by Allen Say
"Never mind then," I said.
"No, tell me, what are they accusing me of?"
I told him.
"Fools," he hissed, clenching his teeth.
"Don't worry about it; it's all right now."
"Does Sensei think I'd do a thing like that?"
"No, of course not, it's all right, forget it. He was concerned because he spoke to the police first and only knew their version. It's all right now—he knows you didn't do it. He trusts you."
Tokida lit another cigarette and lay back.
"Do you hurt a lot?" I asked him.
He nodded and gave me a grin.
"But you're going to be all right. I'll see you tomorrow, Nisan," I said and left quickly.
That's what you call your older brother. I'd never called him that before, or anybody for that matter. It happened without my thinking and I was glad I had said it. More than anything I wanted him to be well again. I didn't ever want to draw better than Tokida.
EIGHTEEN
The police dropped all charges against Tokida—insufficient evidence, they said. I didn't think the verdict surprised Sensei, but the news made him jubilant. He went out and bought a small keg of fine Kyoto sake and had a maid warm it up for us in our room. We laughed a lot that night, perhaps too much, trying to keep our spirits high, but our celebration wasn't complete without Tokida to share it with us.
I went to the hospital every day, and as Tokida regained his strength he became more talkative, but he never mentioned anything about the riot and I never asked. He felt bad about not being able to work, and probably felt a little jealous that I was doing all the work. He worried about his hand going rusty, so Sensei brought him a thick sketchbook and some soft-leaded pencils and soon Tokida was drawing his fellow inmates in the ward. He could draw anywhere, at any time—something I respected and envied. He was living the life of his hero, van Gogh, with his head wrapped in bandages, drawing like a madman. He had to stay in the hospital almost two weeks.
I thought a lot about Tokida while he was away. He never had any trouble making decisions: He would make up his mind about something, go out, and do it. I envied him. I was always mulling over things, until I'd be too confused to know what I was thinking. But now I had to make up my mind about going to America. And the best way I knew was to talk to Mother, alone, to find out how she felt about it. I decided to see her at her shop without warning her ahead of time so she wouldn't have time to prepare what she was going to say.
It was late afternoon when I got off the train at Yokohama. As I approached the shop I was seized with an uneasy feeling, and slowed down my pace. I hadn't really thought out what I was going to say to her.
I was a few doors down the street from the shop when I saw Mother come out. Before I could think, something made me duck quickly behind a telephone pole. She was accompanied by a man, and they were walking away from me. I crossed the street and followed them at a safe distance.
He was tall, perhaps even a little taller than I, and was wearing a dark topcoat that contrasted with Mother's light camel-colored coat. They were carrying on an animated conversation, and from time to time they looked at each other and laughed. I saw his profile. He had thick eyebrows and a big angular jaw. Suddenly I thought about my father and wished something I hadn't wished in a long time; I wished that things had been different, that my parents were still together. I wished that the man walking next to Mother had been my father.
They crossed an intersection, and when they came in front of a small cafe the man motioned to Mother to go inside. My watch said four-thirty-five. I decided to wait for them to come out, even if it took four hours. I browsed in the shops on the block, always keeping a sharp eye on the cafe door. Who is he? I wondered. What are they talking about? What are they drinking? Coffee? Maybe whiskey sours. Is he a business associate of Mother's? Should I go up to them when they come out and say hello?
The more I thought about these things, the more uneasy I felt. I was miserable, and yet I could not bring myself to leave. I bought an apple from a fruit vendor and took one bite, then threw the rest in a trash bin.
Forty-five minutes later they came out smiling at each other, and Mother nodded her head a couple of times to him. The man had probably paid for the drinks and she was thanking him. I felt my heart beat as I followed them. It was getting dark and the bright shop lights hurt my eyes. I put my coat collar up, to break the wind and to hide my face. The man held Mother's elbow lightly as they crossed the busy street, and hailed a taxi.
