“Hey,” he panted. “Going to catch fish?”
The five men, all nearly as old as his father, looked up cautiously. They wore torn and patched rubber aprons. Two were barefoot and the others had rubber boots. The rest of their clothing was ragged. A slightly younger, barefoot man stood braced on the raised stern with his arms around the thick sweep oar.
“We have official permission, sir,” the younger man said politely.
The gap of water was widening. However respectful they seemed to be, Kiyoshi decided, they wouldn’t likely return for a simple request. His own clean denims set him apart—gave him authority—he realized. Rather than asking, he announced, as he would have as an officer to a soldier, “Come back. I wish to go with you.”
“You’ll get dirty, sir.”
“That’s my business.” Making it up as he went, Kiyoshi declared: “I’m assigned to make an official report. Come back.”
It worked. When the boat returned to bump against a piling, he didn’t wait for a hand but jumped in. He didn’t anticipate the layer of slime on the wooden boards—his rubber soles slipped, his feet shot up, and then Kiyoshi was looking at the men from a puddle that began to flood his denim pants with murky saltwater. What would that unladylike Miki say if she saw him thus? Good that she wasn’t there to watch. He forced a laugh as the men rushed to help him.
“You see now, sir. This poor boat isn’t the place for—”
He made a joke of it, heartily. They didn’t laugh. Now that he’d descended to their level he saw that they regarded him with less respect. But the boat had left the pier again, and he was aboard. He took a deep breath. How many years since he’d smelled the comfortable odor of old fish, permanently engrained in weathered wood? He rose and bowed.
“I’ve come for observation only. I don’t want a share of the catch, so you do not need to worry.”
They still regarded him dubiously. Kiyoshi made himself stand erect, blinking into the light rain. The boat made plodding progress under the thrust of the stern oar. Kiyoshi didn’t mind—it enabled him to examine the harbor quay by quay. Many vessels of some five to seven meters in length lay moored. Bare, darkened wood showed through the faded paint on each of them. In one area, other far-seas vessels like those of Tsurifune Suisan Ltd. lay rusting. He watched a rat run up the hawser of one, where the saucer-like guard had broken. A building that might have housed the harbor administration was charred and its windows broken. Beside it stood a structure so roughly made that it could have been assembled in haste from the boards of other, demolished buildings. Along many piers sat old men and boys holding lines dropped in the water. As he watched, one man brought up a flapping fish no bigger than a bite. The man removed it quickly as the others strained to see, laid it on leaves in a box beside him, and tied the lid shut.
Their own boat approached three other small ones tied stem to stern, all open-deck except for one that had a simple shack of housing. Aboard the latter sat a woman with face hidden by a sun bonnet and an old man with a headband. Both held needles as they passed their net between them, mending holes.
One of the men aboard Kiyoshi’s vessel threw a line to a man on the stern of the last boat in the chain. Soon their boat was added to the chain. It all happened quietly, solemnly, much like a ceremonial ritual, and without any of the lively shouts back and forth that Kiyoshi remembered from his boyhood.
From one of the quays came a boat under power. It puffed sooty smoke, a sign that it burned wood or charcoal rather than oil. When it reached the front of the little chain, a man standing astern threw a line to the first boat, then continued ahead. One by one the lines connecting the boats tautened and the hulls started moving. In this way, all four boats were towed slowly beyond the harbor and out into open water, where they were released one by one. In Kiyoshi’s boat the man at the stern oar resumed the heavy sweeps that provided only a sluggish propulsion. Now in water that rose in low waves, it was obviously much harder work than back in the harbor. His thin arms had tendons that stood out like wires as he pushed and pulled the oar back and forth. His lips tightened in a mirthless grin that showed broken teeth clenched against the strain.
Kiyoshi watched and considered. In the time long ago, fishermen had shown him how to scull an oar, although as a boy whose father owned ships, he’d only needed to do common labors when he chose to. So long forgotten. Hard work, that, in open water. If he volunteered to try it now, he’d lose the status he’d assigned himself. And if he failed, it would be worse.
