The Man in The Bullet Train

'Wataru,
I'm in Beppu. I don't want things to end. I really don't. Especially not the way they did in Kyoto. I hope you will agree to meet me but I'll understand if you don't. I'll be sitting on a bench on the promenade at the end of your street tonight at 8pm. And tomorrow at the same time. Love Ben.'

That was the final draft anyway. After umpteen others, all of which finished scrunched up on the carpet around the bin rather than in it. I sealed it up in the hotel envelope and just wrote his name simply on the front and went back down to meet Laurel and Hardy in the bar.

Two glasses of white had ensured they were the best of friends once more and, as soon as their bar tab was signed, we left, walking down a street parallel to 'Ryokan Alley' that was chock full of izakayas and restaurants just starting to fill with escaping office workers and weary tourists alike. Arriving on the Promenade that stretched the length of the the beach, we turned right and could see bench after bench spaced out along most of the town seafront. Only a few were occupied and then only with one lonely bottom sat on their peeling paintwork and contemplating their own life and its colours, be they pale or rich and deep. Katsumi and l would soon each be sitting and mulling over which direction our own happiness would take, what colour our futures, or non-futures would be.

A further turn to the right and we were confronted with 'Ryokan Alley' as l had christened it. That said, it wasn't radically different from the street we had just descended, full of bars and traditional hotels and no doubt the dramas and humdrum of lives just like ours.

A rapid-fire check by Katsumi of instructions with Kei-kun and then we watched our little elf eye up every male on the street as he walked off, letters in hand and dressed, ironically, in virginal-white tshirt and tight white jeans, which showed off his cute little butt to perfection. We'd decided that Kei would deliver my letter first simply because, as I'd pointed out, Wataru's ryokan was the furthest away. Whilst he was being Mr Postman, Katsumi and l would wait in the izakaya opposite. One that, thankfully, served food lest Keiko and Wataru be deafened by my grumbling digestive system ... if they did turn up! And the doubts that they would were gnawing into me with a vengeance. Keiko had had decades in which her life would have twisted and turned away from Katsumi. Wataru had no reason to want to saddle himself with a clumsy gaijin, and a considerably older one to boot. It had, after all, only been the shortest of holiday romances at best, a holiday fuck-fest at worst!

Katsumi had been delighted when she'd spotted this traditional izakaya which she declared, ominously, 'would be a suitable experience'! She'd started translating some of the hundreds of individual wooden menu-boards which covered the walls with such delights as 'fowl gizzard' and 'poultry cartilage' when Kei burst in. A very different Kei from the immaculately preened, self-assured one who'd left us earlier. His white jeans were covered in dust. Hair, previously gelled to within an inch of its life, was totally disheveled and, most bizarrely of all, his back was covered in thin, greyish-black lines. I took my crumpled letter from his hand to see that now it had Japanese handwriting scrawled below my words.
I had no chance of understanding what was written or indeed even 1% of the exchanges of machine-gun Japanese between Kei and Katsumi but I did notice ears at other tables prick up as they tuned into a conversation they could not fail to overhear.

'What is it? What's happened? Tell me!'

'Wait! I'm trying to find out! It's not good. Not good!'

'I'd managed to work that out for myself!'

Katsumi was now adjusting Kei's hair as he dusted himself down and regained a little of his previous composure.

'Is someone going to tell me what's written on this before I start popping rivets for fuck's sake?'

'Gomenasai, Ben-San! [I'm sorry!]' were Kei's only words as he bowed, far too deeply for me to hang on to even a shred of hope, and left, this time clutching Katsumi's letter.

'Ok.' She leaned forward and took a mouthful from her glass of beer. Her shoulders dropped and she took a deep breath:

'It says 'Leave' ... well 'Fuck off' might be a better translation ... 'Don't ever try to get in contact again!' The 'ever' is underlined!'

Although I'd known it could only be bad news, my heart sank still further.

'Apparently, it went very, very badly. Kei said that when he went in, he easily spotted Wataru in the izakaya part that's attached to the ryokan, because it was fairly empty. Wataru was sat opposite his father, who's in a wheelchair by the way, and he got up as soon as he saw Kei.'

'And?'

'Give me a chance! Kei went to hand over the letter but the old boy snatched it and read it first! Then he started bawling at Kei and Wataru and scribbled on the letter before throwing it at Kei who fell backwards over a chair in surprise. That was when he started beating Kei on his back with this cane that he uses for pointing at stuff. He was hitting Wataru with it when Kei ran out!'

Cold rage took control. I stood up, fists clenching and clenching and threw a ¥2,000 note on the table.

'Come on! And NOW!'

It was with difficulty that I managed to force myself not to run straight to where Wataru was and punch the living daylights out of his father --- disabled or not! But instead, fortunately, l had to stop and wait periodically for an out of breath Katsumi to catch up. The moment the high-heeled one did, I was off again, giving her no chance to ask what I was going to do when l got there.
I wouldn't have been able to answer anyway. There was no plan. My rage, my instincts dictated that I just needed to protect Wataru, so that's where my body was going. My thinking was back with Katsumi, trying to catch up.

The izakaya was as traditional as the ryokan it was attached to, all wooden and dark, sombre and certainly more rough and ready in style than Katsumi's in Kyoto and definitely one not used to six foot, hairy barbarians barging in, looking as if ready to rip heads off shoulders. It appeared to have filled up since Kei's earlier visit since now perhaps 40% of the rustic oak tables were occupied as well as one or two of the raised tatami-floored booths which ran along one side. It was at one of the booths, at the far corner end, that a specially extended table protruded, permitting a wheelchair to slot underneath and allow its owner to be at the same level as other guests seated cross-legged on floor cushions inside the booth.

