Weeds in the Jungle, Page 2

wondered what measures his father had taken to win her. Or more precisely, what his father had been willing to sacrifice. It seemed an early death had been a part of it. Nothing so brutal as the female praying mantis devouring its mate, but women controlled their households with a firmness that could even surpass what the bosses were doing during working hours. Every moment accounted for, every task with a deadline. That was the upbringing Taro had known.

  ‘If you’d like to invite Hiromi around for dinner, I’ll be home by eight,’ Junko said. ‘Or perhaps another night this week?’

  His mother had invited Hiromi to dinner many times in the past. Hiromi’s parents, however, had not been so forthcoming with him. Taro assumed they considered him the weak link in the relationship. He ate his breakfast hungrily and gave her offer only a passing shrug.

  ‘One year in Canada is a long time,’ continued Junko in a long standing tradition of dolling out a morning lecture. ‘She may find it difficult settling back into the Japanese way of life. Don’t you think?’

  The Japanese way of life. Taro noticed that she said it as a singular. She was probably right about that too.

  Junko left the table and began to clear away her dishes. ‘You are not young anymore, Ta-chan. You must question yourself as to whether you are living your life to the full.’

  What she meant by a full life was a full time job and a wife and child to go with it. Taro did indeed question whether he was living his life well. The answer until that moment was a resounding no. But it wasn’t his fault. His life had been a war without a battlefield.

  Now, however, things were going to change. He was sure about that. And all he needed to do first was finish his breakfast.

  4

  His Nintendo DS and its latest car racing game had sheltered him from any tension over the upcoming reunion during the long train ride out to Narita Airport. By the time he had arrived, the Vancouver to Tokyo ANA 747 had already landed. Despite the empirical evidence to indicate otherwise, Hiromi felt safer at the back of the plane, and she would likely want to find a bathroom to freshen up before presenting herself at Immigration: Taro, therefore, would have to expect he had simply reduced his wait time rather than having spared himself from it. As he stood around the Arrivals area, he took an interest in the comings and goings of people. There were a lot of young, sprightly women. Travel had apparently had a positive effect on them. Taro felt a pang of jealousy, for he had never been out of the country. His father had once proposed a family holiday to somewhere as far afield as New York or Paris, going so far in his considerations as to even bring home a bundle of JTB travel brochures. Inevitably though Junko had vetoed the idea. A friend had told her that taxis in such places were quite dangerous and at the very least would overcharge them. And there were all those other potential problems, such as the sub-standard quality of rice and the lack of Japanese speaking doctors.

  When Hiromi finally emerged through the Arrivals gate, a strange feeling swept over Taro. It was like he had only just last seen her a day ago, but at the same time like he had never met her before. Strangeness and familiarity colliding with all the turbulence of rivers hitting oceans. Hiromi’s eyes were scouring through the crowd at the same time as trying to coordinate the small mountain of luggage on her trolley. Taro felt slighted that she wasn’t looking higher up in her search. Had she forgotten that he stood head and shoulders over the average throng? Still, it bestowed a moment in which to take in all those things he hadn’t expected. Foremost was the new found fineness of her cheekbones. It was as though she had been sent away for final touches by a master craftsperson. Then there was the way her hair sat confidently on her shoulders, shrouding her brow in seductive mystery. Her bright red t-shirt was tucked into her jeans in a way that highlighted her slim waist and a pair of sunglasses were hooked onto it. And perhaps most surprisingly there was a whisper of colour on her arm below the right sleeve. It was a tattoo. She had not even mentioned it.

  Hiromi was out passed the roped off area. Taro grabbed her shoulder from behind. That was the one part of the reunion he had planned out in advance.

  She turned to him, smiled and hugged him.

  5

  Taro latched onto the familiar aspects of Hiromi, most particularly the voice and the little decisions she liked to discuss, such as the best place to have lunch. They decided on a friendly, local okonomiyaki restaurant in Ikebukuro. They had celebrated a couple of occasions there in the past. A birthday or two and a good exam result. It was part of the familiar. Hiromi’s eyes, however, were not. She was wearing shimmering blue contact lenses. But that was only part of it. Her eyes were strikingly alive like Taro had never seen them before. Taking the Narita Express back into Tokyo, he could barely bring himself to look at them.

