The Day John Howard and I went to the Japanese Bathhouse in Collingwood.

In Cromwell Street,

Collingwood, there is a traditional Japanese Bathhouse. I like to go there for a treat. Or if I have been having a very busy or difficult time. Considering the circumstances, I thought it would be a nice thing to invite John Howard along. I gave him a call and after a small amount of hesitation, he decided that he would come. We made a firm meeting for 3 o’clock the following week. The day was a blustery one. I stood on the corner of Cromwell and Langridge Streets in my baby-blue Gortex jacket - the one my mum bought me at the Kathmandu sale in Albury. Soon enough, a car with tinted windows pulled up and John stepped out. We shook hands. Luckily, John had an umbrella with him, since just then drops of rain began speckling the concrete. He held it politely over both our heads while I informed him of my pre-emptive plan. On the glass door of the Japanese Bathhouse it clearly states – strictly non sexual. This lets one know, firstly, that the baths are segregated. Males bathe on one level and females bathe on the other. Secondly, it implies that within the segregated areas, there should be no shenanigans. ‘When we arrive at reception,’ I said, in a low voice, ‘we will each be given a little pile of things and a locker key. The pile contains a pair of navy bathhouse pyjamas, cotton ones, flecked with a nice Japanese-style pattern. On top of that is a navy towel for drying the body, then a thin, white face-washer, and finally a pink body-scrubbing cloth.’ John nodded. I could see that I had his full attention. ‘Then,’ I continued, ‘once we are past reception, instead of your going to the male baths, you are to follow me to the female ones.’ He looked worried, so I added, ‘I am happy to let you share my locker. We can squash everything in. Your suit will only get a little crushed…’ I looked at John’s anxious face again. ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured him, ‘it’s a quiet time of day, and anyway, the Japanese Bathhouse is full of lesbians. If you keep your face-washer over your crown-jewels at all times’ (I thought it best to use a euphemism that referred to the monarchy), ‘no-one will notice a thing. They’ll just think that you’re a really hairy lesbian. Melbourne,’ I went on, ‘is a very politically correct city. It’s considered very last century here to make a big deal about gender…’ ‘But it’s against the rules,’ John interrupted, trying on his stern voice. I nodded, ‘yes, it is, John. But good rules are meant to be broken, wouldn’t you agree?’ I steered him towards the glass door. Sumi masen. We both responded in unison. I guess John would have spent a lot of time in Japan on diplomatic business. For my part, I had been there for a weekend the summer before. I had eaten fat Gyoza and bought lots of legwarmers. We took our shoes off at the ledge and then, in socked feet, approached the counter. Our shoes disappeared into the special shoe lockers and we were each given, as I had predicted, two little fabric piles and a key on a rubber band. The woman behind the counter smiled broadly, gesturing up the stairs for John - to the male area - and to the hallway behind the reception for me. I looked at John and he looked back. We paused. The woman was still smiling at us. Waiting. Watching. But then the telephone rang shrilly and she turned her back to answer it. It was a little difficult getting everything into one locker. I wanted to hang up my Gortex inside the locker, in case it got stolen. John, naturally, wanted to hang up his suit. Finally, we decided that shoes would just have to go under the lockers. I had brought along a small bag to put my underclothes in, and another one for John. Nude bathing together is one thing, but getting your underclothes mixed up inside a shared locker, is quite another. I suggested that we start with the hand-held showers. I gave John one of the small plastic stools and showed him how to work the taps. He admired the well-drawn sketches that informed patrons – without using any Japanese or English – how to use the facilities. John Howard was, admittedly, quite hairy. I am always interested in people’s bodies. My girlfriend implies that it is a impolite to look at naked strangers, but I struggle to refrain from it. It is not a sexual thing, I am just curious as to how someone’s life shows up in their body. Not only was John quite hairy, he was sort-of muscular in a way that implies self-protection more than strength. His body looked as if something were held trapped inside – memories, fears, not enough breath. A yoga class would do him the world of good, I thought to myself. But I said nothing, not wanting him to feel self-conscious. We were here to have a relaxing time, not for reform or criticism. Thoroughly clean now, and with each of our scalps shampooed, it was time for the bath proper. In Japanese bathing culture, one does not get into a bath to wash. The bath is more sacred than that. It is for washing away spiritual cares, not earthly ones. As we lowered ourselves into the wide warm