This piece is part of my random (and totally not canonical, and sometimes contradictory) series of fragments of a certain KS parent's infamous autobiography. You can find the other two (so far) as '
A Bear Discovers Fire' and '
A Bear Discovers Tears', also in this thread.
Disclaimer: The following post was written in response to Stiles Long's writing contest. Each participant was given a list of KS character pairings and a list of locations. One of each was chosen for this fic. There were a limited set of options available to participants in the contest and it may be that this fic resembles others. Any such resemblance is coincidental.
A Bear (Almost) Discovers Salt
being an excerpt from the secret sections of ‘The Autobiography of Hakamichi Jigoro’ (2008 Edition)
My name is Hakamichi Jigoro, and I am writing this in ink, using the traditional style. This is to make clear the difference between the document I am creating here and the one that is my official autobiography. The reasons for such a difference may become obvious to the discerning reader. If you are not so discerning, too bad.
(Editor’s Note: In this English edition, I have attempted to preserve the nuances and atmosphere of the original. Sadly, in Mr Hakamichi’s case, the potency of his words and the forcefulness of his directions with regard to editorial policy render such attempts challenging at the very least, and often impossible.)
*****
I have a story, which, unusually for me, is difficult to make plausible. I struggle with this little piece of my life, because as in most things of reality, there are always bits that fail to make sense to a rational observer. It is like having tiny fragments of eggshell in the omelette you have cooked, despite knowing full well that you were impeccable in shelling the egg and extracting its vital contents.
As readers of my autobiography thus far will know, I have a daughter who goes to an elite school in Sendai, which is relatively far from home. This distance is not much of an obstacle for me: I have a machine that can abbreviate the journey satisfactorily, and I know how to drive like a man. However, I seldom have desire, opportunity or time to do this frequently—Shizune comes home occasionally on short breaks or holidays, and I have the sprout, her younger brother, to keep me company. I have learned to be otherwise self-sufficient, as a man should be, and as a man who has to shoulder the burden of single parenthood, even more so.
It was thus with great displeasure that I realized one morning, that having made an unaccountable error in my personal schedule (I never make errors in my corporate schedule), I would have to rush over to Yamaku Academy for a perfectly routine regular briefing from the Head Nurse. In this day and age, I had assumed that such briefings could be conducted remotely, by Facemail or whatever they call those things. Nothing doing. That salamander dropping of a healthcare functionary is punctilious and legalistic to a fault; he said, “Mr Hakamichi, such confidential briefings have to be done man to man, for the security of our vulnerable students.”
Hah! I almost said to him, “Well, if your security was so great, they would not be vulnerable!” Fortunately, I remembered that I had made a large contribution to that security, and grudgingly persuaded my corporate entity to rate it highly for the local press. To make negative comments would thus have been in bad form.
My esteemed readers, you would probably guess that the phrase ‘man to man’ was what really gave me pause. When I had first admitted Shizune to the Academy, the Head Nurse (or Chief Nurse, or Exalted Nursing Officer, whatever) had been a lady, as it should be. Since then, I had not realized this person had been replaced with a man—and a singularly flippant one, from his tone of voice.
I grit my teeth, and took comfort in the thought that at my manly velocity, I would have just enough time to plan a scathing line of verbal response to whatever this Nurse person had to tell me. Shizune might disapprove, but the sooner she figured out what was what, the better it would be for her in the long term. You cannot let so-called professionals run your life. You should run theirs.
And so it was that I found myself roaring up via the Tohoku Expressway towards Sendai-Miyagi at dawn. When I finally came off the interchange, I felt a twinge of sorrow. It had not always been smooth sailing between Mayoi and myself, but Sendai especially could bring out memories that I found somewhat debilitating—memories of time spent watching the sea with her from various places along the eastern coast.
It had been on one of those occasions that I told her I imagined I could look out on a particularly clear day and see Hawaii. I remember her laughing, and her comment: “Hakamichi, the line is ‘on a clear day you can see forever’. And ‘forever’ is a very powerful word.”
You see? Even a strong man can be undone by words. But enough of that, and back to the tale at hand.
I drove up to Yamaku, where the black-rimmed label on my windshield afforded me swift access. There was some time wasted as I entertained various measures designed to ascertain my identity. But at least the gatekeeper was efficient in applying them, and I nodded at him as a token of my esteem. As I entered the relatively small parking area, I steeled myself for sights that men were not meant to see. My daughter may have a problem, but it is not as visible as the problems of others.
