The Spare Room (3 page)

4

It took surprisingly little time to get there. A working day, that's all. Australia had always appeared to be so distant, but there I was so soon after leaving everything I knew behind.

I had to go through immigration and change planes in Sydney. Before landing we circled over Sydney and I had a spectacular view of the harbour, the bridge and the opera house, all icons very well known in Japan. The reality was much more impressive than I could have imagined. In the late afternoon sunlight the water gleamed and glittered. Boats dotted the harbour. The curves of the opera house roof reached up towards us like a beautiful sea-shell. And the bridge looked like a perfect Meccano-set model. I'd heard that a tunnel was being built under the harbour but I didn't know if it was finished or not. I tried to imagine cars and trucks whizzing along under all that beauty. It seemed impossible. But I knew that such a tunnel connected Hokkaido to Honshu. That seemed only practical given the traffic. But here, it seemed — I don't know — a pity.

I didn't have a lot of time for those thoughts. Soon we were landing and I was walking into the terminal and weaving and dodging among the crowds to catch a glimpse, through big round windows like portholes, of Australia. I soon ended up in a queue in front of the immigration booths. This was when I had my first stroke of luck. A young Japanese woman who I had noticed on the plane because she looked so comfortable and at ease and she smiled a lot happened to queue up right behind me. She smiled once again when I looked around and she introduced herself. She asked if I was here to study and, to cut the story short, we discovered we were in the same language program. She had been to Australia many times and was a translator. She was back to update her skills. I had never met any young person so sophisticated and confident. I must have seemed like a baby to her, all uncertainty and ignorance. I felt very shy in her company, but she was so friendly and outgoing that I soon relaxed. And that was how I met Chisuko.

You might think this was to be the beginning of a love story. That would have been too simple. Things are never, I've discovered, straightforward or exactly as they first appear. Perhaps a small part of me was vaguely disappointed that my first real encounter out in the big wide world should be with someone from home. It was a bit of an anticlimax somehow. On the other hand, it was unlikely that I would have met someone like Chisuko in Tokyo. We would have passed each other by on the street and not noticed one another, the smart young woman and the inexperienced, definitely not suave, young man. So this was my first lesson also in one of the tricks that travel plays, the way it removes us from our comfortable little social niches and throws us all in together. Strange bedfellows, as Stolly liked to say. I always liked that expression. I was soon to learn that the word ‘bed' had loaded meanings. In English, going to bed with someone is one of the expressions for making love. Another is ‘sleeping' with someone, even if you don't do any sleeping. It can be very confusing. But thinking about that kind of thing was a long way off. Immigration would be my first test.

I failed dismally. The official in the booth barked out a question so fast I had no idea what he'd said. I simply gawked at him. He looked at the photo in the front of my passport and I wondered what he saw there. Even to me, that face looked hard to read. The man flicked through the empty passport impatiently, and barked another question. He could have been speaking Swahili or Martian for all I knew. So much for high school English. This is a pen, I could have said. Or, My hobby is driving. I would find learning English in Australia a very different experience. But that didn't help me then. I stood there dumbly, the man ticked a box and I was through. Only then did I realise how nervous I was. The experience had totally blown any confidence I'd had. How completely ill-equipped I was for this. I stood there shaken, wondering if I was up to it. Suddenly Chisuko was there beside me, smiling that wide smile. We've got a plane to catch, she said. Next stop, Tasmania. You just wait, she added. You're going to love it.

We flew across Bass Strait and over the length of the island. I could see the coastline on one side and mountains on the other. Lakes glinted among the ridges and peaks. Excitement and fear battled inside me as I peered out the window. I could hear Chisuko's voice a few rows in front of me as she chatted in flowing English to the man sitting next to her. How I envied her then. I wondered if there would ever be a time when I could do the same.

In no time at all, we'd landed. I got a shock when I arrived at the door of the plane. There was a flight of metal steps leading down to the tarmac. Luckily it was covered over so that it was rather like a tube or those slides you see in playgrounds, otherwise the old vertigo might have hit me. But a certain giddiness did strike me when I stepped off the last step onto the tarmac. The smells are what I remember. The sea was very close, and there was strong scent of something which I now know was eucalyptus. And the air was so fresh and clean. I walked automatically, following other passengers to a very small terminal building which was like a toy airport after Narita and Sydney. Even though Chisuko caught up with me at the terminal, I remember thinking briefly that I had never been so alone in all my life, so cut off from everything I knew, surrounded by the unknown. Perhaps the nearest I'd come was that first day at college when I loathed the idea of being there anyway. And you came to my rescue there, Satoshi. I wondered who, or what, would rescue me here at the bottom of Australia.

