Mismatch
Page 9
Andy peered at the toilet and studied it. He prodded the seat, which was soft and made of plastic. It also felt slightly warm, and seemed to be electrically heated. That might be very welcome in winter, he thought, but it was a luxury he could do without in July. What caught his attention was a list of choices on the flush mechanism written in Chinese characters. Andy knew some basic characters, so he knew that the choices presented were “big,” “small,” and “beauty.”
He sat down on the soft seat, and after using the toilet he chose “big” for the flush while still seated. A powerful jet of warm water shot up and gave him a thorough wash. Wow. If even the middle-grade flush is like this, the “beauty” choice must be quite something. A bit thrown off by his experience, he hurried out of the toilet and headed for his room. Before he had gone more than three steps, he was waylaid by Mrs. Sato.
“Slippers!” she hissed.
Andy realized that in his hurry, he had forgotten to replace the toilet slippers. Blushing with shame, he hurried back, shuffled off the toilet slippers, and slid his feet into his regular slippers. All the points for good behavior that he had earned so far went down the drain—with a “beauty” flush.
Mrs. Sato studied him. “Bath?” she asked.
A bath sounded like heaven. “Yes, please!” he said.
He followed her to another door, which she slid open. The small room inside contained a big square fiberglass tub, about three feet wide and three feet deep. It was covered by a plastic top.
Mrs. Sato folded back the top, and Andy saw that the tub was already more than half full of clean, hot water. Mrs. Sato indicated some faucets in the wall, a small bucket, a soap dish, and some scrubbers made of gourd fiber.
Andy remembered the careful instructions he had received from his parents on how to take a bath in Japan. “I wash first, and after I’m clean, then I enter the bathtub, right?”
Mrs. Sato beamed at him and nodded. Andy smiled back. He had just earned back some points. After she left, Andy lost no time in stripping off his clothes. He splashed himself with water from the taps, soaped himself, and used the scrubber. It felt rather harsh, but it sure did a good job of scraping off the dirt.
After he rinsed himself off completely, Andy dipped his hand cautiously in the tub. The temperature of the water seemed about right for boiling potatoes. He preferred to stay uncooked, so instead of soaking in the tub, he decided to dry himself. The bath towel Mrs. Sato gave him was a thin piece of terry cloth approximately one foot by two, but it was so hot in the room that the skimpy little towel was good enough.
Just as he started to take up his clothes, the door opened, and Mrs. Sato appeared. Andy froze. Ohmigod. Hostess. I’m naked. But his hostess seemed to feel that the sight of a naked male body was all in a day’s work. “Here is yukata for wearing after bath,” she said casually, handing him a cotton kimono and a dark, narrow sash. She left the bathroom and slid the door closed behind her.
Andy let his breath out in a whoosh. That was weird. Then he remembered his parents’ telling him that there were public baths and hot spring resorts in Japan where dozens of strangers bathed together. So he guessed seeing a naked stranger was nothing new. Grinning at his own embarrassment, he wondered if any of the other Lakeview players would get a similar surprise from their hostesses.
Andy hurriedly slipped on the yukata. It felt exactly right for a hot summer day, and was much more comfortable than jeans and a T-shirt. He decided that he would try to buy one of these cotton kimonos to bring home. Without bothering to tie the sash, he clutched the kimono around his waist and stepped cautiously out of the bathroom. His slippers, lined up and facing the right direction, were waiting for him outside the door. So was Mrs. Sato.
She took one look at him and shook her head in disapproval. “Left side on top!” she said.
Andy sighed. What had he done wrong now?
Mrs. Sato pointed at Andy’s kimono and repeated, “Left side on top.” When he still stared at her in bewilderment, she said, “Only dead people wear right side on top.”
Oops. It seemed that how you brought the two parts of the kimono together was important. His stock plummeted again.
Back in his room, he found that Mrs. Sato had unfolded his futon and placed a sheet over it. There was also a folded sheet and a very large terry cloth towel. Andy decided that the large towel was meant as a blanket.
