“Da-ni-e-ru?” Manager draws out each syllable. “Oh! Really? You have American name? May I ask, why? Daniel, is hafu?”
“No, not Daniel. It’s Zaniel. Zaniel Kamisawa. I know, it’s a strange name.” He blushes. “Long story. But now that you mention it, my father is American.”
“Oh, really?! You are hafu! Ehhh! So, you must be very good at English!”
“I like to think so,” he flashes me a smile that reminds me of a shark. A shark with perfect teeth. “But I guess she will be the judge of that.”
“Ah, Cybelle! I will get another chair … to watch you interview … but, please start without me! Please!”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond; he’s already out the door and down the hall. The man and I are left there, alone in our tiny toilet-sized room, gazes locked, frozen in time. His eyes are a little too light brown for my liking, like he’s wearing hazel contacts. No, that’s a horrible thing to say. If he’s half-Japanese, it makes sense he might not have dark brown eyes. Don’t be so judgmental, Cybelle. Just do this interview and then you can eat.
I muster a smile, trying to swallow down whatever might be coming up. “Kamisawa-san, I’m going to need my hand back.”
“Ha, ha, sorry.” He lets go and glides into his chair, still pinning me with his gaze. I’m grateful to sit down; I don’t feel good. It must be dizziness from hunger.
“Well,” I begin, “it’s very nice to meet you, Kamisawa-san. Thank you for coming today.”
“Thank you for having me. I’m glad to finally meet you. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you’re taller than I thought you’d be.”
“Uh. Right.” Without Manager, I don’t have much to do. I pretend to shuffle some papers around in my hands. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Well, at least I don’t have to talk like a tape recorder this time. “Manager mentioned you’re from the Osaka area. You’ve travelled far.”
“Not really. The express train only takes thirty minutes. Today was my first time getting off here, though. Nice town. Quiet.” He looks me over again, taking me in. His grin widens. “Pretty.”
“Um …” Where the hell is Manager? This stupid school is full of chairs. Wait. Something outside the room catches my attention. “The hell is that?” I mutter.
Zaniel cocks his head. “Ah, I know this. Boccherini’s Minuet. It must be playing on your loudspeaker.”
We don’t have a loudspeaker. Something fishy is going on here.
“Ah, Shibere-sensei!” Bucho sticks her head through the door, excusing herself to our candidate. Manager is right behind her. “May I join?”
Like I’m allowed to say no. “Sure, come on in.”
Everyone makes a big scene about ushering her in, making room for her chair. The three of us all squish on one side of the table together while this Zaniel dude sits comfortably on the other.
“Now, please, just answer as though Bucho and Manager are not here,” Manager says to Zaniel. “And, good luck!”
The man across the table rubs his hands sheepishly, blushing. “I’m sorry, I’m very nervous. I don’t get to speak English very often,” he says with perfect pronunciation. He bows in Manager and Bucho’s direction. “Douzo yoroshiku onegai itashimasu,” he mutters. His cheeks flush in a way that’s kind of cute. Both Manager and Bucho bow back with “kochira koso,” etc., etc. This goes on until finally Manager remembers I am there.
“Ah, yes! Cybelle, go ahead. She has very easy questions, don’t worry! Cybelle, douzo.”
The hell I do. Not when I can finally have a decent conversation with a candidate. “What did you say your first name was again?”
“Zaniel.”
“‘Zaniel.’ That’s a pretty cool name. What does it mean?”
“Hmmm …” There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “What do you think it means?”
Crap, my face is getting so warm. I try to make sense of my interview papers and almost drop them all. “I, uh … okay, never mind. I have a few questions for you. Just answer them as best as you can.”
“Love to.”
“Why did you choose to apply to this company?”
Zaniel inhales softly, gazing up at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights catch on his long eyelashes. “Well, the truth is, right now I do translation work for this big company. I’m just a salaryman. I work in Osaka, way downtown, where it’s super crowded and dirty. The job pays well, sure, but I’ve been doing it for years and it’s killing me. It’s boring, it’s tedious, and as much as I hate to admit it, the atmosphere is pretty soul-sucking. I’d rather work with people, you know? Do something that lets me talk to people, have a real conversation. And I think my English is still pretty good, so I thought why not make a change?” He pauses, then gives a short bow to end his sentence.
Manager nods several times like he understood all of that and is now about to say something, but he turns to me instead. He leans so close to read my interview paper that I can count the dandruff flakes on his scalp. Wait. Something isn’t right about all this … and it isn’t Manager’s brand of shampoo.
“So, when exactly did you apply to this company?” I ask.
“Uh, just a moment,” Manager sits upright and flips through his notes. He’s holding what looks like the typical interview candidate profile, complete with a stern-looking photo in the top right-hand corner. The photo looks nothing like Zaniel. “Ah! Two weeks ago. And you passed the English exam at one hundred percent. Sugoi, Kamisawa-san! Thank you for your hard work!”
Two weeks ago? I can’t help but give Zaniel a suspicious look. If Head Office knew about this guy two weeks ago, why take so long to interview him? Where was he all the Misakis and Ari Satos ago? And more than that, why wait until the last minute to tell me I’m interviewing him? Something about this guy stinks, and it isn’t his peachy cologne.
“Oh, it was nothing. If you know what I mean.” His eyebrow arches at me, ever so slightly. How could I understand what he means? I shake my head a little, not knowing what else to do.
“So,” I start again, “why do you want to teach English?”
“Ne, Cybelle-sensei,” Manager interrupts. “Maybe, ask another question? I think Kamisawa-san already answer.”
I turn to Bucho, who sits stock-still like she’s the one being interviewed. It’s time to get her involved. “Do you agree, Bucho?” She blinks at me.
“Oh, that’s okay —” Zaniel starts in, but I interrupt him. I’ve got plenty of questions for this candidate, this time.
“Fine, I’ll rephrase: What makes you think you would make a good English teacher for young children?”
“Ah, Cybelle, hmm …” Manager interrupts. “That is … hmm, a difficult question. Maybe …” He invades my personal space again to lean over my interview sheet. He beams and taps question #3: Do you like children? “Ah, maybe, ask this question?”
Interview Commando at a time like this? Seriously? “It’s a valid question. I’m sure he can answer it.”
“Valid?” he struggles with the word. He half-turns to Bucho for clarification but the look on her face is so stern he knows it’s the worst time to let it show that he doesn’t understand. “Eh … ‘balid’?”
“Yes,” I reply tersely. “Valid.”
“Ballad? Eh, music ballad? Eh? Hmm …” he mutters to himself; eventually, he sucks air through his teeth. “I think, maybe, it’s too difficult. You must be very tired, Kamisawa-san. Is it okay if Cybelle-sensei asks one or, maybe, two more questions? Maybe, easy question?”
“FINE.” I realize I’m being a huge bitch but I want this interview over. “What are three things you would like to do in the future that you’ve never done before?”
“Ooh, good one. Let’s see. I’d like to …” Zaniel trails off, absent-mindedly stroking his lower lip in deep thought. “I need to learn how to swim. To be honest, I’m terrified of water. I don’t think I even know how to float. So, learning to swim would be first on the list. Second, hmm, I don’t want to say travel the world, everybody says that. I guess it’d be neat to see what Southeast Asia is like. I definitely want to check out Thailand and Cambodia someday. And, for the third … let me think … I’ve never really explored Japan much, so I guess I’d like to take a road trip somewhere. My grandma has this scooter she’s always bugging me to put to use.”
Bucho and Manager marvel at his “sugoi” answers. I can tell Bucho is restraining herself not to clap for him. I have to admit, even I’m feeling flabbergasted. I must look it, too.
“Is that a good sign?” he asks me.
“Oh, yes! Very good, very good,” Manager nods several more times. “Okay, let’s ask question number three, Cybelle-sensei!”
