Hideki Ozawa was rushing home. His walk from school normally took him 30 or 35 minutes if he walked fast and didnt join the friends who stopped and chatted, looked into store windows or generally fooled around. They were lucky, their fathers apparently didnt insist they always come directly home and at the same time. Only when a teacher telephoned his parents to announce a reason for a delay, such as - God forbid - detention or, a more pleasant reason, because of extracurricular after-school activities, was such a delay accepted.
The reason why he now wanted to reach home as fast as possible, was the snow and driving wind that lashed his face and bare legs. He wore a cap, the usual dark blue school cap, a woolen sweater, a scarf and gloves, but also his usual, year-round shorts that left his legs exposed from groin to ankles. His parents had never given a second thought to the possibility of allowing the boy to wear long trousers, or even shorts made of a thicker material than the thin denim of all his shorts. Only during the warmest summer months was he given shorts made of thin cotton. These were in several colours, yellow, fawn, light blue, whereas his daily shorts were invariably the blue denim favoured by most parents. On his feet he had ankle-high rubber boots.
But there was another, more serious reason for his hurry. School had closed early because of the snow and he and his friends thought they could have some fun at the nearby park and still get home at the normal time. His mother didnt have to know that school had ended a half-hour earlier. The boys, however, in their romp, had overstayed those minutes and Hide was cutting it close.
As he ran, he felt his heavy, black book bag slap against his shoulders as well as the sharp bite of the snow flakes whip against his legs and he shivered. The skin was covered in goose pimples and turning red. Hide, as he was called, was close to 11 years old and a sturdy little boy, good at the daily scholastic exercises, but after some time he had to slow down, out of breath and getting tired.
When he finally arrived at his home, a small house on a narrow alley, almost touching the house next doors, he was frozen, his nose running, his ears tingling. He couldnt feel his legs at all. He stepped into the small space that served as vestibule, removed his boots and slipped into his zori.
Mama, Im home, he bellowed into the quiet house. There were two storeys, the main floor consisted of the living room, kitchen and bath towards the front, the toilet in the back. Upstairs were 2 small bedrooms and a spare room which served as storage space.
The boy ran upstairs when no one answered his call. His mother was kneeling on the floor, polishing the wooden floor boards.
Dont make such a racket, Hide, she admonished without interrupting her task. Why are you late?
Hide gave a little gasp. Late? I ran most of the way, he whined, his happy face suddenly dropping into nervous anxiety. I cant be late! Its the same time as always.
You came directly home? his mother asked.
Yes, Mama. Im here right on time.
Oh? Shimizu-sensei telephoned Mrs. Nomura next door and told her school was closed early because of the weather.
Hide visibly paled. Oh - er - yes, but -
But what? Mrs. Ozawa said, now more sternly and getting to her feet. You just neglected to tell us and thought you could play or throw snowballs with your friends?
We thought we could stay a while. Just for the 30 minutes and come home at the same time as always.
Dont just stand there. Take off your cap when you get into the house, and remove the scarf, gloves and sweater now that youre inside. Whats the matter with you? I really dont know what to do with you. I will have to ask your father to beat some sense into you. You are lying to me and I will not tolerate that. Shimizu-sensei would have called me if you had been asked to do after-school chores.
Oh, Mama, please dont tell Papa, Hide was now close to tears. We just thought a few minutes wouldnt matter. It was fun and I guess it took longer than we thought.
I dont think you boys think at all, his mother grumbled. Well, perhaps your father can help you with that. I will ask him to give you something to remember to think every time you sit down. Now go and wipe your wet legs, wash your hands and do your home work. Your father will also want to inspect that when he gets home.
Mama, can I get some milk and o-sembe first? Hide asked as he removed t he unnecessary items of clothing. After his cap and scarf were discarded, his mother landed a couple of juicy slaps across his round cheeks.
Didnt you hear what I just said? she snapped. First go and wash, then go to your room and do your home work. I wont tell you again. She watched with shaking head as her son shuffled reluctantly towards the bathroom after removing his book pack. And be sure to hang up those wet things before you drip water on the tatami and make me really angry, she called after him.
After Hide had finished in the toilet and bathroom, he went to his room, a very small one which held his desk, a chair and a cupboard where his futon were stored. These were stretched out on the empty floor space to provide his bed. He laid out his cap and sweater on a small stand in the hall and went into his room muttering under his breath. It wasnt fair! Just a few minutes play and now he was in trouble with his father, something to be avoided at all costs. He rubbed his thighs which were slowly exchanging their numbness for warm a tingle. His bottom would soon tingle considerably more, he thought sadly. His father was never forgiving and he used the small futon beater to excellent effect. He dreaded this small, seemingly harmless instrument made of rattan cane woven into neat curlicue pattern that left its distinctive mark on his chubby buttocks at least twice a week.
As he seated himself at the desk, he thought about the day before yesterday. His teacher had complained about laziness and inattention in class. His mother had complained about his lack of manners in front of guests. She had not yet finished speaking when he had reached for the futon beater.
Hide, he said, go into the living room, take your shorts down and bend over the arm rest of the sofa. You know the procedure. I believe you went through the same routine yesterday, didnt you?
