A Wretched Childhood

　　About 20 years ago, around 8:30 in the morning when the morning meeting for teachers finished, I had a telephone call from Kyohei Kato’s mother. Kyohei was a first year student at N Senior High School which I worked for as an English teacher. He was one of my homeroom students.

“Hello, this is Matsuoka speaking,” I answered.

“This is Kyohei Kato’s mother. I am sorry to call you so early in the morning, but I thought it important to inform you of this: my son Kyohei and I won’t be at home any more. So please don’t visit us.”

I did not comprehend thoroughly what she meant, because I was in a hurry; the morning homeroom class meeting would start in a few minutes.

“All right, thank you for calling,” I said hanging up the phone.

After coming back from my homeroom class, I thought about the telephone call. What did she mean by telling me that I didn’t have to visit their house? Why wouldn’t they be there any more?

I had been visiting Kyohei at his house several times for the past three months, because he did not come to school. Since I did not have class on Monday morning, I used to visit him then.

Usually his mother was at home when I visited him. She used to tell me Kyohei locked the door of his room from the inside and did not come out. She said, “I am sorry that you had to come to my house all the way from school.” She suggested that Kyohei and his father hated each other. She told me that she and her husband had often quarreled since Kyohei was a little child. She said she was scared of the bad relationship between them, because they even fought with weapons. His father had threatened him with a pair of pincers and her son had a drill. I was shocked. It was like killing each other in a gangster movie.

   While I was wondering what the matter was with them, I was seized with a terrible fear; they might commit suicide!

   I told Mr. Sato, one of my colleagues, about the problem to.

   “Call and ask her to tell you about the matter in more detail,” he said.

   I called her three or four times but there was no response. So we decided to visit his house.

When we arrived at his house, we found his father alone. He was apparently drunk, because he was unable to articulate properly. I told him about the call from his wife, and asked him if he knew where they were.

“I don’t know. They have gone away,” he said in an irritated voice.

“Is there anywhere they might have gone?” I said.

“Why are you meddling with us? It’s none of your business!”

“But I am Kyohei’s homeroom teacher. I have to know where he is,” I said sharply.

“I don’t care where they are,” he said as if they were total strangers.

“I think,” Mr. Sato said. “You should report this to the police, otherwise, they might…,” he stopped abruptly. I thought he was going to say, “They might commit suicide.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care about them at all!” he said in a loud voice.

We gave up talking with him and returned to school.

The next day, there was no news about them in the media. I was not able to teach English well nor sleep well.

On the afternoon of the third day, the telephone in the teachers’ room rang. It was for me. I was afraid something bad had happened to Kyohei.     

“Hello, this is Matsuoka speaking,”

“This is Kyohei’s mother,” she said.

So, she was alive and Kyohei was alive, too.

“Mr. Matsuoka, we are sorry to have troubled you. You might have wondered where we went. We are now staying at a hotel near my house. So don’t worry about us.”

Weeks later, Kyohei came to school. I talked with him. He told me how he had been raised by his parents.

“My parents were always quarreling when I was a child. I thought this was normal for family. I thought every married couple were quarreling, but when I was a fourth grader, I visited my friend’s house and I was surprised that his parents did not fight. Every time I visited him, they never argued. So I thought my family was unusual. I have been brought up in an abnormal family.”

He had had such a wretched childhood.

What has become of him? I don’t know, because he quit school when he finished the first year.

I hope he is doing fine.

 

The Most Gullible Man I Have Ever Known

The most suitable adjective to describe the late Mr. M is “gulllible.” He was one of my work colleagues at N High School. Although he was 15 years older than I, we had good chemistry. He loved writing haiku, growing flowers, and reading Dickens. We often talked with each other in the teachers’ room, at coffee shops, and on our way back home after school.

One day he told me about the bitterest experience he had had in his 60 or so years of life. He was scammed out of 9 million yen by a kind-looking “gentleman.”

About a month before, he had dropped in at a coffee shop of which he was a regular customer. Since he and the shop owner were on friendly terms, he complained to him.

“I have been trying to sell my property for a long time. The price is reasonable, but it hasn’t been sold. It’s really troublesome.”

