thought of the Culture Meeting, his first, stokes his cheerful expression.
But it all depends on the deputy principal letting him go early. The excuse he has prepared is that he would like to play evening touch rugby just this once because the team's short. It's a request he hopes will elicit some sympathy now that he has to work weekends and is unable to play on Saturdays. Although Chris had known rugby was important to him when he gave it up for work, he didn't realise just how important. He has lost much more than just the eighty minutes on Saturday.
Yet he's grateful for his job. He's the only Kiwi employed in a teaching role at the Academy, and his pay reflects that honour. His friends, by comparison, have casual labouring jobs with low pay, long hours and no security. Chris hears a lot about it. Those who have proved reliable on the last job are first on the list. But if a man misses a day, be it through sickness or a workplace injury or whatever reason, he's bumped off the list and the first man waiting gets the job. Getting onto the list can take months of turning up at worksites pre-dawn with dozens of other hungry men and hoping someone screws up.
He has learned the names and faces of this new class. He has learned their hair as they keep their heads diligently down and compose full, natural-sounding sentences. Three students have dark black hair, one glossy black, three normal black, two a hint of very dark brown; one is flecked with grey. Another of the glossy black heads has a streak of blue dye in it. Their hair is spiky, wavy, straight, lank, luxurious, prim; all different, no repeat categories. His eye returns to the blue streak. It's unusual for Japanese to dye their hair. He knows she's a Settler because he has sneaked a look at the file: a civilian sent to the furthest colony of the Empire rather than prison in Japan. Two of the men are also Settlers. What their crimes were he doesn't know. He's looked for missing fingertips, the mark of dishonour meted out by the Yakuza, but he hasn't had a clear view yet. There may be prosthetics involved. In any case, he has twelve weeks of this course to get a good look at their fingertips. The three of them sit separately and he wonders if they know one another.
The woman with blue hair looks up. Chris will make eye contact if she raises her hand. She doesn't. After a long time she looks down.
'Okay, who's first?' he says. 'Is there a volunteer? Anyone?'
Some rueful looks. They're enjoying it.
'Okay,' he says to the girl with the blue hair, 'at the back, Miss Kurosawa. Please tell us your hobbies and then guess your partner's hobbies.'
She looks at him as she tells the class: 'I like to watch TV and sleep.'
'Oh,' says the class. 'Yes.'
Miss Kurosawa turns to a woman in the row beside her, a general's middle-aged wife. 'I guess ... am guessing?' She looks at Chris again.
'Either,' he says, with a happy smile. '"I guess", or, "I'm guessing that you" ...'
'I'm guessing that you like to play basketball and listen to music.'
The class titters at the thought of the venerable general's wife playing basketball. He knows she meant him, and it's a pretty good guess. He is a lock, a jumping line-out specialist, or was. Music he loves, especially the banned work of Johnny Lennon. Her accurate guess, the guess of a criminal, makes him uncomfortable. The general's wife says her hobbies. Laughter comes with each disclosure and guess. The exercise is going as he had hoped. Please, let me go early, he thinks, and imagines the deputy principal waving him away. Yet part of him hopes there will be no wave, just an annoyed grunt of refusal, because the meeting is very dangerous. And yet the danger is exciting. He laughs automatically, following the class's cue, delighted, thinking of hot sake and girls and New Zealand music in a secret basement.
He stands by the door maintaining a respectful bow as the class file out. Even bowing, he's taller than they are. Maybe that's why I can do this, he thinks. Some nod slightly in return. Miss Kurosawa is last, fiddling with her bag. The room is empty when she stands in front of him, tall, taller than most Japanese men, and skinny. Her eyes have a sleepy, sardonic quality. She's older than him, maybe twenty-five. Her lips are full and expressive. She pouts and then speaks.
'Can you give me a private lesson?'
'No. I'm sorry, Miss Kurosawa. That's illegal.' He is not even remotely interested. He would lose his job and to make matters worse she's a Settler. She's just trouble.
'Oh. What a shame.' She speaks English well, but he doesn't ask where she learned it.
'Thank you for your enquiry,' he says.
She turns her lips down in a sad clown's expression and is gone, leaving a wake of musky perfume. Trouble.
He packs up quickly, excited, sure for some reason that the deputy principal will let him go early. As he closes the classroom door his older colleague, Masuda, simultaneously closes his.
'Sorry, sir,' Chris says, as he must to Masuda for occupying the same space unexpectedly. Masuda glares at him. Deep furrows line his forehead. His spectacles flash. He is always angry with Chris because he, Masuda, is an English teacher who can't really speak English, and although he's forty-five and Chris is only twenty, Chris is a much better teacher. The fact that Chris is a native speaker doesn't diminish the insult to Masuda's pride, and Chris must always use the most respectful Japanese speech when addressing him and suffer sharp rebukes for the slightest slip. Masuda's spectacles flash again. He's building up a full head of steam. Probably, Chris thinks, because my class could be heard laughing and left the room happier than his. He stands rigidly, waiting for his senior to leave first. But of course Masuda doesn't leave; he marches toward Chris, who reminds himself that the man's bark is worse than his bite.
