Tokyo Tales

By Thom Hinkinson

Life, love, laughter: cicadas, kids and kitchen condiments; riots, shrines and earthquakes; dogs and the yakuza. Six interconnected stories and one novella - all about living in Tokyo, Japan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thom Hinkinson
• Release date: Jan 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310226366

Thom Hinkinson

Thom Hinkinson lives and loves (in) Tokyo, Japan.Read his new book "Tokyo Tales" - only available as an ebook -because no tree should have to die in order to further his ego!!

Book preview

Tokyo Tales

Thom Hinkinson

Copyright Andrew Thomas Hinkinson.

Andrew Thomas Hinkinson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Smashwords edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be reproduced or copied except for the use of the original purchaser.

間

Video Links

Bow wow wow

http://vimeo.com/79171860

Walking the god

http://vimeo.com/79593345

間

Chapter one: Bow wow wow

It was while I was living right in the heart of Tokyo, in the alliteratively named town of Takadanobaba, that the events of this story took place. My daughter who was then only four years old was its unwitting catalyst; and so it is to her therefore that either the blame, or the fame depending upon how you will view it, will accrue; for not only this story but also for all the others that have since followed on from it.

As my daughter was not then old enough to go to a Japanese school - formal education only begins here when the child is in its sixth year - we were in a bit of a quandary as to what to do with her as both of us were then working full-time. Fortunately a friend of ours told us about the state-run, state-subsidised, nurseries - hoikuen - that existed for working parents. And so it was, after many a visit to the city-hall, personal interviews, applications, filling out of forms, sponsorship from reputable locals, letters from employers - there really is nothing in the world as exacting as Japanese red-tape - our daughter was granted a place in one of these hoikuen. The staff there - as it turned out - were kindness personified, especially when it came to dealing with the social gaffes and regular idiocies committed by a foreigner such as myself; but enough of all that as this story does not in fact centre itself within its primrose coloured walls - which in any case we will visit on another occasion - but instead takes place upon the daily journey that I, and my daughter, would make to and from it.

Now as this hoikuen was situated a little under half a kilometre or so from our tiny apartment we would get to it by bike. This was an elderly cobbled together contraption - a shopping bike with baskets - that we had been very kindly given to us by one of our neighbours and to which I had managed to fix a child’s seat, just behind its spindly handlebars, and some panniers over it’s rear wheel to carry all our other needs. The road that I used this upon was not one that I would have chosen myself - being a twisty-turny affair, devoid of proper sidewalks, with two large hills to climb up and wobble down; and it was moreover, by true distance, almost twice as far as would the journey have been if we had undertaken it by main road - but this did not in the least matter, to my daughter at any rate, as half way along it lived the object of her first true love: a large and golden Labrador dog.

At first she would sit, quite contentedly in her little seat, like some little Buddha - solemn, and almost withdraw - nodding and smiling at the many greetings that those who were regularly on the streets at that hour would bestow on her. However then, as we rounded bend after bend and gradually drew closer and closer to the object of her affection, her demeanour would change. First she would begin to squirm about, though always mindful to hold onto the bar that retained her in her seat, then she would begin to bounce up and down, and then, as we finally rounded the last corner, from her lips would come forth the following mantra:

Labi-chan… Labi-chan… Ohhh, Labi-chan!

Now –chan in Japanese is an epithet which, when added to the name of a person or animal means small, and is always a term of affection. The –chan though in this case was a hugely obese hound, who must have easily tipped the scales at over seventy pounds, and was moreover quite clearly suffering from some kind of pit-bull psychosis that caused him to hurl himself at the ornamental wrought iron gates behind which he lived upon first sight of her in an absolute paroxysm of rage. Pretty scary stuff: to my daughter though these were just the proofs of the reciprocal affection that he felt for her. And she would deem the journey a great failure if she could not induce him to behave in just such a fashion.

Labi-chan, for even I came to refer to him as such, lived within a large three-storied building. It was a curious affair for a cramped inner city neighbourhood, such as ours, as it actually stood within its own compound, and was surrounded on all sides with that most unusual of things for Japan - it’s own private garden. Moreover, as it was veneered all over in pale grey veined marble, to my mind it looked either like a marooned and monolithic battleship from the last war, or when I was feeling less than charitable, like some a huge giant’s urinal - and really did look most un-japanese and not at all what our neighbourhood was about. Just beyond its tall ornamental gates was a forecourt that contained a series of shallow steps that led up to a genuine looking Ionic pillared portico, in front of a pair of huge bronze doors. These, I had noticed, were invariably firmly closed. And for a long time, due to the strangeness of it's appearance, and also the occasional silk-suited and sleekly groomed gentleman whom I would see waiting for admittance, I thought that it must be the headquarters of some discreet company, or charitable institution; but then I had observed futons, and even items of clothing airing on its second and third floor balconies, and so had come to the conclusion that some part of it - at the very least - must be a family residence.

間

It’s still only 7:45 am but we are, as it happens, already hopelessly late.

