Osaka Calling  

Kenneth Wong

“The interview is tomorrow morning at 6:30 am. You cannot be late. The Japanese are very punctual. If you’re not on time, you can kiss your chances goodbye,” said Daichi.

“Don’t worry. I know. I’ll set my alarm for 6. I’ll be on time,” replied Yu Yu, annoyed to be reminded for the third time.

“Ne, wakaru? When they say 6:30, they actually want you on Zoom by 6:15, ready and waiting. That shows you want the job. And you need to turn on your camera. They want to see you. What are you going to wear, by the way?”

“A white blouse.”

“Choose something professional. The sleeveless, flashy, colorful outfits are dame—no good!”

Yu Yu had thought she could wake up at 6 am. Now she realized she would have to start her day much earlier, perhaps even before her mom’s morning prayer.

Daichi was from upcountry, from a village near Bagan. His Burmese name was Moe Nyo. It was a name awash with the scent of monsoon rain and stained with the same reddish-brown glaze that coated the pottery made in his birthplace. But looking at him, few would suspect his humble origins. Sporting a pair of Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses, he spoke with the brassy swagger of an Osaka gang boss, sprinkling his Burmese with Japanese interjections.

He was leaning on one of the stone pillars that marked the edge of Botahtaung Pagoda’s precinct. Even though it was shadier inside, he didn’t want to step through the arched gate. To do that, he would have to remove his socks and Adidas sneakers. That would dirty his feet. More importantly, it would mar his mystique, cultivated in Genki Japanese employment agency’s air-conditioned Yangon headquarters where everyone wore pants and western footwear.

Yu Yu couldn’t get used to the name Daichi. Throughout elementary school, she knew him as Moe Nyo. To her, he would always be Moe Nyo, the whiny boy in an unironed shirt. She marveled at his delicate cream-white arms, sticking out of the rolled-up sleeves of his Uniqlo shirt. The transformation was stunning. She wondered if her own copper-toned skin, forged in Myanmar’s merciless midland heat, could turn white like that. Perhaps after five or six years in Japan, in the breezy suburbs of Osaka where she hoped to be living and working.

“Look, I’m doing this because we’re childhood friends. I’m not supposed to recommend an outsider, but I’m sneaking you into the lineup. Don’t screw it up, OK? I told my boss Tanaka San you can speak Japanese. But can you, though? Nihongo shaberu?” asked Daichi.

“I’ve been taking classes at the language school in Yankin,” said Yu Yu.

“Ever taken a Japanese Language Proficiency Test? What’s your JLPT level?”

“I just started studying for it last summer. I’m studying for N5.”

Daichi cringed.

“This job is for a traditional Japanese inn. To get in, you need to be at least N3 or N2.”

Suddenly the mobile phone inside Daichi’s breast pocket began vibrating with an anime-themed ringtone. He looked at the flashing blue screen and said, “It’s from the office, so I gotta…”

Moshi moshi! Hai, Daichi desu!

While Daichi was on the phone, Yu Yu pulled out her own phone and typed Osaka into her Facebook’s app’s search bar. She came across photos of people posing beneath the neon signs in Osaka’s nightlife and restaurant district. In sizzling lights and exploding colors, she saw a large crab flanked by dangling potstickers and pufferfishes. In the background, a giant octopus hugged the side of a building and a seven-story-tall running man towered over a canal. Everything seemed larger than life. In the captions and descriptions, the English word Namba kept coming up. This must be the name of the place. She couldn’t help but notice it sounded like the Burmese phrase “kiss me!”

Compared to the neon-lit squid balls and seafood in Osaka’s Namba, the stout catfish her father once caught in the Irrawaddy River, the juicy mangos from her grandmother’s backyard, and even the giant jars from her hometown … all seemed much smaller.

Yu Yu was still struggling with basic Japanese, but her English was way better, thanks to her obsession with the American TV series Friends. Unlike her friends who spoke with a typical Burmese’s fishpaste accent, she spoke with a fairly convincing American accent. When she met tourists before Botahtaung Pagoda, she would proudly tell them that, in the country’s first free and fair election, she voted for Aung San Suu Kyi—Mother Suu; and that she even campaigned for Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy. Then she would lead the visitors—almost dragging them by their hands—to her beloved tea houses and snack shops.