Indeed he had and the thought of getting it again the next day was quite alarming. But of course he had obeyed instantly. Doing otherwise was completely out of the question. A few minutes he had lain in position, bare bottom pointing towards the ceiling, waiting for his father to make his appearance. This waiting was almost as bad as the whipping. He imagined the pain he had felt yesterday and was certain that today would be worse. Not only because his bottom was still decorated with purple curves and bends, but also because he knew that a teachers complaint ensured harsher discipline than his domestic peccadilloes.
He brought his thought back to today. He still had to finish his home work and he needed to concentrate. No use making his father even angrier. The work had to be at least 90% correct or he would be subjected to another beating tomorrow. He bent over his desk and began to work.
Mr. Ozawa arrived late and in bad humour. His business wasnt doing well and he feared that some people would have to be let go.
Dinner is ready, his wife told him after he had made himself comfortable with a drink. Ill just get Hide. Hes doing his homework.
They were seated around the low table. Underneath, a small heater kept the room reasonably warm. Hide gratefully warmed his bare legs under the blanket.
How was school, Hide? Mr. Ozawa asked after a moments silence.
Er - fine, sir, the boy mumbled, his mouth full of rice.
Actually, his mother interjected, he did not do so fine. They were let out early but instead of coming home, he stayed at the park to play with his chums. Then tried to lie about it.
Mr. Ozawa turned to face his young son. His face, flushed from the whiskey. turned even redder. How dare you? he roared. He folded back the blanket and slapped the boys thigh repeatedly so hard the smack sounded like pistol shots in the small room.
Im sorry, sir! Really, I am, Hide whined pathetically. I promise Ill never do it again. Honest!
I will deal with you after dinner. Now be quiet and finish your food. I promise you a thrashing you will not soon forget, my boy. You will learn that disobedience and lying will not be tolerated.
Hide toyed with his hashi, picking at the rice that remained uneaten in his bowl. Tears were rolling down his cheeks as he rubbed his thigh where his fathers slaps were still stinging. The rest of the meal was passed in silence except for Mr. Ozawas low recounting of his problems with the company. His wife listened dutifully but made no comment.
When they were finished, Hide was told to take the dishes into the kitchen, wash and dry them, and replace them in the cabinets.
When youre ready, come back into the living room and bring the futon beater with you, his father said. And prepare yourself for a long session with it. You wont get off as easy as usual this time.
A crestfallen boy cleared the table and, still weeping silently, went to wash the dishes.
I really dont know what to do with the boy, Mrs. Ozawa lamented as she folded the legs of the table and stored it in a closet to clear the room. He seems to be getting out of hand. Even his school grades arent getting any better. Shimizu-sensei mentioned to me the other day that the boy doesnt apply himself properly. Seems to think of other things during class, paying no attention to what he is trying to explain.
Well, I know what to with him, Mr. Ozawa replied, pouring himself another whiskey. He is not going to be able to sit comfortably for a week after Im through with him tonight. The boy has to learn that if his behaviour does not improve, he will be unable to sit for a month.
When Hide returned to the living room, he had stopped crying but his face was drawn and his mouth twitched. He carried the futon beater and with a shaking hand held it out to his father. Mr. Ozawa put down his drink and removed his jacket, then rolled up the shirt sleeve of his right arm. Then he took the instrument from the boys small, shaking hand.
Shorts down, he commanded and watched in silence as the small boy complied. Without being told, the underpants soon followed.
Over the sofa, was his fathers next order and again the child obeyed.
Clamping the beater under his arm, he took the boy by the hips and pushed him further over so that the small bare bottom was in a more accessible position. The he stood back, took hold of the rattan instrument and started.
Houses in Japan are lightly built and noise travels easily to the houses next door. The Ozawas neighbours all had children and they knew what the noise they now heard emanating from the Ozawa house signified. They were sure the Ozawas had heard similar concerts from their own homes. They looked at each other and smiled knowingly. Yes, young Hide was getting another whipping. It seemed the third just this week. Well, some boys are just incorrigible.
Meanwhile, Hides little buttocks were turned from red to purple as the rattan caning bit into the flesh again and again. Mr. Ozawa was hitting harder than ever, he realised, and his screams matched their intensity. Again and again that rattan fell, adding the curved welts across both buttock and well down the thighs. Hide kicked and yelled, twisting his body in all directions while his buttocks jumped and quivered at each stroke.
Mrs. Ozawa had retired to the bedroom and was watching the small television set in the corner. She listened to her sons cries and shrieks and nodded. Perhaps this time the boy will listen. If not, and he disobeyed her orders again, she would have to talk to her husband and ask him to buy a regular school cane, the kind she had seen in the homes of the Furuyama and Sato families. They said it did wonders for their boys behaviour.
After perhaps 20 minutes, Mr. Ozawa stopped the beating, exhausted, and poured more whiskey into his glass. While he sipped, he surveyed the boys swollen bottom cheeks, now covered with purple stripes and bruises halfway down his thighs. His school mates would see how well Hide had been punished for his prank and maybe they would also learn from it. He just hoped that they had also been given a good thrashing.
Hide was allowed to get off the sofa. He was told to get his homework, but leave his shorts and pants in his room. Mr. Ozawa would go meticulously through the boys homework and the rattan, still warm to the touch, would probably have to be put into action again. He finished his drink while he waited for his sons return.
Hide, hot and smarting, tears still flowing, shuffled back to his room carrying his shorts and pants. He left them on the chair and picked up his papers. Then, with a heavy heart, he went downstairs where his father waited.