'Teach your subject. Don't play games.'
Chris bows. 'Yes, sir.'
Masuda turns and Chris remains bowing until the strike of his heels has echoed away.
Chris enters the staffroom with his eyes down, making himself a shadow. His desk, cluttered like the others with piles of books and documents on the verge of toppling, is at the back of the room beside the rear entrance. Unusually, the teachers have gathered at the front, before the platform on which the principal and deputy principal sit. The senior Business English teacher stands in the centre of the group, holding court. Excited, he strikes his palm with his fist repeatedly.
'Yes,' he cries, 'it sets a precedent. If the uprising in Paris is not put down, France will fall. Already there are stirrings in Berlin. Even the Germans are talking about freedom. The Soviet Union must fix its internal problems or it will cease to exist and we will be left alone to hold China. Will the US stand and watch us in the Pacific then? No!'
The teacher's cry of anger sends a shiver up Chris's spine. He tidies his desk quietly, invisibly. There is silence. They've seen me, he thinks. He closes a drawer and stands, as if deep in thought but hurrying, oblivious to everything but his own desk. Picking up his briefcase, he turns to notice the silent knot of teachers. Expressing surprise, he bows and apologises.
The teachers reluctantly disband and return to their desks.
He remains bowing until all are seated, then he approaches the altar-like structure at the front of the room. 'Sorry,' he says as he bows to the deputy principal.
A grunt. The frog-like hand waves as soon as he begins his request. Chris is dismissed.
They can talk now, he thinks as he walks quickly away down the corridor, fighting an urge to punch the air and run out into the street. The news he has heard is even more thrilling because it will be gold at the New Zealand Culture Meeting and sure to impress the women there. And I have a job, he thinks. Not many my age have money. If I meet someone I'll be able to take her out.
He steps into the early darkness of June and pauses at the top of the school steps, between the armed sentries on either side of the door. A gust of wind buffets him and whips the large Japanese flag high above the huge concrete Central Administration Centre that dominates uptown. But higher than the red circle on white, great clouds are tumbling across the dark blue sky in the west, rolling and roiling as they go, as if freed and stampeding all the way from Paris.
CHAPTER 2A New Zealand Culture Meeting
The first heavy drops of rain strike as Chris finds the letterbox numbered 87. He's fifteen minutes late and puffing, having run up the hill from the tram stop at the end of Courtenay Place, carrying a six-pack of Asahi Super Dry and eating four takoyaki balls. The takoyaki wasn't good, more pickled ginger and green onion than octopus, but he didn't have time to go to his usual shop. Still, his hunger has been quelled and he managed to keep the sauce off his suit.
The letters he makes out in the gloom are hand-painted on wooden postboxes; maybe it's 81 rather than 87. No, he finds 85 in a nearby pool of darkness under a tree. The street is rank and overgrown, and smells like the bush. The Japanese don't like to live on hills. Their preferred flat areas are well maintained, well lit, and well signposted. It's 87 then, definitely, same as the year. His mouth is dry, and not just from the run up the hill. The possibility of a patrol bursting into the meeting has become very real. He imagines the horror of being lined up and screamed at, punched and kicked repeatedly as summary executions proceed one by one, by bullet and sword, until, humiliated and terrified, he is executed. He checks the number on the rotting wooden box one last time.
The house, with one room dimly lit, is at the bottom of a long flight of subsiding concrete steps overgrown with fennel. It's dark under the trees and he relies on the faded white paint marking the edge of each step to guide him down. The glowing light looks warm through heavy curtains and he's excited at the prospect of who will be there. He's also comforted by the house's distance from the road and the surrounding trees and thick undergrowth, which will help conceal his escape if the worst happens. The iron roof bangs and pops under intensifying rain as he descends.
At the porch he is dismayed to see no shoes. I'm at the wrong house, he thinks, or else the meeting's been cancelled. Now the meeting is off, his fear has gone and he is unequivocally disappointed, angry even. A girlish giggle in the dark above thrills him. Two figures have begun to descend. Both women. Filled with hope, he knocks gently on the door.
'Gidday, mate.' A red-faced man of about thirty, more than a little drunk and excited, seizes his hand and pumps it. Under his unbuttoned flannel shirt is a T-shirt depicting a sushi roll under a crossed red circle, like a No Smoking sign. It's a brave display: opening the door to a Japanese patrol wearing that T-shirt would result in a crippling beating, if he was lucky. His hair is teased at the front and streaked with red dye. He wears shorts and gumboots. 'A suit?' he asks. His brow furrows and his eyes roll anxiously over Chris's shoulder up to the dark road.
'I came straight from work,' Chris says.
'Right, you must be ...'
'Chris Ipswitch.'
'That's right. Good on ya, mate. Come in, come in.'
When Chris bends to unzip his vinyl shoes, the man cries, 'No, mate, leave them on. No Jap rules here. Come in, come in.'
'Cheers. There are a couple more just behind me.'