Come, come, please! Drink some Myanmar lephetyay, our traditional tea. It tastes very nice. Eat some kyetthon kyaw too. How do you say? Oh, shredded onion fritters, of course. Have I been to San Francisco? Tokyo? No, sir, but I want to. I will one day. You will show me around then? Yes? Thank you, sir! It would be so nice! Yes, I’ve finished university. I graduated last year with a B.A. in Economics. What’s my dream? Oh, I want to become a project manager. I want to work for an NGO—something related to microfinancing or women’s rights.

But things changed after the military coup. The tourists had deserted the country, and the NGOs she wanted to work for had packed up and left. Now, she was afraid to scan her Facebook newsfeed. It seemed every morning she was waking up to news of dissidents getting arrested, deaths in the interrogation center, and the army’s airstrikes against the guerrillas in the ethnic regions. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare, to get away from the smoldering villages and bloodstained sidewalks where protesters had been shot to death. All the streets in Japan she’d seen on TV seemed so clean. Wouldn’t it be nice to wake up in Osaka, under a crisp blue sky with cotton-candy clouds? For that, she’d gladly work in a Japanese inn, doing laundry, folding bedsheets, or whatever. She’d even sell squid balls in Namba if she had to.

“I just spoke with Tanaka San. Everything is set. Tomorrow, you’ll be interviewed by Sachiko, the inn’s chief recruiter. What’s your home internet connection like?” asked Daichi.

“It’s fine,” said Yu Yu, somewhat hesitantly.

“Fine won’t cut it. You need a strong, stable connection to stream video. Wakaru? If you lose your connection, it’s over. And remember to lock your door. Don’t let anybody interrupt the interview.”

Yu Yu didn’t have a private room. What she had was a tiny corner, barely large enough to fit a mat. It was sectioned off from the common area by a series of sarongs dangling from a wireline. The makeshift partition gave her a measure of privacy, but not enough to insulate her from her mom’s morning prayer and her dad’s snores. From her long pause, Daichi guessed Yu Yu didn’t have the right environment for the call.

“If your place won’t work, ask a neighbor or a friend to let you use theirs,” suggested Daichi.

Several hours later, Yu Yu was knocking on the door of her Japanese language school, located in a four-story building in Yankin Township. It was one of the few places she knew that had reliable broadband connection and private rooms. All the classes had ended for the day, and everyone had gone home, except the janitor—and that was exactly the person Yu Yu wanted to see. 

“U Kyaw Gyi, I need a favor,” said Yu Yu. “I have a Zoom interview tomorrow morning. Can I do it from a classroom here?”

U Kyaw Gyi, the 50-something onsite janitor with a limp, had been working at the school since it opened five years ago. Yu Yu knew he had a soft spot for her. Like her, he too was once a card-carrying member of Suu Kyi’s NLD Party. “You remind me of my sister,” he once revealed to her. “She was just about your age when she died.”

U Kyaw Gyi’s sister was among the hundreds of students who were killed when the soldiers opened fire on the pro-democracy protesters in 1988. Every year on August 8, the anniversary of the massacre, U Kyaw Gyi climbed the steps of Shwe Dagon Pagoda, dragging his bad leg up more than 100 steps. Then he offered flowers to the Wednesday planet’s corner in memory of his Wednesday-born sister. As it happened, Yu Yu was also born on a Wednesday.

“What time is your interview?”

“At 6:30. It’s with a Japanese company …”

“Then you’d better be here by 6—6:15 at the latest.”

“I suppose. That’s what the agent told me.”

“The first class starts at 8:30. Students will start arriving around 8. Will you be done by then?”

“I promise.”

“Well then, tomorrow at 5:30, I’ll be here to let you in.”

That night, curled up inside her mosquito net, Yu Yu kept searching for photos of Osaka online, choking up her low-bandwidth Wifi network at home. Osaka Castle with its stone walls and green roofs, towering over a sea of maple leaves; a glowing fugu-shaped lantern floating above Shinsekei like a galleon; the bright-lit Tempozan Ferris Wheel spinning by the waterfront … Like snowflakes, hundreds of images trickled down her screen in pixilated squares. The more she found, the more she wanted to see. She got lost in the search results and lost track of time. By the time her eyelids started to grow heavy, she realized it was already 4. There was no point in going to sleep now. She began changing into her long-sleeved white blouse.