He stepped up to the raised stern. “I’ll relieve you for a while.”
The man continued to sweep the heavy oar. “I’m doing it, sir. Best that you sit and observe.”
The five old men made a space for him, then politely squeezed away to the opposite side.
They reached the stakes protruding from the water that marked their set net. These, Kiyoshi knew, were cunning traps for fish; a wide, funnel-like entrance grew progressively narrower, until the only way the fish could swim was into the area that was boxed off. Once they swam into this, the fish would not be able to escape. It was an arrangement as old as nets themselves; he’d watched it in careless boyhood and had noted it again only months ago on Okinawa, before the horrors started.
Could it really be believed? The long, terrible war had ended, and the Emperor no longer demanded defenders to give their lives for his honor. Life, regarded for years as something to inevitably be lost in heroic sacrifice, had regained a part in Kiyoshi’s future.
The men lined the rail. They bent over into the water and locked their fingers into the submerged mesh of the net. Then, with a common grunt, they pulled the first length over the rail. This motion they repeated, hauling in more and more of the net and dropping it about their feet—progressively diminishing the area of the trap that held fish. Water glistened on the men’s rubber aprons. Eventually slime came up too, dripping from the net in globs and splashing onto the feet of the laboring men. Kiyoshi had no protective clothing. He stood apart and watched, restless. The armloads of net appeared to grow heavier from the weight of whatever lay trapped out of sight. The men pulled more slowly, with deeper grunts.
Kiyoshi went to the rail, leaned over, and locked fingers into the mesh with the rest. Strands of net parted like weeds under his vigorous pull.
“You must leave the net to us,” snapped the oarsman, who had joined the others at the rail. “See how it tears! We must pull gently or it falls apart. There’s no other net to replace it.”
Kiyoshi stepped back, embarrassed. Humiliation even here at the lowest level. He had been at the rail only a short time, but his clothes now dripped with seawater and slime and the still steadily falling rain. His feet were now awash within his shoes. He recovered enough to say, with authority, “Of course.”
“Come back, sir. We can use your help,” said one of the older men. “Look, you must grip the meshes gently, eh, and pull in a straight line with the rest of us. Your way, showing off your young power, only makes the net worse than it is.”
Kiyoshi glanced at the oarsman, who appeared to be their leader. He shrugged consent.
“I recognize you,” said the old man. “Young Tsurifune. Not dead after all. They said so in town yesterday.” The others looked up, startled, and moved away as best they could without releasing the net.
Kiyoshi tried to be hearty about it. “Not dead. Not a spirit either, so don’t worry. If I am cut, you’ll see I bleed.”
“Strange,” continued the old man. “Here I’d bowed at your funeral only last summer. Do you know that I was a fisherman aboard one of your father’s far-seas vessels? In good times. Yamaguchi is my name, sir. Here. Come pull beside me. I don’t fear the jealous spirits of those who are truly dead, if we should brush shoulders.”
Kiyoshi removed his shoes and his denim shirt. Then—what difference did dignity make now?—his pants. He returned to the rail wearing only the khaki underclothing that remained of his uniform. He gauged his motions in rhythm with the
others. Even so, carefully as if he were handling delicate china, another strand broke loose under his hands. One of the men saw and sucked in his breath, but this time nobody commented.
When the net had been tightened enough that they could see fish swirling in the green water about a foot below the surface, they stopped pulling and brought out a wide dip net. “We’ll pull our poor net no higher, like we might have in old days,” explained Yamaguchi. “Make no more weight than necessary, you see, or the net rips further.”