“All right. Do you —”
“Ah — Cybelle, you are, not taking notes?”
“Am I supposed to be?”
Across the table, Zaniel coughs. I think he’s trying not to laugh. Underneath my jacket, the armpits of my shirt feel like sponges soaked in brine. I hope this is all a nightmare, but it’s too real to be. I skip down to question five and look him dead in the eyes. They must be coloured contacts. “If you could be any kind of fruit, what would you be and why?”
“Ha, ha. Well, my boss would tell you I’m a banana,” he grins again, “but I like to think I’m more like a pomegranate. A little baffling when you encounter it for the first time, but once you figure out how to get inside, you find it’s sweet, charming, and really not so bad.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. That was a damn good answer. “What would you do if one of your students wet himself your first day on the job?”
His smile grows wider. “I think I’d come to you for help, so the real question is, what would you do?”
I push any possible answer back down my throat. I’m not the one being interviewed here. I already got this job. “What are your thoughts on corporal punishment?”
“I’ve never been a fan, and it definitely doesn’t belong in schools.”
“How would you describe yourself in one word?”
He searches the room. “Resilient.”
He’s good. Too good. I narrow my eyes at him. “What gets wetter as it dries?”
“Um … a towel?”
“WOW! Very good!” Manager breaks into applause. “You can do conversation with native speaker! Sugoi! Okay, thank you so much, Cybelle. Now, we will do Japanese interview. Please —” he flaps his hands at me toward the door. It’s fine. Without his insipid reminder I might have forgotten there was a door and hurled myself through the viewing window.
“Wait,” Zaniel says. “May I ask you something before you go?”
Manager’s and Bucho’s jaws drop. “Sure.” I sit back down. This ought to be interesting.
“I’ve just been wondering.” Zaniel leans forward, squinting a little. “Two things: May I ask where you’re from?”
“Oh. Canada.”
He looks surprised. “You’re Canadian?”
“Yeah?”
“Wow. That’s cool. And, um, can you tell me … hmm … what made you decide to teach English in Japan?”
It’s a good question. “I’ve always liked kids,” I say, “so it seemed like as good a job as any. As for coming here to do it … I don’t know, I’ve just always been drawn to the culture here. I especially love the fact that you’re not expected to grow up here the way you are in the west. I love the stamp rallies, the mascots, the point cards for everything … and, more than anything, I love how no one tells me to grow out of any of it.”
“And how has your perspective changed since you came to Japan?”
I snort. “My attitude toward people has definitely changed. You can’t get attached to anyone you meet here. They’re always coming and going, so nothing is set in stone like it would be back home. You kinda have to cherish every moment you have with people …”
Zaniel nods. “Ichigo ichie …”
“Exactly. But at the same time, my choices in friends are limited by being ‘foreign’ due to language barriers and gaijin fear. At first, I wasn’t picky about who I hung out with. That led to a lot of bad experiences. It took a long time to understand that I wasn’t permanently stuck with them. Eventually, they left. Whether it was to go back home or relocate to Tokyo. Everybody leaves.”
“Interesting. So, you might say you have an ichigo ichie attitude toward relationships.”
I give him a sideways glance. I think I’m smiling, too. “Are you interviewing me?”
“Well, kinda,” he grins back. “Not sure if you’re up to the job, though. It’s not an easy one.”
“Hey, as long as I earn enough to eat, I’m happy.”
He leans back with a smile, then blushes under Manager’s and Bucho’s shocked stares. “That’s all I wanted to know. Thank you.”
“Thank you.” I have no idea what the hell that was about, but it was a nice end to our interview. Maybe this won’t be such a shitty day after all.
I get up to reach for the handle. Zaniel reaches it first. “Please, allow me.” He’s so close, I can smell him; he smells less like cologne and more like real peach. It makes me so hungry I can’t even thank him. He seems to read my mind. “If anything, I should thank you. For interviewing me. I know a hard worker when I see one.”
Now I know I’m smiling, no matter how hard I’m trying to hide it. “Good luck.”
“Thank you. I hope I get to work with you someday.”
I stumble my way to the staff room where the other teachers, minus Lieko, have sequestered themselves to gossip; they swarm me before I can collapse onto one of the stools. It’s hard to understand any of them when my head is swimming this bad. I can understand Yoshino, however, loud and clear.
“Ho-ly shit,” she grabs me by the shoulders. “Could he be any sexier?! What was he like? How good is his English? Tell us everything.”
“Well … I …” I got nothing.
“Eh, maybe, Shibelle-sensei,” Misaki holds up her pinky. “Rabu-rabu?”
“No.” I don’t bother trying not to make a face. “I’m just hungry. I need food to be civil, no pun intended.”
“Here. They’re from Bucho.” Yoshino starts to slide a half-eaten box of shioaji manjuu toward me. “No, wait! I want details first, woman. No, wait, forget it. Don’t tell me anything, it’ll break my heart if Manager doesn’t hire him. Please Manager give us a break and hire him.”
“But I think it’s Bucho who will hire him, no?” Seri pipes up. “Because I know Manager really wants male teachers.”
“Yeah, good point. She better.” Yoshino crosses her arms and pouts. “He reminds me of someone … What’s his name? You know, that guy … Shoot, it’s on the tip of my tongue …”
Yuki asks, “Cybelle-sensei, was he kind? He looks so kind.”
Seri agrees. “And I could hear him speak a little when I came in! His English sounds really good!”
“Yes! His English, so good! He can teach us English! Cybellesensei, are you sure he’s Japanese?”
“I heard Bucho say he’s half-Japanese.”
“Ehhh, I’m so exciting!” Misaki claps her hands. “Maybe, he is … eh, dokushin?”
Yoshino scoffs. “No way is anyone that hot single. They better bloody hire him; this place is bone-dry in the guy department, right, Cyb? Cyb, you awake?”
“Huh? Wha?”
“Girl, are you okay?” Yoshino edges the manjuu back toward me. I take a couple, but I don’t eat any. I’m too wrapped up in my own conversation with myself. Who is this guy?
“You know what, Yoshino? I have a feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before, too. Do you think —”
“AH!” Yoshino snaps her fingers. “I got it!”
“You know him?!”
“Haruma Miura! Now I can sleep tonight.”
“Eh, chigau yo!” Misaki teases, saying he looks nothing like him.
Well, that was a bust. I was not thinking of anyone remotely famous. Maybe he just looks like someone I used to know. Which is impossible, because I haven’t had any friends around here for years, let alone spent time with any Japanese guys. But in the end, I nod and force a smile as my co-workers go on about how great a fit this guy would be at our school. He’d bring in clients, that’s for sure. Every woman would step over her own husband to have Zaniel teach her children.
“Hai, otsukaresama!” Manager sings as a door opens.
“He’s on the move!” Yoshino squeals. The girls bodycheck one another to get out of the staff room. They stop and behave when Bucho comes in with her interview notes.
“Excuse me, Shiberu-sensei.” She smiles at me. “Would you please come outside? Mr. Kamisawa-san is going out.”
Ugh.
I’ve never smiled this hard in my life. The farewell is not as bad as I thought it would be. A lot of bowing with the other teachers behind the reception desk. I feel less self-conscious now. Not sure why, when all this paranoia is clearly in my head. Maybe it’s because Lieko is mysteriously absent from all this excitement. In any case, I’m sure I don’t know this dude. He, Bucho, and Manager exchange the usual pleasantries about going to Head Office for training, staying in their creepy dorms for one month, taking another test, yadda, yadda, yadda, all information he’s heard before. He gives one final bow as the elevator arrives and the doors close on him. He doesn’t look in my direction. Not once. And like that, he’s gone. Good. More time to sit in the staff room and wait for the world to stop spinning.
“Well?!” Manager turns to me. “What do you think about the interview? Kanpeki deshou? Good fit, ne?”