  The okonomiyaki restaurant was the odd one out in a long line of ramen noodle bars. It hadn’t changed at all since their last time there a good eighteen months earlier. Taro was comforted to see the friendly old shop master was still behind the counter. It was only on this occasion, however, that he noticed how much Western influence the restaurant contained, from the style of the menus to the Hawaiian surfing posters on the walls. An American radio station was playing, too. The DJs voice was deep and silky smooth.

  The okonomiyaki mixture was brought out in a stainless steel pot. Hiromi carefully scooped it out onto the hotplate occupying a centre square of their table. Taro supposed it resembled an American omelette. He heard himself asking her about that.

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ replied Hiromi, enthusiastically. ‘My homestay mother sometimes prepared it for Sunday breakfast.’

  Taro thought it stupid referring to someone whose house you happened to be staying at as your mother. Any kind of mother. During those torturous school camps in his high school days, he didn’t start calling his teachers mum and dad. The really terrible thing was some of those teachers probably were the closest thing he had had to a father - at least, he had seen them more. When he had been young, he had actually thought his father lived in a different house. He had imagined a giant house on the top of a mountain.

  Taro watched Hiromi cook, cut and finally serve the okonomiyaki. He was disturbed that she did it as efficiently as his mother. This would be a further stretch even than assigning mother status to the old woman you were paying for board and lodging: a twenty one year old girl who had spent a year running wild in Canada, now portraying herself as a homely type. Who was she trying to kid?

  Taro took a swallow of beer and snapped apart his chopsticks. ‘‘Itadakimasu,’ he said politely before taking his first mouthful.

  Sitting with Hiromi in this restaurant, Taro had to admit to himself he hadn’t felt this alone since the last time he had been with her. Maybe even more so. Something would have to give. He couldn’t take it. He wanted to destroy her. He wondered if it would be better to do it as a friend or as an enemy. The funny thing was that he could already sense that he would have a good chance of doing it either way. How was it she could travel so far and transform so dramatically without having been able to sever the ties that connected them? It was astounding. With a bitterness he couldn’t control or very much understand, he felt it more appropriate to treat her as an enemy.

  ‘Delicious,’ she said, covering her mouth and wrinkling her nose. ‘It’s nice to be home.’

  ‘How was the food in Canada?’

  ‘It was okay but the portions were too big.’

  ‘But you are still slim.’

  ‘I joined a bicycle club in Vancouver. It helped a lot.’

  ‘A bicycle club?’

  ‘Yes. I wrote about it in an email. I sent you some pictures as well. Didn’t you even look at them?’

  ‘Probably I looked at them. But I’ve been quite busy lately.’

  ‘Too busy to reply? My brother sent more emails than you and that’s saying something.’

  ‘I don’t like typing.’

  ‘You could have written a letter.’

  ‘Anyone can open a letter. I would
have been too guarded to express myself.’

  He ordered from a passing waitress another draft beer even though he had not yet finished his current one. He was not sure why he did that. If it was to diffuse the pressure of the encounter, he would be disappointed. The pressure hadn’t even started.

  ‘It’s hot,’ Hiromi finally said after an uncomfortable pause. ‘Your new job is delivering pizzas?’

  ‘Yes. I know it’s not much. I needed some space. Some time to think.’

  ‘I worry that it’s quite dangerous.’

  ‘There’s no space in riding slowly. Not much money either.’

  Taro drained the last of his glass with that and was disappointed that the thick walls of the glass had accentuated what was in fact barely more than a trickle. It was embarrassing, for he had wanted to make a statement with his drinking prowess. His eyes flicked about the surrounding tables. The early hour and the heat of the day had conspired to keep the restaurant quiet. The master was fussy with preparations. It in itself meant little in regards to how many customers might be expected. There wasn’t a restaurant in all of Tokyo that did not have a master busy with preparations. They were the pulse of the restaurant and if they stopped the restaurant would surely die. To Taro it was so tiring and perhaps so futile when death was inevitable. Death, Taro could