There wasn't much time to speculate. No sooner were we inside the building than we were whisked away by a program officer, the Australian counterpart of the Japanese officer who had given us our lists. I wondered if I could ask this woman about shaking hands — if that's what I should do when I met my host family. I probably could have but there wasn't time. We were piled onto a bus and driven to a reception where we were to meet our respective families. I'd like to recount that drive from airport to city, the impact of first impressions, but the truth is I fell asleep straightaway and missed it entirely, just the way we used to fall asleep on the train home from college. Which is fine as long as you're in Japan where everyone else does it too. But I wasn't. Imagine. I had come all that way and managed to miss the very first sighting of what was to be my home for months to come. Talk about embarrassing. Life is never quite like a novel, is it? I suppose it was growing dark by then anyway. But now that view of the city as you cross the Derwent Bridge is carried inside my head like a postcard that I can view any old time. Here on my wall I have an actual postcard of it that Daisy sent once. The wide river, the looming mountain, the houses trailing across foothills, the cluster of tallish buildings by the harbour — I'll never forget it.

Somewhere in that city my homestay family was waiting for me. If I hadn't been so tired I might have wondered about how they were feeling, but I was spared all that. Before I knew it, I woke to find we'd arrived. Within minutes I was being steered towards a man, a woman and a little girl standing together near a long table laden with food. They stood, I remember, quite apart from each other, but I thought nothing of it then, being used to Japanese conventions of personal space. Besides, my brain was teeming. I thought I'd have time to compose myself, time to prepare, but again things didn't quite work out the way I'd imagined and the moment was here. I searched my brain for names, but it was as if I'd never heard them before in my life — as if an English name was something too alien to remain in my head. I panicked. I don't know if I smiled. I doubt it. If I did, it was from sheer nerves. They weren't smiling either. At least the adults weren't. The little girl had a smile on her face which shone like a bright star. I kept my eyes on her.

The program officer — I hadn't managed to catch her name — introduced me. This is Akira, she said. Mr and Mrs Moffat, and …? Daisy, the little girl piped up. Hello, I suppose I said. I watched for hands extended, wiping my right palm furtively on my jeans just in case. But all that happened was that Mr Moffat said something like, Alex. Please call me Alex. And — he indicated his wife — Jess. A phrase rehearsed for this moment suddenly came out of the fog in my head. Pleased to meet you, I said. Daisy piped up with,
Konichi-wa,
Akira, followed by, I'm learning Japanese. Jess tried to take the program officer aside, but she hurried off to other families and we stood there. Another word emerged from the tumult in my brain. Angela. I think I even said it out loud, but at that point Daisy took me by the hand and led me towards the food, babbling a stream of English that went straight over my head. I sneaked a quick look back at Alex and Jess and saw that they were standing looking at each other intently. They must be in love, I found myself thinking. Then I thought about the daughter I was yet to meet. Determined to be more prepared for that encounter, I said Angela, Angela, Angela, softly over and over.

You wouldn't believe the old clanker of a car that the Moffats had. They still have it, Daisy wrote recently, although they could probably get something better now that Alex is earning money again. I sat in the back with Daisy as Alex tried to start it. The engine turned over but stopped. Some of the old cars people drive there, Satoshi, probably wouldn't even be allowed on the road in Japan.

Alex said to Jess, It's not starting very well. That's one of the things I quickly learned about a foreign language. You understand a lot through context. Alex was, as Stolly used to say, stating the bleeding obvious. The car would not start. Jess only shrugged. What can we do? she said. But on the next try the car started and we were off.

I was determined not to fall asleep on this final leg of the journey, but as it turned out I was saved from tiredness by Daisy. We played scissors, paper, stone all the way. I was amazed to discover that Daisy knew it. Remember, Satoshi, how we used to do it to decide which movie we'd see, or who should pay for beer? Thank goodness, I thought, something familiar, something to hold on to.