Mrs. Sato had also hung up his suit in the wardrobe. It was thoughtful of her to get the wrinkles out, since he had to wear the suit for the concert. But knowing that she had looked through his things felt a little weird. Was she going to fold his underwear, too?
Andy lay down on the futon and placed the blanket/towel over his middle, figuring he deserved a few minutes of rest. There was an eight-hour difference between Japan and home, so it was really two in the morning for him.
One minute later—or so it seemed—someone was looming over him and insistently ordering him to do something.
He opened his eyes and found Mrs. Sato kneeling next to his futon. “You have to get up, Andy-kun. Dinner is ready!”
Groggy from his deep sleep, Andy managed to sit up. He stared at Mrs. Sato blankly. “Wha—wha—” he croaked.
Mrs. Sato wore an air of great patience. “We eat dinner now.”
Andy struggled to stand up. “Do I have time to get dressed?” he asked.
Mrs. Sato frowned. “You can eat dinner wearing yukata. But first, put underwear on.”
Andy realized that his yukata had become loose, and that it was obvious he was wearing nothing under it. Another lesson learned. He now knew that the yukata was not a dressing gown you put on after a bath, but a garment you could wear in public.
Dressed decently in underwear and the yukata—with the left side on top—Andy followed the sound of voices and found the Sato family seated around the dining table. In addition to Mr. and Mrs. Sato and Haruko, there was an elderly gentleman. His hair was snowy white, and his eyebrows were so long that they practically covered his eyes.
The old gentleman looked like someone who deserved respect, so Andy bowed as low as he could without actually toppling over. “I’m Suzuki Andrew,” he said. He knew from his father that in Japan, the family name came first, before the given name. “It is an honor to meet you.”
Apparently he had done the right thing. “This is my father,” Mr. Sato said. The old gentleman smiled, and the rest of the Sato family looked relieved.
Andy was glad they were going to sit around a dining table. He had expected to eat kneeling on the floor in front of a low table. Back home his family had gone to Japanese restaurants where they had to sit on the floor to eat, and after about half an hour, his legs would go numb.
“I’m sorry to keep you all waiting,” Andy said. “I fell asleep.”
Mr. Sato was understanding. “Jet lag, I know. You young people will get over it quickly.”
Andy sat down in the empty seat and contemplated his first real Japanese meal. He was a bit disappointed that it didn’t look drastically different from what his mom served at home. The main difference was the state-of-the-art electric rice cooker Mrs. Sato was scooping rice from. Andy’s mom had a rice cooker that was five years old, and was much simpler in design. This one had so many panels and dials that it looked like a robot. The only things missing were arms to dish out the rice.
That was done by Mrs. Sato, who scooped rice into bowls and handed them to her father-in-law and her husband, then to Andy, and finally to Haruko and herself. Then the family proceeded to help themselves from the tiny dishes of food in front of each diner. Each person now had four dishes of various sizes and shapes, none of them very large. A piece of broiled fish and some deep-fried prawns were in one of the larger plates, boiled vegetables were in a smaller flat plate, and what Andy recognized as yellow pickled radish sat in a tiny round dish.
Andy picked up his chopsticks and uttered the phrase he had learned from his parents, “Itadakimasu!” It meant “I receive.”
Andy suddenly found that he was ravenous. After helping himself to some food from the little dishes in front of him, he fell on his bowl of rice and wolfed it down within seconds. Mrs. Sato refilled it, and Andy quickly emptied it again. He caught the elder Mr. Sato’s eyes on him and blushed, but the old man merely smiled. He seemed to approve of a boy with a hearty appetite.
Andy turned to Haruko, who was sitting next to him. She had been completely silent at the table and had barely looked at him. He decided to break the ice—a very thick layer of ice. “I’m a junior at Lakeview High School. What grade are you in at Kasei?”
She just stared at him. Wow, what is her problem? Too late, he realized that she might not understand him. Maybe that was why she hadn’t addressed him at all. “Uh . . . do you understand English?” he asked.
“Of course I do!” spat Haruko, looking furious. “I’ve been studying it in school since the fifth grade!”
