* * *
After work, I took a back-road route to the Sunabe Seawall and sat on the concrete barrier above the waves, happy to be anonymous in the crowd on the boardwalk. The evening was warm, finally a break from the driving heat, and the ocean breeze blew my hair into a fluffy cloud. The East China Sea glittered in the slanting sun like sparkling, buckling glacier ice. I looked at my phone, considered calling Hisashi. At some point we’d be able to talk more about Owen, but it would have to wait. Maybe he would find it creepy that I’d come all the way to Japan because of my feelings for Owen and my attraction for the country, even though I knew so little about it. Maybe he’d never want to speak to me again if he knew I had been romantic with his brother. Maybe too, I didn’t really want to know why Owen had done what he did, or how he was now.
My reverie was interrupted when someone said, “Lucy?” I turned and there was Nathan, the man I’d met at this spot three weeks earlier. He was muscular in a fitted t-shirt, swim trunks and sandals. “How’s it going?”
“Too much going on around here.”
“I read your articles. Wow. How to marry an American?” He winked at me and smiled as though we were sharing a joke.
“I’m a rookie. I don’t get to pick the story topics.”
“It was interesting, actually. So was your story about Okinawans who study English.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “It’s about dinner time. What do you say?”
I couldn’t come up with a reason to say no. Dinner with Nathan might take my mind off of Hisashi, and Owen, and upskirting, and threatening signs, and Midori Ishikori, and the turmoil that had consumed my short time on Okinawa.
Chapter Seventeen
Nathan and I ducked into a cool, dark, mostly empty Chinese restaurant. We sat at a corner booth and flipped through plastic menus. He kept glancing up at me and his eyes were fringed in thick lashes, a girlish detail on a masculine man with a chest-breadth tattoo peeking from the top of his t-shirt. He asked how my first few weeks had been, and I shifted in the wooden bench seat, already wishing I hadn’t agreed to dinner. Banter and getting-to-know-you talk felt like another oddity, a burden that I might not have energy for. But I would make the most of it, try to come out of my hardening shell, talk and think about non-threatening things. I asked him what military base he worked on and told him I’d only seen Kadena so far.
“I work and live on Camp Foster, that’s the biggest Marine base. What did you think of Kadena? Since you’re a civilian I bet it seemed strange.”
“Yes. Like nowhere I’ve ever seen before. Then again, Okinawa is like nowhere I’ve seen before.”
He told me people always have culture shock when they first get acquainted with military life. “It’s an entirely different world,” he said, and explained that when he finished boot camp, he was assigned to San Diego. At first, he was thrilled to be in a beach town but when he got there, he learned that an entire population of people live and work on base and rarely go to the beach or anywhere else. He said just as some civilians in the U.S. would never have a reason to step foot on a military base, there were military people who never leave their bases. They work, shop, eat and do everything else without going outside the gates. “I could never hole up inside a base,” he said. “Especially in somewhere as beautiful as Okinawa.”
I hadn’t been thinking of Okinawa as beautiful. Sitting across from Nathan, I felt a plink of loneliness. He was pleasant and attractive, but what was I doing here? I didn’t have the nerve to get up and leave. As a military man, Nathan was as foreign to me as someone from Mars. I remembered the announcement from Kadena’s commander after the rape allegation, that service personnel weren’t to leave base. I said, “I thought the military was on lockdown.”
“That only applies to enlisted. Officers can come and go as they please.”
“Officers? I know very little, nothing really, about military ranks.”
Nathan was amused. “Enlisted personnel don’t have college degrees. Officers do.”
I digested this for a moment. The waiter took our orders and then I said, “So, military people are penalized for not having a college degree?”
“No, that’s not right,” he said, an edge to his voice. He explained that officers are in charge, responsible for the enlisted in their units and that likewise, there were enlisted people in charge of other enlisted people. He said those in charge are expected take responsibility for their charges. “It’s like a CEO, or a manager, versus a salesclerk. Different levels of authority and freedom. Does that make sense?”