The signage in the school must have been designed for the legally blind who could still see shapes. Large red crosses with white borders marked the way to the Medical Centre, and I was able to display a confident and manly stride as I made my entrance to the central administrative building.
I was stopped a second time, but some scanner successfully read the card that had been ziptied to my wrist, and the guard waved me through. Security indeed. It was like visiting my corporate headquarters.
Ahead of me, I saw many cripples of all kinds. Some lacked feet, others hands. Some had interesting mechanical augmentation. There were all kinds of odd-looking people. I thought I caught a glimpse of Loud Pink, my daughter’s little friend, but by the time I had cut through the crowds like a bear through a tent, they were nowhere to be seen.
“Hello!” I yelled politely as I walked into the Medical Centre. “I apologise for being on time for my appointment with your Chief Nurse, Head Nursing Officer, the man who is in charge of this medical outfit!”
A young lady at the counter blanched prettily and smiled. “Good morning! Please wait, sir, and I will get Head Nurse Kaneshiro for you.”
“No need, no need,” said a very irritating voice. It sounded nasal, inconsistent in volume, a little miserly in roundedness, and had the nature of a radio commenter’s voice pronouncements from one of those westernized talk shows.
“Hakamichi-san! I am very pleased to meet you,” continued said voice. It seemed to be coming from a gangly young man who had a few bleached white hairs in his otherwise dark mop. His shirt was too tight for one with such limited muscular assets, and his trousers were also too tight. He wore no tie. Fortunately, much of the rest of his physique was concealed by a white medical coat.
I was in a formal suit, treating this as a professional work meeting, so I was able to feel distinctly superior. “Ah, Kaneshiro-san,” I said frostily, noting his perfunctory bow and doing marginally better so as to highlight this lapse to him. “Please be kind enough to tell me what you have to tell me about my daughter.”
“Oho, I couldn’t be so rude as to do that in public! Come into my office,” he replied, gesturing loosely at an undistinguished door to the left of the counter. “It’s down this corridor, and it won’t take very long.”
Such nerve! I had driven up to Sendai, a journey of more than four hours including various pauses and inconveniences, and “it won’t take very long” was all my thanks? I kept my counsel, however, as I had a full day of Sendai-related errands to accomplish, and I did not mind the brevity of our encounter.
He held the door for me. Did he think I was unfit? Was he being polite? I gave him the benefit of the doubt and preceded him into the corridor. He waved his pass at another door and it slid open. I prepared to breathe the same air as this eccentric fellow, who looked as if his socks were also too tight and smelly to boot.
His office was actually fairly neat. A stack of files lay in his in-tray, next to a fairly modern computer terminal. A set of papers clipped loosely together were the only blemish upon the clear surface of his work area. A line of curious machines hummed to themselves along a counter-top, and an examination bed—currently vacant, with its privacy curtain drawn back—sat tidily in one corner. The door glided shut behind me.
He propped his backside against some shelves and regarded me with one eye. His fringe appeared to be assisting the partial occlusion of the other. He raised his eyebrow, which made him appear to lose both eyebrows, and whispered in a creepy and unmanly way, “What do you know about loss of balance in young people with congenital deafness?”
“Nothing!” I said, projecting my voice firmly between his eyes. “You can tell me all about it now, in short and informative sentences.”
I have long found that the best way to learn things from professionals is to make them talk, wait for the important bits, then cut out and leave. Also, be unyielding in your dedication to brevity and concision.
“Well, we have an awkward situation. Your daughter is acting as if she has loss of balance, but she has nothing to suggest she should have.”
It is not often that a man is left hanging like an unflushed toilet. I did not exactly leave my mouth open, but it was very nearly so. The response I made was calm and neutral: “What exactly has been observed?”
“Something strange,” said the Head Nurse, with a twitch of his half-hidden eyebrows. “It mirrors similar behaviour in her best friend. They act clumsily when together, less clumsily when apart.”
“What do you propose to do?” You see, this is the way to handle professionals. Let them make professional decisions, but have knowledge of what those decisions are likely to be.
“We have therapists who can address underlying psychological causes.”
“You have a suitably trained professional in mind?”
“I have several. This meeting is just to collect your formal approval of such a step.”
You will notice, of course, that by asserting formality, I had made the upstart medico behave more formally himself. This was, however, not to last.
I have good hearing, trained by a well-disciplined lifestyle. From some distance outside, I heard the faint sounds of irregular behaviour. Someone seemed to be imploring someone about something, both voices being female. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little amber light flash on the Head Nurse’s desk. So did he.