waters of the tiled bath, John Howard had a look on his face like a small child. The hardness went out of it. He sighed and smiled at nothing in particular. I sat quietly up the other end, staring out toward the change rooms. Nobody spoke. There was only the sound of water somewhere, and far away voices from the shiatsu rooms. Suddenly, I saw someone come through from the reception. I panicked for a moment, but then, regaining my senses, did the only sensible thing. I grabbed one of the body-scrubbing cloths and started exfoliating John’s scalp with it, using my body to block the view from the door. Looking over my shoulder I smiled at the girl. She looked perplexed, but my persistent and panoramic smiling seemed to reassure her and she headed back to reception. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said, shyly moving away from John when the coast was clear again. ‘No problem,’ he mumbled ‘in some situations, one really has to revert to extreme measures.’ After the bath it was time for the sauna. I am very particular about sauna etiquette. I gave John a short, but informative, lecture on the rules. Shower first. Dry oneself thoroughly. Never wear clothes. Sit on a towel so that sweat doesn’t drip on the precious wood. John seemed impressed. I figured he was someone who like a good rule or two. I also offered him a big drink from my water bottle. I didn’t want an unconscious middle-aged man in the female section of a Japanese bathhouse on my hands. We went in. ‘In a perfect world,’ I whispered, ‘ they’d provide two towels.’ But I settled, as I do, for sitting on the towel I’ve just dried myself with. The sauna smelt of wood and steam. Neither of us talked, being content just to count the moments until the first beads of sweat appear, and then the moments after, when the sweat turns into trickles, into rivulets, into pools caught by the towel. I thought about what the coming weeks held for both of us. For me a little holiday interstate, for a conference. And then some camping over New Year’s, and then maybe a summer school in January. I thought about John. His whole future was undecided until the coming Saturday. What a strange thing, I thought. That kind of unpredictability should be the stuff of wisdom. I looked over at him. He was sitting with his eyes closed, pretending that his sweat didn’t smell as bad as it did. He opened his eyes and I noticed him sway a little. ‘Okay, I said, recognising the signs, ‘ it’s time for us to get out.’ After a sauna it is best to rest for a short while, and then before the body cools down too much, one should have a very strong experience with cold water. I could see that John might not handle this so well, so I put him under a tepid shower. I, on the other hand, filled a bucked with freezing water and did my favourite thing: tipping it first over my feet, then hands and then straight down my back. John is still standing under the shower at this point. I get his attention and tell him he should really turn the water off, since we are in a major drought. He looks sheepish, and obeys, but I can tell that he is in so much need of RnR, that it hurts him to extract himself from the oblivion of the shower. Back in the changerooms, we dry off, moisturise a bit, put on the special bathhouse pyjamas we were given, and plod upstairs in a daze into the tatami room. Sitting on the silky cushions, we both order a miso. It arrives soon after, steaming and salty. Some other patrons come in. A gay male couple, who do a double take when they notice John Howard. There are lots of spare seats near us, but the two men, for some reason, head right into the far corner. I glance at John, but his lids are drooping, and although I’m certain he could do with a few more rounds in the bath and sauna, I have things to do that evening. I get up to leave and he follows. Back at the locker, John’s suit is only a little crushed and his cheeks are still super rosy. He looks daunted, however, at the prospect of going back outside. The last part of our rules-are-made-to-be-broken plan is for me to go back into reception and to distract the lady, so that he can come out without being noticed. This turns out to be no problem. We hand back our keys and pop a minty from the dish provided into our mouths. Sitting on the ledge, putting on our shoes, he asks: ‘So who are you going to vote for on Saturday?’ ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘The Greens.’ He nods, with a resigned look, and finishes tying up his laces. Outside, his car is already waiting. We shake hands. I have always done a firm handshake, ever since Jo Zerbst in year nine computers class taught me not to hold my fingers like a dead fish. John, also, has a practised handshake. Back in his car, he winds down the window. The rain has stopped. ‘Drink lots of water,’ I say, trying to be helpful. He nods again. And the car drives off. The landscape is all strange with lemon-white light. I unlock my bike. I hope that John Howard can see through his tinted glass. I hope he keeps his window open, so the beautiful smell of the city after rain can reach him.