In the taxi ride to Yankin, she ignored the young driver’s attempts to flirt with her. She needed that time to practice her responses to the standard interview questions. She wished the interview had been in English. Then she could easily impress the interviewer, Sachiko. She hoped Sachiko would take pity on her and overlook her awkward Japanese.

“Look, the dogs are out early this morning. I wonder what they’re up to,” observed the driver.

He wasn’t talking about the stray dogs huddling under the lampposts. It was a reference to the army trucks parked in various intersections. They were loaded with rows of soldiers seated inside. Perhaps they were preparing for a raid. Yu Yu suddenly remembered she still had a few photos of herself in the pro-NLD rallies from five years ago, with red banners and golden peacocks in the background. Even though the taxi’s windows were rolled down and Yangon’s morning breeze was tickling her cheeks, Yu Yu began to sweat. If the soldiers were to stop them and check their phones, she would be arrested on the spot. Her mom and dad might never find out what happened to her. When she wouldn’t show up on Zoom, Sachiko would cross out her name from the list of candidates. Daichi had told her: The Japanese don’t want to hear your excuses. No matter what, you must be on time. Wakaru?

To Yu Yu’s relief, they encountered no roadblock. When she pulled up, U Kyaw Gyi emerged from the shadows, waiting for her at the top of the stairs. Once she reached the fourth floor, he unlocked the school’s front gate and swiftly pulled her inside.

“Come in, hurry! Looks like the dogs are driving around, rounding up people. Who knows? There might be a dalan in our district,” he said, spitting out the word dalan—informant—like a lump of rotten fish.

Such roundups were becoming a regular feature of Yangon. Last week five young men in Pazundaung got arrested, accused of orchestrating inner-city protests. Apparently, they were identified by an informant. A month ago, the police surrounded a four-story condominium where a group of urban resistance fighters were holed up. Instead of surrendering, the group decided to leap to their death from the rooftop. Yu Yu remembered seeing the viral Facebook meme depicting them as shooting stars. Heroes never die, the caption read. Yu Yu didn’t want to be a hero, a shooting star, or a viral meme; she’d rather be a fugu-shaped neon sign, gently swaying above Osaka’s Namba.

When Yu Yu walked into the reception area, she spotted a couple of handmade placards, with big red letters that read, “Death to the Military Dogs!” and “Free Aung San Suu Kyi!” As it turns out, they belonged to the old janitor. When he noticed Yu Yu’s look of shock, he said, “It’s for a flashmob protest in downtown later. Gotta do it for Mother Suu. How about it? Wanna come?”

Stupid old fool! How can he be so reckless? If he wants to get arrested, that’s his business, his own life, but how can he think of jeopardizing my future? Why does the protest have to be today? Why can’t it be another day? Yu Yu cursed the janitor silently. She also cursed her own pathetic life, for not having a proper bedroom with a locked door. She tried to swallow her rising anger with a cup of water. She had to because it was time to log into Zoom.

At 6:25, the Zoom screen flickered and came to life. Wearing a black jacket, the inn’s recruiter Sachiko appeared on camera, perfectly centered like a news announcer. The background was a traditional tatami room with a single calligraphy scroll on the wall. An ikebana arrangement—calla lilies hugged by stems of flowering plums—rose from a bamboo base. Yu Yu could tell this was not a virtual background. It was a reality 2,700 miles away—half a day’s travel by plane. Sachiko smiled, flashing her pearly white teeth. Seeing their images side by side on Zoom, Yu Yu felt self-conscious of her tea-colored teeth. She hoped the sweat spots under her arms weren’t too obvious.

After exchanging pleasantries, the interview began. Yu Yu didn’t fully understand what Sachiko was saying. Native speakers’ Japanese, she now realized, was quite different from what she was used to hearing in the classroom, which was mostly her Burmese classmates’ heavily accented Japanese. But she caught the phrase jikoshoukai for self-introduction, so she began reciting the formulaic sentences.