I stood there a long time, looking in the direction where the cab had disappeared in the traffic. I felt a heavy numbness in my head, and in my body. The ground under me seemed to have disappeared, and yet my body was heavy. I wished I hadn't come. What she did wasn't my business, but I didn't have to know about it. I tried to fool myself by thinking perhaps I had seen things, that I had made up the whole thing, but it was no use. The cold air stung my eyes and burned my cheeks; the chill cut right through my wool coat, and I felt it on my spine. The coldness was the only thing I truly felt, and in a strange way it comforted me. I walked in the darkening light, all the way to the train station.
Mother was thirty-six years old, but she didn't look it; she was beautiful. It was stupid to think that she didn't have a suitor. Would she marry him? Perhaps she was holding out because of Grandmother and me. Especially me. My schooling was expensive; my apartment was expensive. If I were out of the way, she'd be free to do whatever she pleased. I now had my answer.
I went home and wrote to Father. I would go with him to America.
***
The day Tokida was released from the hospital, Sensei brought him home in a taxi, and we helped him up the staircase. Because of his broken ribs he couldn't use crutches, and had to limp around with a walking cane. He couldn't sit on the floor with the cast on his leg, so Sensei had the innkeeper bring up a tall office desk and a chair and set them up in a corner.
Later that afternoon when Sensei left for the evening I told Tokida of my decision.
"I'm going to America," I said. "I'll be leaving next summer."
Tokida said nothing.
"Well, what do you think?" I asked.
"What did Sensei say?"
"I haven't told him yet."
"So what's the big secret?"
"It's no secret. I wanted you to be the first to know."
"You're not going to like it there, I tell you. I'll give you two years and you'll be back. What made you decide all of a sudden?"
"I've been thinking about it for a long time."
"What's wrong with being a cartoonist here? I thought we would work together."
"Maybe we can do that anyway. I'm not going to the moon, Tokida. I might come back in a year or two and, who knows, maybe we can set up our own studio then."
"No, Kiyoi, once you go, that's it. You'll never be the same again. It's like my trying to go back to Osaka. You think things are better over there? Are you running away from something?"
"No, I'm not running away from anything."
"Why are you going then?"
"I don't know, Tokida. Maybe just to go to a new place. Don't you ever feel like that sometimes? Going to a foreign country and being a complete stranger?"
He looked at me steadily.
"I guess there's nothing wrong in that. I did it myself. You ought to do it then; I didn't know you felt like that. Sure, I know what you're saying, you want to be alone for a while, but I tell you, Kiyoi, don't stay there if things don't work out. You're not going to lose face by coming back. Do what you want to do and don't ever listen to anybody."
"No, I won't.... Will you tell Sensei about it? I don't want to tell him I'm going away."
"I'll tell him. It's probably better that way. You want a cigarette?"
"No, thanks."
"Don't worry about Sensei. I'll tell him."
"Thanks."
***
I told Mother next, at Grandmother's house. She would never know
how I had arrived at my decision. I felt like I was testing her, to see how she would react.
"You've made the right choice, Koichi," she said calmly. "It's a wonderful opportunity for you. I wanted you to go, for your sake, but I didn't want to influence you. We'll miss you, of course, but your future is more important."
Grandmother sat in silence.
"What do you think, Grandmother?" I asked.
"Will they treat you kindly?" she asked, leaning over the charcoal brazier to warm her hands.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"We've been enemies, Koichi, and the war has been over for only a few years." Mother and I looked at her in amazement.
"It's all over, Mother," said Mother. "We're friends now. People don't go on being enemies forever."
"There are things people don't forget," said Grandmother.
"I can always say I'm a Korean," I suggested.
"Nonsense. You're no more Korean than I or your mother. You should be proud of your blood. Besides, look at what's happening in Korea. Koreans are their enemies now."
"Mother, it isn't as if Koichi fought in the war—he's only a boy," said Mother.
"That's just the problem. He's not old enough to fend for himself."
"But he is not going alone. He'll be with his father."