“His English is good, all right,” I admit. “But I don’t know about him being a good fit. It doesn’t sound like he has a whole lot of experience with kids, and we need someone who —”
“Yes, yes, but what about his English? It’s perfect, yes?”
Bucho mentions in discrete Japanese that his English scores are off the chart. He could teach her English. Manager nods. “But, Cybelle-sensei, do you mean you don’t like him? He likes you. At the end of Japanese interview, he said you are a true dream.”
“A what now?”
Manager flinches. “Ah, I’m sorry … he said to tell you … true dream? Sorry, he said this in English; I did not understand. Is it a kind of American joke?”
“I don’t know.” I don’t care.
“I hope he comes back …” Misaki says behind me in a dreamy voice.
“Of course, you do,” I blurt out. “Manager, can I go out and grab something to eat? Before my Baby students get here?”
“Ah! But … Baby students will be here soon, so please, maybe, you should stay at Zozo. Soshite, as promised, I will buy you lunch. So please, be patient. In staff room. Do not buy, ne? My treat, today!”
“No, no, I remember. I just need some air. I’ll be right back, I promise.”
Manager doesn’t look pleased, but he lets me grab my coin purse and swap my Tinker Bell slippers for my shoes without any further protest. I press the button for the elevator, but when it arrives, I turn to him. “Hey, Manager,” I swirl my finger in the air. “What’s with the music?”
“Ah, yokatta, you heard it! We play on your stereo in Room Four. Good impression for new teacher!”
“We’re playing classical music to impress the new guy?”
“Yes! Do you think it works? I hope it works. Kamisawa-sensei would make good fit, ne?”
One of my eyes twitches sharply. “Be right back.”
“Hai, itterasshai!”
“Ittekimasu.”
The gentle motion of the elevator does not help my looming migraine one bit. Maybe if I just buy a little cake from HORUS, I’ll still have an appetite for this free lunch I have coming to me without passing out from hunger.
HORUS is closed. Shoot. It doesn’t open for another hour, right when my Baby class starts. I settle for a handful of Black Thunders from Family Mart and wolf them all down in front of the station. Oh my gosh, the crunchy rice-puff base, the sweet but subtle chocolate coating … these little bars have never tasted this good.
“Pssst!” I hear behind me. No. Not again. No more weirdness today. I hear it a second time, louder. “PSSST.”
Trying not to turn my head too much, pretending to look for a garbage can for my Black Thunder wrappers, I peek over my left shoulder. The kei truck is back. I wander around as if desperate to find a trash can (which I kind of am). Like a jack-in-the-box, a face pops out from the red noren of the truck as I walk by. The face is smiling at me. It takes me a second to realize it belongs to a human being — the strange man’s eyes and smile are so frozen his face looks like a mask. He snickers. “Psssssssst! Oide, oide!” He waves a hand to say come here. Weird. I fake a smile and walk straight back into Family Mart. Guess I’ll kill a few more minutes by pretending to buy something else. The man’s face is still jutting out of the curtains when I walk out of the conbini empty-handed. (I did promise not to buy lunch, and who am I to shun Manager’s free meal?) The man is still beckoning me. So weird. I guess there’s no better time to head back to Zozo. As much as I might want udon, I don’t have the time for it right now. I wave in polite refusal, then bolt. This whole day is shaping up to be one big ball of weird.
There’s a sea of people waiting for the elevator. They’re all Zozo students and parents, some of whom are in my Baby class. We all greet each other, I high-five the babies, and we pile in. I make faces at Mai, the baby closest to me, who giggles in her father’s arms. I’m so busy crossing my eyes it barely registers when someone shouts for us to hold the door and leaps in.
It’s Zaniel.
“Oh!” he says. “Fancy seeing you out here.”
I work here, I almost say. “Did you leave something behind?”
“No. Didn’t your manager tell you? I’m going to observe a few classes.” He bows as best as one can in a crowded elevator. “Douzo yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”
“Oh. Um … kochira koso,” I reply. The parents around me burst into applause and praise. “Cybelle-sensei, you speak Japanese? Oh! Sugoi! Jouzu!” No one questions who this guy is.
Manager corners me when we all spill out into the Zozo lobby. “Cybelle-sensei! You are back! Please, Cybelle-sensei, take a rest. Don’t worry, I will go out and get your lunch. Eh, soon.”
“Yeah. That sounds like good advice.”
“And, Kamisawa-sensei, okaerinasai!” Manager bows to him. He tells Zaniel in Japanese to have a seat and wait in Room Two. I’m in the middle of changing into my shoes when it hits me that that’s my room.
“Wait. What’s going on?”
“Ah, Cybelle, Kamisawa-sensei is going to watch your Baby Zero lesson today. Is it okay?”
“Um …” Well, I can’t think of a good enough reason to say no, other than the fact that he makes me nervous. “Sure, I guess.”
“Ah, great! Thank you for understanding, Cybelle!”
I pretend that he’s just another observing parent staring me down from the window as my Baby Zero students and parents arrive and assemble in the room. Every now and then, as the babies waddle around the room and bob around to the music from the CD player, the mothers turn to look back at Zaniel and maybe share a giggle or two with one another. They share their ideas about who he could be as the babies colour in their books — he looks a little foreign, maybe he’s a new English teacher, or maybe he’s a parent observing lessons, but he looks way too young and so on and so on. Azusa’s mother proposes he’s my boyfriend, but when the others gesture to ask me, she clams up and blushes. As much as I love my baby students, I feel like doing a backflip when our lesson comes to an end. Manager is talking to Zaniel so his attention is finally turned away from me. I see Zaniel bow and get his shoes, and, still bowing, he gets into the elevator. Finally, I’m free. It’s bad enough getting stared at outside of Zozo; I don’t see why I should have to deal with it here, too.
Manager bids the mothers farewell and thanks the babies for their hard work before turning to me. “Cybelle-sensei, otsukaresama desu! Thank you for your lesson! Now, about new male teacher, Kamisawa-sensei …”
I stop Manager right there. “Whoa. He’s not a teacher. We haven’t hired him yet. He hasn’t even been approved for training yet. Can’t we just call him Kamisawa-san?”
“Yes, hmm, this is true. But, about new teacher — maybe, when Bucho processes interview, maybe, she will hire Kamisawasensei right away. This is good news, ne?”
I sigh. This guy is not listening to a word I say. “Maybe,” I try using Manager’s favourite word. “I mean, sure, he’s fluent in English, but that doesn’t mean he’s good with kids. And what about —”
“YADAAAAAAAA!”
I close my eyes. “Oh, for the love of —”
Manager turns on the charm. “Hello, Hitomu-kun! Okaasan, ohayou gozaimasu! Cybelle-sensei, please, staff room. Let us finish talking later. And, anyway, I think many mothers will like Kamisawa-sensei. Children, too; he is hafu, but, he is genki. Ah! The children can call him ‘Zany Zaniel’!”
I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from rolling them. “Excuse me.”
“Certainly, Cybelle-sensei! Please, enjoy your lunch! It’s in staff room!”
I duck into the staff room, careful not to slam the sliding door behind me. There’s a large plastic bag on the bench with “せベール (Cybele)” scrawled on it. Sweet mercy, we haven’t even hired this guy and we’re giving him fucking nicknames already? What have they been calling me? “Psycho Cybelle”? On second thought, that wouldn’t come out so bad in Japanese. Still. I have reasons to be pissed off. He doesn’t work here yet and they already love him. I’ve been here for years and they still flinch when I step off the elevator. I wonder if this a preview of how they’ll treat the new gaijin if I don’t re-contract. I stomp over to the bench and grab a seat, slamming it into the floor as I adjust myself. This isn’t fair —
I stop mid-rant. I’m being a baby. I take a deep breath and count to three. How am I getting jealous of a guy who hasn’t been hired yet? On the other hand, a part of me doesn’t care. I don’t think I’d be so immature if I weren’t so fucking hungry. There isn’t anything I can do about it right now. Except maybe eat, and forget about him.
