“Early inning. Early inning only,” grumbled the man named Hito. Kiyoshi lingered for a while to listen. It was pleasant, to see people excited by something other than war.
“Forgive me,” he ventured of the two men during a lull in the game. “Do you know where in the city it is that the Americans have set up offices to make decisions?”
“Everywhere. Nowhere. Akasaka district perhaps.”
“No,” said the other. “Americans like the girly-girl places in Roppongi district. That’s where they’d have offices, maybe.”
Kiyoshi shrugged and left them. He’d approached no American now for weeks, nor essayed his English, and he felt timid about it. But here, in this one place, they stood easily next to Japanese. He approached two, one of whom wore the splendid, gold-trimmed uniform of the American Marines, and in halting English politely asked the same question of the one facing him.
“Hey, you spikka English,” said the American in navy blue jovially. Kiyoshi smelled whiskey on his breath. “Well, bud, I don’t know where you’d find headquarters, but good luck in this mess of a town. Say. Who you for, Cubs or Tigers?”
“How would a Jap know the difference?” muttered the marine without turning.
“More important,” continued the first, “you got a sister go bangy-bangy?”
“Leave him alone, Gus,” said the other. “Sister prob’ly give you clapp.”
“Now, Jones buddy. We might have grown up together, and now we’ve been here smashing Japs in the Pacific, so I ain’t disagreeing with you so soon. But, ever hear of penicillin, you dumb fuck? You gotta relax, Jones Henry. It’s over now. We’re sure gettin’ banged somewhere today.” He wrapped his arm around the other man’s neck and nearly lost his balance to lean on him.
“Banged later mebbe,” declared the soldier named Henry or Jones. “Get off my neck you slob . . . Slav . . . whatever. Let go, man! Rosvic! Let the fuck go. We’re gonna hear this game first.” Over the loudspeaker, the announcer excitedly marked a run for Detroit, to cheers from the listeners around them.
“Ha!” The Henry soldier smacked a fist into his hand and turned, releasing himself from his friend’s grip as he exclaimed, “Lump that, buddy!” A cigarette dangled from the man’s mouth. His whiskey smell was even stronger than that of the other. Eyes in a deeply sunburned face fixed on Kiyoshi. “Say . . .”
It was the sergeant from the Okinawa prison camp—the one who had stared down at Kiyoshi in hostility. But also the one who had seen to it that he received medical treatment and, later, a mat for judo.
Kiyoshi backed away, startled. “Forgive me, I am not wish . . . trouble . . .”
“Now here’s a man looks familiar,” muttered the sergeant. “Course, you people all look the same.” He swayed in front of Kiyoshi while surveying him from hair to shoes and back. “Think mebbe I’ve seen you before. Where were you back when Japs strung up their prisoners for bayonet practice? Right out there I’ll bet. Times were I’d have shot you straight in the face. Like you’d have done me. Any of that changed?”
“Ahh Jones, buddy, knock it off. War’s over. We took their shit but now they got to take ours. Our American HQ, where is it? That what you want to know? Seemed it was somewhere around what they call the big palace. Big main palace, got it? And a hotel called Imperial where the officers bunk now.” He pointed. “That direction.”
“They prob’ly kick your ass before they’d let a Jap get close to any of our HQ. I would if it was me. Never turn my back on one of you Japs. Now scram before I remember where I’ve seen you, because it mebbe wasn’t good.” The sergeant named Jones leaned close to Kiyoshi’s face with his eyes narrowed. The whiskey smell intensified. “But first, just tell me this. Why’re you Japs fuckin’ around with our World Series anyhow? Belongs to us, not you.”
A light rain began to fall as Kiyoshi hurried to lose himself in the densest crowd on the road. He made for the makeshift stalls. Kiyoshi pulled a small umbrella from his bag, packed at Mother’s urging, and opened it with trembling hands. Suddenly he needed food to assuage the humiliation. The smell of it filled the air. He had eaten sparsely hours ago, before leaving on the train. One stall sold noodles, the adjacent one yakitori. The meat chunks on the yakitori skewers sizzled over a charcoal grill, emitting odors that made him salivate. He priced a single skewer. The cost was frightening.