It did, but something about it seemed wrong to me. “I dunno. What are you?”
He told me he was a Navy lieutenant commander and an internist, that the people he managed were other doctors, nurses, aides, paramedics and administrators, that it was equivalent to running a small hospital in the civilian world. So, he was a doctor, another type of person with whom I had nothing in common. I’d never felt so alone while eating dinner with another person. He continued, telling me that he was a “lifer,” someone who’d stay in the military until he retired, then he’d move to some small town near a beach, possibly even Okinawa or one of the other islands in Japan’s Ryukyu chain. I calculated and realized he was probably ten years older than I was. In another life, one where I hadn’t loved Owen, I’d have found Dr. Nathan attractive, as handsome and smart as he was.
“What brought an aspiring journalist all the way to Divorce Rock?”
“I get asked that question a lot. Apparently, I’m a bit of an anomaly. It’s a long story,” I said. I had no desire to share my feelings with him, changed the subject and asked for his story. Without skipping a beat, he said he’d been married to his college sweetheart and six years ago, right after they arrived on Okinawa, she had an affair with a Marine.
“We got divorced and she married him. End of story.” I felt a twang of pity for him. He was so tough, but sadness floated around the corners of his pretty eyes.
“No wonder you call this place Divorce Rock.”
“I’m not bitter,” he said. “Quite the opposite. I work and when I’m off I tour around. I like it here so much I’ve extended my tour of duty twice.”
“Don’t you have to go to Afghanistan or Iraq or somewhere terrible like that?” I asked, conjuring up one of the few details I knew about military life.
“Most Marines and sailors do, but they also need someone to run the hospital here.” He told me that he had a mix of feelings about never deploying to a war zone. He knew he was lucky, but also felt guilty because most go and some don't come back. “It’s complicated. But what’s not complicated is how I feel about Okinawa. I love this place. What about you? Are you loving it too?”
I didn’t want to dampen his puppy-dog enthusiasm. “It’s not what I expected,” I said. He asked what I meant, but I begged off, feigning tiredness. We finished our dinners and walked outside to the seawall. The sunset had turned the low drifts of clouds orange-white and his skin glowed golden. We stood at about the same spot I’d first seen him, rescuing Gogan the seawall dog, and I recalled what he’d said that day. “When we met, you told me that Okinawa’s winds are full of angry and sad spirits.”
“Did I tell you that?”
“You told me it’s a local legend stemming from World War II. Angry and sad winds blow off the East China Sea in retribution for the war, causing Americans to be unhappy here. You know, Divorce Rock?”
He pushed his lips together in a wry smile. “Divorce Rock, that’s a real thing. It’s an offshore rock formation north of here, and it’s also true that many Americans who come to Okinawa end up divorced. But I made up the bit about the angry winds in retribution for the war.” I frowned at my own naiveté and turned my face to the ocean, tasted salty sea spray on my lips.
During our goodbyes, he wore a wistful expression, said he’d like to see me again, but I deferred, telling him I’d be busy covering the rape case. It was a half-truth and I was surprised at the ease with which I’d sai
d it.
* * *
In my apartment I nursed a glass of wine on my futon couch. City lights twinkled up through my picture window, but the typhoon-proof glass was sound-proof too, so all was quiet. Dinner with Nathan had been both a revelation and a foreign experience. He’d enlightened me about military life, an encapsulated lesson about things I wouldn’t have otherwise known. But in doing so, he’d increased my feelings of isolation. I was American, but not part of the many American military people on Okinawa. I worked for a local company but didn’t fit in with the local culture. And I blundered through a Japanese workplace, alienating more than ingratiating myself.