 Another customer sitting near Mr. M happened to hear his complaints and approached him.

“Excuse me, but I am a real estate agent.” He was in his 40s and looked neat and decent in his suits. He took out his business card out of his wallet and handed it to Mr. M. It showed his name and his business: a licensed, well-established real estate dealer.

“I’ve overheard that you are in trouble in selling your real estate. I have helped a lot of people who had troubles concerning real estates. I would like to help you if you don’t mind.”

After talking with the man for some time, Mr. M thought he was a sincere and reliable man. So he asked him for help.

The next Sunday, he took the agent to his estate to show it to him. He measured the size carefully, staked out the borders, and took pictures.

“Good. This is a good piece of land,” he said. “Depend upon me. I am sure I can sell it for you in a week or so.” Mr. M was happy to hear that.

Several days later, the agent called him saying that he had found a man who wanted to buy the estate and that he would introduce the prospective buyer to them when convenient. On that day when the buyer saw the land, he said, “I would like to buy the land at 13.8 million yen.”

Although his price was 200,000 yen less than Mr. M’s asking price, he decided to sell it to him. He was glad that he had at last found a buyer. That day the agent and Mr. M went to a sushi shop to celebrate the successful deal. After they had had a merry time over sushi and sake, the dealer insisted on paying the expense saying, “No, no, it’s MY pleasure to help you.” Mr. M believed the man completely.  

One morning four days later, or one day before the payment of the money, the dealer visited Mr. M and asked him to lend him 10 million yen for just half a day because he had made a big mistake in the stock market. He needed that amount money urgently to compensate the loss. He said he would return the money with 5 percent of interest first thing in the next morning without fail. He sobbed and pleaded with him saying he would have to commit suicide without the money.

Although Mr. M didn’t know much about the stock market, he believed what he said. He was the type of man who couldn’t reject others’ desperate pleading. Besides, he thought he would not get his 13.8 million yen from his property sale if the dealer committed suicide. Mr. M thought, “After all this man helped me and will surely return the money tomorrow morning.” So, he went to the bank, withdrew 9 million yen, and lent it to him in exchange for his IOU with his seal on it. The agent thanked Mr. M again and again and assured him that he would return the money and the interest before noon the next day.

The next morning the dealer did not appear. Mr. M telephoned him but he got no answer. He called him again and again but in vain. He telephoned him repeatedly the day after the next day, without an answer. Mr. M called him on the following days, but the dealer did not call him let alone visit him. Finally Mr. M visited his office, but it was a sham. He checked the seal at the city office, but it was a fake. After painstaking inquiries, he at last found his telephone number and called him.

“I’ve had a traffic accident and I’m in critical condition,” he said.  

When Mr. M called him the next time, he said, “My mother is seriously ill. So, don’t bother me anymore. The fucking money? Why don’t you believe me? Didn’t I say I would return it? I will surely return it. So, never call me again, Damn Idiot!”

Mr. M advised me at the end of his story, “Be careful when you deal with real estate. Swindlers are looking for prey.”

I think his bitter experience shortened his life. He died at the age of 64.

 

 

A POPULAR TEACHER, MR. S.

 

A POPULAR TEACHER

During my 43-years of teaching at a boys’ high school, I worked with dozens of teachers. Each teacher had their own characteristics. Some were strict and scary; and others gentle and tender-hearted, but Mr. S, a mathematics teacher, was the gentlest and the most tender-hearted.

He was a tall slender man with glasses, and was about seven years older than I. Since our desks were often close to each other, we often talked a lot with each other during recesses and after school. Thus, I came to know many things about him.

He rarely scolded his students. Even if he scolded them severely, he was not scary because his way of speaking was slow with some countryside accent. Since his scolding sounded funny, many students mocked him behind his back.

His class was usually noisy. I suppose the noisy students were a nuisance to those who wanted to study math seriously. Once he said to me, “I don’t want the principal to loiter along the corridor, looking into classrooms. He will get a bad impression of me because my class is noisy.” One day when a science teacher was teaching, his neighboring classroom was so noisy that he went there, opened the door, and shouted, “Quiet!” but he saw Mr. S teaching.

