Butterfly's Shadow - Lee Langley [93]
Mr Murakami gave the slightest movement, a hint of a bow. ‘I have explained to them that I am too old to share their class. I must not interrupt you, sensei.’
The word, delivered with gentle humour, meant nothing to Joey until much later, when he was able to appreciate the nuances implicit in sensei, for which no English equivalent exists – he guessed the French maître came nearest. When he had moved from ignorance to a tentative, fumbling understanding of the cat’s-cradle complexity of Japanese semantics, Joey thought back to that moment and came close to tears.
He had not intended to contribute to the Show and Tell but after the lesson he found himself pulling out the bag from under his bed, rummaging around. Next day he reached into his pocket and placed a grimy wooden object on the classroom table.
Where Joey’s American classmates had been baffled by his possession of this unprepossessing article, there was no such puzzlement here, only shouts of recognition:
‘Komo!’
‘Hey, you got a spinner!’
For many of his class, as he now thought of them, the spinning top was a part of family childhood. Clustering round the table they clamoured to speak. One talked of tsukurigomai – tops with a hole, which made a humming sound, another of togoma made from bamboo. They touched his battered example, smiling.
A small girl picked it up and handed it to him, silently requesting a demonstration.
‘Once it was bright yellow and red,’ Joey said as he set it spinning. ‘The paint was shiny.’
The words were passed around. Heads nodded.
‘It came from Nagasaki. Where I was born.’ Then, ‘My mother is Japanese.’
Is Japanese. My mother. A woman in a dark dress. Seated, pale hands in her lap. Or maybe lying under rubble, crushed. Dead for real this time.
There was the usual murmur, the grandmother’s footsteps of phrases, words, information jumping from one to another. Heads nodding.
He saw they were all looking at him, but differently now, studying him doubtfully. He thought of Ichir ’s old joke: funny you don’t look . . .
He knocked on the door of Mr Murakami’s room.
‘Ah, sensei . . .’
‘Your carving,’ Joey said, ‘the monkeys.’
‘Ah. Useful exercise. I found a fragment, some wood by the perimeter fence. Hard. Good for carving, even with improvised tools.’
He waited, smiling at his visitor. The boy had not come to talk about monkeys.
‘The class is going well?’
‘Yeah. I was expecting trouble, but they’re . . . quiet.’
‘Ah. You are enjoying the benefits of giri.’
‘Which is . . . ?’
‘Difficult to translate . . . A mode of behaviour, an ethical code instilled into us, a mix of duty, obligation, a sense of justice and morality. We are bound by giri towards our parents but also . . .’ a smile ‘towards our teachers.’
‘So that’s why I’m having such an easy ride. Tough for the kids.’
‘They would not think so. Giri is so important that Japanese have been known to commit suicide rather than break it.’
It was not easy for Joey to explain why he was there. He wanted information, he needed answers, but the field of his ignorance was so vast that he was unable even to formulate the questions.
‘It’s hopeless. I’m bogged down in the detail before I even get to the big issues. Where should I begin?’
A long, doubtful intake of breath. Mr Murakami seemed to be overcome by an attack of tics and twitches: he shook his head repeatedly, clicked his tongue, rubbed the back of his neck, apparently lost in thought. In time Joey would become familiar with a traditional Japanese reaction to a tricky question. This first time he anxiously watched the small elderly man going through what appeared to be a painful process.
After a lengthy silence, Mr Murakami spoke. He offered the view that the Japanese were good at small things, their skill less suited to the grand gesture. Joey was relieved.
‘Small I can handle.’
If truth be told, he was unsure what the big gesture was.
‘This word I’ve heard . . . wabi-sabi? I can’t seem to work out the meaning.’
‘Ah. Not a word but a phrase; not one meaning, but many . . .