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A slam of a door . . .
Mantaro cast his eyes to Robin Mansion. The grand doors opened out onto an intricate veranda, which in turn led onto a patio that seemed to stretch out for miles, and the whole scene was made complete with various statues and potted plants and marble tables. A conservatory stood not far to one side, where Robin Knight sat in the hot sunlight with his daughter and grandchildren. It was a beautiful place, lost within the English countryside, and Mantaro could stay there forever.
It was at total odds with the door slamming and stamping feet, however, and yet not a surprise when Mantaro saw Kevin Mask marching out of the mansion with clenched fists. He was bright red in his face, and his pink fringe hid his narrowed eyes, as he kept his head low and shoulders hunched. The muscles in his arms bulged; his pink t-shirt clung one size too small for his large frame, and his watch – on the outside of his glove – shone in the sunlight, occasionally catching Mantaro’s eye and inflicting a moment of pain. He stopped only at the picnic area.
A wrought-iron table sat on the perfectly manicured grass, underneath a tall tree, and a pair of chairs sat on either side, with a long bench between them. Warsman sat in one chair, with a book in his hands written in full Russian, and Mantaro sat opposite him with his mobile phone in hand, as he watched a show in the Kinniku language. Kevin ignored them both, as he marched over to the bench and threw himself onto the cushioned iron, and let loose a loud and childish groan.
“Sheesh,” said Mantaro. “What’s got your goat?”
“Them! They’re disgusting, that’s what!”
Kevin pointed a finger over at the mansion. There – on the veranda – stood Robin Mask and Alisa, as they entwined their hands and pressed their foreheads together. Mantaro saw the goofy smiles on their face, with father like his son in forgoing his mask, and he could practically hear the giggles and whispered compliments even from their vast distance. Robin would brush a stray lock from Alisa’s cheeks, while she would kiss and tease at his lips. They were like newlyweds falling in love all over again, and Mantaro smiled to see them smile, as he asked:
“Wait, how are they being disgusting exactly?”
“They’re – ugh – kissing and hugging and being all lovey-dovey.”
Warsman refused to look up from his book. There was no discerning his expression, not behind the helmet and mask, but he calmly flicked to the next page without any sign of surprise or interest. Mantaro looked beyond him back to Alisa and Robin, who lifted his wife high with his hands on her hips, and spun her around with gleeful squeals and warm laughter. It brought back memories of his engagement party with Jacqueline, and the smile reached his blue eyes beneath his mask, causing lines to break across his youthful complexion. He leaned back.
“I don’t know,” said Mantaro. “It seems sweet to me. I mean, my parents hug and kiss all the time, and it’s nice to know they still love one another . . . I always said that I hope me and Jacqui will be just as in love at their age! If she weren’t on a girl’s day out with Rinko, I know I’d want to cuddle up next to her and shower her with kisses. What’s so bad about it?”
“It’s just . . . it’s gross! They’re my parents, Mantaro. No one wants to see public displays of affection at the best of times, but when it’s your parents -? Yuck. I think every kid likes to think that their parents did it one time and that’s it . . . to have it shoved in your face -?”
“They seem discrete enough.”
“You call that discrete? I dread to think what they on Planet Kinniku! Do they wander around naked banging at random? I mean . . . I guess I can look past hand-holding, if I have to, but to kiss someone on the mouth like that -? For God’s sake, I swear there was tongue!”
“I think you’re just being melodramatic, dude. Like, you don’t even like being touched . . . I sometimes wonder how you’re even able to keep a boyfriend, as it’s like ‘don’t kiss me in front of people’, ‘don’t cuddle up to me where people can see’ . . . it’s almost like you’re ashamed of Warsman or something. You even pull away from him when people walk into a room!”
Kevin pinched the bridge of his nose. He drew in a long deep breath, as if he had not cuddled with Warsman on the sofa to a late night movie and pulled away when his father entered the room, and almost as if he thought Mantaro a liar in the face of an obvious truth. He sighed. He slid along the bench. It brought him a lot closer to the silent Warsman, and the unspoken point seemed to be: ‘look, I don’t mind being close to the man I love’. The only issue was that he blushed to even be seen wanting to be close to his lover. Mantaro chuckled.
A silence fell between the three men, as Kevin took some grapes from the table. There lay an array of fresh fruits, sweets, and teas, along with teeny-tiny sandwiches that seemed too small to fill any stomach. The tea also tasted nothing like what was served in Japan, and was a little too milky and sweet for Mantaro to stomach, but Kevin picked up a cup and gulped it down like water after a difficult match, before pouring a second cup. He muttered:
“I pull away as it’s embarrassing, not because I’m ashamed.”
“Aren’t they one and the same?”
“No, they’re not!” Kevin huffed. “If I walked in on your naked, you wouldn’t have reason to be ashamed, but I bet you’d sure as hell feel embarrassed! It’s the same thing. I just don’t want people to see me so emotionally vulnerable and in such an intimate moment, that’s all.”
“But it’s not an intimate moment, is it?”
