New Hokkaido

by James McNaughton

  Chris puts the last sumo magazine down. In his mind he’s been over his meeting with Noble Dawn at Patrick’s house several times, and now he does it again. The man was blunt with Chiyo in a way that suggested familiarity. More than just accepting him and his bluntness, she appeared grateful, probably because he’d broken the drought of celebrity visitors. He checks himself. Only Chiyo could tell him the truth about that, and she has gone. He hasn’t given much thought to her disappearance and feels guilty about it. Only occasionally does he even consider her dead, but now is one of those times. What gets him is the love his brother has lost. They were good together. She was good for him. It was a big, inconvenient love that took courage. And Sarah was the pure living proof of the rightness of it. Weary of standing, feeling he might weep, he joins the bustle of Empress Street again.

  Chapter 25:

  The sumo tournament

  From his entry point high in the arena, he sees Noble Dawn seated in the senior north judge’s position on the edge of the platform. The other four judges, obviously ex-wrestlers, have lost weight in retirement; only Noble Dawn has ballooned. The hair slicked back on his motionless head lacks only the fan-shaped topknot of an active wrestler, whereas the others wear civilian hairstyles. It’s 4 pm, the senior bouts in the first class division are underway, and the 15,000-person stadium is at full capacity. It would only hold 10,000 Kiwis, he thinks, spreading out on the bench seats in the way Japanese consider slovenly. A short separate bench is above the main octagonal arena, with only a handful of Kiwis on it. The last time he was here he was fourteen; Patrick was fighting, and he watched with his mother from the inner ring in a box seat that no amount of money could buy. The Kiwi fans, all men, stare at him as he sits down.

  ‘Jeez mate, you’re like a skinny young version of the Night Train.’

  ‘My bro.’

  They stand and nod their heads in the unique Kiwi semi-bow, shake his hand and slap his shoulder. They tell him his brother was the greatest and they’re sorry for what’s happened. It’s an unusual reaction but it feels right. The rest of the country’s crazy, he thinks. Politely, conversation turns to the quality of the view despite the distance from the ring, and as the preparations for the next bout begin the fans refer to their programmes and mark them with pens.

  Both senior wrestlers in the next bout are seen as potential Junior Champions, the fans tell him, although one is significantly smaller than the other. As is usually the case, Chris finds himself rooting for the smaller man as the rituals begin. The men throw salt, then they squat opposite each other, break and stand simultaneously, rinse their mouths in the corner, throw more salt. Squat; break. Upon entering the ring for the third time, the larger man throws a great emphatic spray of salt and the crowd starts to buzz. The wrestlers squat. The glare this time is serious. The larger man’s hand goes down, makes contact with the ring: he’s ready. The smaller man touches the ring, and they charge. After the slap of impact the smaller man burrows in, trying for a belt hold, but the larger man gets under the smaller, stands him up briefly and forks his throat with a meaty hand. The smaller man slides back, pushed by his throat, until his back foot hits the edge of the ring. He braces both feet on the raised circle, but the larger man still has him by the throat. He is being lifted by the throat from the ring when he somehow frees his head and turns away in one swift and supple movement. Suddenly having nothing to push against, the larger man’s momentum carries him out of the ring, headfirst off the platform and into the front seats. The dramatic reversal brings the crowd to its feet, but the ring referee rules that the smaller wrestler’s foot touched the ground outside the ring before the other man’s body. The crowd boos. They begin stamping. Noble Dawn climbs to his feet, throws a pinch of salt, and enters the ring with the other judges. Standing in the centre, he frowns and folds his mighty arms. The other judges surround him, remonstrating, throwing their hands in the air in exasperation. More boos and jeering, growing louder and louder. Cushions sail into the ring. Finally, Noble Dawn unfolds his arms and nods. The ring referee’s decision is overturned. The smaller wrestler is declared the winner. The crowd’s jeers turn to cheers, and Chris joins the other Kiwis on their feet clapping.

  He asks the fan next to him, ‘What do you know about Noble Dawn?’

  ‘Well, his highest ranking was only Senior Wrestler in the First Class, but he had a knack of beating your brother, I’m sorry to say. No other wrestler beat the Night Train more.’

  ‘What was his secret?’

  ‘That was much pondered upon. He just seemed to have the wood on him.’

  The fans discuss the forthcoming bout and are knowledgeable about both wrestlers. Chris consults his programme. Recognising none of the names, he says he’s looking forward to the Mongolians and the Bulgarian. Although the fans smile and nod he can tell they’re disappointed; they’re connoisseurs who appreciate technique and a good bout, regardless of nationality. It occurs to Chris that this is the first tournament he’s watched without his brother competing. He was never a genuine fan of the sport like these guys are; there was too much at stake on a personal level. He finds he’s more patient now and enjoys the showmanship in the rituals preceding the fights in a way that he didn’t as a boy.