The water above the fish churned now, while occasional fish tails surfaced with foamy splashes. The fresh smell of sea salt and fish surrounded them. Kiyoshi breathed it in with growing excitement. For years, nothing had filled his nostrils with such memories nor with such pleasure. The prostitute’s perfume was nothing to this, nice as that had been. And when the dip net had begun to dump fish around their feet, the feel of this vibrant sea life! Flattened bream with their wide, dark stripes, tentacle-clinging cuttlefish, a big sluggish turtle that he, with his feet bare, needed to avoid, and scores of assorted flapping fish. The abundance lasted only for three or four brailer-loads. Then they pulled the net, now relieved of its main weight, to tighten it further and scooped out fish so small that they would be barely enough for a mouthful. It was the first abundance that Kiyoshi had seen since the early years of the war. Why was anyone in town hungry when this much food lay just off shore and rations were divided evenly?
Over the sea splash came the put-put of an engine. A boat approached rapidly, driven by gasoline, to judge from its lack of black smoke.
The steersman leapt on the raised stern and, as the vessel coasted toward them, called out, “Not today! Go! Nothing today!”
The boat continued in. A few feet away, the engine stopped and it drifted closer as the man behind the wheel stared over at them. Suddenly the engine started again and the boat veered away. Just then, a man stepped from a small cabin shelter and peered over through a pair of binoculars.
Again the boat changed course and now came to drift alongside them while the man with the binoculars threw out a line. He laughed.
“So!” he called to Kiyoshi. “Are they afraid you’ll tell if they have a good catch to sell me?” It was the black marketeer the two Tsurifunes had dealt with earlier. “Got more American cigarettes from we-don’t-say-where, hey?” Carefully, hand by hand, the crewmen placed all but the tiniest fish into the nets thrown over from the powerboat. The dealer scribbled the details on a thick pad. When they had finished, he calculated, then counted out a sheaf of yen notes to the steersman. Within minutes the powerboat had sped off with most of their day’s catch.
The oarsman counted out three bills to each of the men. They received them with a bow and tucked them inside their shirts. He hesitated, then handed Kiyoshi a pair of notes. “Please make that do. We’re only poor fishermen. Try to get one-eighth of that at the ration wharf!”
Kiyoshi refused with a dignified wave of his hand. “Don’t insult your guest. Your secret’s safe.”
When the charcoal-powered boat came alongside to tow them back to the harbor, more yen notes passed over the rails. At the wharf where they delivered the small fish, a man with spectacles peered down and shook his head.
“Miserable catch again today, I see. Miserable ration to the households. I’m afraid you won’t get paid much for your day’s work.”
“Terrible, how stingy the sea spirits are lately,” observed the oarsman coolly. Kiyoshi shrugged. He felt both angry and detached. What would the practical, unladylike Miki say to such lying? Not that it made any difference.
6
TOKYO
At home again, Kiyoshi bathed and, later while he and his parents sat at supper, he reported selections from the day’s happenings with an amused good-humor.
After the black market boat had left, the net puller named Yamaguchi had produced a fat bream he’d concealed from even their leader. With hungry glee, the men (even the oarsman) sliced the still-living fish and savored the flavorful strips of sashimi. Before the others had a chance to wolf down all but the bones, Yamaguchi had sliced two strips to set aside for Kiyoshi’s parents. With a bow, he handed them to Kiyoshi, saying, “Please give respectful greetings to Company Director Tsurifune from one of his old crewmen from better days.” Kiyoshi had bowed acknowledgment and found a shred of paper with which to wrap the precious gift.
His parents relished the strips of fish, taking only small bites in order to make the delicacy last.
“Yamaguchi, oh yes. He is remembered,” said his father. “Not very well remembered—merely one of many—but . . . remembered. Had a habit of spitting into the wind to tell its direction, despite the disgust of other crewmen when it landed on them—if I have the right man. They complained to me in my office. I sent back instructions that he must stop. He did, of course, I assume. Please acknowledge the gift if you see the man again. But these strips came from a large fish indeed, from its taste of bream. No such fish appears in the ration allotments, and we’ve been told that the nets no longer catch them. You found extraordinary luck out there today.”
Kiyoshi could have reported that many such fish had been harvested in a single haul but had been bought by a black marketeer. Did his father, once a shrewd and commanding member of the community, know so little of what went on now?
“Do you see much of the other small fleet owners these days?” Kiyoshi asked.
