So, the fancy Otas from the mainland were Okinawan. “Do you have family here still?”
“No. All in Tokyo. My father doesn’t approve of me living here. He’s a snob.”
I recalled Owen telling me his father didn’t approve of him, and now Hisashi admitted he was subject to his father’s disapproval too. “You’re a rebel, then?” I said, “different than your parents?”
“Not a rebel. Not a snob either.” Hisashi told me he wanted to see what life was like here, to know how island life differs from city life, to experience what his ancestors experienced. A simple desire to know his roots. Now in his hulking frame, vulnerability, a man seeking answers, something we had in common.
“We both came here to find something, then,” I said.
“What did you come to find?” When he smiled, I again noticed that his mouth was a larger copy of Owen’s with small perfect, symmetrical teeth.
“Japan. I’ve wanted to live in Japan since I was in college.”
“Why Japan? It’s such a big world, how does a woman from Illinois choose Japan?”
Here was another opening, a chance to admit that my admiration both for Owen and his country had driven me to come to Japan. I could ask Hisashi where Owen was now and why he’d done it. Instead I told a half-truth, “I was fascinated by Japanese culture.”
“Okinawa is the least Japanese place in Japan.”
“That’s what people keep saying. I understand it, kind of. But what do you mean?”
“Okinawa was its own country,” he said. He explained that historically, Japanese looked down on Okinawans and Okinawans didn’t necessarily feel like they were Japanese. “It’s not a happy relationship, even one-hundred-and-fifty years later, there are sore feelings.”
We turned toward the Sunabe Seawall and the ocean glittered in front of us, blinded me in a burst of sparkling pinpoints. I asked him if he felt Okinawan or Japanese.
“I’m both,” he said, and then we arrived at Jusco, the six-story department store where our first interview would be.
I snapped into reporter mode. We hustled inside the enormous building and walked past a dizzying array of products for sale. Window fans, clothes, lobsters, antique tea sets, furniture, fishing gear, Macy’s, Nordstrom and Chicago’s Navy Pier all in one place. My nose started itching, assaulted by the odors of chemicals, fish, and other pungent unidentifiables. We took the escalators to the fourth-floor food court and Hisashi spotted our interview subject, Takayuki-san, sitting at a Formica table.
“You can tell that’s him by the way he’s waiting, looking around. See?” I did see a dark-skinned and muscular man with a dragon tattoo on his forearm, bouncing his knee impatiently.
Hisashi bowed to Takayuki-san and I dipped my head in what had become my version of a mini-bow, not a full and formal Japanese bow, but an Americanized head bob. I extended my business card as I’d learned was appropriate. Takayuki-san studied the card and didn’t meet my eyes. Hisashi spoke to him in Japanese and we all sat. I set my digital recorder on the table. “He speaks English,” Hisashi said. “You can conduct the interview in English.”
“Thank you.” I had my prepared questions on paper but was ready to go off my plan if he said something that veered the conversation in an interesting direction. I knew how to conduct a good interview, to ask questions with enough wiggle room to elicit colorful comments and spontaneous honest answers. I had been known at the Sun Times as a savvy interviewer, squeezing all I could from the dry education beat. Hisashi waited for me to take the lead.
“Takayuki-san, you work in the stock room of the Base Exchange on Camp Foster, what do you like about your job?”
Takayuki-san squeezed his eyes shut as if this question needed serious consideration before he responded. “I like making enough money to support my family. Before this job, I worked on a dairy farm and we were poor. Now we live in a nice apartment and have a car. That’s what I like about the job.”
“Is there anything about your daily duties that you particularly enjoy or dislike?”
“I like that I work alone, mostly. I stock shelves all day and it makes me tired, so it’s better that I don’t have to talk to many people.”
“Do you have friends at work?”
“No.”
“Are all of your colleagues American? Or are there some other Okinawans?”
“The stockers are all Okinawan, so are some of the cashiers. But most of my coworkers are Americans.”
“Why did you decide to take English language classes? Your English is already very good.”
“My boss told me that if I could prove that I’d taken a course, he would give me a raise.”