There is a lot of food here. I can’t tell if Manager bought me food to choose from. Maybe he bought something for himself today. Nope, there’s his bento cloth bag right next to all these conbini bags. I open them up and create a spread on the bench: there’s meat sauce spaghetti, oyako-don, and a telltale 7-Eleven bento with egg on rice, plain pasta, and spicy barbecue chicken, all heated up. I start with the first, and over the course of an hour, end up eating them all. Yum.
There’s also a massive box of assorted goodies from the Mister Donut in the mall. I help myself to three pon de ringu donuts in time for Misaki to come in and sit down with her lunch. From the corner of her eye she watches me hoover down the last one but doesn’t engage with me at all. Good. Feeling more at ease, I put all the plastic containers and used chopsticks in the garbage, leaving the extra ohashi in a small baggie next to the computer, and sneak out of the staff room praying none of that food belonged to anyone else.
My Baby One students are already in Room Three, settling in. Two of the babies are fast asleep in their mother’s arms. Baby Yukino is barely holding on. Aira is the only one awake. I assure the moms that it’s okay, they don’t have to wake them up, and pop in my lullaby CD to teach the moms a couple of songs.
“Eh? Cybelle-sensei, dare?” Takuya’s mother points with a free hand. “Boyfriend-o?”
“What?” I turn. Oh, no. Zaniel waves from the window in the door, grinning from ear to ear. “No,” I say through a clenched smile. “He isn’t.”
“Sore ja … new teacher?” Aira’s mother asks.
“No — er, not yet. He is interviewing.”
“Ah, naru hodo …” The parents all nod.
We end our class with the quietest rendition of the “Goodbye Song” so that all the babies can sleep. Even the kids running around in the lobby don’t stir them awake, which is perfect because Manager, Bucho, and Hitomu’s mother are all pitching in to drag the poor child into Room Two for “Cybelle-sensei’s exciting lesson.” I don’t bother to pull Manager aside and tell him I wasn’t made aware of any freaking lesson. It’s too late, anyway. Bucho already has him in her arms as Hitomu’s mother dips out of the room.
“Come on, Hitomu-kun! Let’s enjoy English! Cybelle-sensei, Hitomu is ready for lesson!”
Damn it. I take a deep breath as I retreat back to Room Three to get my teacher box. I can do this. I can freaking do this. After picking up all my books and toys, I pick up the box and look down at the CD player, which I also need to transport to Room Two. Shit. I can’t do this.
“Need a hand?” says a calm, tenor voice.
Oh, no. Zaniel is already next to me, unplugging the CD player. “I thought you left,” I try to smile.
“I did. Your manager said I could run out to get something to eat.”
“Oh. I see. Thanks,” I mumble. He smells so good. “Yeah, if you can just … follow me.”
“Sure. You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just … well …”
Hitomu’s screams pierce the air.
“Is that your student?”
I nod. “It’s not my easiest lesson today,” is all I can say. I’m not sure how else to explain Hitomu to this guy. This guy, who I feel like I know, but have obviously never met before, and, for all I know, may not even get a position here. As soon as we turn the corner and enter Room Two, Hitomu locks eyes with Zaniel. He stops screaming. Bucho continues to bounce him on her knee, but it’s completely unnecessary. Hitomu watches Zaniel as he bows to Bucho with a “shitsureishimasu” and plugs in the CD player for me. It gives me an idea. Perhaps not the greatest idea, but if it works, the payoff will be worth it.
“Bucho,” I ask in my sweetest voice. “Is it all right if Kamisawasan stays in the room? To watch my lesson? Instead of outside?”
“Really?!” Zaniel turns in shock. Then he clears his throat. “I mean, yes, if that’s all right, I would love to stay.”
“Yes, zehi, zehi!” Bucho says. She seems more than happy to plop Hitomu on the carpet and get up off her knees. “Please, watch Shibelle-sensei’s lesson inside! Ask her any questions, ne?” She walks out the door, giving me a quick thumbs-up — “Thank you, Shibelle-sensei! Yoroshiku ne!” — and closes the door.
I take a moment to deep breathe again. The room is still quiet. I turn. Zaniel is kneeling next to Hitomu, whispering to him. Hitomu is staring up at me with tear-stained cheeks, even as I circle around them to get my Jibanyan puppet from my box and sit down in front of him. Zaniel tells him something in Japanese like, “now, let’s listen to the teacher,” and looks up at me. “He’s ready for you.”
I can’t help but stare back at the boy. “He’s never been this quiet,” I finally say.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Holding my breath again, I bring the puppet as close to him as I dare. Hitomu looks down and reaches out for Jibanyan, strokes the top of his head. I make Jibanyan bow and shake Hitomu’s outstretched hand. I pray Bucho is not lingering outside the door. “Konnichiwa, Hitomu-kun,” I whisper. “Genki?” Hitomu nods. So far, so good. I still don’t dare to speak at a normal volume. “Kamisawa-san, would you mind turning on the CD player?”
“Sure.”
“Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” starts to play. I gesture for Hitomu to stand and follow along, and he does so; very slowly, but at least he’s complying. Zaniel kneels at the CD player, watching all the while. We all clap at the end. I let the CD player continue with “Baby Shark” and a few more songs. Hitomu doesn’t make a peep. So far, very good. I put Jibanyan away and blow a few bubbles. Hitomu watches them float through the air, reaching up with his hands to pop one or two. Mostly he just observes them hovering over his head. After a few minutes, he seems to get tired of them, and goes back to staring at me, wide-eyed. I feel like an animal expert working with a dangerous creature. Every move and gesture I make is slow, reassuring: I put the bubbles down, cross the room to his backpack, retrieve his colouring book and crayons, and place them in front of him with caution. He doesn’t move a muscle until I flip to a blank page for him. In time, he picks up his orange and brown crayons and starts drawing wild circles all over the page of Zozo the Clown having a tea party with a rabbit, a mouse, and various other animals.
“You’re really good with him,” Zaniel murmurs.
“Thanks.” If only you’d seen him the other day, I think to myself. I watch Hitomu continue to scribble all over Zozo’s face. “What are you drawing there, big guy?”
“Akumu,” Hitomu whispers.
“Akumu?” I turn to Zaniel.
“Nightmares.”
“Oh.” I tilt my head, trying to think of something to break the even-more-awkward silence. “They look like donuts.”
Zaniel translates for me in a quiet murmur. “Arigatou,” Hitomu whispers.
We continue to watch him for another minute or two. Then Zaniel gets up and kneels beside me. “So, as I was saying before. I’m glad we finally have a chance to talk because —”
Bucho walks in. “Oh, hello, everyone!” she sings at the top of her lungs. Hitomu bursts into tears and screams. In one fell swoop he jumps and lands on my lap, burying his wet face into my shoulder, squeezing me with every one of his fingers in ten tiny kung fu grips.
“Don’t let her eat me,” he sobs. “Please, don’t let her eat me!”
“What’s this? A picture! Oh, this is a monkey. Ah! Hitomukun, are you a monkey? Oh ho, Cybelle-sensei! I think Hitomu is starting to like you. This is good! Mama will be so happy!”
“Won’t that be something?” I fake-laugh.
Bucho pats my knee and exits the room, leaving the door wide open (Hitomu’s mother will want to see, she warns whoever is listening outside).
“He seems to really like you,” Zaniel says.
“Are you kidding? He’s been calling me ‘oni baba’ since he started here.”
“Oni baba? You’re way too young for that.”
I sigh. Hitomu is heavy, and his fingers are still digging into my back. I can feel the moon-cuts they will leave behind already, but I can’t bear to pry him off. He’d probably rip a few chunks out of my jacket. I wish I knew how to help you.