It was properly dark by the time we reached the house. Lights blazed. The other daughter — Angela — must be at home, I thought. But when we went inside there was no sign of her. Jess asked Daisy to show me to my room. The spare room, she called it. Daisy showed me into a large room made larger by the fact that it was so bare. A single bed was its only furniture. Daisy walked around the room quietly then said something I thought was strange even then. I'm sorry it's so sad, she said. Room is sad? I asked. I mean empty, she said. Then the smile came on again. I know, she said, we'll get the old desk. I said something like, Only bed is okay now, Daisy. I am very tired. Daisy quickly said goodnight and then that phrase that I still love so much, Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams, I called after her when I'd worked it out, but she was gone and I was alone in my room. My room.

I looked out the window and could see a shadowy figure in the garden. I was so tired that I don't think I wondered what Alex was doing there. I got into bed and felt myself falling asleep. Somewhere in the house I heard voices. Jess's voice? The other must be Angela's. They were quite loud and sounded angry. But perhaps that was the way Australians spoke. Why hadn't Angela come out to be introduced to me? I wondered, before drifting into my first sleep in Australia.

5

I can still remember the strangeness of waking up in that room. The sounds around the house. A dog barking somewhere. Unfamiliar bird calls. As I lay there I thought about how many mornings I'd woken up on my futon at home and barely considered my surroundings, what I could hear or smell, taking it all for granted. We drift through familiar things in a kind of trance, living more inside our heads than engaged with the world. Of course, our brains would be worn out if we took in every detail. I've read there are some people like that. They encounter the world, familiar or not, as though for the first time, noticing every leaf on every tree, each note in a bird's song, every shade of every colour. Imagine how overwhelming the world would be. We are programmed to notice when things are different, and now everything was different.

I wondered what I should do first. Nobody had said, although Daisy had showed me the bathroom and put a towel on my bed. The usual motions of the morning now had to be thought through at each step. What was appropriate — to go out to the kitchen for breakfast in my
yukata
? Did the family eat breakfast together? When did people shower? Or perhaps they had baths? I had noticed that the shower was above a bathtub, which seemed strange. At home we all still bathe in the evening after showering first. But you'd be surprised how fast customs are changing. These days a lot of young women like to wash their hair over the basin in the mornings. I remember your younger sister, Satoshi, doing that once when I stayed at your house. She said it was the American way — she'd seen it in magazines. I said it was the shampoo advertiser's way, but she just flicked her wet hair at me and laughed.

So many questions about such a simple thing as getting out of bed and starting the day. I realised again how much I would have to learn. But I had slept well, very well, in the narrow bed, and I felt full of new energy. It was almost a physical kind of confidence. Yes, it was true I didn't know how to behave, but I would learn. People learn such things all the time. And the thought of the day ahead of me suddenly seemed like high adventure. I imagined all our old classmates at college with their noses in deadly dull economics books and I almost whooped out loud to think how far I now was from all that.

I felt that I needed to wash after the long journey, so I did have a shower, a very short one in case anyone else was waiting. I wasn't sure of the time as I hadn't changed my watch when I got in. Early, I thought. Perhaps everyone was still in bed.

When I got to the kitchen, there was no one there. I looked around and found the kettle, filled it up and switched it on. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want to go looking into cupboards for cups or tea. What sort of tea anyway? Not green tea or oolong. I sat down at the table, wondering what to do, and just as I did a growl came from under the table. I jumped. When I looked underneath the table there was a little white dog. It proceeded to growl and wag its tail in turn. So much for a pet-free household. Next minute, Daisy burst into the room, bright as a button in a summery school uniform.

Ohaiyo-gozaimasu!
she said, flinging her school bag into one corner.

Ohaiyo-gozaimasu!

She was so sweet, wanting to put me at ease. But my newly felt confidence meant that I had a certain resolve now about learning. I wanted to learn as much as I could, and as fast as I could.

I want speak English now, Daisy.

Oh yes, I know. But just a little bit of Japanese too. Please? For me? Pretty please?

Pretty please? I was lost. It was going to take some time, I could see.

Did you sleep well, Akira?

I sleep very well, thank you, Daisy.

She was rattling around putting out cups and slicing bread which she dropped into a toaster. She took jars of jam and what I now know as Vegemite out of a cupboard and plonked them down on the table. How strange, I thought. This little girl seems to be getting her own breakfast. And mine.

Where is …?

Mum? Oh, she's gone already. To work. We don't have breakfast together. Not these days, anyway. Help yourself if no one's around. Self-service!

Daisy suddenly looked towards the door.

Well, well, here's Sleeping Beauty.