“Even though you already speak English?”
“Yes. It’s a rule. I had to take the class.”
“How did you originally learn to speak English?”
“At the library, after my work at the dairy farm. I took courses online.”
“So you could get a job on base?”
“Yes, it took three years, five days a week. But now, my family is happier.”
I paused here and decided to go off script. “So, you studied for three years to get a base job and then you had to study the same thing again?” He averted his eyes and didn’t answer, so I tried something else. “Do you enjoy working for the U.S. government?”
He shifted in his seat and put his burly arms on the table. I glanced at Hisashi, who was staring at this big, serious man with his near-perfect English. Takayuki-san turned to Hisashi. “Does it bother you to work with Americans?”
Without pausing Hisashi said, “No it doesn’t. I’m happy to work with all of my colleagues.”
“Well, then you are a traitor and so am I. I work on base because I have no choice. If I could work at an Okinawan company and earn the same, I would. I hate Americans. Defilers of our island.” He shifted cold, suspicious eyes at me and sat back in his chair.
My skin went clammy and Hisashi sat forward defensively. Takayuki-san’s words slapped my temple like another assault, and I wanted to run away, but I needed to ask him one more thing. “If you hate Americans, why did you agree to this interview? Didn’t you know I was American?”
He glared at me now, coiled and ready to pounce. “I wanted to have the chance to tell one American how much I hate you.”
Hisashi stood, took my arm and lifted me to my feet. “Thank you, Takayuki-san. Goodbye.” He ushered me out of the store and to the car. My hands shook as I clicked on my seatbelt. Hisashi consoled me. “Listen, that guy is a typical worker. No respect for others. He probably waited his whole life to act like a tough man and tell somebody off.”
“I could feel his hatred,” I said. I tingled and burned all over, shot through with a blast of fear and adrenaline.
“He probably hates everybody.” Hisashi reached over and pressed down on my shaking hand. “In Tokyo, people aren’t anti-American.”
“But you said they’re anti-Okinawan?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Do you have any other American friends?” I surprised myself by referring to us as friends. He said he did and that we needed to push on to our next meeting, as long as I was okay. I told him I was fine, realizing with a start that utter overwhelm was my new normal.
* * *
The next two interviews were smoother. The director of the American Chamber of Commerce was an older agreeable man, who previously worked at the Naval hospital. He gave me stock answers, partly in Japanese and partly in English. He said learning English had been “invaluable” to his career advancement. The other interview was with a slender middle-aged woman who worked as a cashier at the Kadena Air Base commissary. She also gave pleasant, uninteresting answers, all in Japanese. When I asked her what she liked about her job she said, “All the people are very nice to work with.” When I asked why she was taking English classes she said, “To be a better employee.”
The interviews had gobbled up the afternoon and now the sun melted orange into the
East China Sea. Being with Hisashi for the whole day comforted me some. We’d seen protestors off in the distance on parts of the drive, but the simmering battle on the island became background noise, at least for a day, and I hadn’t dwelled on the uncomfortable upskirt incident.
Hisashi turned the car in to Sushi Ota, the restaurant he’d pointed out earlier. I was flattered he assumed I’d want to have dinner with him and didn’t feel the need to ask me. It was comfortable, familiar somehow, to be with Hisashi. I had no idea why it was so easy to be with a relative stranger, a man like no one I’d ever known and certainly not like Owen. His energy was warm, like a favorite oversize blanket. As we walked into the restaurant, diners took in his bulk. He was imposing, towering over everyone, as magnetic because of his size and open-faced friendliness as Owen had been because of his cool confidence.
I was eager to talk about Owen, to dig for answers. But I thought better of it. For these few moments I would let go, try to unwind during a nice meal and a quiet evening under a full moon that illuminated the island with a phosphorous glow. With an illogical twinge of guilt that by quashing my Owen obsession for a few moments, I was disappointing him. I let Hisashi wrap his powerful arm around my back and guide me to a table. He waved hello to the two chefs who smiled and brandished knifes.