"What difference does that make?" Grandmother grunted. "His father! So you think he is going to be a responsible father all of a sudden; don't be naive, Masako. Has he ever been a good father? What has he ever done for Koichi? Has he ever helped pay for his education? He's done nothing, absolutely nothing. He's not of our blood; he's an outsider. I never trusted that man, and I never will."
"How can you say that?" I was taken aback by her bitterness. She'd never spoken like this in front of me before. "You don't even know him. You've never met my father."
"That'll be enough, Koichi," Mother cautioned me.
"That's the trouble with you, Masako," said Grandmother. "You're too softhearted. You've been too good for that man, and look what he's done to you. Men are all alike."
"Stop it, Mother; he's Koichi's father."
"I've said what I think."
"But I'm a man, Grandmother," I said. "At least I will be."
"You're my grandson," she said and closed her eyes. "There will be many hardships. You don't speak their tongue, and you're different from them. You don't know what it is to be different from everybody else. You don't even know what it is to be alone, to have no one to comfort you. But you're young, full of foolish ideas.... If you really want to go, then go. My grandson..." she said as if to herself.
I realized then that she wasn't only saying that she would miss me—she was thinking about her death, that our parting would be final. I never knew she cared for me that much.
"We must stop this right now. This is supposed to be a joyous occasion. I'll go and put the kettle on," said Mother and went to the kitchen.
Mother must be craving for a cigarette, I thought. Tokida would have gone mad without one by now. Though Mother never said much in front of Grandmother, I knew she was a woman of strong will. She was glad that I was going, for my sake, and I was glad to be out of her way. I wondered how long it would be before she would remarry.
***
Father began to send me a steady stream of letters, instructing me in the tedious business of getting my papers in order. At the beginning of February he wrote to say that he was coming to Tokyo for a few days, to be interviewed by the American Consul General, and also to take care of some business. He gave me the date of his arrival and the name of the hotel where he would stay, and asked me to reserve one day to spend with him. Now that my school knew I was leaving I was excused from classes almost at will.
A day after Father arrived I went to the big European-style hotel to meet him. I asked for him at the front desk and waited in the lobby. I felt nervous about meeting Father for the first time in more than four years. I tried to imagine what he would look like now, but the only picture that came to my mind was the look on his face as he'd slipped his gold watch off his wrist to give me when we'd parted.
In about five minutes Father came out of the elevator. He seemed shorter than I remembered. When he spotted me his face broke into a big grin. He hadn't changed much, though now there was more white than black in his hair.
"Don't tell me you're still growing," he exclaimed as he walked up to me. Father was always a little theatrical and his exhibitionism embarrassed me. Then he did a strange thing: He extended his right hand toward me and held it there. He meant for me to shake it, but I just stared at it, because it isn't customary for Japanese to shake hands. Finally, I took his hand and shook it meekly, and noticed how small his hand was, with short, stubby fingers. It was as if my father had shrunk since the last time I'd seen him.
"You haven't eaten, have you?" he asked. I shook my head. "Good, we're going to have a good lunch. You don't mind if my business associate joins us, do you?" he said, and before I could reply he grasped me by the arm and ushered me to the front desk.
"Meet my son," he said grandly to the clerk and handed him his room key.
"A fine-looking young man, sir," said the clerk and gave me a short bow.
We walked out into the cold. Like so many short men, Father had very good posture, and walked briskly. He reached out and pulled my left hand out of my coat pocket.
"Don't you have a pair of gloves?" he asked.
"I don't need them," I said.
"Try this." He removed a suede glove from his hand and gave it to me, but of course it was too small for me.
"What am I going to do with you? I bet you can't wear ready-made clothes anymore." Father looked embarrassed. "So what sport do you play?"
"I don't have much time for sports, Father."
"Not even soccer?"
"No, but I've been taking karate lessons."
"Ha!" he cried and took a leaping step ahead of me, then turned suddenly to face me, standing in a classic boxer's stance.
"Come, hit me!" he challenged with a mocking smile.
