Lost in Translation

 

Lost in Translation

Tony guided his bike carefully along the darkened street, weaving in and out of the puddles as he did so. You never could tell which pool of water was hiding a pot hole. He’d been thrown of his bike on more than one occasion by the dreadful roads in Glasgow. His shift was winding down although his miserable boss had insisted that he work on this cold February night. Delivering food on his bike with a huge insulated box strapped to his back was not how he had envisaged his life panning out but he needed to pay the bills. On this particular night though, he would much rather have been at Celtic Park watching his side take on Rangers but his boss had told him that should he choose the football over work then he needn’t bother coming back. Tony had shaken his head upon hearing this news but he shouldn’t have been surprised, Mr Weir’s nose was such an obvious shade of blue.

He had seen the streams of Celtic fans in cars, buses and on foot all heading for the game and had been given a cheer by some as he cycled past wearing his Celtic scarf. As the evening progressed, he’d stop to check the score on his phone and felt a mixture of elation that his team were delivering a long over due skelping to their city rivals, and disappointment that he was not there to see it. As he rode an empty life at the Ladywell flats with a delivery, his phone pinged to tell him it was half time at Celtic Park. He knew the team was 1-0 ahead five minutes before half-time, but as he opened his phone to see that it was now 3-0, he couldn’t help but roar, ‘yaasss!’ in the empty lift.

It was nearly 11pm when he checked the courier app on his phone for one last job before he cycled home to his weary bed. He liked doing the late deliveries as the restaurants he delivered from often gave him some of the food that was left over from the kitchen. He’d tasted food from a dozen cultures doing this job and hoped he’d get some tonight. He also liked surprising his other half with some unusual cuisine. He parked his bike outside the Nippon Kitchen, smiling at the just about audible sound of Celtic fans singing somewhere in the city centre. He knocked on the door and the familiar figure of Mr Sato was waiting for him. ‘Hello Tonee,’ he smiled, ‘big order tonight.’ Tony unzipped his insulated box and they began to load containers of delicious smelling food into it.

Once he had carefully packed all of the food containers and some Japanese beer into the side compartment of the box, he zipped it up and smiled at Mr Sato, ‘that the lot for tonight?’ The little man smiled and handed him a carrier bag. ‘For you, when you finish. The udon and okonomiyaki are good tonight,’ Tony smiled, ‘I’ll look forward to trying that, Mt Sato. See you next time.’ With that, he hoisted the box onto his back and headed out to unlock his bike. He checked the delivery address on his app and set off on what would be a fairly long cycle.

The house was on one of those streets that Tony could only dream of living on. The big Edwardian pile stood in its own grounds and as he cycled up the tree lined driveway; he noticed four expensive looking cars parked at one side of the house. ‘All right for some,’ he thought to himself as he dismounted his bike and swung the box from off of his back. He rang the doorbell and the door was quickly opened by a east Asian man wearing a Celtic sweatshirt. Tony smiled, a little surprised at seeing his club’s crest, ‘food delivery!’ The man nodded and said in surprisingly good English, ‘thank you, could you bring it in please?’  The man glanced at the Celtic scarf, visible beneath Tony’s heavy coat. ‘You are a Celtic fan?’ Tony nodded, ‘aye, boy and man. All my life. What about you?’ The man guided Tony into a kitchen which was bigger than his flat, ‘yes, I am now. I work with Celtic as a translator.’

 Tony smiled and was just about to reply when he heard the volume being turned up on a tv somewhere. The unmistakable sound of Celtic Park singing ‘you’ll never walk alone’ filled the house. ‘Your family watching the game?’ The man nodded, ‘you could say that, come through and say hello.’ Tony followed the man into the big hallway, noticing how ridiculously overdressed he seemed, as he glanced at himself in a big mirror which hung on the wall. The man opened the living room door where a group of people sat on a large L shaped couch watching Celtic on perhaps the biggest TV Tony had ever seen. The only light in the room was a lamp in the corner and the group seemed totally focused on the tv.