His desk in the teachers’ room was usually surrounded by several students at lunch breaks. They visited him not to ask math questions, but just to talk with him. One day he said to me, “K is a bad boy. He pulled out my leg hair. It still hurts.” It seems that not only K but also other students regarded him not as a teacher but as their classmate.

Besides these headaches, he had another. His homeroom students did not clean the classroom after school. How many times Mr. S scolded them for not cleaning, they ran away immediately after the last class finished. Therefore, Mr. S himself had to clean the classroom. He had to move 45 desks and 45 chairs to clean the floor and return them to their original positions every day. He complained to me, “These days my legs hurt.”

On top of his complaints about his students, he had much more complaints about his wife. I still remember what he said to me one day when we were eating lunch at a restaurant.

“I am angry with my wife,” he said. “She has reckless spending habits. She buys a lot of expensive cosmetics and clothes, and unnecessary things. I always have to return them to the shop. Last week, when I returned an electric appliance (I forgot what it was) together with the coupons, the shop owner said, ‘Mister, you don’t have to return the coupons. Please keep them.’” Besides her bad habits, she was an idle wife. She did not clean their house nor cook meals. She always went out to meet with her friends. He told me that he was thinking of divorcing her. (Actually, he divorced a few years after retiring from school.)

   Thus, he seems to have had hard time at home as well as at school. Today, however, he is a happy 80-year-old man because his middle-aged ex-students, about a dozen in number, have been holding a dinner three times a year for him for the past 15 or so years. I have also been invited to the feasts in recent years. Mr. S seemed to be a poor teacher at school, but today he is not. He looks happy surrounded by his middle aged ex-students. He has been and will be loved by them for the coming years. I have attended a lot of my ex-students’ alumni reunions, but I do not know a more popular teacher than Mr. S.

COMMENTS

This was a very nice and heartwarming story. It was great to read a memoir about a teacher who found a lot of joy and happiness after his career was over. I enjoyed reading this one very much.

 I could really feel your connection to this story. Your good and strong relationship as well as your admiration for him was very apparent in this work. I think that is why it came across as so sincere.

 I really liked the style. It was very different from a traditional memoir in that the story focused on the life and career of your co-worker rather than directly on your own.
 I’m not sure you need to include the information about your co-worker’s divorce and ex-wife in this memoir. The story is mainly about his relationship with his students and I think you should focus on that instead.

THE SWEETEST SOUND

　　About 50 years ago, I was a university senior and my mother was 47 years old. One day in early December she said to me showing her arm, “I wonder why my arm is spotted with dark dots.” I looked at her arm and saw several gray stains.

A few days later, when she returned home from a public bathhouse, she said she was shy because a friend of hers said to her, “Oh, my, what is the matter with your body? It is covered with dark stains.” She looked at her body and was shocked. Her friend was telling the truth. She quickly got out of the bath and wore her clothes as soon as possible.

   A few days later, my father took her to Ogaki City Hospital. When he returned home alone from the hospital, he said, “Fumiko (my mother) has been hospitalized.” Then he went directly to the tatami bed room without speaking to me or to my sister any more, and lay there for an unusually long time in a dark corner of the room. I saw him lying like a fetus on the tatami floor. I thought he was tired after hospitalizing her.

   I did not worry about her hospitalization so much. I was more occupied by my graduation exams that were being held in a few days later. I thought she would leave the hospital in a week or two. My sister was also busy preparing for the university entrance exams.

   I commuted for an hour and a half from Ogaki to Nagoya to go to university and returned home around seven o’clock. My father and sister usually prepared meals instead of my mother. We did not speak much at the table.

   About two weeks later, I visited the hospital. I saw my mother in nemaki clothes lying on a bed. She looked normal and spoke normally. As I was cleaning the bed frames and the cupboard with a wet rag, she said:

 “I can’t die before I see my grandchildren.”

   “But I’m only 21,” I said.

   Why did she talk about the distant future? I hadn’t even graduated from university. What she said was irrelevant, I thought.