A tap at the viewing window makes all our heads turn. Manager is there, pointing to Hitomu’s mother, who stands in the doorway. Hitomu is off my lap like a bolt of lightning and runs out. Manager pops his head in.
“Cybelle-sensei, thank you for your lesson! I think that’s enough for today. Maybe we don’t need ‘Goodbye Song’ today?”
Obviously not. But before I can answer, the staff room door behind the reception desk slides open: Yoshino and Lieko step out. Perfect timing. “You’re very welcome! But I need to talk to Hitomu’s mother before she leaves.”
“Ah, I see …” Manager looks over at the young woman yanking the world’s biggest rain poncho over her son’s head. Manager sucks a bit of air in through clenched teeth. “But, as you know, Hitomu’s mother, she does not speak English, so maybe it will be very difficult for you to translate —”
“That’s okay! Yoshino-sensei, if you’re not too busy, could you …?” I flag her down. Yoshino steps out from behind the reception desk with an eager look. She immediately explains to Hitomu’s mother in Japanese that I would like to talk to her if she has time to spare. She confirms she does.
“Great. Um …” Where do I even start? “Okay, here’s the thing. First, I just want to let her know that I understand Hitomu is very young, and I fully understand why he can feel afraid being around a foreigner. So, please tell her not to worry, I will do my best to make lessons enjoyable for him.”
Yoshino translates. Hitomu’s mother bows, very apologetic about Hitomu’s reactions. She tells Yoshino that, to tell the truth, there is something wrong with Hitomu, and not just when it comes to foreigners. Apparently, he cries whenever they have to leave the house, and for whatever reason has a more vicious reaction around foreigners, the elderly, and giant mascot costumes. She goes on to explain to Yoshino that she and her husband thought putting him through eikaiwa might help him integrate with others and force this habit out of him. Hitomu’s mother says she is very sorry he cried in class today, too. She is embarrassed.
“No, no, it’s okay, I understand,” I say. “Yes, he was pretty upset today, but I’m sure over time, things will get better!” Yoshino and I exchange weak smiles. “But it’s not his crying I wanted to ask about. You see … Hitomu said something very interesting in class today. The other day, too.”
“Oh, really?” Yoshino asks.
“Yeah. He’s said a couple of things. ‘Get away from me,’ and ‘Don’t eat me.’”
“What?! He said this to you?!”
“Well, no. He kinda just said them out loud. But the interesting part was I’m pretty sure he said them in English.”
Yoshino’s eyes widen. Hitomu’s mother looks at us in panic until Yoshino remembers to translate. Then Hitomu’s mother’s eyes widen. She says it’s impossible; Hitomu doesn’t speak any English.
“Does anyone in your house speak English? Maybe your husband, or another relative?” Yoshino translates; Hitomu’s mother shakes her head. “Weird. Do you watch English TV shows or … anything?”
Hitomu’s mother shakes her head again, baffled. Then, she groans and hits her forehead. She says to Yoshino that sometimes, Hitomu talks to himself. Not in Japanese. It’s some weird language, nonsense words, something he must have made up. After all, he’s an only child. No one ever understands a word of what he says. It’s even more embarrassing than his crying; she is so sorry. She will talk to Hitomu later about not speaking his made-up language in school. Yoshino explains all of this to me in English; even though she knows I understood it all, we have to keep up the charade. Company policy.
“But,” Yoshino adds, “I think Hitomu is starting to come around. Look how quietly he’s waiting for mama.”
Hitomu has seated himself on the lobby couch next to Zaniel, who is showing him one of the picture books. His head is slumped down into his chest, giving him a chubby-cheeked pouty look, but no tears, no screaming. Hitomu’s mother bows again and again, thanking us for our patience. She tells Hitomu to say goodbye to us. He just stares.
“It’s okay!” I assure her. “One day at a time. Baby steps.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Hitomu’s mother laughs awkwardly. She sits down next to her son to help him put on his backpack. Bucho comes over and tells Zaniel that Lieko and her students are ready in Room Five for observation, so Zaniel bids him farewell. “Arigatou bye-bye,” Hitomu waves to him. Aw, he’s so cute when he’s not a screaming mess.
I go back into Room Two, leaving the door open so my kinder students can come straight in when they arrive. As I busy myself with organizing my books and toys, I overhear Hitomu’s mother just outside the room. “Hitomu-kun, what is going on with you?!” she scolds him in Japanese. “You must also say thank you to your teacher. I’ll bet you were crying and screaming at her all day, weren’t you? Do you know how shameful that is? She’s not going to teach you English if you keep embarrassing her. Next time I hear you’ve called her a monster, I’m telling Daddy.”
“CHIGAIMASU!” he screams. I’m not sure what he means. I know it means “wrong,” but what exactly is “wrong,” I don’t know.
“Shut up! You’re not going to embarrass me anymore! You stop this behaviour and never do it again, or else! Understand?!”
Screw company policy, I can’t take this anymore. “Sumimasen,” I say, sticking my head out the door. Hitomu’s mother starts to bow and apologize in Japanese for yelling, but I come over and tell her no, it’s okay. I ask her to wait for one moment and run to Room Five. Zaniel is there, sitting alone with his phone. I pray what I’m about to do works out.
“Zaniel, may I borrow you for a moment?”
“Yeah!” He looks more than pleased to get up. “Listen, I know this isn’t ideal, but I can explain —”
“Oh, I just … need you help me translate for a second.”
“Oh.” He looks crestfallen but follows me, anyway.
I bring him to Hitomu’s mother to let her know I understand what Hitomu’s going through. My youngest sister was the same — seeing monsters everywhere, drawing them. “In English we call it a ‘boogeyman’ phase. Hitomu will outgrow it. He just needs time and patience.” Zaniel translates this last part. She thanks us over and over again. We bow as Hitomu and his mother bid us farewell.
“You didn’t need me,” Zaniel remarks. “You were doing fine on your own.”
“Thanks. We’re technically not allowed to speak Japanese — the Native English Teachers, I mean.”
“Hmm, that’s understandable.”
Hitomu waves at Zaniel as the elevator doors close. “He seems to have calmed down. He even said goodbye.”
“He said goodbye to you. He doesn’t scream when you’re around. It’s almost like —” I turn around. I had no idea Lieko had been at the reception desk this whole time. She does not look happy. Not that this is a dramatic change from her usual stone-faced glare.
“Don’t worry,” she coos. “I’m not going to tell Manager you spoke some Japanese. He is in enough trouble with Bucho; he doesn’t need to know. It will make things worse. But Hitomu’s mother may call the school to complain about you. I will have to tell him what you said about Hitomu.”
“Seriously? You make it sound like I told her he’s going straight to hell. It’s a boogeyman phase. My sister went through the same thing. Heck, all kids go through the same thing. How is that your problem?”
“Everything that happens at this school is my problem.” Her lips curl in an angry smile. “Bucho wants me to be headteacher after January, did you know? She sees I work hard, so it’s natural she wants to promote me. That means I am almost like manager, so I can stop you being a bad influence to our students. Not just yours. All students here are everyone’s students. Your attitude hurts all of them.”
She directs her stern gaze to Zaniel. Zaniel says nothing, hanging his head down like he’s the one being reprimanded. The energy between them is strange, but I’m more focused on something else. Inside I’m boiling. For the first time since I’ve worked alongside Lieko, I’m pissed enough to say something. I’ve always taken her snide comments, her stink-eyes, and her cold shoulders without letting my rage show. Now I can feel it about to overflow.
“Are you on crack? I’m a bad influence? Why, because I smile and show compassion to students?”
“Of course that’s why! You are too soft on students! You don’t know anything about teaching them! Maybe in Canada it’s okay to coddle, but that is not our way in Japan. That is not how we grow up to be strong. Hitomu is not a baby anymore; he is a student. He has to stop making excuses.”
“Excuses? Aren’t you the one saying he’s ‘shy’ all the time? And who’s the one who ‘forbid’ me to talk to him because he’s afraid of foreigners? What do you call that, a suggestion?”