The man spoke in Japanese to the four or five people watching the football. The first to turn around was a young woman who smiled at Tony and said something in Japanese, ‘she says, why don’t you take your coat off? You look very warm.’ Tony smiled at the young woman and unzipped his coat, his Celtic scarf falling out loosely. She stood and pointed at his scarf, ‘Henrik Lar-ssoon!’ Tony nodded, ‘aye, my hero when I was a lad.’ The translator repeated his words in Japanese and she nodded before heading off to the kitchen, Tony guessed to get the food ready.

On the tv screen, Reo Hatate shot towards the Rangers goal and the ball slipped into the corner of the net. Tony watched with a huge smile on his face, at least he’d see the goals tonight. ‘That was great, wee Reo has been immense this season. That goal he scored at Tynecastle was a peach.’ The translator smiled, ‘why don’t you tell him?’ He spoke to one of the men on the couch and he stood and turned to face Tony. To Tony’s amazement, the unmistakable form of Reo Hatate was gazing at him and smiling. ‘Thank you,’ he said in reasonable English, with a small bow. ‘Reo, my man!’ Tony blurted out, ‘what a goal that was tonight!’ The young Japanese midfielder listened as the translator did his work. Hatate smiled said in halting English, which one?’ He then gestured towards the couch as the translator looked at Tony, ‘he says you should sit and watch the football.’ Tony was taken aback but soon had his jacket off and headed towards the couch.

He sat, a little tentatively beside the track suited footballer, just in time to see Him slam in another goal on the screen. ‘Yes, wee man! Get in there!’ he said instinctively as the amused translator quietly relayed his words in Japanese.  Before Hatate could respond, Abada latched onto a cross from Jota and slammed number three into the Rangers net. Tony found himself punching the air, ‘Yaaass!’ he called out, as the assembled Japanese people applauded, almost politely, ‘skelped them good tonight!’  The translator touched his shoulder, ‘what is ‘skelped?’ Tony grinned, ‘it means, eh, give them a good slap. Like yer ma would skelp yer butt if you were a bad yin.’ He gestured with his hand. The man explained this in Japanese to Reo Hatate and his family. They looked a little confused but smiled politely.

At that moment the young woman Tony had spoken to earlier came into the room with a tray loaded with food. She put it on the coffee table in front of the couch and went to fetch more. When she returned, she handed Tony a bottle of Sapporo. The translator looked at him, ‘you have no more deliveries? You will stay for some food?’ Tony was a little embarrassed, ‘eh, well, that’s kind of you. Thank you.’ As the football continued on the screen, Tony ate the most unusual and unexpected meal he could remember, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.

After half an hour or so of trying different foods and trying very hard to control his chop sticks, Tony looked at the translator, ‘I need to go home. My bird is expecting me and I’m already late.’ The translator looked at him, ‘you have a parrot or finches, perhaps?’ Tony grinned, ‘naw, a ‘bird’ is like an expression for a girlfriend.’ ‘Ah,’ the translator smiled, explaining it to the other people in the room. He nodded and turned to him, ‘in Japan we say ‘koibito.’  Tony repeated it, ‘koibito.’

As he stood and put his coat on, he tossed his Celtic scarf to Reo Hatate who sat watching him. ‘One day, you’ll be on my scarf.’ The translator explained what he said and Hatate bowed a little, ‘Thank you.’ As Tony was about to reply, the young woman came into the room with more food. Tony gestured towards her then, looking at Hatate said, ‘koibito?’ The whole room bust into laughter as Tony looked around trying to figure out if he’d made a gaff. The translator smiled. ‘No, not sweetheart, little sister.’ Tony grinned and shook hands with Hatate and the translator before heading for the door. As he did so, he turned and smiled at the Celtic midfielder, ‘keep skelping them, Reo!’

As he cycled off into the darkness, he mulled over the unexpected turn the evening had taken. ‘Tracy’s no gonnae believe this,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘koibito or no!’ He freewheeled down the hill, feeling a little exhilarated and called out to the darkness, ‘mon the Celtiiic!’