Okamatsu-san walked with a kind of sashaying gait, his expensive yet thin trousers rippling with each stride, a shockwave moving from the hem to his iron buttocks with each footfall. He wore shiny leather slip-ons with tassels and the turquoise worker’s jacket given to everyone but worn only by Sam and the Japanese staff. He could have at least made an effort for this and got changed.
It was the first office Christmas party Sam had ever been to. Francis or no, after what he’d been through he felt buoyed by the idea of spending three days with Sarah over Christmas, and now here he was in a blaring karaoke bar packed with other office workers, feeling merry.
Ten of them were seated at a long table with tall chairs. Mr Okamatsu came away from the bar with a tray full of drinks. The colourful disco lights reflected off his glasses. A British colleague who had spent five years in Japan had once said to Sam the difference between the Japanese and the British was that Japanese people think of the whole instead of the individual. But then he added, ‘All Japanese men live lives of quiet desperation.’ There must be some truth in this, because of the suicide problem at HQ, but Mr Okamatsu seemed like a man in complete control of his life.
He took his seat at the head of the table, with Sam as his right-hand man, and the drinks were passed along. Everybody sat in silence.
Okamatsu raised his beer and said, ‘Kanpai!’
The table loved this and raised their glasses. As soon as it happened, the mood lightened and some of the awkward tension fell away. Little conversations sprang up around the table, leaving just Sam and Okamatsu on their own.
The music was blasting, a woman massacring a version of ‘Please Release Me’.
There was a bang at the front door and a drunken crowd of people tumbled into the club, Christmas hats on heads, one guy clutching the hips of a large woman, conga-style. Mr Okamatsu’s small eyes behind the light-sensitive glasses seemed to absorb everything in their wake, eyes that sucked wisdom from the world.
‘Mr Okamatsu, do you celebrate Christmas in Japan?’
Sam had to lean in as Mr Okamatsu spoke because he was conceding nothing to the loud music.
‘We do. More than when I was a child.’ When he was talking like this, his voice appropriated a tender smoothness. ‘We go to KFC. You know KFC? And maybe we go to the cinema. We spend time with family. I will FaceTime my family this Christmas.’
Sam said, ‘Do you look forward to going home?’
Mr Okamatsu replied, matter-of-factly, ‘I miss my family. That is worst part of my job here.’
Sam looked at him and felt a moment of empathy for this man who’d been sent to Britain, away from his family, to work in a thankless job. Sam knew Okamatsu had two children, both still in school, and it didn’t seem fair. A father shouldn’t be away from his kids because of work. He wanted to put his hand on his forearm, but that would be a bridge too far.
One of the drunken revellers banged into the back of Sam’s chair. ‘Wheeey!’ he shouted, dancing towards the bar, shimmying, shaking imaginary maracas.
‘OK, up next,’ said the guy running the karaoke, ‘we have Okamatsu and Sam.’
Sam froze. The heads of the people around the table turned towards him in shock. When Sam looked at Mr Okamatsu he was already standing, tucking his shirt neatly into his trousers.
‘Mr Okamatsu?’
‘I put our names down,’ he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Sam’s guts turned to mush and his heart was throbbing. He didn’t want to do karaoke. Mr Okamatsu was halfway across the dance floor as the opening bars of the song started up. A piano. Oh God, the song was the romantic power ballad ‘Up Where We Belong’.
‘Go on, Sambo!’ Mark nudged him, laughing.
Okamatsu had the mic in his hand. ‘Sam,’ he called unashamedly across the dance floor.
Lights flashed and his head was woozy. Mark tilted his chair so Sam slid off it.
‘Go on, Sam!’ Linda screeched.
But he didn’t want to sing. He couldn’t sing. His voice was awful. The music stopped and there was silence as the karaoke guy had to start the song over. The other revellers were aware of the coaxing going on at Sam’s table and were craning to see. Mark pushed him in the small of the back and Sam edged on to the dance floor. Everyone cheered and the music started again. Sam turned back to the table and downed the double whisky in front of Mark, and everyone cheered again.
He felt Mr Okamatsu’s eyes staring at him hopefully. Everyone at the table was laughing and clapping, but Sam was thinking about Okamatsu missing his family on Christmas Day.
‘Fuck it,’ he said, under his breath, and set out across the dance floor. The place erupted now and it felt like the climax to a film – apart from, instead of Sam walking towards a beautiful woman, it was Mr Okamatsu.
He started singing just as Sam reached the first of the three steps leading to the stage. Mr Okamatsu’s voice was surprisingly pretty, a mid-range syrupy easiness to it. He had taken the female role.
Sam vaguely knew the song but not who should sing which part. Fortunately, the lyrics on the screen at his feet were divided into pink and blue but, unfortunately, it was his turn to sing. He couldn’t hold a note to save his life, and he was well aware of how awful his voice was as he practically whispered the lyrics into the mic that the karaoke man had thrust under his nose.
‘Louder,’ someone shouted.
When he sang louder, everybody started half groaning, half laughing. Sam turned beetroot as they reached the chorus and Okamatsu joined in with him. The big man was shimmying from side to side as he harmonised with the main melody.
The second verse came and Sam watched Okamatsu sing. His eyes were closed. He was absolutely loving it, and yet everyone in the room was laughing at him, and so when it came to Sam’s turn he made the quick decision to go for it. He belted out his lines, and even he felt the pain in his ears as his voice mutilated the melody. But then something happened he didn’t expect. Sensing the effort he was putting in, the crowd got on board with the performance. They started cheering and clapping. Some couples grabbed each other and started dancing, including two large, older men, much to the delight of their colleagues. It felt good. No, with the alcohol and the sudden upswing washing across the crowd, it felt great. The second chorus approached and Sam felt Okamatsu put his arm around him.
Sam took a deep breath and, together, they belted it out as loud as they could, Mr Okamatsu’s pretty birdsong against Sam’s bludgeoning drone. The crowd loved it. Mr Okamatsu turned to Sam, relinquished his grip and gave him a satisfied nod before returning his attention to his audience. He thrust his left arm into the air for the repeat of the chorus and, all of a sudden, it wasn’t just Sam and Okamatsu singing but everyone in the room.
Everyone was so happy, happy that Christmas was coming, happy that things were looking up. The atmosphere was something wonderful and as Sam watched a drunken man wobble across the dance floor, pointing towards one of his female colleagues, he thought of Sarah, and of the trip.
At last, the song came to an end. Sam was dripping with sweat and physically shaking with adrenaline, but the place erupted. And he knew that, if this were a film, the scene would freeze-frame now, Okamatsu and Sam jubilant in triumph, the credits would roll, and the lights would come up. But, of course, Sam knew this wasn’t the end of his story.