I turned and looked over my shoulder. In the doorway was . It's so hard to recall now that first impression, to go back, way back beyond all the things that happened and the way I see her now. What I do remember is the green robe, a shiny fabric, silk perhaps … anyway a green Chinese robe with a colourful dragon on one side. There was something almost Japanese about the way she looked in that kimono-like robe and I felt confused. I had never seen a western girl so unguarded, so vulnerable-looking. Her face was fine-featured and she had short dark hair. In the brown skin of her left nostril was a silver stud. The face was not a happy face. She stood there surveying me. I jumped up from the table as if I should stand and bow or something and somehow knocked my cutlery to the floor. I scrambled after the knife and spoon. When I stood up she was still watching me coolly.

So, she said eventually, this is our Japanese girl, is it?

I smiled at her as I tried to think of something to say or what her words meant. Shouldn't we be saying hello and welcome or shaking hands?

Don't take any notice of her, said Daisy. This is Akira. This is the sister. Angie.

I mumbled, Hello, Angela. That was the name I'd been practising.

Angie! she said loudly.

I wondered if I had already done something wrong.

Chisuko, wasn't it? I thought it was going to be Chisuko.

Now I was really confused. Chisuko?

Mum says you're to show Akira to the university, said Daisy.

Angie flopped down at the table. Forget it, she said. I'm not going anywhere in a hurry. Where is she, anyway?

Gone to work.

Oh, right. Dad?

Daisy glared at her sister then flicked her head towards the window.

Angie pulled a face. Self-service it is then, she said.

Daisy slumped down at the table, all the brightness suddenly gone from her.

She says she's keeping the family afloat.

Angie snorted. This family, she said very slowly, is the
Titanic.
She looked up at me and added something about an iceberg.

It's hard to capture what the naive boy that was me then was feeling. Confusion mainly, I think. I was many steps behind the sisters, working out what was being said. The body language spoke volumes though. And what was all that about Chisuko?

When Angie mentioned the
Titanic,
I instantly thought of the day we went to see the film in Roppongi. I felt like a bit of seaweed tossed about by their words. Tossed to Roppongi. Tossed back to Hobart, to the kitchen, wondering how on earth the
Titanic
got into the morning. Words tumbled in the surf around me. There was a part of me that realised this was not what I'd been expecting. But then who was I to know how things were done in Australia? What I did realise was that Daisy was friendly and that Angie didn't seem to be. In the end all I could do was smile and eat my breakfast. I ate two pieces of toast, I remember very clearly, smeared thickly with Vegemite. It was rather like eating miso paste straight from the packet. Not something I would recommend.

Angie didn't show me the way to the university that first morning. Daisy wrote down directions and drew me a map and I made my own way. It turned out that Hobart was not as big as I had thought it would be, even though it is a capital city. I found my way quite easily to the university. I loved that walk and bus ride. There were trees everywhere, all around the houses and up over the hills. They continued high up the side of the mountain which loomed over the city — Mt Wellington, I would later learn. That first day, cloud sat neatly on top of it like a woolly white hat. The river lay like a lake in the valley, blue and dotted with boats. A big container ship moved slowly towards what I knew must be the city centre because I could see some taller buildings. By Tokyo standards they were not tall at all. More like you'd find in a large town in the country, somewhere like Numazu, say. The houses were more like Japanese houses in the country as well. I don't mean the way they looked — not like our traditional wooden houses, or the grand new brick ones — it was more the space around them, the gardens, the trees. But what I noticed mainly was the air. It felt different to breathe there.

When I arrived at the building where the language program was run, there was a hubbub of many students from many countries all talking at once. I heard snatches of other languages and of English spoken in a broken or smooth way. It was suddenly very exciting to be there. The next thing I knew, Chisuko was there with her hand on my arm, so I didn't even have a chance to feel nervous. She guided me to the right room and said she'd meet me later, at the morning break. Before she left me she asked in English, How's your homestay?

Maybe normal, I answered.

It's funny to think about it now. I had no idea of what normal was in Australia in the first place. And then again I suppose I did already have some inkling that this family was not quite normal. But ‘maybe normal' were words I could say in English. And that was something I discovered as I went along. You often want to say something entirely different but you are limited to the vocabulary you know and you have to try to construct something from the little that you have. A bit like trying to make a salad when you only have braising vegetables, or trying to build a boat using only nails. You get kind of warped into the shape of the words you know. There is a big gap between what you think and what you say. It would be a long time before I felt that the real me, the one with ideas and opinions and funny stories to tell, could find his way out again. For a while that person was trapped inside a new language.