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more difficult to do that. They were growing louder and giggling more. I had not encountered this kind of thing before and I didn’t know how to act, what to do or say.
    The driver looked in his mirror again. He could see and hear what was happening but needed to focus on his driving. I glanced around. Other passengers were turning around and frowning. At me? At the girls? No one intervened. Suddenly the bus swerved to the side of the street. It was not a bus stop.
    Off! said the driver loudly.
    There was silence on the bus. I sat looking at the driver’s face in the mirror. He turned and pointed to the door. Behind me there was silence. For a moment I was uncertain. Perhaps he meant me.
    Then there was a rustling and the girls, in school uniforms, lurched up out of their seat and got off the bus. The driver turned and pulled out into the traffic. The other passengers cheered and clapped. I wish I could have smiled, but my feelings were in such turmoil that I couldn’t. I looked out the window and realised that here I was different and that, somehow, some people were offended by that.
    That night Stolly and I both had a night off from work and I had persuaded him to go with me to a sushi bar down at the waterfront. I waited at the bar, watching the chef prepare sushi rolls with a dexterous hand and sharp knife. I could have been in a sushi bar at home — the same bar and stools, the same array of seafood, the same chefs’ short jackets. There was even an indigo noren over the entrance to the small restaurant. I breathed in the smells and my mouth watered. But the chef was Thai. He was a student like me who was working part-time. He had learned to make sushi from a Japanese master. The Thai chef, whose hands never stopped shaping and slicing, was telling me such things over the bar when Stolly arrived.
    Stolly surveyed the menu and told me to order. He’d never eaten sushi before. I found this hard to believe. I chose a platter of sashimi and sushi. I ordered sake and, when it arrived, poured a small cupful for Stolly. If he was surprised to find that it was heated, he didn’t say so. He drank it down and went to pour more. I told him that I should pour for him and he should pour for me — that was how it was done in Japan. Stolly, ever smooth and confident Stolly, sighed.
    There’s always more to learn, isn’t there? he said. Just when you think you’re getting the hang of life.
    I laughed. I said, If I have chart of my learning in Australia, it will be like Everest.
    My pronunciation of the name must have been really bad, because Stolly frowned and shook his head. Learning to pronounce some English sounds took me a lot of work.
    Mt Everest!
    Stolly got it.
    I told him about the incident on the bus, and he nodded throughout the telling. I thought he would have been surprised by the rudeness of the girls and their taunts. He wasn’t. I told him I wanted to learn something I could say if a similar thing happened in future. Something to put them in their place. Stolly was thoughtful.
    Course I’ll teach you something. I’ve got lots of expressions that should fit the bill. Needed them myself when I was a kid. I’ll give it a bit of thought — decide what’s most appropriate, most effective. Okay?
    I don’t want to swear, Stolly. Only to make stop. You know?
    No swear words, Akira. Trust me.

11
    One Sunday some time later I arrived at Chisuko’s homestay house with a red string bag of oranges under my arm. She had wanted me to come for lunch for ages, but my life was so busy, what with class and work and the boat. When she opened the door I handed the oranges to her. I was nervous. I hadn’t been to another Australian home before. She looked at the oranges quizzically.
    I bringed them for your homestay family, I said.
    She smiled.
    Brought. You’re a sweetheart, she said.
    There were times when Chisuko’s way of speaking alarmed me. She spoke