Lieko stiffens. She steps out from behind the desk to stand right in front of me. I think she’s about to hit me. Bring it on, bitch. The staff room door slides open and Bucho announces to everyone that she is stepping out for a couple of hours. Just in time for Lieko to compose herself. “Maybe,” she says in a low voice, “when you become a real teacher, you will understand. But that will not be for a long time, I think. And I don’t think you can work in this country much longer. You are too different. You will never fit in, and you will never be happy here.” She gives Zaniel the same look again. He bows and takes his leave, giving me one last look over his shoulder, as if to say “sorry.” It’s fine. He doesn’t need to get involved in this mess. This is between her and I.
“I see. You’re a fortune teller now. In that case, maybe you should ask Bucho to buy you a lottery ticket when she goes out. Then you can put your superpowers to good use for once. Now if you’ll excuse me, ‘our’ students will be here any second.”
I leave her standing there, staring at me with the lower half of her face pulled down by the weight of Bucho’s sudden appearance. She smacks Lieko on the shoulder to ask her what I just said, translate, translate now. I strut to Room Two feeling more powerful than I’ve felt in a long time. It’s hard not to throw or break the things I remove from my teacher box with the adrenalin rush in my veins, but I’m able to calm down by the time my kinders arrive.
Halfway through the class, I notice someone watching from the window. The girls notice him, too, and giggle. “Sensei no danna-san?” they ask me. I shake my head and go back to reading The Princess and the Frog, ignoring their snickers, ignoring Zaniel. They don’t stop giggling until I put the book down and take out our playdough for yet another tea party. Zaniel ends up spending the rest of the day at Zozo, hovering by the windows of my classes, reappearing and disappearing, getting my hopes up, spurring questions from parents about our new mysterious guest who is yes, hafu, and no, not a Zozo teacher yet. At the end of the night, my Senior students give up on Jenga altogether — “hazukashii!” they giggle — and spend the rest of class on their phones looking up pictures of J-pop stars, trying to figure out my “type.” So much for getting through the present perfect tense with them. I have half a mind to tell off Manager and Bucho for this whole observing-the-day thing, but when I go out with my students, Zaniel is gone.
“You just missed,” Manager tells me without my even asking. “Why? You want to say goodbye to Kamisawa-sensei?”
“Sachina and Meruna sure did,” I mutter, waving to them as they leave. They ignore me, showing Yoshino their phones and pointing at me. “Cybelle-sensei no type-u wa?” they ask her. She chides them to get out of here in a playful way.
“Wait a minute,” I say to Manager. “What made you think I wanted to say goodbye to him?”
“Eeto … Kamisawa-sensei say you are best teacher. He say he enjoyed your lessons. But I did not see, he did not talk to Cybelle very much. Maybe, he is shy.”
Again with this shy crap. Rather than saying something that could get me in trouble, I bow and head to the staff room. Yoshino steps in behind me.
“Cybelle-sensei, otsukaresama desu,” she sings to me. “Damn, girl, you look zonked. Why are you still working? Go home, have a giant meal, get some sleep.”
“Oh man, sleep. Can’t wait for that.”
“Are you okay, by the way? I heard what went down this afternoon. Between you and Lieko?”
“I’m fine. We just … it’s fine. We agreed to disagreed. I think. I don’t know. Whatever. This whole day has been weird. I think I’m going to stop somewhere for dinner. I’m not ready to go home and cook anything.”
Yoshino frowns. “You’re letting her get to you like that? You shouldn’t.”
“No. I just don’t feel like doing anything tonight. I need to start taking it easy.”
“Tell me about it. Culture Day can’t get here fast enough. Hope you feel better.” Her lips spread into a wide smirk. “Hey, maybe next week we’ll have a cute new co-worker to cheer you up? Heh, heh.”
“Meh … maybe.”
“He’s pretty sexy,” Yoshino continues, following me out of the staff room and down the hall to Room Five. “What was he like, in the interview? I mean, honestly? You can tell me.”
I shrug. “Perfect English?”
“You don’t sound too happy about that. Don’t tell me he’s a total jerk. Just what we need: a tall, hot version of Manager.” She shudders at the thought. “Is it true that he’s half-Japanese? Manager said he was raised in America or something.”
“He didn’t say … wait, he said his father is American, though. I don’t know. His interview wasn’t too bad, I guess. And he did get my towel question.”
“Really?! I thought no one ever gets to your towel question!”
I put down my teacher box and lean on it. “Just you and him.”
“And I didn’t get the answer until you told me!” Yoshino puts a hand to her chest. “He is good. Cybelle, we should be excited! He sounds like the best interview we ever had!”
“I guess …”
“Well, cheer up. If he can survive Head Office boot camp, you’ll have plenty of time to get to know him! If you decide to re-contract, I mean.”
“Ugh. Yeah. Another headache and a half I have to worry about.”
“Well, leave it for another day. Get some rest, hear me? Hole yourself up in an onsen or something. Get a full esute session. Let them treat you like a queen.” She spreads out her arms like she’s dancing, then stops. “Blech. Now I’ve been working too hard.”
I laugh. “Haven’t we all?”
Yoshino leaves to get the garbage while I wipe down all the tables, then I get my things to go home. Outside, the pavement is slick with rainwater; too slippery for me to safely ride this old bike with its non-seasonal tires. My stomach is rumbling so hard I don’t have the energy to ride, anyway. I’m dizzy. I need food, and I need it now. Maybe that’s why, when I see the kei truck, the beckoning hand, and the sinister smile, I think what the hell and see where this bizarre-AF day takes me. The udon man’s smile seems to get bigger as I wheel my bike over to him. Please don’t be a perv, please don’t be a perv.
“Irasshai, irasshai!” He bows and ushers me under the curtain. “Come, come!” He thanks me, saying he thought I’d walk right by him. Under the short little curtain it’s warm from all the steam inside the truck’s tiny kitchen. The man gestures to the four tiny stools arranged below the counter. “Ah, jitensha, please …” He takes my giant umbrella and my bike, which he parks behind the truck to shield it from any potential rain. He also offers to take my raincoat and purse — there’s a special little nook with hooks for guests’ belongings. A little radio on the counter ledge plays an old-time blues song about beans and cornbread, which I’ve never tried but sounds delicious. I wonder what kind of beans …
The man climbs into the truck and appears behind the inside counter, clapping his hands on his arms to warm up. “Uwaa, samu,” he hisses. “Ocha? Tea? Do you like?”
“Yes, please.”
It’s too hot to drink right away, but the warmth is a balm for my wet, shivering fingers.
“Ah, suman na,” the man apologizes. “Atsu sugiru ka? Too hot?”
“Neko jita,” I explain.
“Ohhh …” He reels back with a grin. “I know! ‘Cat tongue,’ yes? Sugoi! You speak Japanese, very good! Eh … your mother? Father? Japanese?”
I laugh. “You’re too nice.”
“How long, eh … Japan …” He scrunches his face, thinking hard. “How long?”
“Six and a half years — ah, roku nen han.”
“Eh, long time. Ja, where are you from?”
“Canada.”
“Canada? Hehhh …” He leans over the counter with a sly look. He really looks like a wise old fox. I can almost see whiskers and pointy ears sprouting from his face. I feel incredibly mean, but I can’t shake the image out of my mind. I’m so hungry for this udon I can’t stop associating him with foxes, that’s all. “Canada. Really?”
I nod. He is not convinced.
“Really Canada? Only Canada?” There’s an excited twinkle in his eye. It’s hard to tell where he’s going with this.
“Yes. Only Canada.”
“And your parents? Also … from Canada? Not Japan? You … not hafu?”
Okay, I think he’s asking more about cultural background. Let’s go with that. “No, I’m not half-Japanese.”