“You think this meat comes from my poor ration card?” the proprietor demanded. Three American soldiers wandered into the cramped stall. They casually crowded Kiyoshi to the side while they debated the food. “Single stick of this couldn’t feed a pigeon,” one declared. They held up their fingers to order six skewers each and noisily sucked them clean. Kiyoshi hurried to the adjacent stall and bought a small bowl of plain noodles to appease his now dizzying hunger. He ate the noodles slowly, combining each mouthful with a breath of the meaty yakitori odors. Wait a few minutes, he decided, then eat more noodles and deceive yourself
Kiyoshi moved on to where a woman was selling pictures. He idly fingered the images in order to linger at the stall, so that he could continue to breathe in the yakitori, even though the smell was torture. In his student days so long ago, the work of artists had pleased him. Had set him daydreaming. These clearly were mere reproductions, some perhaps from magazines printed years ago before the great austerity, and glued to backings of nothing better than stiff paper. They depicted mountains, twisted pines, flowers, water, pagodas, robed sages, and cone-hatted peasants in slanting rain, round white moons in fullest glory. All in perfect harmony. Two by the revered Hokusai depicted views of Mount Fuji, one with cherry blossoms in the foreground, one with snow on drooping branches. Another, by the revered Hiroshige, showed cranes by a stream in ancient Edo. Some day, might he ever own pictures like this? Own them on better paper, of course. Perhaps own some directly from the artist’s brush. Maybe even signed?
All at once and with all the intensity of pain, Kiyoshi felt the call of beauty. It had stopped being a part of his life. What of old days with a sister and brother, together with their parents, climbing to a hill at dusk to watch the rise of a full moon? They’d contemplate its silver light on branches and take turns inventing haiku to describe the lovely sight. A few months ago on terrible Okinawa, when he’d crawled to the mouth of a cave to breathe air that hadn’t been contaminated by sweat and human waste, the clean glow of a full moon over neat little fields of rice had, without warning, brought tears. And later in the prison camp he’d watched another full moon unblinkingly, dead to emotion. But now his eyes welled up again as he looked at the pictures.
“Very cheap, sir,” urged the woman, who ran the stall. “For American soldiers the price is thirty times what I’d charge you. Forty, perhaps!”
Kiyoshi nodded, abstracted. He had even forgotten the nearby odors of meat.
“Also, over in this corner if you’re interested, two very curious pictures from America. Taken from a magazine some wasteful American dropped and never returned to claim. Nothing but paint scratches. All kinds of twisted shapes. I have them so perhaps other Americans will buy, you understand, since that’s what they like apparently. If you ask me, foreigners who paint such pictures won’t long be happy in Japan and therefore will leave soon.”
“Or they’ll change our ways to theirs.”
“Humbly, sir, I can only laugh at that.” Kiyoshi turned to look at her for the first time. Black hair worn carelessly long, broad peasant-like face without any sign of makeup. Bold, unlike a cultured Japanese woman, although her voice was high-pitched. “Barbarians may try, sir. But our culture is ancient. It will last forever. Theirs will vanish—poof!”
“Well. Show me these laughable pictures then.”
The pictures consisted of paint splattered and slashed. No recognizable images. No relation to human beings or nature. He dismissed them with a grunt of contempt, looked once more in spite of himself, then firmly replaced them on the rack.
“You see. You see what I mean,” continued the woman. �
�I’m an artist myself, you understand. Even though I worked in a factory all through the war, making torpedo shells—can you imagine?—I painted when I could. That is the artist’s necessity. I’ve studied the great traditions, so I can distinguish between what’s good and what is merely trash like this. Except that this you hold is perhaps the sort of thing Americans might buy, and how else can I make enough money to live now, with the factory closed? Would you like to see one of my own paintings?”
“Yes. All right,” he said in dutiful politeness. With careful ceremony she uncovered a painting from a group of three stacked by themselves. It was a picture of Fuji with a branch of autumn leaves in the foreground. Nothing about it differed from the classical renderings except that it lacked all vestiges of the lovely shading and subtleties that were obvious even in old magazine prints.