“Nothing to be done,” said his father abruptly.
After a silence his mother said, in a voice lower than usual, “Last year, the authorities took Mr. Tamai to be questioned. He has not returned since.” She looked around. “That was after he spoke out about the way government officials took possession of fishing vessels without compensating the rightful owners and left others without fuel to reach the fishing waters. Your father and the other vessel owners think it unwise to be seen together anymore.”
“It should be different now, Mother.” But Kiyoshi said it without conviction. As of yet, he realized, there were no Americans in town to take over.
Two days later, a young man in a worn khaki uniform appeared at the doorway, bowing. Mother, the first to see him, cried out and fell to the floor. The bows continued—silent. Kiyoshi and his father hurried over.
Unlike others in town, the man appeared healthy and well-nourished, but the hunch of his shoulder blades made him appear small. His face, while full-cheeked and youthful, had a stone-like rigidity.
Kiyoshi did not recognize the bowing man until his father said quietly, “Akira. Akira Nakamura. You are alive, then, and have come to see us.” It was the boyhood friend of their heroic dead son, Kiyoshi’s brother, Shoji.
“Will you receive me in your house?” Akira asked in a voice barely audible.
Mrs. Tsurifune rose and pulled him in by the hand.
“So. As you see. I am not dead.”
“Yes. Yes,” said Tsurifune senior. “We see.” He glanced outside, then closed the door quickly and led they way to the family room. “We are . . . glad to see you alive.” He gestured toward one cushion and eased onto another.
Mrs. Tsurifune had not let go of the man’s hand. She stared at his face, crying, then released her hold and gestured for him to sit. “I’ll make tea.” She started off.
“Bring sake instead,” her husband commanded. It signaled a special occasion, since the household afforded only one bottle.
Kiyoshi hung back. No one had drawn him into the scene. Yes. He remembered Akira. The youth who had been best friends with the now-dead brother. The two had gone off to defend the Emperor together, had become pilots together, and then had proudly volunteered together as Kamikaze. Now, this one returned alive . . . alone. Like Kiyoshi himself—alive after all. Akira was seven or eight years younger than Kiyoshi and thus had been of the age to be stirred by youthful sentiments and ideals when the high command initiated the suicide bombings. A destiny Kiyoshi himself might have chosen, had it been offered during his youth. Kamikaze were not e
xpected to be standing now in doorways, alive.
In a low voice, Akira said humbly, “I have no ashes to bring you.”
Father acknowledged this stiffly, from the waist.
“I was assigned a different mission. It did not take place.”
“Understood.”
“I wish that my mission had been on the same day as Shoji’s.” Long silence. “That we had sacrificed together.”
“I understand.” Father considered, glanced at his wife, then added: “The family Tsurifune understands.”
Nothing more was said. Mrs. Tsurifune brought a carafe of sake and two cups. She held the tray between the two men, while she stole looks at the young man’s face. Father filled one cup with a hand that shook and pushed it toward Akira.
“May I be granted the honor of filling your cup, sir?” Akira asked. Father nodded. The young man’s hand also trembled. The two men regarded each other and drank.
After another silence, Akira made to rise. “If you permit me, I will go now.”
“No. Stay.” Father gestured for his wife to sit beside him, and he filled the young man’s cup again.
Akira gulped the newly poured sake, then remained cross-legged with head bowed. His black hair—grown longer since, undoubtedly, a final military cut weeks before—covered his forehead so that his face was barely visible.
Mrs. Tsurifune reached over and again grasped the young man’s hand. At this gesture, Akira’s hunched shoulders began to shake. He broke into sobs. She too cried out. Father remained straight-backed, with eyes vacant.
Kiyoshi stood apart. The air in the room was heavy now with an odor he knew to be of clothes and bodies long unwashed. He’d since bathed enough times that the smell could now offend him.
At length, with no further words spoken, Mother released Akira’s hand. Father had not stirred. The young man rose, bowed, and turned to leave. Kiyoshi walked from the shadows to open the door.
WARRIORS Page 8