The man's bleary looping eyes take a while to find their target. 'Mind your step, ladies,' he calls over Chris's shoulder.
After cramming his beer in the fridge, Chris enters the dim lounge. Already more than a dozen are there. The legal limit for a house is eight. Three are women, and the two behind him makes five. The young men wear thick woollen bush shirts, shorts, and gumboots. A trestle table covered with an old New Zealand flag, and bearing a pavlova, saveloys and sausage rolls, dominates the room. Chris takes a deep breath. The flag means they will be in serious trouble if a patrol raids them: the owner of the house will almost certainly be shot on the spot. Beyond that, the number of murders and the severity of the beatings will depend, to a large extent, on the patrol commander's mood. On a shitty night like this, things might go very badly.
The figures standing around the flag table in their bulky bush-shirt uniforms radiate a military strength, yet they are just young men his own age and unlikely to be armed with anything more than knives. The house feels vulnerable. Violence is in the air. He'd imagined a cellar or basement with proper security, not a wooden bungalow with a man at the door in a joke T-shirt, too drunk to keep proper watch. I can't just turn and leave, he thinks. Or can I? He's mulling over the consequences of leaving when he makes out the welcome face of Marty, the friend who secured his invitation. Marty, an open-side flanker who's often first to the breakdown, is at his side in a flash to shake hands. His curly blond hair, once his pride and joy — or his mother's, to be fair — is already falling out. This tragically vanishing fleece is a source of much piss-taking in the team. He's a popular guy.
'You made it,' Marty says with a grin, eyeing Chris's suit. 'Come straight from work, bro?'
'Yeah, they had a secret meeting and let me go. I was lucky.' Chris takes out his packet of Japanese Silk Cut cigarettes manufactured for the Western market and offers one; he's happy to note his hand is steady. Hearing the door wrenched open, he flinches. No, it's another guest; the so-called guard brays happily in greeting and closes it again.
'I have an ashtray,' Marty says, lighting up. He's holding a full beer bottle and an empty bottle for ash, and smoking at the same time.
Chris grins at his juggling routine. 'Good to see you, bro. Good to get out. Jesus.'
'Yeah man, it's like you've been under arrest. Should be a good night, eh? Seen anything you like the look of yet?'
A belligerent voice. 'Too formal, mate. Japs dress up for parties. Kiwis go casual.'
Chris guesses the man who has planted himself next to him, clad in a bush shirt, jeans and gumboots, is a prop. Yet even he has flouncy hair browned with dye. He sticks his hand out and they shake as Marty makes introductions. His name is Stew and he's just moved down from Taranaki to play rugby. Marty explains that Chris can't play this year because of his job. Stew says he's heard about him, the missing lock, and it's a damn shame.
The two girls who came in behind Chris enter the lounge, glowing and bright-eyed from their walk in the night air, surprisingly tall in their high heels, which he likes, but their long loose dresses and old cardigans look odd. He can see they've powdered their noses since arriving, but their big hair has been somewhat naturalised by the weather, a good thing in his opinion. They smile and join the group, shake hands and exchange names. He likes the look of Emily, a busty brunette with brown skin and a bright smile. Neither she nor her friend has the affected inward-pointing toes and helium voices of J-Pop idols that an increasing number of young Kiwi women are adopting.
The prop taps the ash from his cigarette into Marty's bottle. 'Good man,' he tells him.
The girls smile and Chris offers his packet of expensive Silk Cut. They both accept and soon they're tapping ash into the bottle Marty gallantly wields.
'Your dress is a little formal,' Emily notes, with a twinkle in her eye.
He wants to tell her he has money, prospects, a life. 'I came straight from work.'
'What do you do?' She's interested; they all are, even the thick-necked prop, Stew.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from New Hokkaido by James McNaughton. Copyright © 2015 James McNaughton. Excerpted by permission of Victoria University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Front Cover,Title Page,
Copyright,
Prologue,
Chapter 1: The English Academy,
Chapter 2: A New Zealand Culture Meeting,
Chapter 3: The Lyttelton Ferry,
Chapter 4: Crime scene,
Chapter 5: Johnny Lennon in jail,
Chapter 6: The kindness of strangers,
Chapter 7: Number four,
Chapter 8: Contaminated,
Chapter 9: Women and history,
Chapter 10: Working the phone,
Chapter 11: Mutiny: The Typhoons set sail,
Chapter 12: Ice and fire,
Chapter 13: Mutiny: Brian takes it to the bridge,
Chapter 14: Alone with Miss Kurosawa,
Chapter 15: Mutiny: Waiting for battle,
Chapter 16: The Lord's Angels,
Chapter 17: Mutiny: Buried at sea,
Chapter 18: Cherry Orchard,
Chapter 19: Mutiny: Brian has a celebratory,
Chapter 20: From Featherston to Waiterere,
Chapter 21: Someone's crazy,
Chapter 22: Hunger and anger,
Chapter 23: A pie in Palmerston North,
Chapter 24: Auckland,
Chapter 25: The sumo tournament,
Chapter 26: Deadly dinner,
Chapter 27: The hit,
Epilogue,