  After a long bout in which the advantage swaps twice, a wrestler is hoisted by his belt clear off the ground and carried from the ring. While in the air he briefly waves his legs, and Chris sees that the helpless gesture is for theatrical effect. The fight was sincere, but that brief comical waggle—when the bout was effectively lost—was for the crowd. It’s something his brother would never have done. For him, sumo was not about entertainment, although his determination and will to win quickly and violently were tremendously entertaining. The Night Train: his popular name suited him. The Japanese loved to hate him. And plain hated him, too, apparently.

  As the bouts continue and more beer and sake are consumed, the crowd become more vocal. ‘He’s got no chance!’ ‘Forget it!’ ‘Go for it!’ ‘Go, go, go!’ Chris begins to see the wrestlers as a fraternity, a band of brothers at the centre of a storm. They are gladiators bound for an early death due to heart disease and liver failure; a noble group of warriors which the Night Train relentlessly ran through, again and again, for fifteen years. The apology to Noble Dawn that has been brewing in Chris’s mind changes form.

  When a new group of judges come in, Noble Dawn stands and waddles, stiff-armed, for the exit. In a flash Chris is on the concourse under the stadium seating, waiting outside the entrance to the VIP area. Three old men in new suits come out with cigarettes in their mouths, rummaging in their pockets. Chris steps up and offers the flame of his lighter. It is ignored. They move away, rummage a little longer and produce one of their own. After a couple of puffs, he is noticed.

  ‘Young man, you look familiar.’

  Chris bows low. ‘Thank you for saying so, sir. I am hoping to pay tribute to my brother’s greatest opponent, the honourable Noble Dawn.’

  ‘Ahhh.’

  ‘You didn’t take up the sport?’

  ‘My mother wouldn’t allow it.’

  They smile at this and he feels he is being considered for something, a job perhaps. Great opportunity is theirs to give, but no further question or comment comes. In fact they’re just smoking together, he realises, and he happens to be close enough, two metres away, to sense their aura of privilege and power.

  The VIP door cracks open and a disappointingly slim man comes out.

  One of the three men stubs his cigarette out half-finished and returns through the door. The dialogue is over. Uncomfortable at the silence Chris feels he is imposing, he chooses a more distant ashtray to smoke by.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The man who left, the junior at sixty-ish, returns with a twinkle in his eyes. He speaks to his companions loudly enough for Chris to overhear.

  ‘Noble Dawn has been kind enough to agree to smoke with us.’

  ‘Oh dear, what doe
s he smoke? I have only local cigarettes.’

  ‘Aha.’ One of them holds up a pack of Cut Silk.

  ‘Excellent. We don’t want him grumpy.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Night Train versus the Castle,’ says the sleekest of the three fondly. ‘Irresistible force meets irresistible object.’

  ‘No doubt the Night Train had the better of his opponent,’ says one of the men ruefully.

  ‘Yes.’

  Chris takes his cue. ‘Pardon me for saying so, honoured gentlemen, but Noble Dawn proved more than my brother’s equal in the ring.’

  His words have the desired effect, the men are pleased, but their smiles make him suspect he’s missing something; probably they find his respectful speech amusing. Masuda always says his more formal language is too flowery, like a greeting card.

  ‘I loved their fights,’ says one of the old men with sudden boyish enthusiasm.

  Chris bows to express his gratitude. It’s going far better than he could have hoped and it is time for him to be silent.

  Another slim person exits the VIP door.

  ‘Tokyo, the first tournament of the season, ’79 or ’80. It was magnificent. A minute in and the crowd were on their feet. And still it went on. Noble Dawn produced an outer arm throw: the first and last I ever saw from him!’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Yes!’

  Chris remembers. Noble Dawn was lower ranked and expected to lose. He remembers the uncharacteristic curses and groans from the boarders—even Nadine, the typist—as they watched the bout late at night in the lounge together, the blankets falling to the floor as everyone stood before the television and the bout went on and on.

  ‘Perhaps the young gentleman has a different recollection?’

  He’s watched it several times on video since. It became a glorious loss in New Zealand, being the last bout in a gruelling tournament, in which a relative unknown, buoyed by the crowd, produced a superhuman effort to win. Superhuman strength was required to beat the Night Train in those days.

  ‘You’ve described the winning throw as I remember it,’ Chris says. ‘It was executed with such authority that I’m surprised to learn it was not a stock technique of Noble Dawn’s.’

