By David Shield
‘Thank for your hard work today, David,’ Mrs Suzuki says as I enter the staff room. ‘I’m sorry you had to teach solo today. We’re so short staffed with everyone sick and your Japanese is so good…’
‘It’s fine,’ I reply, returning to my desk and checking that another fluoro isn’t about to fall on it. The Fukushima earthquake was still doing a number on the post-war, concrete monstrosity of a primary school.
‘Mrs Suzuki – is that a pineapple plant on your desk?’
‘Yes, one of the local farmers brought it in. Unusual, isn’t it? You have these in Australia, right?’
‘Yeah, near where I live. How is it alive this far north? It must’ve been grown in a terrarium.’ Examining the plant, I can see the fruit coming out of its centre on a long stem, like an offering plate at a local shrine – except spikier. ‘Did you know it’s a kind of bromeliaed?’
‘Oh, let me Google that! I love learning new English words.’
I shrug, long since used to the secretary’s fascination with these sorts of things. Somehow the tea sitting on my desk is piping hot. She always seems to know exactly when I will return and makes it before I arrive.
‘When are you in next?’
‘Not till after the summer break. I’m heading back to Oz for a couple of weeks.’
‘Have a nice break. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t come back. I’m sick of the Geiger counter tests.’ Usually unflappable, Mrs Suzuki’s pen quivers slightly. No-one knew what the reactor was doing. I know the dark circles under my eyes are at least as big as hers. When was the last time I slept through the night? Even the rambunctious play of the kids at lunch seems covered in an unnatural haze of quiet. An audience waiting for the orchestra to play a held note.
‘I’d bring back a pineapple, but we already have one.’
A hint of a smile; I’m finally getting the hang of jokes in Japanese.
All that has changed when I return is the pineapple, now large and nearly ripe. It sits outside the principal’s door like a favourite hound. I walk in the staff room to find Mrs Suzuki grinning, a piping hot cup of tea on my desk.
How does she do that? I break out the chocolate I brought back for everyone.
‘Oh, you’ll need these,’ she says, handing me a stack of perfectly-sized plates with a lily-of-the-valley pattern on them.
Where on earth did she find these? They’re not from the school’s kitchen.
‘Thanks. The pineapple looks nearly ripe. I guess you’ll be picking it shortly?’
Her face goes blank for a moment. The wind rustles through the rice field outside.
‘Oh yes, yes. I’ll remind the principal,’ she replies, helping me put the plates on the teachers’ desks.
The day of classes passes in a whirl of child-induced insanity – getting stuck up trees, vomiting and arguing about unicorns. When I collapse into my chair at the end of the day my tea is waiting – scalding – like it was poured only the moment before.
How does she do that? I blow over the top of it, eyes wandering aimlessly. The staffroom blackboard is so covered in paper and magnets it reminds me of grade ones trying to shuffle cards. I notice that the principal has now begun a photo wall of the pineapple – like a proud grandfather of a grandchild. The most recent one is dated today. Good, he must be about to pick it.
A week passes. Still sitting at the principal’s door is the unpicked pineapple, now very ripe.
‘Busy week?’ I muse aloud before entering the staff room. My tea is waiting. So is my daily Geiger counter test.
‘What did you score today?’ Mrs Suzuki asks, her clip board and pen in hand. She’s not sweating despite the humidity clinging to me like a wet blanket.
‘All clear. You know that that pineapple is ripe? The principal really needs to pick it soon.’
‘Oh yes, I’ll remind him again,’ Mrs Suzuki chortles. ‘Did you hear that the Fukushima reactor is under control?’
‘Do you trust it?’
‘No,’ she replies with a mischievous grin.
I go about my day.
I close my car door with too much force, the slam a bracing reality after the radio.
‘I swear that news reader is lying through her teeth,’ I mutter. The sky’s a brilliant blue; the swallows have left their nests already. Looking towards the principal’s office I see the pineapple, now golden, sitting in the sun like an old labrador. I shake my head.
‘Good morning.’ I quickly hide a yawn. The night was spent waking up with every aftershock.
‘Morning, David,’ Mrs Suzuki says, the same shadows under her eyes that I feel, her clipboard expectant.
‘All clear. You know that pineapple is going to rot if he leaves it any longer,’ I remark.
There’s silence in the staff room. Then a shuffling of feet and a few expectant glances.
‘By any chance, does anyone know how to pick a pineapple?’ There’s a collective shaking of heads. ‘Would you like me to do it?’
The words have barely left my mouth before the principal whisks the plant out into the central courtyard like live grenade. The school’s post-war PA system crackles into life and the secretary’s voice echoes through the halls. ‘Mr David is now going to pick the pineapple. All students to the courtyard for viewing.’
How the hell does she do that? The PA’s in a different room!
I walk to the courtyard. One hundred and thirty pairs of expectant eyes are fixed on the spiky main attraction, including the principal and his camera. He bends over with his enormous lens for a close up. He reminds me of the stalks that migrate through the area. His finger held like a raptor prepared to dive on an unexpecting stoat. With a quick twist of my wrist the pineapple comes off its stalk.
Silence and then riotous applause, completely unmerited. Trying not to blush, I hand the pineapple to the principal who duly takes a few more snaps before returning it to the staff room like a trophy. The other teachers look at me expectantly.
‘Do you not know how to cut it up either?’ Thirteen heads shake. I turn towards the kitchen only to find the secretary behind me with a knife and a cutting board in hand.
How the hell does she do that?