Watashi wa Yu Yu desu. Yangon ni sundeimasu …

Just as she had finished describing her education and her family, Yu Yu thought she heard the faint rumble of a truck. Could it be …? No, it must be a highway bus or a construction truck, not an army truck, she thought. From the corner of her eyes, she could see U Kyaw Gyi’s anti-military placards. To be caught red-handed with these would mean instant arrest, followed by interrogation. Some detainees never made it to the prison. They died under interrogation. Yu Yu felt light-headed. She had a vision of the swirling neon signs of Namba.

Sachiko spoke again. She went on for a while. Yu Yu could pick out some isolated phrases: ryokan for inn, okyakusama for customers, and omotenashi for hospitality. It suggested the interviewer was outlining what the job entailed, what the duties were. Sachiko ended her speech with a question, containing the word taihen, meaning extremely difficult. Sachiko must be warning her the job was physically taxing, and asking her if she was sure she wanted it. Yu Yu would rather work herself to death. It would at least be a useful death to her family, as her uncollected salary would go to her mom and dad.

Yu Yu tried to string together something that would pass for a proper response, to reassure Sachiko she was prepared to do the job, no matter how hard. But all she could come up with was daijoubu desu—the ubiquitous phrase for OK. So she repeated it a few times, letting her facial expression do the rest. From Sachiko’s look, she could tell she didn’t score any point. In fact, she might have lost some.

The car engine sound was becoming louder, getting closer. Yu Yu remembered her mom and dad used to talk about the army’s crackdown after the 1988 uprising: At night, we huddled in the dark, with our lights off, and we listened to the army trucks circling the neighborhood like vultures, driving around, going from street to street, rounding up people. All we could hope for was that they wouldn’t stop in front of our house.

From the corner of her eyes, Yu Yu saw U Kyaw Gyi, waving his hands, gesticulating wildly, trying to get her attention. Was he trying to warn her the soldiers were heading this way? She couldn’t tell. If she were to flee, she would have to do it now. Her feet began to itch. How might Sachiko react if she asked to terminate the interview, or postpone it indefinitely? The ikebana in the room, the layout of the tatami mats, the square patterns on the wooden screens … everything seemed so unforgivingly perfect. To walk away from the interview would be improper—shitsurei. It would be the opposite of omotenashi—to put the other’s needs above one’s own. Didn’t Sachiko just say omotenashi was part of the job? Yu Yu decided to risk it. She would stay and finish the interview.

Sachiko then asked a question, with the word kazoku and sabishii. Yu Yu guessed the interviewer was asking how she might cope with the inevitable loneliness, living far away from her loved ones.

It was almost 7 now, the time her mom would get up to put fresh flowers on the altar and say her morning prayer. She would tiptoe across the creaky wooden floor, because she didn’t want to wake up Yu Yu, who stayed up late studying Japanese. But Yu Yu was usually awake by then, so, lying in her mosquito net, she listened to her mom’s prayer, interrupted by her dad’s fits of snores. Right then, the morning peddler would pass by, shouting peeeee byooooteeeee to announce her baked beans; and the crows in the camphor tree in front of their house would answer with a series of caws. If she could, she would bottle up the mix of familiar sounds, like pickled mango in a jar, and bring it with her to Japan. Just one spoonful of it would be enough to cure her homesickness. Yu Yu was tempted to explain this to Sachiko, but her Japanese wasn’t up to the job. So again, she simply shook her head and said, gambarimasu!—a promise to persevere no matter what.

At that moment, an unexpected chance! Yu Yu caught the blessed word eigo in what Sachiko was saying. That’s the word for English! She wanted me to speak in English? Yu Yu raised her chin and began. 

Yes, ma’am, I can speak English. Please let me tell you about my hometown. I was born in Yandabo Village outside the ancient city of Bagan. It’s best known for its pottery. The glaze is the most unique. It’s made of … As she spoke, Yu Yu noticed a definite change in Sachiko’s eyes. It might have been a screen glare, but she swore they began to glow like amber. With her mouth agape, the woman listened to Yu Yu transfixed. The distance between Osaka and Yangon seemed to be shrinking.

Just then, Yu Yu thought she heard footsteps—from impatient feet hurrying up the four flights of stairs leading to the school. She discreetly looked around for U Kyaw Gyi, but the old man was nowhere to be found. It seemed he had abandoned her. But why did he leave behind the incriminating placards? How could he be so thoughtless? Yu Yu’s eyes turned toward the verandah. What would happen if she were to jump from there? Was it high enough to kill her? Would it be instant? Would she become a shooting star?