For the umpteenth time since coming to Japan, I thought about fleeing back to Illinois, where all was familiar and benign. Nathan said angry ghosts weren’t responsible for stirring up troubled winds on Okinawa. But the notion of furious spirits wreaking havoc on people’s hearts seemed possible to me. Owen told me that in Japan people spoke to the dead. And that the dead spoke to the living too, couldn’t it be possible that the dead had their say by causing typhoons and drama and difficulty? Until my father died and I heard him talk to me in the wind, I would have never believed such mystical nonsense. But now I was untethered, unsure, unclear about what to do or what could happen from moment to moment. Anything was possible, maybe even something good, if only I could muster the guts to stick it out and stay in Japan long enough.
I woke up to a glaring bright morning, not a cloud in the clear blue sky. I checked my phone and had missed seven calls from Hisashi. He had texted too, saying, “Lucy, the police are looking for you. Please hurry.”
Chapter Eighteen
Officer Tanaka, the baby-faced officer from the Okinawa Prefecture Police, waited for me next to the shisa. His powder-blue shirt was wet, and his forehead glistened under the intense sun, the hottest day so far on Okinawa. He told me I was needed in court that afternoon, that the upskirt criminal had hired a skilled defense lawyer and so his victims, including me, would need to testify in person to bolster the case against him. My written statement wasn’t enough and without my appearance the culprit might get off. Fear stung my belly. I didn’t want to go to court. I told Officer Tanaka I had a work deadline.
“Ashimine-san will let you out of it,” he replied. “I’ve already spoken to him.” It was news to me that Ashimine-san knew the police personally, but then again, what did I really know anyway? Everything surprised me. I was stone, went to my desk and sat, staring, vaguely wondering where Hisashi was.
Amista came in and I told her about my court appearance. She said she would’ve gone with me, but she was committed to a press conference by Midori Ishikori’s lawyers. I couldn’t believe my bad luck; I was going to have to miss the press conference, the first and maybe only one by Midori’s team.
“I’ll take you to court, Lucy.” I hadn’t seen Hisashi come out of Ashimine-san’s office. I thanked him and instantly realized I’d soon be in a courtroom identifying my pink underwear on video in front of him.
It was a few hours until we had to leave; I summoned all my determination and focused on editing my university story. An analyst in Tokyo had given me pertinent data: Despite studying it throughout school, a majority of students scored at or below the equivalent of grade three proficiency in English. Thirteen percent scored zero in spoken English. That information put things in perspective. Only the most driven people will study English in University of the Ryukyu’s new program, the analyst had told me. I incorporated the data and the most colorful quotes from the dean and ended up with what I hoped was a solid piece. The headline was, “English on the Agenda for Career Advancement,” dry, but accurate. I’d have a little time to revise it later if I came up with something better. It was noon and time for court.
The car ride was the first time I’d been alone with Hisashi since he’d helped me with the university interview. That day hadn’t ended well, with Hisashi incredulous that I dated Owen, his sadness palpable when he told me that being an Ota had almost killed Owen. I’d been mortified at the reality that my sadness over Owen’s disappearance was a grain of sand, compared to the ocean of grief Hisashi had gone through in the near loss of his brother. I held my feelings at bay, tamped them down and concentrated on the task at hand. Hisashi asked me if I’d been in court before and I told him not even for a traffic ticket.
“I will protect you, don’t worry.”
Alarmed, I said, “I’ll need protection?”
“I didn’t mean ‘protect,’ I meant ‘guide.’ I’ll make sure you get to the right rooms and so on.” He said he’d been in the courtrooms plenty of times, covering stories and that they are quite safe, with police all around.
He weaved along a busy street to an interior part of the island, away from the coast. Even with the air conditioning on full blast, the heat pressed into the car and my legs stuck to the vinyl seat. Without Hisashi I wouldn’t have known what building to look for, where to park, how to get to the right courtroom or even how to ask for help with those things. It would have taken me twice as long to get there, floundering with my cell phone GPS.
Giant kangi letters identified the Okinawa Prefecture Courthouse. A Japanese flag and an Okinawan flag flew side by side, and two humongous shisas sat beside the tall doors. People bustled in and out, sweating, carrying briefcases, laptops and folders. Faces were lined with stress. Like in an airport, they screened my purse and we walked through a metal detector. Hisashi conferred with an officer and took me to the third floor, down a crowded hall where people milled about alone or in groups. We sat on a bench. Two women across the hall snuck glances at me.