  The VIP door cracks open to reveal a white-gloved attendant, who steps through and hold the door wide. Noble Dawn fills the frame and then projects himself through it.

  ‘The Castle,’ says one of the old men, to alert Noble Dawn to their presence as much as anything.

  ‘More like the Wall these days,’ he replies.

  The men laugh. The one with Japanese cigarettes offers up his packet. With his great sausage fingers the wrestler picks one, as if it were a toothpick. Chris knows he will not be noticed until he’s introduced so he waits quietly, eyes averted.

  ‘You were faced with a difficult decision. It must be hard to concentrate when the cushions are flying.’

  The old men laugh, but Noble Dawn merely creases his eyes. His popular name, the Castle, suits him; he is serious and forbidding. Chris suspects that his line about becoming the Wall is used frequently.

  ‘Still, I suppose cushions in the ring are as bad as it gets these days,’ offers the sleekest of the old men. ‘In fact, speaking of as bad as it gets, you might remember Rising Dragon, AKA the Night Train; his younger brother is here to pay his respects.’

  Noble Dawn swivels his head like the turret of a battleship.

  ‘Sorry, forgive me, sir.’ Chris bows low and looks down. ‘I was not myself when you visited my brother’s house. I have come to offer my gratitude for your great kindness and consideration.’

  ‘This brings you to Auckland?’ The question is sharp.

  ‘Well, um, not entirely. Business, sir. This opportunity came up—’

  ‘He looks like his brother.’

  ‘Maybe too much,’ says Noble Dawn.

  The older men erupt with laughter at this.

  ‘Sorry,’ Chris says, and there is more laughter. Noble Dawn seems baffled. He stands there, grown too big for even his custom-made jacket. The buttons will never be done up. He takes a final puff and lobs the un-stubbed cigarette at the ashtray.

  ‘Please come to dinner tonight after the tournament. All of you. You too, Little Train. At Ozeki in Empress Street.’

  Chris, holding a low bow, hears the pleasure in the old men’s voices as they accept the invitation. He maintains his bow until they have all returned through the VIP door, then he walks straight out of the stadium and offers his thanks to the night sky.

  Chapter 26:

  Deadly dinner

  Back at the plush guesthouse Chris takes a long shower in his private bathroom. It has a large claw-foot bath as well and room for half a dozen more besides. All the fine-grained glowing wood makes him suspect it was once a double bedroom. So many sleepers have lain here, he thinks; so many others have prepared to go out. It makes him feel both less alone and more miserable. He lathers up for a shave and as he makes the first stroke he begins his apology, which he intends to deliver as late as possible, the later the better, as the murderer will be made more amenable by drink, food, and good company. ‘Before my brother departs this world,’ he tells the mirror, ‘he wants to make amends with all those he has wronged.’ It’s fair to expect such a comment will go unchallenged, he thinks as he continues to shave; or perhaps there will be an objection along the lines of it’s too late for apologies now. Either way, he’ll follow up with: ‘Although it’s too late for him to repair the damage he caused in this world, he would like to pass on to the next knowing he has left no ill-feeling amongst those he respected most. He feels this particularly strongly concerning you, Noble Dawn, his greatest opponent.’ Surely the man will listen, Chris thinks as he rinses his face with cold water. His face is revealed to him in the mirror, clear and open. Perhaps such a moment of clarity will occur in the apology, when Noble Dawn will see the man standing before him and recognise the humanity of the man who did him wrong. ‘Although my brother won many bouts, he realises he had no real success.’ He rests his hands on the sink and observes his eyes in the mirror. The apology is not watertight. Was it the code of the warrior that Patrick violated, or was it something intensely and horribly personal? The black points from which he sees, centred in brown disks flecked with green, give nothing back. His brother’s authority was always benevolent and genial. Only in the ring did he coldly hate. ‘My brother regrets many things, but his unworthy hatred he regrets most of all. No … my brother recognises the justice of his impending death. And asks that you forgive him his—immaturity … ’ For the first time Chris doubts himself and the power of apology and forgiveness in an honourable world. ‘Oh, my brother asks that you … ah … agree to a re-match. Ah!’ He stretches, throws a few lazy punches and a quick combination: one-two-three. ‘He is thankful that his death will release him from the rage that has consumed him.’ Picturing his dead niece—a bundle of rags stuffed under a hedge—he throws more punches. The bathroom is a boxing ring; the towel around his waist is his trunks. He throws long punishing jabs at Noble Dawn’s basketball-sized head. The wrestler is blowing air already and baffled. ‘He asks that you be amongst those who execute him for his wife’s murder. And that you dig her up from wherever you buried her.’ He’s ducking, moving side to side; the lumbering giant is cut and bleeding into his right eye. Two minutes left in the round. One-two-three-four: a vicious combination. ‘My brother says sorry.’ Chris’s eyes are full too. He blinks, wipes them, and continues to jab. ‘Sorry for being invaded. Sorry for speaking English. Sorry for frying fish. Sorry for queuing badly.’ One-two-three. ‘Sorry for getting rheumatic fever. Sorry for being malnourished.’ Left hook, right cross. ‘Sorry for making a noise, for being too big, for not concentrating, sorry, sorry, sorry.’ One-two-three. ‘For not being Japanese.’ Right cross. ‘Whatever my brother did, he’s fucked now. Are you happy? Ah.’ He stops and shakes himself. At the mirror again he tries to find his brother’s soul in his own eyes. ‘My bro
ther … my brother … ’ There’s nothing. Patrick gets angry sometimes, but not crazy angry. He was a mischievous kid, by all accounts, a practical joker who grew into a generous man who cared for his family and married for love. He didn’t fuck around in the ring, that’s all. There are beads of perspiration on Chris’s face. He showers again quickly in cooler water, applies deodorant and aftershave, puts on a clean white shirt and tie. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he tells his reflection in Japanese.

