Page 3 of Little Miss Fortune

The thumping intensifies. The squeak of the bed carries from one wall to another. The girl’s squeals are borderline pornographic. Not to be a bad feminist, but that is not anyone’s wife.

‘Oh, fuck,’ the man groans in English.

A foreigner! Shagging a Japanese woman in a hotel room, like those weird sunrise chasers that come to Asia to find themselves Asian girlfriends.

The girl lets out an undulating sound that one would make riding down the stairs on one’s bottom. She is riding something, though, I’ll give her that. And he is really going for it. It’s been what, ten, fifteen minutes of rhythmic pounding? My stamina would never have recovered. You go, man.

A final thrust, a loud grunt, and complete silence falls, which should allow me to go straight to sleep. But instead, I feel stinging at the corners of my eyes. Thoughts rush through me, as if they were jet-lagged and now feel the need to catch up to me. I’m not just a foreigner and a tourist in my own home, a loser without a job, a woman with small misfortune; I’m also pathetically single.

I’ve been pushing through and keeping my head down, but I am so tired. I just want something to work out. Once. For once, I do not want to be below the room that has loud sex or be the one who sits in the middle seat. I desperately need a win.

The sound of suitcases being rolled in the corridors by the early commuters is what wakes me up.

The socket doesn’t work. The phone’s dead, and my alarm didn’t go off. Fuck, shit, fuck.

I run around my room, eyes puffy from the deep slumber of the night. The emotions are now back at bay. And by bay, I mean suppressed until the next breakdown. I brush my teeth quickly, grab my wallet and my hiking essentials (snacks), and run to catch the train going up the mountain once every three hours. The air is so sticky with humidity that it reminds me, only when I have already passed the ticket gates, that I forgot my raincoat.

The old rickety train huffs and puffs, preparing for a journey that’s about to be very hard on its rusty metal joints. The aircon in the carriage is patchy, with three fans circulating the stagnant air around. At least it’s not too crowded, with seats facing towards each other, massive windows along the entirety of the two coaches slowly revealing the most breathtaking mountain village view.

After an hour of uphill chugging, a gentle prerecorded voice announces my first stop of the day. The old train station is unstaffed, so only the front doors of the train open for ticket inspection. I flash my travel pass at the conductor at the front, as he bows to me and two other people that leave at the station. The carriage hisses and continues up the mountain with six remaining passengers. I check the timetable. I should have about two hours here before continuing my journey to the base of Tateyama.

Rural Japan is nothing but square rice paddies broken up by two-storey dark-brown houses. I used to find it so boring, but this tranquillity is so welcome. At this time of year, the green stems are tall enough to hide the muddy ground. Toyama Fufufu rice is expensive, but so, so, so good with the slight sweetness coming from the perfectly shaped rice grains. I was hoping to get some amazake—a sweet, fermented rice drink—but all the shops around here seem to be closed and maybe have been for quite a while. After a forty-seven-minute hike of seeing endless square patches of green, I finally reach my first destination.

The wooden temple’s doors are shut. A big bell featuring traditional Takaoka metalwork hangs close by, unbothered by the gentle breeze. Beyond the shrine, the graveyard looks like a stone garden, polished marble blooming from the ground. Brewer Ayako—a mix of katakana letters and kanji traditional characters written vertically on a stone.

‘Hi, Mum, I am home.’ I bow on my knees, with only my hands between my head and the road.

My mother... My mother had the big misfortune of dying too young. Cancer. I know she would have treated it if she could. But we found out, and three months later, she was gone.

There are specific rules that you need to follow when visiting a grave, certain flowers, certain prayers. I don’t remember them. I just leave chocolate bread on the stone—her favourite.

We sit together for so long, I’m telling her what I can in Japanese, updating her on my sister and dad, a boy that broke my heart in sixth form, the courses I took in uni.

‘EastEnders is still on. I know you loved it, even if you called it ridiculous. Dad watches it when he can, but I am sure he enjoyed it more with you. Hanako now goes by Hannah. There isn’t a name that can be used instead of Fuko, so I stick with that. But, honestly, Mum, I am so tired. I really want a small win. I think you doomed me with this name.’

‘Fuko-san? Are you Nagahara Sensei’s daughter, Fuko?’ asks a voice behind me in Japanese.

‘Ah, yes, I am Brewer Fuko. Yoroshiku-onegaishimasu.’ I jump up and bow, asking him to take care of me. One of those phrases that only works if you speak the language.

The Buddhist monk used my mother’s maiden name from the time she was a teacher in a high school. He also has the quietest of steps. I had to fight really hard not to scream. Luckily, respect for the elders is so ingrained in us as children that it overrode my immediate, Oh my god, a ghost!

‘Yoroshiku-onegaishimasu,’ he says, bowing back. ‘Wa-a, look at you. You are a pretty girl. Taller than your mother.’

‘Thank you,’ is all I say, smiling.

‘Fuko. That’s a good name. Child of the wind.’

‘Thank you.’ I do not smile as sincerely.

Which he notices, asking, ‘You don’t like it.’

‘I do. I just think that maybe it brought me bad luck.’ I laugh, hand reaching for my mother’s headstone.

Fuuko, child of the wind, is one letter away from being Fukou—misfortune. Different characters of course, but obvious if you write it out in English. Kazeko or Kazene were right there, same characters, much safer names.

‘Ah, but luck is like the wind. You know the sun shines when it’s day, the moon sings when it’s night. These things are certain. Wind changes, so can luck.’ He waits for my reaction, but I just nod. ‘Come with me.’

He opens the temple’s door, taking his shoes off by the entrance. I follow suit. The room smells of incense. A statue of a Buddha sits behind the railing with lotus flowers spiralling by the sides. After tea (and some casual conversation, as I was asked to drop the formal keigo speech), the monk, whose name I forgot to ask, glides across the tatami mats and rummages through the gift shop. He pulls out a small phone-charm amulet with a bell, a character for luck embroidered with golden thread.