Her accent was pretty good, a lot better than her parents’. So why hadn’t she said anything to him? She must just be rude.
Mrs. Sato spoke to her daughter in Japanese. Andy understood only a word or two, but he could make out that she wanted Haruko to be more polite. Haruko lapsed into a frigid silence again.
Andy managed to finish the meal without disgracing himself. He even expressed his appreciation with a phrase learned from his parents, “Gochisosama deshita,” meaning “That was a feast.”
Old Mr. Sato nodded pleasantly, and Mr. and Mrs. Sato both looked pleased. Even Haruko looked pleasantly surprised. So Andy earned more points. He’d better retire while he was still ahead. “I think I’ll try to sleep and get over my jet lag,” he told his hosts.
Walking back to his room, he found Haruko heading for her room, which was next to his. “My futon is really comfortable,” he said. “Do you sleep on a futon, too?”
Haruko froze again. “I’ve been sleeping on a regular bed for as long as I remember!”
Andy sighed as he slid open the door to his room. He had lost points again. He wondered if the other Lakeview players were going through the same rigorous examination by their host families.
He wondered how Sue was doing with her host family. God, he missed her!
8
After her name was called, Sue pulled her suitcase over to her hosts, a tired-looking couple. “Hi,” she said nervously. “I’m Sue, Sue Hua.”
Both the man and woman broke into warm smiles. They looked about the same age as Sue’s parents. She noticed that they were slightly taller than most of the other people at the airport. In fact, the woman was a bit taller than the man.
“We are Mr. and Mrs. Chong,” said the woman. She paused. “Your name is Hua? That’s Chinese, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” said Sue. “How about your name, Chong? That sounds Chinese, too.”
“It’s Korean,” said Mr. Chong. He picked up Sue’s viola case. “Here, let me take this.”
“I guess the school felt that since you are not a real American and we are not real Japanese, we would be a suitable host family for you,” said Mrs. Chong.
Sue stopped in her tracks. She wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Not a real American”? Was Mrs. Chong disappointed? When she glanced over at her hostess, Mrs. Chong’s wry smile disarmed her and took some of the sting out of her words. But Sue still wasn’t sure what to make of the comment.
Thankfully, both the Chongs spoke good English, especially Mrs. Chong. As they walked through the airport terminal building, Sue asked Mrs. Chong where she had learned her excellent English.
“I studied in America for four years,” explained Mrs. Chong. “I was at the New England Conservatory of Music.”
Sue was impressed. “What instrument did you study?”
“The violin, chiefly, but I also play the viola,” said Mrs. Chong. “You play the viola, don’t you? That’s what it says in the orchestra list the school gave us.”
“Yes. My sister was supposed to play the violin, but she gave it up. I could have played her violin, but by then, I liked the viola so much that I stuck with it.”
“The viola does have a wonderful mellow sound, doesn’t it?” said Mrs. Chong. “Mozart loved the viola, and his viola quintets are among my favorite pieces.”
“Do you have kids playing in the Kasei School Orchestra?” asked Sue.
“Our daughter played cello in the orchestra when it toured the States last year,” said Mrs. Chong. “But she graduated, and she’s now studying at the Toho School of Music.”
Sue had heard of the Toho. She knew that some pretty famous musicians had studied there, including the conductor Seiji Ozawa. “Even though your daughter has already graduated, you still volunteered to be a host?” she asked Mrs. Chong.
“I had such a happy time in America that I wanted this chance to meet some young American.”
Sue frowned. “And instead, you wound up with me, a Chinese American,” she said, thinking back to what Mrs. Chong had said earlier. She rarely thought of herself as less than American back home, and she wondered whether her hostess felt disappointed.
Mrs. Chong smiled. “To me, you’re an American, whatever the Kasei School people think.”
So Mrs. Chong’s earlier remark about Sue’s not being a real American was meant to be a joke.
Sue shifted her backpack, which was beginning to stick to her back. She felt thoroughly confused, and wondered whether it was because of jet lag. Although the terminal building was air-conditioned, it was hotter than the plane.