After thirty minutes, the door opened and an officer called, “Tosch, Kato, Watanabe.” The two women who had been watching me headed to the room with me, each accompanied by a man. One was a teenager with braided pigtails, heavy black eyeliner and bright pink high tops. The other woman was older, wearing the type of peach-colored business suit I’d come to recognize as standard attire in traditional Okinawan banks, where the women wore matching pastel outfits and the men wore black or grey suits and ties.
Inside the sterile and chilly courtroom, Officer Tanaka stood near the front, along with grim-looking Officer Penn and another man. A judge with thick glasses sat behind a large raised desk and a court reporter sat below him to his side. There were two metal tables facing each other on opposite sides of the room, not positioned side-by-side as they are in U.S. courtrooms. And a small empty desk sat facing the judge. There were a dozen or so people in the spectator area.
“Who are those people?” I asked Hisashi.
“Lurkers. People who lurk at court proceedings. They probably don’t have jobs and are curious. There’s no rule about that. Anyone is allowed to come to open court.”
Officer Tanaka instructed me and the other two women to sit at one of the metal tables and our companions to sit in the spectator area. I felt nervous without Hisashi next to me but focused on what Officer Tanaka said. If and when the judge called each of us up, we were to tell the facts. Just explain what happened and answer any questions from him, the judge or the defendant’s lawyer. The defendant wouldn’t appear in person today, which was a relief. I didn’t want to see his smug, unrepentant face.
Officer Penn said, “You will have to identify yourself, Ms. Tosch,” and she turned her pencil lips up into a smile that I assumed was meant to be comforting. “I know this might be embarrassing. I’m here to help.”
“I’m not sure what help you can be,” I said, in a sharper tone than I meant to. It was so odd, having a stranger offer emotional support, adding a layer of awkwardness to the scene. I was in a court, in a foreign country, being guided by a man I’d known for a few weeks who might not even like me, in a room where I couldn’t understand most of what was being said, about to see my underwear on a large screen. It would have been funny if I hadn’t been so overwhelmed.
My two comrades sat next to me chatting quietly and peeking over at me. I decided to introduce myself. �
��Watashi wa Lucy.”
They both nodded and extended their hands, which I shook, while also giving my little head bob that I hoped they would construe as a bow. I didn’t want to offend them by overdoing it, but if I omitted the bow completely, they might think me rude or ignorant. They head bobbed back. The young hipster said, “I am Rika, and this is Hoshi. Can you believe this guy? What a moron.”
I was glad she spoke English. “He’s a jerk alright. Could this be any weirder?”
Hoshi squirmed and scanned the courtroom, obviously uncomfortable. Rika said, “Hoshi doesn’t speak English. She’s embarrassed. I’m okay. Just want to see this moron punished.”
“Will the judge speak to me in English?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure there’s a translator. I’ve been to court a few other times, once with an American, and there was someone there to translate.”
I knew it would be bad form to ask why she’d been in court before and anyway the proceedings began before I could respond. I glanced back at Hisashi and he nodded at me.
Officer Tanaka stood and gave a short speech in which he said “Himura-san” several times and I figured that was the name of the upskirt criminal. He also said each of our names, pointing to us in turn, frowning and shaking his head. When he was finished, he sat down at the table with us and Himura’s lawyer stood up. He gave a short speech without mentioning any names and sat back down.
Tanaka stood again and a screen lit up at the side of the room. First, blurry images of strong legs, shifting from foot to foot, and Rika’s crotch, with black-and-red heart-covered undies. Next a veil of peach around stockinged legs and nude underwear. Then my legs, pale and skinny, ending at the edge of my pink Victoria’s Secret panties. I snuck a glance at Hisashi, and his head was turned from the screen.
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