   A week later, the telephone rang. My father called me from the hospital. My sister and I rushed to the hospital only to find my mother was gasping for breath, writhing with agony, kicking her nemaki clothes, and exposing her thigh. She was groaning. She was unconscious. All I could do was just watch her. I grasped her hand. It was cold. I felt like I was watching a tragic movie. Should I call her, “Mother”?

   “She can’t be saved,” my father said abruptly.

   I couldn’t believe him. Why? She was so alive just a week before. Did death come so suddenly? Unbelievable. Why so suddenly? Why, why, why?

   In less than ten minutes after I arrived at her room, she died. So suddenly.

   Later I learned that my father had known that she would die. He said she died from leukemia.

   Did my mother know she was suffering from the fatal disease? Was that the reason she told me she couldn’t die before she saw her grandchildren? Or she just said it for fun? The former is probable.

   Now I understood why my father, after returning home from the hospital, lay on the tatami floor for an unusually long time. He must have been agonizing over her impending death. He must have wondered whether he should tell us her true condition. He should have, because my sister and I were not children, but on second thought I think he did not have enough courage to disclose such an important matter. I do not blame him. I sympathize with him. How much he wanted to tell the truth to me and my sister. He just couldn’t. He must have thought it better not to disclose the truth. He must have believed she might be saved. What would I have said to her in the hospital if I had known the truth? Wouldn’t my face have betrayed me?

   After the funeral, I heard my sister crying loudly for a long long time in her room. I just sat at my desk and said faintly, “Mother, Mother.” At that moment I realized I was eternally deprived of the opportunity to utter the sweetest sound in the world.

WITH KISS AND HEART MARKS ❤

She is a 19-year-old girl,

cute and pretty, charming and cheerful.

She sent me an e-mail,

“I’d like to chat with you over a cup of coffee.”

Really?

An e-mail from such a young girl to

such an old man like me.

How happy I was!

 

I met her at a coffee shop three months ago.

She was working as a waitress.

She became so friendly with me that

we shook hands whenever we met.

One day I saw a poster advertising

a vocational school at a subway station.

A cute girl was smiling in the poster.

She was the spitting image of the waitress.

How surprising!

 

The next time I went to the coffee shop,

I asked her if it was her.

“Yes, it is. I am working as a model.”

That’s why she is cute and pretty,

charming and cheerful.

 

I sent back an e-mail,

“I’d like to chat with you, too.

She sent back an-email,

“I can’t wait to see you, too.”

At the end of the text

there were kiss and heart marks.    ❤

I was too excited to sleep.

 

We were to meet in Sakae at noon.

We were to eat lunch.

Around 11 o’clock she texted,

“Sorry, I’ll be late. I’ll be there at 1:00.”

“All right, I’ll be waiting for you.”

I arrived there at 12:50 and waited for her.

I waited and waited and waited.

No telephone call. No e-mail.

I telephoned. I texted.

No reply.

 

I got impatient.

I got irritated.

I got angry.

She must have had an accident.

She must have fallen ill.

Still no reply. No nothing.

I waited and waited and waited.

 

The next day.

No e-mail from her. No call.

I sent an e-mail,

“Why don’t you mail me?

Why don’t you call me?

I am disappointed with you.”

 

The next day, she texted me,

“Sorry, but I had trouble at home.

I’m now staying with my friend.

I’ll contact you later when

the trouble is solved”

with a crying face mark.

 

I waited for her message

I waited and waited and waited.

At last she e-mailed me.

“I’d like to see you on such and such day.”

On the morning of that day

she sent me an email,

“I am sick and can’t come.

I’ll contact you soon.”

 

Since then she has sent me no messages.

Since then she hasn’t called me.

  Since then my messages haven’t been replied to.

  Since then no telephone reply.

  No response, no nothing.

  Why did she say,

  “I can’t wait to see you, too”

  with kiss and heart marks?

How disappointing!

 

  Two months have passed.

  I’ve given up on her.

  Is she a bad girl?

  Did she intend to tease me from the start?

  Did she enjoy teasing me?

How could such a pretty girl

have played a prank on me?

How could she?

How could she?

 

  What still haunts me are her posters.

  I see them on subway trains.

  Whichever seat I sit on,

 I see her poster.

 How depressing!