The occupant of the wheelchair, in common with most other patrons, turned to see what the cause of the noise was as I burst in, followed silently some ten seconds later by a rather flushed looking Katsumi.

The father's face went from utter shock to outright fear as I strode up to him. His hand reached out for a thin beige-coloured cane on the table, the one that he must have used to beat poor Kei and Wataru. That much l do remember. Then all of a sudden, barely a second later, I was looking at the same cane but this time it was in pieces, the curved handle still in his hand, but the remainder now consisting of three snapped lengths in my hands.

He was desperately trying to manoeuvre away from the table but couldn't as he was blocked in by me on his right, the wall on his left and a heavy wooden chair from the table behind him. It was at that moment my anger dissipated and l suddenly felt pity for him, all impotent rage imprisoned and vulnerable in his wheelchair. Embarrassed at my loss of control, l looked into the booth itself and was met by Wataru's beautiful soft eyes gazing back at me. I felt no hostility and knew there and then that I'd been right to follow him to Beppu.

I slipped off my shoes and sat down next to him on the tatami inside the booth, indicating he was to push up along the table so l would be on his father's immediate right and he then on my right. Katsumi stepped up onto the tatami and padded around the far end of the table to come and, very gracefully, sit down opposite me on his left, as if all this was all perfect tly in order. Seemingly totally unruffled, she bowed her head respectfully in greeting, first to his father and then to Wataru and for her trouble was met by a barrage of gutteral Japanese from the old man in response.

He banged on and on with Katsumi bowing her head occasionally as if in rapt attention to each syllable. I felt Wataru's hand squeeze mine, unseen, under the table now and again whenever the rant became particularly intense and no doubt especially venomous. Not understanding a single word gave me the opportunity to study the old man andto make it quite obvious that l was sizing him up too. He was in his mid 60's at a guess and even had he not been confined to a wheelchair, would not have reached even Kei's height, though he was of similar, slight build to Kei. Bald, with a flat round face, he appeared like a human version of a French bulldog. Minus the ears. And, like any small dog, it seemed he made up for lack of size with a hell of a lot of yapping.

Eventually, however, the tirade petered out, though whether to give Katsumi the chance to translate or because it coincided with a member of his bar staff's nervous approach wasn't at all clear. I looked at Katsumi for the translation, though I had a fairly good idea of what it would be!

'Bla, bla, bla ... bla bla, bla ... he's going to call the police if you don't leave, bla bla!'

I ignored Wataru's father and Katsumi's masterful, but no doubt accurate summary on purpose and instead, to demonstrate l was in pole position, bowed to the waiter:

'Biiru, yotzu, onegai shimasu.' ['Four beers, please.']

The waiter, visibly relieved that things had settled down sufficiently for him not to have to do anything, didn't hang around to be told twice and l leaned forward, moving a little aggressively into the father's personal space --- as much as I could anyway given the danger of my over-balancing into his lap. l looked directly into his face, fixing his gaze intimidatingly, daring him to break it. My right hand left Wataru's and instead I shook my forefinger slowly from side to side in front of him in a gesture that, regardless of our different cultures, clearly and unambiguously said 'no':

'No, you are not going to call the police because ... ' l paused, for dramatic effect and to let Katsumi translate before resuming:

' ... l will make such a scene, Beppu will still be talking about it ten years after your funeral and ...'

' ... trust me, us gaijin do scenes very, very well ...'

The colour began to drain from the old man's features, all too aware of the consequent loss of face in front of staff, patrons and town if l were to carry out my threat.

'And because the police will be obliged to interview the young man you assaulted before ...'

My hand returned to cover Wataru's under the table, unseen.

'... and interview Wataru also... '

His face had turned completely grey and I knew that Katsumi's killer instincts, as l fully expected, were not pulling punches with the translating.

'... but he and l will be able to leave behind the embarrassment and go to live in the UK ... '

Here, I squeezed Wataru's hand, fearing he would withdraw it from mine but he didn't and in fact, squeezed back.

' ... whereas you, you will have the gossip of the entire town surrounding you as you sit, in your izakaya, alone!'

It was at this point that a single tear rolled down his cheek and I really feared for a second that I'd overplayed my hand. But the god of 50 year old blokes recently freed from closets intervened in the form of the still apprehensive bar-staff carrying the beers and menus and himself praying to the god of bar staff that he would not need to get involved.

I seized my glass and bottle and poured away, lifting it when full:

'Kampai!' ['Cheers!']

Katsumi, however, did not allow Wataru's father to pour his beer himself, seizing hold of his bottle before he was able to. I noted firstly how, when she poured his beer, she was careful to use both hands to hold the bottle, clearly, and perhaps more importantly, publically, indicating respect for his age and status. Although no 'kampai' was forthcoming from him, there was an almost imperceptible nod of the head to her in recognition of the respect accorded to him. As dishes arrived, she turned the full force of her charm onto him, engaging him in conversation about his ryokan and his izakaya. Chink after chink in his armour was then expertly exploited by her as she first brought his son and then me into the conversation.

Then, her mobile went off.

Comments and constructive criticism welcomed pleeeeeease, guys! Thanks for reading either way!