“No compromise with the traditions, you see,” she said with satisfaction. “But in a style more direct and modern.”
“Yes,” he said politely. “Indeed.” To himself he thought: Have all women now grown bold like this? Beside this would-be artist, though, that Miki had a boldness that was at least entertaining. One that could be tolerated. Eyes with fun in them. Talk that might be enjoyed. Miki. Did she have friends? Men, that is? No reason not to call again on Father Nitta. When convenient. With, perhaps, a small gift.
He started to edge from the stall, then eased back for another look at the American pictures. “You’re right,” he said to justify his interest. “Nothing but paint splashes.” He peered at the captions under them in English and tried to translate while pretending disinterest. The work of a painter named Pollock, or Jackson. Neither seemed a first name. Not sure how the Americans wrote their names, as with the insulting sergeant named Jones, or Henry.
“In New York, I hear,” the woman continued, “that’s all that the artists do. Make paint splashes. At least that’s what somebody tells me the magazine writes. Decadent! What’s that thing called you’re holding? ‘Guardians of the Secret,’ it was translated for me. Some secret! Big rectangle of squiggles that look like garbage in a river—no, vomit. Excuse me!” (At least the woman covered her mouth at the crudeness.) “And that other one, called ‘Moon Woman,’ ha! Find me a woman in it, much less a moon! The secret is that anyone pays money to buy even a magazine with such scribbles. Well, they waste money, the Americans, I’ve seen that already. As I said before, if that’s their culture, I’m not worried. Poof! Eh?”
“Yes. Shocking.” The more Kiyoshi’s eyes explored the paintings, the more their energy held his attention. In the images he could see both chaos and a wild discipline. It made him feel uneasy but also happily excited. New York, then, where such bold paintings could be created, would be one of the greatest places in the world! He lingered a while longer to look at the paintings again, while he invented polite compliments to the woman on her own uninteresting work. Some day, perhaps, he decided suddenly, why not be rich enough to own one of these American paintings also? In order to remember the strange American energy.
Out on the crowded road again, he could now smell the yakitori with a shrug and continue on. And then, where to? How to find the Americans in authority? He started toward a cluster of tall buildings that still stood intact. And then, how to convince Americans that fishing was necessary to feed hungry Japanese and therefore, a generous ration of fuel was needed for fishing boats?
On the way, from the occasional stall radio and then from a loudspeaker mounted on one of the buildings, a sweet, easy tune played over and over. The melody, soothing as sugar, was delivered in the high female singsong of popular music:
Shall we sing the apple song?
If two people sing, it’s merry.
If everybody sings, it’s more and more delightful.
Let’s pass on the apple’s feeling.
Apple’s loveable. Loveable’s the apple.
He asked someone about it. “Where have you been all week?” the man replied. “See that line of people outside the movie house over there? Everybody knows ‘Ringo no Uta’ from the new movie. It’s the latest sensation. Makes you forget all the troubles, doesn’t it?”
At last, in an area of buildings that hadn’t been bombed, although most of the windows were shattered, Kiyoshi felt that he could receive proper directions.
“Don’t know,” one man answered quickly, and he hurried off as if afraid to be seen discussing the matter. The crowding increased.
“Go that way, where the street rises over a hill,” said another man with more confidence. “That’s where the bombs didn’t fall—maybe on purpose by the clever, treacherous Americans. The buildings don’t even have blown up roofs. Dai-Ichi Seimei building. Imperial Hotel. Taken over by the great General MacArthur, most of it, they say. But don’t expect to get there now. Stand back.”
Japanese policemen arrived in a truck. They dismounted in order to push people back against the buildings and to clear the road. Other Japanese policemen began to arrive on motorcycles. Then, more slowly, came the American soldiers on motorcycles. They drove flanking a white jeep that was followed by three long black automobiles flying American flags on their bumpers.
“If it’s what I think,” said the man who was directing Kiyoshi, “prepare yourself. Watch if you can see into the second car.”