A low cough came from Warsman. He never once took his eyes from his book, and his body was now angled towards Kevin, with his legs crossed at the knee. It was a casual pose, but also elegant and held to perfection despite the uncomfortable straightness to his back. The sun shone bright behind him, somehow adding to the darkness of his dark brown skin and black costume, but his eyes – ever so bright and expressive – closed with what may have been a chuckle. There was no sound from his lips, but his chest shook as if with laughter. Warsman said:
“British culture is unlike Kinniku culture, Mantaro.”
“I mean . . . obviously.”
“The people here are less expressive,” continued Warsman. “It is something we share in Russia. I find that they avoid direct questions on personal matters, show less overt displays of emotion, and try not to make eye contact or physical with strangers. Even in Russia, our women will kiss each other’s cheeks in greeting, but . . . not here. You only kiss a romantic partner on the lips, and never kiss at all a person to whom you are not related, and there are vast rules on physical contact.”
“You make us sound emotionally constipated,” complained Kevin.
“You are,” said both men in unison.
Kevin flared his nostrils and narrowed his eyes. He looked from man to man with a childlike pout, before throwing his arms over his chest and dropping back into his chair, and – with a murmured series of curses – sat cross-legged and stared into the distance. Mantaro chuckled, as he took a sandwich from the table and nibbled on the bread. It was his fifth or sixth one in the past hour, but still it felt far from a full actual sandwich. Warsman lowered his book onto his lap, so that he could make eye-contact with Mantaro, and Mantaro asked in a warm tone:
“So you can’t just hug a friend?”
“In greeting to close friends, yes,” said Warsman. “You would only shake hands with a stranger, and even then that can seem too formal depending on context. It was easy for me to adjust, as we are not physically affectionate in Russia either, but I did struggle with personal proximity. In Russia we share personal space, but in here people are very protective of their ‘bubbles’.”
“Yeah, I did notice that if you sit next to someone that they tend to move.” Mantaro hummed. “I found it weird, like when Ms Alisa was showing Jacqueline and Kevin some photographs, because she wouldn’t even sit too close to her son . . . I thought they’d fallen out!”
“They tend to leave some space so as not to touch.”
“But . . . touch is good! How else can you show affection?”
“There are words, gestures, acts of kindness . . . cultural norms are so varied, Mantaro. I remember that – in Russia – Kevin was nearly arrested for inciting a fight; we were travelling by train to my home village, and someone shoved him, but – not realising it is normal to be shoved on public transport, to an extent – turned around and punched the man.”
“It’s normal to push people in Russia?”
“It’s also normal to skip queues, reserve a spot in a queue, or enter a train or bus before others have exited. I believe queuing is a cultural institution here in England, and ingrained into every child at birth, so that I sometimes believe they enjoy a good queue. I was quite afraid that Kevin had an existential crisis the first time someone went ahead of him in a queue!”
The two shared a good chuckle. It was soft and low from Warsman, but hard and fast from Mantaro, and it mingled naturally into the gossip and conversation and laughter from the rest of the family, who enjoyed the warm day and each others’ presence. Kevin was the only one intent on being miserable, something that started ever since the group of friends boarded the aeroplane to London, and everyone ignoring his tantrums only seemed to increase said tantrums. He remained sat cramped on the corner of the bench, before he spat out in English:
‘Will you two wankers pack it the hell in? Bloody gits.’
“Translation: ‘please stop’,” said Warsman. “Still, I suppose I can see why all this is a surprise to you, Mantaro. We chojin often learn all about Japanese culture and customs, and we must learn the language fluently in order to work within Japan, and so we rarely conflict with the local culture, aside from stark personality differences formed by our cultures.”
“Oh, like how Buffaloman got arrested for indecency?” Mantaro asked. “Or like when my father had to explain hand-warmers to Terryman? Or the time Terryman caused a mass-panic by carrying a gun in public? Or when Terryman got caught making out with Natsuko? Or when -?”
“Americans are one on their own . . . the outlier, as it were.”
“My father has a saying,” interrupted Kevin. “He would say: ‘one American is an absolute treasure, but a group of Americans are a stereotypical nightmare’. I’ve been lucky thus far never to have the personal experience of a group of Americans to know if it’s true.”
“Your father is also still making out with Alisa.”
“What? Are you – oh good god!”
Kevin made retching sounds, as he put a finger in his open mouth. Warsman simply chuckled beneath his mask, and lowered his gaze back to the pages of his book, almost as if he had not purposely made Kevin look in their direction to trigger a childish gesture. The act of pretending to be sick is something Mantaro saw children do on the playground, but being around Robin Mask seemed to make the grown man regress beyond his years. Mantaro ignored him, as he leaned onto the table to face Warsman face-on, and asked in a chipper tone:
“So did you and Kevin ever struggle being from two different cultures?”
“At times,” confessed Warsman. “In England, it is common to tease your equals. In Russia we are very sensitive to teasing, and so sometimes I would take serious a comment meant in jest. It took time for us to understand one another. Equally, the British can seem very passive-aggressive to outside ears; they rely on sarcasm and jokes to make ‘small talk’ and express complaints, and direct complaints are seen are rude or uncouth, and their language is . . . confusing.