In his youth Father had been a professional boxer in Shanghai. I remembered the time when he had brought home two pairs of boxing gloves that an American soldier had given him. And with the heavy practice gloves he gave me my first boxing lesson. It wasn't much of a lesson—all he did was jab me in the face with his quick hands until my nose bled and I began to cry. My crying made him furious. He continued jabbing me until Mother came running out of the house to save me. My face was covered with blood and tears.
The same man now beckoned me teasingly with his raised fists. I was at least five inches taller than he, and with my long legs I could have kicked him in his groin and disabled him in an instant. I stared at him, not knowing whether to laugh or go through a mock fight with him. Then Father took a step and shot his left hand at my shoulder, to give me a tap, no doubt, a friendly gesture. I should have stood still, but automatically my right hand flew up to block his strike. It was pure reflex. Our forearms made contact, and the momentum of my strike sent his arm flying up in the air. The smile on his face disappeared.
"You're quick, aren't you?" he said and nudged my shoulder with his closed fist. I stood still this time. I wanted to apologize, but didn't. He did not like apologies.
He began to walk quickly once again, leading the way.
"What would you like to do this afternoon?" he asked.
"There are a lot of good movies," I said, not knowing what else to suggest.
"Let's see a movie then; you make the choice."
He took me to a well-known European restaurant where his associate joined us. We went through the usual introduction, his friend asking my age, commenting on my height. Father beamed with pride, grasping my arm and giving me a light punch on the shoulder. Then the two discussed business the rest of the time. Father ate like a Westerner, handling his knife and fork with ease. I tried to imitate him, though it was an awkward way to eat.
"So what's your plan for the aftern
oon?" asked his friend.
"I think we'll take in a movie. There are only two theaters where I live."
His friend made a clacking sound with his tongue in disapproval.
"A movie? Why not Nichigeki? Your son looks old enough for that sort of thing." He nodded at me with a knowing smile.
"Perhaps next time," said Father. "I think a movie is in order."
"Let me take you there before you leave Tokyo. You shouldn't miss the striptease theater; it's the best thing in town," he said.
I wished I hadn't said anything about movies—I felt I was wasting Father's ume. But he seemed to enjoy the movie and it was a relief for me to sit in the dark theater and not have to talk for two hours.
When we came out of the theater Father looked at his watch and said, "I'd like to take you to dinner but I have a business engagement. Give me a call tomorrow and maybe we can spend a few hours together. Here..." He started to give me some money.
"I still have the money you sent me," I told him.
"Take it anyway. I want you to buy decent luggage, and have some clothes made, at least one suit."
I thanked him and stuffed the large bills in my pocket.
"I'm glad you're coming with me, son," he said, and grasped my right hand with both hands and squeezed hard.
I wanted to tell him that I was glad also, but all I could do was to nod to him awkwardly. He walked away quickly, without looking back. He's going to call his friend and they're going to see the striptease, I thought to myself.
NINETEEN
To make clothes to take to America seemed silly, and as for the luggage I could easily fit everything I needed in one suitcase. I was planning to ask Mother to let me have the suitcase we used when we left Father; somehow it seemed right that I should take it on my long journey.
Time passed quickly. I left school at the end of May to prepare for my departure. There wasn't much to prepare—I just wanted some time to myself. Though I was to leave in the middle of the following month, I didn't believe that I was actually going, and yet I had a brand-new passport with my picture in it. I still had all the money Father had given me, and the check he'd sent me still lay in my desk drawer. I don't know why, but I hesitated to use his money on myself, and in the end I decided to buy gifts with it. I went to an expensive gift shop in the Ginza and chose a briar pipe for Sensei and a fancy English lighter for Tokida. I also bought a small gold pin for Michiko. While I was making the selection I noticed a carved jewelry box made of hardwood which played a little metallic tune when it was opened. I decided to send one to Reiko. I knew I meant nothing to her, and I would probably never see her again, but perhaps the gift would let her know that I still thought about her. In a way she was like a painting, flat and mindless. Maybe she would remember me every time she took a necklace or something out of the box. I wanted to get something for Mother as well, but didn't feel right buying her a gift with Father's money; besides, both Mother and Grandmother had asked me to leave them my oil paintings.