Which is not a problem for myself, as I have very relaxed employers, but for my daughter, it is a total and absolute catastrophe. You see, punctuality is very important in Japan, and today it is her turn to stand at the head of the queue and open the hoikuen’s front doors - a considerable privilege and one that she has waited almost half a year for - and so consequently there is more than a little tension in the air as we hurry on downstairs and I am the recipient of more than one baleful, and frankly quite threatening, look.

As we step outside the full heat of a Japanese summer’s morning hits us - with its 30-degree heat, and almost 80 per cent humidity. It’s the start of the week so I have a full load of my daughter’s clothes and equipment to deal with. There is the drawstring cloth bag that contains her indoors shoes; ditto, the empty one for her outdoors shoes; the bag for her lunchtime smock; the bag for her nap-time pyjamas; the large bag with her freshly laundered futon cover; the smaller one with her crisply ironed top-sheet; and of course, there are the two smaller ones, which contain her sleeping sheet and her pillowcase, to also contend with. Then there are the extras: the bag which contain her painting clothes; the bag that holds her sports uniform - and of course another small bag to hold her sports shoes. Lastly, if all this were not enough, there is the ungainly metal-box in which is stowed her musical instrument. This is a bizarre sort of hand-held piano with a plastic tube, which is blown into to produce a sound almost indescribable in its awfulness. And all of these things have to be stowed on, in and from, the panniers at the back of the bike.

At last, after some quite dexterous juggling they are stowed, and we are ready for the off; which is when I realise that I have quite forgotten her backpack. A minuscule scrap of tartan, scarce large enough to contain the small package of tissues that are it’s usual sole contents.

Can we leave without it?

The trembling lower lip and clouding eyes indicate not. So, I leap up three flights of stairs, find it, and return to her as quickly as possible.

And now, having strapped it to her back, I sweep her off her feet and stuff her into her seat - with, of course, a stern admonition to hold on. I swing the bike off it’s stand, leap into the saddle, and discover - with a shrill grinding of metal rim upon sticky asphalt - that I have quite forgotten to fix last Friday’s puncture.

The pitying looks that a small child can give you when you have completely messed up are no doubt part of the rites of passage for any parent - this though, in no way, makes them easier to bear; so, with a cheery laugh and a:

Silly me - let’s walk instead! It’ll be fun - an adventure!

I haul her from her seat. Park the bike. Load myself up with all of her baggage. Give her my little finger to hold - the only digit I now have free - and set off.

We have gone though a scarce hundred meters when she pulls herself free, sits down - right in the middle of the narrow road - and demands instead to be carried; at which point, and as if from nowhere, a ramen delivery motorcycle swings around the corner. Thankfully it misses my daughter, by some quite adroit driving, but in doing so it clips - and strips - several of the packages from my arms with the patented delivery fixture that hangs from it’s back upon two telescoping springs.

Scared by the closeness of all this I yell at my daughter to get back on her feet, but the jut of her jaw indicates that this is unlikely. Accordingly I change tack: We don’t need to hold hands - I plead - let’s instead swing our arms, like soldiers, and march there. We can even sing our marching song?

The look that this offer receives is withering beyond believe and is, I suppose, a reliable indicator of the way that things will be going in about twelve years time, or so; accordingly I wrack my already heat sizzled brain for an alternative.

Bribery, it would seem, is now my only option: If you get up now - I murmur - we’ll have some fast food on our way back this afternoon - our treat, our secret.

And a toy? - she counters.

I nod, and she springs to her feet and actually helps me with the scattered bags.

As we resume our journey she makes other conditions. First: there will be no actual contact between us. Holding hands is for babies. Second: none of this walking on the inside sandwiched between the buildings and myself - she is four years old, after all - and she will, instead, follow me.

What can I do?

間

As we round yet another corner yet another cab toots to inform us that not only is it clearly exceeding the speed limit, but that it will almost certainly collide with us unless we flatten ourselves against the front of the small vegetable shop that we are; which is when I notice that, on the other side of the street, the broad wrought iron gates to Labi-chan’s compound are for once, flung wide-open. Now this is curious in itself, as I have never before seen them opened up, but the curiosity doesn’t stop there, as in front of them are two heavyset middle-aged men, dressed most incongruously, in what look like velour leisure suits; and even stranger, that behind them I can also now see that the bronze doors - under the deep portico - are also wide open.

As the taxi flashes past I take the opportunity of immobility to have a good look inside.

It all looks quite flash - and not the least what I have expected: rich burgundy red walls, white and black checkerboard floors, curving staircase - and an absolutely huge crystal chandelier hanging from what clearly is a double storey ceiling. However, I notice that my curiosity has not gone unnoticed, as both of the tracksuits now step forward - as if to block my view - and jerk their heads, simultaneously, in a universal gesture of absolute dismissal.

I counter with the broad grin and half-bob-half-bow that usually extricates me from any sticky situation - but on them, it doesn't work. Again, as one they step forward - now almost into the street - and this time indicate physically with a harsh chopping gesture that I would indeed be wise to move on.

Before I can though there comes, from behind me and some distance off, the fast approaching whine of an automobile engine being cranked up through the gears. I turn and am just in time to see my daughter - legs pumping desperately - dash out directly in front of a red sports car, across the narrow road and towards those invitingly wide open gates of Labi-chan's compound.

間

Now with hindsight I am fairly sure that at