Free The Spare Room by Kathryn Lomer

for a while I was shocked.
    When it was time to go, Chisuko saw me to the door.
    They liked you, she said.
    I liked them, I said.
    I told you they would, she said.
    But you didn’t tell me everything, I said.
    Chisuko laughed. Better to find out for yourself, I think.
    Like most things, I said.
    Akira, Chisuko said more seriously, you are younger than me but you seem wiser than your age sometimes.
    My parents always told me what to do, but no one can tell you what to think.
    Or what to feel, Chisuko added.
    She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
    Thank you, I said, for the invitation. Please thank Louise and Christine again.
    I think I hurried away.
    Thanks for the oranges, Chisuko called after me.
    Meanwhile, things at work were looking up. Being chief bottle-washer was not the most glamorous job in the world, but I liked it well enough. There wasn’t the strain of all that language waiting to trap me out in the bar. I had time to think things through, to muse. I used to go over the day’s English lessons in my head while I stacked the dishwashers or scrubbed pans. At first the other kitchen staff must have thought I was bit mad, always talking to myself. I got to practise my English with them too as time went by. They were a good bunch. They liked to joke and create a lively atmosphere. A lot of it went over my head but it was all in a good spirit. The head chef took a bit of a shine to me when he saw how hard I worked. One day I went up to him when I had caught up on all the dish-washing.
    Would you like help with the food? I said.
    He looked at me in surprise. He looked around at the cleared benches, the whirring dishwashers.
    Chop, slice, dice, I said.
    He nodded his head thoughtfully, his tall white chef’s cap bowing slightly with each movement.
    I do this at home, I said.
    You’re on, he said.
    I’ve always wondered if he thought I meant at home in Japan, whereas of course I meant at home with the Moffats. Perhaps he thought I’d done that kind of work before I came to Australia, or even knew a thing or two about Japanese cooking. Home is a slippery word, I’ve come to realise. One day in class we talked about that. We had to write down words that came to mind when we thought of home. Then we compared lists. We drew pictures to explain. It was amazing to hear and see what people think of as home. Some wrote about the textures of houses, washing in communal tubs, families which extended to great-aunts and -uncles. Some wrote about the countryside or the sea. Home is still something I am working out. Perhaps we have to build our homes inside us.
    The chef began to ask me to do this or that, mostly preparation — you know, chopping vegetables, washing salad greens, peeling and preparing fruit. The more he gave me to do, the more I enjoyed it. I remembered some of the ways my mother cut vegetables to make them decorative — small sculptures really. I experimented with that.
    I remember one particular night, the night Stolly and I wound up in the casino nightclub. The chef had asked me to chop some herbs for a soup he was making. I chopped a bit of this, a bit of that, and tossed it all in the simmering pot. The chef came over and smelled the steam from the broth. He put his fingers to his lips and kissed them. I liked this gesture of his. It was so expressive. I tried to imitate it myself at various times, which always sent Stolly into fits of laughter. The chef winked at me and I knew he was pleased. I watched him walk off, singing as he liked to do — Italian arias, he told me they were — and I imagined myself in his shoes, in charge of the kitchen, a happy staff, creating new dishes. I was so lost in this daydream that I didn’t notice one of the pans come to the boil. Next minute it boiled over with a loud hiss and steam billowed everywhere.
    Shit! I said.
    Excellent English! came a voice. There was Stolly grinning at me. He made a cup shape with one hand and