  It’s early so he walks from Ponsanabe to Empress Street and sits in the window of a small bar opposite the restaurant and waits for Noble Dawn’s party to arrive. Food is likely to be the number one priority for the big man after the tournament, so he doesn’t expect to wait long. Indeed, halfway through his first beer, a limousine pulls up to great fanfare from the parking attendants as Noble Dawn, his personal attendant, and two of the judges climb out. Another chauffeur-driven car pulls up, a Cadillac by the look of it, and more men climb out, including two of the older men he met at the VIP door. It’s an impressive arrival: a display of power, money and flesh that stops the foot-traffic. Attempting to ignore a burst of nerves, he drains his beer and stands up.

  When he enters the reception area, with its leather couches and aquarium-like tanks full of live produce, the head waiter waves him away. In English: ‘Full.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve been invited to join the sumo wrestler’s party.’

  The man’s eyes widen.

  ‘The Castle; Noble Dawn; the ex-sumo wrestler.’

  ‘One moment.’

  A waiter is dispatched behind the screens which shield the restaurant proper from view and protect the diners’ privacy from the street. It’s a celebrity eatery. While Chris waits he looks at the fish, lobster and crabs in the scrupulously clean holding tanks. A great honour, he says to himself. My brother always spoke of you with the greatest respect. Time passes. He has looked in all the tanks and now begins a second round. The light is deep green and purple; the bubbles aerating the water are plentiful and pretty. Five-star accommodation for those on death row. It’s one of the best restaurants in the country, probably the best. The filthy, brightly lit tanks filled with floaters and barely stirring creatures along the waterfront at Island Bay in Wellington come to mind. Still the waiter hasn’t returned. The black-eyed creatures are beginning to depress him despite the exquisite lighting, so he sits on a couch. The young shoe attendants, Kiwis, are nervous. Standing to attention at each end of the shoe shelf, they flick their eyes over him. ‘Evening, boys,’ he says quietly in English. They glance at each other and smile. More diners arrive and the boys set to work, placing the shoes in the shelf corresponding to the guests’ table. Not until more than fifteen minutes have elapsed does the head waiter beckon to him. The restaurant is dim. There are no single tables, only long low ones on tatami mats widely spaced to allow the deployment of screens, should they be required. The far wall is dominated by large and permanent screens painted with images of a Japanese coast, its tidy arrangement of drowned rocky hills and bonsai-like trees, so unlike anything in New Zealand. He follows the waiter through these to the VIP section, the longest table of all, seating thirty-odd diners, at which Noble Dawn sits at the head like a boulder. Cigars are being smoked as the day’s bouts are discussed. The diners are all men, and in such a strictly hierarchical situation Chris knows he is the lowest of the low. He is thankful to see a space at the bottom corner, even though it’s as far from Noble Dawn as it’s possible to be. There is no cushion for him. Chris bows, and as soon as the waiter has taken his jacket, he bows lower, apologises, and takes his place quickly and quietly. He is not noticed by the table, but those next to him, wealthy men who are ten years older than he, flick their eyes over him. One of them grunts his displeasure. The waiter fills his glass with hot sake, which will be his last drink at the table, he guesses, because no other guest is likely to pour for him. The appetiser set before him is a brown jelly topped with what appears to be skin. It tastes smoky. It’s five-star food and he pays attention. The dish is a nice combination of soft and chewy, but nothing special.