The ornately carved knife handles shone and spun as the men skillfully assembled beautiful pieces of fish, rice and seaweed one at a time. Hisashi ordered cuttlefish, mahi-mahi and ahi, all fresh and delicious. Dinner at Owen’s in Evanston popped into my head. I took a swig of saké and refocused on my surroundings. The restaurant was dim with twinkle lights adorning the sushi bar and candles flickering on the tables.
Hisashi and I sat across from each other and talked about the day. I told him I felt doused in antagonism from all directions, from the angry interview with Takayuki-san, the upskirt incident, the protests and profane sign at the office. He was attentive and listened without saying much. His broad open face sunk as the day went on; his eyelids drooped, giving him the appearance of a sleepy pit bull.
We were both tipsy by the time we left the restaurant, with me in far worse shape, tottering, leaning. He poured me into the car and drove me to my apartment instead of to the office to retrieve my car. In the parking lot the moon washed us in a soft glow, and muffled voices, engines and music wafted over from Kadena Gate Street. It was cooler that night with a caressing breeze. Hisashi put both hands on my shoulders and when I looked up at him his head was part of the galaxy above, surrounded by stars. “Do you dislike Japan now?” he said. “Now that so much has happened?”
“No.” And being drunk I added, “Ashimine-san is nice to me. And you are too. Rumiko, not so much.”
“Rumiko is traditional. She likes you.”
“I’m not so sure. She looks at me funny.”
“That’s the Okinawan way, to be cautious of newcomers. Historically, newcomers to Okinawa haven’t been friendly. But don’t feel the whole island is against you.”
“I get it. Some guy upskirted me, another guy told me he hates me, but I can try to be optimistic about Japan. I know no place is perfect.”
“We agree on that,” he said, “no such thing as perfection.” He didn’t move, just stood in front of me and the night sky shimmered around his head. Then, “Do you like me?”
“I do,” I said, surprising myself with my honesty.
“Would you date a Japanese man?”
“I already have dated a Japanese man.”
Then there was an awkward pause where neither of us knew what to say and the moonlight was shadowed by a cloud. Obviously Hisashi didn’t realize I was referring to Owen as the Japanese man I’d dated. And now how could I ever tell him I’d kissed Owen, had wanted to sleep with him, had come to Japan for him?
He straightened, stepped back. “Wait. Today you said you ‘dated’ Owen.” He made little air quotes with his sausage fingers. “Dated?” he said again, eyebrows raised.
I told him yes, Owen and I had dated, and that though I liked him, Hisashi, it would be strange to date him too, and didn’t he agree? He squinted, said, “Okay, friends then,” and something shifted in him, an understanding flashed in his eyes. And then as if nothing had just happened between us, he became his big, friendly bear self again.
“Well, I need to take time off work and you want to see Japan, right? How about we do that together?” He’d salvaged the awkward moment with the smoothness of a salesman. “As friends.”
I agreed but was uncertain, told him Tokyo was the place I’d most like to see.
“Tokyo is great,” he said. “Different. Fancier.”
“I’m also curious to see Suicide Forest,” I said, straining in my fuzzy head for the Japanese word. “Aokigahara. I read about it,” I added, lamely.
Even in my tipsiness I felt him pull his energy inward. “You know that’s where Owen went, right?”
“Yes,” I whispered; unsure I should continue. “I thought seeing it might help me understand, give me closure on our relationship.”
“You need closure?” Hisashi exhaled a long deep breath. “I’m never going to that place.” His affect was flat, deflated. “Owen tried to kill himself. My family was almost destroyed, but we survived. That’s all the closure there is.” His sorrow was palpable again and I was sorry I’d said anything at all about Owen, or Suicide Forest. I was Owen’s girlfriend for a month. Hisashi was his brother. I had loved Owen desperately, but even so, I knew better than to compare our feelings at that moment. Hisashi graced me with more kindness than I had any right to expect after my blundering comments. He kissed my forehead, said we’d be good friends, and left with the moon bouncing off his car as it trailed off into the night.