“We don’t have much further to go,” said Mr. Chong. “We’re taking the train into Tokyo, and the station is just down these escalators over here.”
At the station there was a long line for tickets. Sue pulled out her purse and looked inside. Although her father had changed some dollars into Japanese yen for her, Sue’s Japanese money was all in the form of bills in denominations of five thousand yen or larger. She tried to calculate how much five thousand yen was worth. Was it about five dollars or fifty?
“Don’t worry about the ticket,” Mr. Chong said when he saw Sue frowning over her money. “We’ve bought them already.” He held out some tickets and handed one to Sue.
“Thank you very much,” Sue said, embarrassed.
Sue had some trouble getting her suitcase through the turnstile, and Mr. Chong had to help her. They reached the platform in good time, and Sue sat down next to Mrs. Chong. Mr. Chong sat across the aisle.
It was a smooth-running electric train, and it went so fast that Sue had only glimpses of the passing scenery. “Is this one of the famous Bullet Trains?” she asked.
“No,” said Mr. Chong with a laugh. “The Shinkansen, or Bullet Train, runs only on a few arterial lines. This is a special express, which is faster than a regular express.”
In a country as crowded as Japan, trains certainly make sense, thought Sue. Soon the swaying of the train sent her into a doze, and once she opened her eyes to find herself almost in Mrs. Chong’s lap. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, and straightened up again.
Mrs. Chong laughed. “That’s all right. I’ve had people fall asleep against me before. Better you than some drunken stranger.”
The next thing Sue knew was Mrs. Chong saying in her ear, “We’re about to arrive in Tokyo. Better get your suitcase.”
The train was slowing down, and people began to move toward the doors. Sue struggled up, made her way to the rack near the door, and pulled out her suitcase. Its weight seemed to have tripled. Somebody must have replaced her clothes and music scores with bricks.
Now that they had arrived in Tokyo, Sue had been expecting to go to the garage where the Chongs had parked their car, or at least to take a taxi. But Mr. Chong told her they had to get on another train, a commuter line that went to the suburb where they lived.
Unlike the modern train st
ation at the airport, the Tokyo station for the commuter train was hot, crowded, and rather dirty. The passageways were lined with small shops and newsstands, selling food, magazines, and even toiletries. They had to go up and down several escalators before they finally got into the commuter train they wanted. It was very crowded, and at first they couldn’t get a seat. After a few stops, the crowd thinned, and they were finally able to sit down. It was a local train, stopping at every station, and the ride seemed to last forever.
By the time they finally reached the Chongs’ neighborhood, Sue was dead on her feet. She jumped when Mrs. Chong’s voice said in her ear, “Better be prepared. We’re getting off at the next stop.”
It was a good thing Mrs. Chong gave her warning. When the train stopped and the doors opened, Sue was almost trampled by the passengers rushing out. At times like these, she regretted not being heavier, so she would be harder to knock over.
Sue stumbled out of the train and followed the Chongs through the exit gate. They walked across a railway overpass, down some iron steps, and through narrow streets. There were small shops on both sides of the street, but Sue was too tired to look closely at them. Anyway, sweat stung her eyes and prevented her from seeing clearly. The heat and humidity began to hit her really hard.
“Here we are,” said Mr. Chong’s voice.
Sue blinked the sweat from her eyes and looked up. They were stopped in front of a wooden gate. Mr. Chong lifted the small metal loop holding the two doors of the gate together and pushed it open. Facing them was a low wooden house. Even Sue could tell that this was not the home of a wealthy family. She should have realized it sooner, since the Chongs did not own a car, and they could not afford to call a taxi from the station to their house.
Perhaps Mr. Chong read Sue’s thoughts. “Please excuse our poor house,” he said. “I hope you won’t find it too uncomfortable.”
“I’m lucky to be staying with a family as musical as yours,” said Sue, and she meant it wholeheartedly.
Sue immediately took her shoes off upon entering the house. Mrs. Chong nodded her approval and brought Sue a pair of slippers. “You have been to Japan before?”