“I had to learn when Robin joked to tease and when he joked to criticise, and I had to learn unspoken rules about speech; when Kevin said ‘not bad’ that he meant ‘good’, and ‘unique’ was often code for ‘awful’ . . . phrases such ‘very interesting’, ‘quite good’, and ‘I’ll bear that in mind’ often led me to believe that every day was ‘Opposite Day’ in this land.”
“Are you two quite done?” Kevin asked.
“Ah, and then there is ‘awfully good’,” continued Warsman. “A true oxymoron.”
Kevin picked one of the grapes from its stalk. He threw it playfully at Warsman, although his pout remained right until the last second, and – breaking through his façade – a warm smile cracked at his features and brought his blue eyes alive. Warsman caught the grape without even looking up from his book, before sliding it under his mask with a ‘thank you’. Kevin rolled his eyes. He muttered an insincere ‘idiot’ and lay down on the bench, so that he could stretch out his legs and hold them out very close to Warsman’s lap. Warsman lifted his book.
The two communicated without words, as Kevin dropped his legs onto Warsman’s lap. The hands holding the book came down to rest on leather trousers, although sometimes one would stroke slow and smooth patterns along the calf, and Kevin – hands clasped beneath his head – stared up at the skies above with a smile that was truly handsome. The grapes rested on his belly, while finally he bore a calm expression. It was nice to see the two so in tune.
“Actually, there’s one thing I noticed,” said Mantaro.
“Hmm?” Warsman hummed.
“I never noticed before, but – you know – I never see you smile when apart.”
“In England, I think people wear more passive expressions, as why would you smile unless you have a reason to smile? In Russia, however, we never smile in public. We even have a saying that is quite common among our people: ‘only fools smile without reason’.”
“Huh, I must smile all the time! You must think me a right idiot then, aha!”
Warsman fell silent. He simply lifted his book to cover his face, hiding even his white eyes from sight, and a string of whispered Russian spilled from his lips, like one reading aloud. Mantaro waited. Warsman made no sign of a response, while Kevin was now throwing grapes into the air and catching them in his mouth, and the rest of the family continued to go about their business in various parts of the grand gardens and conservatories with no attention to them. Mantaro waited . . . he waited some more . . . eventually he glared at Warsman and shouted:
“Hey, you’re supposed to say ‘no, you’re not an idiot’!”
“Is lying not considering impolite in your culture, Mantaro?” Warsman hummed. “I see, well, if this is the case . . . you are not an idiot.”
Kevin laughed so heartily that the grapes fell from his abdomen. He laughed until tears streamed from his face, even though the jibe barely seemed worth a soft chuckle to Mantaro, and Mantaro could only stamp his foot and chide him in turn . . . ‘stop it!’, ‘it’s not that funny!’, ‘I’m telling you to stop laughing at me!’ . . . Kevin continued, while pulling faces at Mantaro. He sat upright and dropped his feet onto the ground, while trying to hold back his laughter.
Mantaro took in several quick breaths, as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He let his eyes run over the tabletop . . . teacups, sandwiches, strawberries . . . aha, a grapefruit . . . Mantaro snatched at the grapefruit in the ceramic bowl. A spark of colour burst about his vision, while his heart raced within his chest, and – for an instant – it was like he was a fourteen-year old again, back in Beverly Park and meeting his rude rival for the first time. He summoned all his strength. He threw the grapefruit with all his might in Kevin’s direction, aiming straight for his head.
Kevin dodged.
The grapefruit – with all the strength of a chojin – sped through the garden, and stopped only when it came into contact with an immoveable force . . . in this case a person . . . in this specific case . . . Robin Mask. A loud cry echoed out about the garden. Robin Mask hunched over, as he clutched at his stomach and glared in their direction with watery eyes. Alisa tended to him and fussed over the bruising flesh, while Mantaro heard nothing except his heart pounding in his ears, and – with wide eyes and dry mouth – pointed a finger straight at Kevin. He screamed out:
“It – It was Kevin! He said your kissing was gross!”
Robin delivered a deathly stare to Kevin. It was accompanied with two fingers in a V-shape pointing to his eyes and then pointing to Kevin’s eyes, before he walked back inside the house with Alisa in tow, and – this time – the door slammed because of someone other than Kevin. A low sigh escaped Mantaro. He dropped back into his chair with half-closed eyes, and tugged at his shirt in an attempt to try and pull cloth from now sweat-soaked skin. Kevin turned to wag a finger just an inch from Mantaro, as he hissed out in a very cold voice:
“Did you really have to blame me? He’ll give me a right bollocking later!”
“Hey, in my culture, friends share everything . . . even the blame.”
“Oh, you lying sack of -!”
Mantaro was out of his chair just before Kevin. The miniscule head-start enabled him to race towards the conservatory, where hopefully the rest of Kevin’s family would provide enough incentive to deter any violence, but Kevin gave such chase that it was almost like his life depended on catching Mantaro to deliver a beating he wouldn’t forget. Warsman never once looked up from his book, even as the two screamed and taunted and mocked one another, but simply turned his pages and tried to turn out the childish arguments. He muttered to himself:
“So much for a quiet morning . . .”