“Ahhh,” the man stands upright, nodding slowly. “I understand. You — not Japan. Parents — not Japan. Ja, parents’ parents?” He makes a rolling gesture with his hands like he’s turning back time. “Not Japan?”
“Sorry, no.” This isn’t the first time this has happened. Something about being able to speak fluently confuses people now and then. I can never tell if it’s a compliment or a microaggression, but I always treat it as the former.
“But your Japanese … so good! How? And how you can eat —”
“Konbanwa,” a bass voice gurgles behind me. The air suddenly reeks of seaweed.
“Oh, another customer!” The man switches to a dialect I’ve never heard before. It’s no variation of Kansai-ben that I know of, but I can still understand. “Welcome, welcome! Have a seat, please.”
The whole space fills up with the man’s girth and smell. He’s gigantic. He squeezes himself onto two of the four stools with a heaving grunt. His suit stretches like Lycra as he settles his elbows onto the counter. From the corner of my eye I see two spherical cheeks — cheeks so huge they reduce his eyes to two tiny black pearls — stippled with tiny black spikes of hair. He reminds me of a threatened pufferfish. Even his voice sounds like he’s talking under water.
“Beer me,” he gurgles in the same dialect.
“Of course! Here you are!”
“Ah,” he gulps it down with a satisfied hissing gasp. “You got any karaage to go with this?”
“Sorry, no chicken, sir. Only udon.”
“Unagi?”
“Did you not see the noren? Just udon.”
“Edamame? Calamari? Anything? What kinda place you running here?!”
The fox man sighs and turns back to me. “Sorry to make you wait. You like kitsune udon, yes?”
My favourite dish. “I don’t like it. I love it.”
“Ha, ha! Good joke, good joke!” he laughs. “Sore ja, I make you ‘deluxe’ kitsune udon. Very rare, very delicious! Just a moment, please!”
“Thank you, sir.”
The man turns his back on me, humming to himself. It sounds like the crosswalk music near my place. It can’t be anything else. I hum the last few bars of “Comin’ Thro’ the Rye” along with him. He looks over his shoulder and winks at me. I think the man on two stools is cringing. “Aw, cheer up, sir!” he teases in his dialect. “You scared of something?”
“I am scared … of her.”
“You coward. She’s harmless!”
A part of me wants to argue that, but the rest of me — the hungry part — just wants to eat. I relax with my now-perfect cup of warm green tea and pour myself a fresh cup just in time for the man to set a steaming bowl down in front of me.
“Here you are. One VERY special kitsune udon!” It looks so delicious it glows, like there’s a halo over the bowl. Hang on. There’s something glowing all right. Inside the bowl. It looks all too familiar. Wait, no. I think it’s a reflection of the lights overhead. Didn’t this same phenomenon happen in my apartment the other day?
I’m tripping. I think.
The other man stares at my food in horror. “How did you …?” he begins.
“Tut, tut. A good chef never reveals his secrets.” The fox man beams. “Eat up, my dear! Eat up!”
All of a sudden I’ve just hoovered the glowing aburage pocket down, wolfing down this giant bowl of soup and noodles with a hunger I’ve never experienced. I’m lost in a wash of sweet-and-sour flavour, slurping up every thick chewy noodle, alternating between the udon and bites of sweet aburage. The hardest part is not moaning in pleasure with every delectable bite.
“Umai ka?” the man asks.
Of course, it is. “Meccha umai!”
“Ja!” The man slips another aburage into my bowl at the last minute, just as I’m on my last bite. A little bit of soup drips down my chin. I giggle, embarrassed. The man chuckles, too. “Daijoubu! Shinpai shinaide yo! Eat, eat!”
The whole time I can tell the fish man is watching me. He’s hardly taken another sip of his beer. Who can blame him? He must think I’m a ravenous demon. He signals the fox man and asks again, “How did you …?”
The fox man wags his finger with a mischievous snicker. “Ah, ah, ah, be careful. She can understand you! You should hear her Japanese! So good! I was surprised, too.”
“Fine.” The fish man clicks his tongue and tries again: “So. How did you catch one of those …?”
I giggle again. Not my best moment, drinking the broth from a giant bowl I could barely lift in the first place and breathing laugh bubbles into it. I have to manoeuvre the noodles and tofu around to one side of my mouth to talk without looking like more of a pig. “I can still understand you, sorry,” I say in Japanese. The fish man gasps. “What? I’m not deaf.”
The fox man laughs harder than ever. “She’s got you, fat man! Look at her food — what did you expect? She’s one of us, all right. Another hard worker, trying to make it in the World, eh? Can’t judge books by their covers anymore!”
“Well —” the man sputters, angry now. “Well — my point is, why does she get a special dish?!”
The fox man shakes his head at him, laughing. Anyone can tell that was not the fishy man’s real question. “Baku dish for baku customer!” I hear him say, puffing up his chest proudly. “Can’t be helped! Ne?” He winks at me again. “You want more, don’t you? No need to ask, it’s coming right up!”
I grin. Turns out this guy is pretty cool; I can see myself dining at this little truck every day after work. The radio changes from a chorus of men to two girls, singing about dreams. This place is so cozy, and the food is great. I may never have to worry about feeding myself again. Hang on, I find myself mulling over his words. Special dish, special customer … special? No, that’s not what he said.
“Excuse me, uncle,” I ask in Japanese. “What does ‘baku’ mean?”
“Eh?” he drops my chopsticks on their way to a tiny sink. “What’s that?”
“What does ‘baku’ mean?” I repeat. “Is it like ‘tokubetsu’?”
“Uh, yeah! Special! You …” he spreads his arms wide. “Are special! Here!” He rummages with something in a hidden fridge below the counter, grabs a tiny plate from somewhere else. A few quick movements and there’s a gorgeous cherry blossom cake on a lacquered plate in front of me. “Special dessert, too. Muryou. Free, free!”
“Oh, come on, now you’re just sucking up to her! That’s not FAIR,” the fish man bangs his fist on the counter.
“Calm down, fugu man,” says a familiar voice behind me. “You’re just jealous.”
“Ah!” the fox man lights up at the arrival of a third person. “Another ‘special’ customer! Welcome, welcome!” He gestures to the remaining stool next to me.
The fish man slumps back onto his two stools, jowls quaking with fear. I find myself shivering a little, too, and it’s not from the temperature dropping outside our little space. The scent of peach hits me.
“You!” he gurgles. “I know you! You’re the one who works for …”
“Yes?” Zaniel silences him with an icy glare. The fish man’s fear is contagious. My hand is shaking on my teacup, making it rattle against the counter. The sound startles me and the fish man into staring straight ahead.
“Please, okyaku-sama, have a seat! Suwatte kudasai! Kitsune udon?” asks the fox man. “Your friend enjoyed!”
“I’m okay, thank you,” Zaniel says in Japanese. He stands behind me and gently puts his hands on my shoulders. How can his hands be so warm when it’s getting so freaking cold out?
“I’m okay, too, actually —” I say. I want to pay the bill and go.
“Oh, don’t worry about being polite! You must be starving after such a long day. You’re a hard worker, I can tell! Hai, okawari douzo!” The fox man winks at me again as he places a fresh serving of udon before me. I don’t know how I ate that giant bowl so fast, but I worry about exploding with another bite. Under the circumstances, I think as Zaniel slides in next to me like a slippery eel, I’ll risk it.
Zaniel accepts a hot mug of green tea from the fox man with both hands. He takes his sweet-ass time, sipping it like he was starring in a commercial for the most relaxing tea, brewed by monks in the mountains under waterfalls. I want to throw it in his face — scorch off that sexy smirk of his.
“You’re looking better,” he says to me, switching to English. “Happier, I mean. That place must stress you out. They always keep you this late?”