All the cars contained important looking American officers wearing caps crowned with insignias. In the wide back seat of the second car rode two stolid-faced Japanese wearing high silk hats. Between them sat a small man with a mustache who wore a soft civilian hat. While the car passed, the onlookers stopped murmuring and bowed all together, almost as one person. The man beside him bowed and Kiyoshi followed suit automatically.
“High officials?” he ventured after the procession had passed.
“You’re only a country boy yourself, then? The man in the center with the civilian hat? You have just bowed to your Emperor. No longer hidden in his palace and seen by no common man. On his way up over the hill, perhaps, to meet with the great General Douglas MacArthur who doesn’t come to him they say.”
Kiyoshi gasped and started to bow again as his throat tightened.
Apple’s loveable. Loveables the apple. . .
The pretty song sang on.
7
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
KETCHIKAN, JULY 1946
High above Ketchikan, Jones Henry crouched in a pocket of late snow that had been preserved by a shadowed gulch of rocks and pine. From such a height, it all looked innocent enough below. Rain mebbe, later. Such cloudy gray on branches and rooftops suited him today, more so than the water beyond sparkling from the sun that poured through a cloud opening. Revillagigedo Channel was busy with boats coming in to make deliveries from a shortened fishing week before the fun started. Boats where he still ought to be. The stink of rotting bait had started the malaise. With no thought beyond a physical urge, having pewed his fish up at the plant, Jones Henry had tossed tire bumpers against his hull, tautened the mooring lines to absorb a rising tide, and heaved himself up the kelp strewn and barnacled ladder. From boardwalk pier to street he had strode, without a word to anyone—even those few on the other boats who called to offer him a beer.
By the stores that lined the main street through town, people were mounting the Stars and Stripes everywhere in preparation for tomorrow. Let ’em. He didn’t need a flag to know where he was, but mebbe they did. Others were nailing together a raised boxing ring for the matches that would occur later that day.
“Hey Jones, not too late to sign up,” called Knute Jensen. Jones waved him off and kept going. Let others punch each other around for fun. He paused at the walkway on pilings that wended to the little whorehouses of Creek Street. But he rejected the option and instead passed behind more storefronts onto the paths that skirted the creek. Come on, pull it together, he told himself. Fish rot is nothing like corpse stink. But still he gasped for fresh air as if the other smell would never leave his head.
Some kid was poling a line
into the water to snag a fish. Do it, kid, he thought. Just like I used to do, right where you’re standing. Then run the other way if a war starts and they try to get you. That’s what you’ll see me doing if the Russian commies start another one. Just let me catch fish for the rest of my life, and everybody stay clear of me otherwise.
His legs had kept him moving past the baseball field being limed for tonight’s games against Prince Rupert, toward the trail that led up the mountain. As a kid, he’d seldom climbed it since he lived down on the water. Grew up watching the old man toss up fish from deck until, at seven or eight years old, he’d grown big enough to fill a pair of oversized boots and was allowed to ride aboard and help. Finally got his own boat at seventeen. Dreamed through four years of war to be back on that water flashing blue far below. Now here he was, back with big enough pay saved to buy a small troller outright and live aboard her. Yet nothing made him content, not after all the dreaming over how it was going to be. Come on, face it: Jones Henry’s in luck. Still had both arms and legs. Lived through it, while buddies died all around him. His life had resumed as if nothing had broken into it. Seemingly.
A few months ago when he’d demobilized, anything pissed him off. Everything! Strikes all over the country, as those who didn’t go to fight tried to fuck the men who did and who were now coming home. All that talk about GI loans, but the bureaucrats got so snafued that the applications never even left their desks. Not to mention the so-called vets who’d spent the war behind desks and were now pouring into Alaska from below expecting to be given a homestead and bitching in the bars every night about their rights. No wonder Jones kept to himself. And some virgin preacher in town trying to close down Creek Street. And—unbelievable—he’d read in the Ketchikan paper that the Japs were whining that they couldn’t fish in American waters like they had before Pearl Harbor. Send Jones Henry back to Jap-land and he’d set them straight.
WARRIORS Page 10