I plopped down at my tiny kitchen table, too drunk to sleep. I again Googled Aokigahara, possessed with the doggedness of an investigator. The more I’d thought about it, the more I wanted to see it, to go there in person. So, Hisashi wouldn’t go with me, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t go.
Online, there were grim images of a skeleton partially buried in dirt and leaves and a weather-worn piece of paper by a tree stump. An article said, “Mr. Taka lost his house in bankruptcy in 2015. His suicide note said he was too ashamed to face his wife. It’s the eighty-ninth suicide in Aokigahara this year. Despite government warning signs advising people to ‘think of their families’ and ‘go back,’ Mr. Taka walked two miles into the forest and shot himself in the head. He was missing for nine months until hikers found his remains.”
I shut my computer and stumbled to bed. In a fitful sleep dark shapes chased me through thick, tangled woods, Owen Ota kissed my forehead, my father blew me kisses. And Hisashi Ota stood deep in the forest, beckoning me to come further. As I approached, he dissipated, and Owen took his place, urging me to follow. I started to follow him but tripped and fell into a mossy bed of leaves and branches, was overcome with the smell of dirt and blood. I jolted awake, shaking with the hangover I already regretted.
* * *
My head was a pressure cooker of sharp jabs and dull thudding throbs, the pain exacerbated by the subtropical heat. I swigged coffee and squinted behind my sunglasses on my way to work, prayed there’d be no weirdness between Hisashi and me. I was warming to the idea of touring with him, my personal local expert on all things Japan and I hoped he wasn’t upset with me.
As I Ubered to work, the street protests seemed smaller, more distant. I walked to the door and ran my hand over the head of our single guard shisa. Touching her as I went into work had become my secret ritual, an everyday gesture to sand my sharp edges. I hadn’t forgotten about my plan to get her a partner, but in all the crazy busyness I hadn’t had the chance. As I lifted my hand to the door handle, I froze. Red cardboard covered both glass doors, splattered with black painted lettering. “GO HOME OR DIE.”
I glanced around to see if anyone else was on the street, but no one was there. There was no wind, no salty or fish smells wafting by, just florid stillness. Someth
ing brushed my arm and I jumped sideways. Hisashi stood over me. He reached up and yanked the cardboard down. The speed and aggression of his movement made me jump again. “Don’t tell anyone about this,” he said.
“What?” I scanned the bushes, the street, expecting to see someone lurking there, about to attack.
“It’s just words.” He opened the door and held it for me. “Don’t worry about it.”
I felt chastised by his dismissive tone. “But what if someone wants to hurt us or kill us?”
Hisashi wore an exasperated expression, his thick jaw tight, tired eyes harder than they’d been last night. “These things happen because Okinawa Week caters to Americans. But it’s words, that’s all. I won’t tell Ashimine-san because it would embarrass him.” I was dumbfounded. How could he be sure the threat wasn’t serious? “Lucy, don’t tell Ashimine-san.” His voice had a softer, pleading tone.
My head was lead, and I was too drained and befuddled to argue. “Okay.”
“You need help with your next story, right?” he said. “I’m free tomorrow.” I knew Hisashi was solidifying my vow of secrecy by offering to help me with work, a story about the new English language classes at University of the Ryukyus, a piece related to my earlier one about Okinawans who’d learned English to get jobs on military bases. “I’ll take you to the appointments again. I’ll call the university dean personally to make sure he agrees to the interview.”
“Okay.”
“Lucy, don’t worry.” He spoke quietly now, squeezed my arm and went to his desk.
My legs wobbled as I went over to the assignment chart. Ashimine-san wrote our story assignments on an old-fashioned whiteboard instead of using the scheduling software on the computers. I hoped he’d changed my assignment to let me help Amista with the rape story, but I still had the fluffy feature about the university.
At my desk I shuffled through papers, pushed aside press releases and notes and took out a clean sheet. I forced myself to concentrate on my story despite the tornado of anxiety flying around in my head. As always, I began my research online and hand-wrote a list of the names, phone numbers, and email addresses necessary to schedule interviews with the dean and with students at University of the Ryukyus. I could feel Hisashi watching me from his desk, but I didn’t look up.
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