Eigo o jouzudesu ne! Your English is so good!

Sachiko’s voice brought Yu Yu’s focus back to the interview. The woman bowed, signaling the interview was about to conclude. From the hallway outside, Yu Yu heard people pounding on the school’s front door. She hoped the microphone wouldn’t pick it up.

Despite her survival instinct, Yu Yu stoically sat in her chair, staring at the Zoom screen with a singular focus. “Don’t end the call first; wait for them to end it,” Daichi had taught her. Sachiko’s closing remarks were long. For Yu Yu, every word, every phrase, every sentence was measured in bated breath. With every passing second, her escape route was closing, and her vision of Namba melting. But then, just as it was about to disappear, a familiar phrase revived it. It was the congratulatory Omedetougozaimasu! Sachiko was smiling, almost gushing as she delivered the good news.

“Now that Japan is open again to foreigners, we could really use English-speaking housekeeping staff. So welcome aboard,” Sachiko ended in English.

Yu Yu was stunned. Fate must be playing a cruel joke on her, to offer her a job in Japan just minutes before she was arrested and hauled away. There were probably thousands of stories like hers. Hundreds of bright futures, snuffed out and extinguished just as they were about to take flight. All that was left of them were a bunch of viral memes, the digital ghosts of their dashed hopes.

 It was too late to leap from the verandah. The chance to die a heroic death was gone. She might as well bring the meeting to a proper end. At least she’d leave a good impression on Sachiko. That way, when she was rotting away in a cell in Insein Jail, Sachiko would continue to talk about her. That young Burmese girl Yu Yu I interviewed—she was the perfect candidate for the job. She spoke such beautiful English. But I couldn’t contact her afterward. I wonder what happened to her. Maybe that was enough, Yu Yu thought. Even if she were denied a new life in Osaka, she would at least be remembered by someone there. And that, to her, was like having a piece of herself in Osaka.

In a scratchy but calm voice, Yu Yu expressed her gratitude and told Sachiko she looked forward to meeting her in person soon. It hurt to say something that she knew would not come true, but she felt obligated to. It might be her final act of omotenashi, a lie to bring comfort to the others. She was surprised at how formal and flawless her Japanese was. Perhaps she was destined to be a shooting star after all, to burn out and leave behind a trail of sparkling stardust, the harbinger of a new world.

Yu Yu waved Sachiko goodbye. She kept her hands up with a frozen smile, like a still image, and waited for the call to end. The footsteps in the hallway were getting closer, louder, but she no longer cared. She was at peace with whatever was about to happen.

Just as the Zoom screen went blank, the classroom door behind her swung open with a rattle and a shudder. Yu Yu turned around to face her fate. Instead of a band of green-clad soldiers, she found U Kyaw Gyi standing there, looking apologetic.

“I’m sorry I had to interrupt your interview. Some students for the morning class showed up early. Are you done?” he said.

In the lobby, just outside the classroom, she could hear the noisy chatter of her classmates. Their fishpaste-slobbered Japanese had never sounded sweeter. Yu Yu began to laugh and weep—at the same time. A new realization was starting to dawn on her. In five or six months from now, she would be strolling down Namba, biting into a dangerously hot squid ball. The hot Takoyaki might burn her mouth but so what? The pain would be a blessing, a reminder that she was alive. It would be Namba’s first kiss.

As the news of her job offer spread, her classmates mobbed her, full of praises and questions. You’re so lucky! Take me with you, please. What did she ask you? Did you understand her Japanese? Don’t forget us, OK? Please Facetime us and show us what Osaka looks like at sunset, at sunrise. Tag me on Facebook when you have your first bite of Takoyaki. Yu Yu knew she should feel elated, but instead, she felt ashamed, wracked with guilt that she was leaving her friends behind. That guilt tasted bitter; it burned her inside, like poison.

In her web searches the night before, Yu Yu learned that the poisonous pufferfish was a Japanese delicacy, a celebratory meal for graduations and weddings. The fish was usually skinned and cut open alive. She wished she were a fresh fugu laid out on a cutting board. She was dying to have someone slice open her belly and yank out her poisoned liver.