I shrug. What do I do first? Wait for my udon to cool down, so I don’t have to slurp the noodles and look like a gluttonous freak? Stuff my mouth with noodles so I don’t have to talk? Knock the bowl into his lap and run like hell? Okay, that one is not happening. My appetite is coming back and I’m not wasting good food on this weirdo.
He grins as if he’s read my mind. “No need to be polite around me. You go ahead and eat. It’ll give me time to explain myself.”
As I continue to devour my food, he starts to lay out his story, starting with his parents. His father worked at the Yokosuka naval base. His mother wanted him to be registered in Japan, so she “fled” to Ota-ku to have him. They moved to some landlocked part of California, where he grew up with a resentful extended family. Then his story starts to get interesting. Around the age of ten he started dream-walking, using it to get “revenge” on people. Nothing too malicious, just enough to unnerve them when racial epithets were uttered in his presence. When his parents split up, his mother sent him to his grandparents in Osaka. The bullying didn’t stop there. He had nightmares every night, and for years barely slept at all. He grew up without friends, girlfriends, or school clubs. “Akki came along right after my grandpa died,” he says wistfully. “Without Akki, I wouldn’t have made it to university. But I won’t get into that, now.”
He glosses over whatever “Akki” is, and I’m far too engrossed in his story (and my food) to interrupt him. He goes on about majoring in translation, and his current Osaka company. His Japanese co-workers hate him; the non-Japanese employees avoid him. “I don’t blame them. Besides, there’s no point in getting close to someone who’s going to freak out when they learn what I can do.”
Wait, now I’m lost; what is it he can do again? Right, his “dream-walking.” He seems really hung up on that. I think I get why he’s telling me all this. Maybe if I know his story, I can put in a good word for him. If only he knew the truth — that I have no say in what Zozo does. With my udon finished, I have no reason to stay and listen anymore. Then Zaniel says something that makes me pause.
“… but you, you’re different. I found myself wishing I could be just like you. You have this ability, and yet you enjoy life the way you are. I saw you, the way you were with those kids, and even with the parents! You were being yourself.”
“Huh? What do you mean?” What ability are we talking about here?
“You know what I mean. You don’t hide any part of yourself. You’re not afraid. You’re just you. I didn’t know someone like us could be that free.”
Like us? What does that mean? “Oh. Um. I don’t know. I don’t really do anything like that. I just, you know …”
“No, I do know! I get it! And I love it! I mean, I admire it. I wish I could enjoy being with other people, the way you do. It’s wonderful to see it in real life. Seeing you today … it makes me think there’s hope for people like us. Like, there’s hope for me. Do you know what I mean?”
“I …” I pause. Maybe I do get what he means. Teaching doesn’t come naturally to everybody and working with kids doesn’t gel with everyone. How many people would recoil at a child like Hitomu leaping on top of them and burying their wet faces in their chests? Maybe this guy’s just paying me a genuine compliment. And let’s be fair, this isn’t the first time a total stranger has laid out their life story to me. But I still can’t help repressing a shudder when I think about how his face, even his name, has been plaguing me all day. It scares me. It scares me more that he’s still hanging around me. What possible interest can this super-cute guy have in someone like me?
I have to get out of here. It’s time.
“Gochisousama deshita,” I thank the fox man, and reach for my jacket and purse. When he sees me take out my wallet, the fox man waves his hands. I break out the English. “No, please! I had two bowls! I have to give you something!”
“No, no!” He replies in English and gestures to Zaniel. “Friend already pay. His treat! So kind, yes? Ah, wait! Maybe … not friend?” He holds up his pinky finger and gives us a sly wink. “Whoo!”
I can feel my face burning as I smile and bow my appreciation again. The fox man tells me to come back anytime.
Zaniel looks up at me from his stool. I can’t even look him in the eye. “Thanks for the food,” I blurt out.
Then I make a run for it. It’s raining now, not so hard that I have to stop and dig out my portable umbrella, but I don’t get very far.
“Hey, lady!” Someone yells in perfect English. “You forgot something!”
“I’m okay, thanks,” I shout back.
A bell rings right behind me. Zaniel is there, on my bike. There’s a white box in a tiny plastic bag sitting in the basket, along with my big umbrella. “You sure? This looks pretty important. You might want it back someday.”
“Give it back.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Ah, so it is important. How could you forget your bike, silly?”
“Get off and give it back.”
“Man, talk about ancient.” His long thin fingers fiddle with the bicycle bell. Everyone passing us gives him a dirty look for making so much unnecessary noise. “I’m surprised it hasn’t taken on a life of its own yet.”
“You know what? Fine. Keep the bike. It’s a thousand years old, anyway!”
I snatch the umbrella and take off. The guy’s good. Weaving through all the people, still able to keep a steady pace with me, slowly riding the bike without so much as a wobble. Shit, is he going to follow me all the way home now?
“Hey, wait a sec! Aren’t you going to tell me how I did? My interview. How was I?”
“Go away, please.”
“Your manager seemed to dig me. How much do you earn a month, by the way?”
“GET. AWAY. FROM ME.” I don’t care about the dirty looks anymore; we’ve already created a scene.
“Whoa, whoa. Calm down.” He looks concerned but he’s still freaking smiling. “Take it easy. We’re the same, remember?”
“The same what? I don’t know you.”
“Cybelle.” Zaniel swings the bike sharply and blocks my way. He’s serious now. “It’s Cybelle, right? Please, just … look, I’m sorry. You’ve been on your feet all day, chasing after little kids for who knows how many hours. I thought you could use a laugh. And a hearty meal. And another fellow gaijin to keep you company.”
Nope. He’s not cute enough to wipe the teacher glare off my face right now. I want my fucking bike back.
“No? Okay. Sorry. I thought that would be funny. I’m sorry. I know you think I’m the world’s creepiest dude right now, but if you give me a little more time, I can explain everything.”
“What? You mean there’s more to this lucid nightmare?”
“I’m going to ignore that.” He gets down from the bike with a smirk and hands me the plastic bag. “Here. Your dessert. A peace offering — the first of many.”
I’m very careful not to make physical contact as I take it from him. “Thank you.” He’s still holding onto my bike, though. I entertain the idea of pushing him to the ground and pedalling like the devil is after me, but I’m super full. I wonder if that was part of his plan, too. We stand there in the drizzle, awkward and out of things to say. Then some jackass walks right into me from behind, pushing me right into Zaniel. He catches me as I stumble into him. He blushes instantly. I pull away.
“Man, it’s really starting to pour. Come on. Let me take you somewhere special.”
“Yeah, no offence, but it’s getting late and I think I’ve had enough of special this week.” I look down, past my food baby at my dessert package. It’s a small, adorable box with wire handles and a tiny fox-faced character hand-drawn on the front and a speech bubble saying, “Thank you, come again!” in English.
“Well, we can’t stand here making googly eyes at each other in the rain all night.”
“Uh, who’s making googly eyes at who now?” I ask defensively.
Zaniel ignores my question. “Come on. Let’s get a cup of coffee — uh, not from Tully’s though, I think they were getting ready to call the police on me for sitting there so long. A man can only drink so many swirkles.”
“I’m full, thanks.”
“Then let’s go for a walk. Give you plenty of time to let your stomach settle. If you liked this udon guy, I know a place in Osaka that you will love. It’s real close to where Festivalgate used to be —”
“Osaka? At this time of night? With you?”
“Yeah! Don’t worry, you’ll be perfectly safe. Think of me as your ‘bodyguard.’” He pauses a beat. “I heard they make this huge ohagi platter that you’ve gotta see to believe.”
“Oh man, I love ohagi,” I blurt before I can stop myself. Who am I kidding, I was doomed to give in to any of this strange man’s requests as soon as my ass hit that stool. “I guess my betsu bara can shift around a little in the next hour. But I’m warning you, if you try anything, I will take a chunk out of your jugular and make it look like an accident.”
“Fair enough, my lady.” He bows and leads the way. He takes my bike with him.