“Oops!” he squeaked in something approximating the collapse of a baritone into soprano mode, thus shattering my illusions of personality reform. “I seem to be having…”
“Head Nurse,” I enunciated sharply, interrupting his shoddy excuse-making, “let us ignore the poor external discipline, and…”
Outside, the altercation had become a mellifluous string of words in a warm mezzosoprano. The only reason I could describe it thus was the distant memory of my wife’s voice.
“I saw him go into the office! I’ll just drop in, it’s all right, he won’t mind! I have to get his autograph!”
Of all places to find a fan. I am not well known in the crude world of the public domain, but there are certain circles in which I am recognized for my talents. Resigned to my fate, I sucked in my abdominals so as to maintain appropriate posture, and waited for the next few seconds to pass.
The door behind me slid open. As it reached its full aperture, I had turned to present a respectful front. One should always display the cut of one’s suit to maximum advantage, so as to honour the tailor’s efforts.
“Oh!” said a lady with reddish-brown hair and a full but slender figure. (As I look at what I have written, I see the contradiction but cannot say I was wrong.) “What a large person!”
Behind her, the younger lady from the counter said, “Madam Nishizume… !” before the door glided shut again and cut her off. I reflected on the day as being full of frustrations and interruptions, but remained largely in control of my emotions.
There is
a long story told elsewhere, which may also appear in these memoirs, about my relationship with a certain Madam Nishizume. You might think that we did not know each other, from the first part of our encounter here so far. Yet, you would be wrong.
The flippant-faced medico coughed softly. “Madam Nishizume?” he said, with altogether too much of a dubious note.
I stepped nimbly to one side, forming the third corner of an equilateral triangle. “Madam,” I said addressing the lady, “I shall indeed do you the honour of signing my autograph. Where would you like it, and what inscription would suit your needs?”
“Ah!” she said, ejaculating for a second time. She fumbled around in her handbag, pulled out a sheet of fairly high-quality writing paper, and offered it to me. “Mr Hakamichi, is it not? I have admired your work, and never once had the courage to ask this of you.”
This is all true. I also admired, in return, her attempt to make it seem as if she and I were total strangers in front of the unnaturally inquisitive eyebrow twitcher. I whipped my pen out from my inside breast pocket—sadly, a traditional brush and ink will not suffice for this function—and directed it towards her paper. “Inscription?”
“Your illustrious name,” she said, “and any other writing you wish to honour me with.”
Very gracious and polite, as always, Madam Nishizume. I signed my name in semiformal calligraphy and appended a brief note about roses, thorns, and how the two were meant to be together. I did wonder, briefly, about why she had written the odd poetic note in one margin: “Three pots. Sake. Daikon.”
As I wrote, I kept an eye on her face. As I suspected, the subliminal tics of her facial muscles showed that she harboured intense emotions. A woman to be wary of, perhaps, but what a woman!
The operation complete, I began to return my very useful titanium-shafted writing instrument to my pocket. Then I realized what else I should do. “Nurse,” I said, “May I also sign the documents concerning my daughter?”
An odd look was crossing the oleaginous orderly’s pale face. As if his teeth were glued to his lips by stress, he replied, “Yes, of course. Please, sign here, here and here.”
I relieved him of the loosely-clipped sheaf of papers, read through them rapidly, and signed as he indicated. Then, with economy of movement, I pocketed my pen and returned the papers.
Turning to the flame-haired woman who was watching us, I smiled and said, “May I walk you out, now that my business is done?”
To my surprise, she smiled back daintily and replied, “I have business with Head Nurse Kaneshiro, today. It is my loss to not have the pleasure of your company.”
I wondered why on earth she would have business with the pale-faced loon. But I realized on quick reflection that it was probably something to do with her own daughter, the legless wonder that my Shizune detested.
“Very well, Madam. This has been a pleasure. Head Nurse, thank you for your service.”
I straightened up to allow my suit to relax into its ideal hanging, and tapped the door button. On my way out, I wondered about the chaotic aspect of the medical centre that had allowed this fortuitous collision of appointments at the Head Nurse’s office.
It was then that I thought I heard an explosion of manic laughter from that office. I shook my head. What an inappropriate response to the sad situation of a crippled daughter! And why on earth would Madam Nishizume be laughing with that man?
In our lives, there are always inexplicable things. One should just soldier on, a proud samurai in an uncertain battlefield.
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