“Bummer.”
“Yup.”
After a pause, Gus offered, “Got a bottle. Want to help drink it?”
Jones rose, relieved. “Suits me.” Without further talk they walked outside into the rain. At the end of a long building that faced only scrub, they kicked aside the weeds that had grown under the overhang of corrugated roof and settled in. Water dripped only on their outstretched brogans. Beyond observation. Gus unscrewed the cap on the whiskey, took a swig, then passed it to Jones.
They shared the burning liquid back and forth as the bottle emptied. Neither spoke while their thoughts blurred. Both wept, but with enough self-control not to show it, even through their swimming minds. Eventually Gus cleared his throat and ventured, “Kodiak. You been there?”
“What for?”
“Action. All kinds of stuff. Big crabs even. Especially big crabs. They say.” Jones took a moment to absorb this. A mosquito whined by his ear. He slapped at the side of his head—under the relaxing influence of the whiskey, he was too slow each time to hit his ear just right and get the bugger. Soon, anyhow, more mosquitoes nipped than he could slap.
“Like I said, man. Kodiak’s got action.”
“Got action enough in Ketchikan. Adele crying all the time. Now my dad on my tail.”
“That Adele’s a good woman.”
“Did I say different? Just don’t know what she wants. Ever since the poor baby died. Move to another place, mebbe? Think that’ll change things?”
“Change for both of you, asshole!”
“Adele says . . . California. But not for me.”
“Like a woman! But Kodiak’s got fish! More fish than . . . Bigger fish. Soaker halibut! Big crabs, I don’t know man! Everything action out there.”
“I dunno.”
“Tell you what. Screw that company plane what expects to take us home to Ketchikan. Instead, we take a plane home by way of Kodiak.”
“What for, say again?” Through the haze, Jones tried to give it some thought. “Oh. Mebbe. Why not? Got more of that stuff?”
Gus laughed with some of his usual good nature. “Not for you. We got our money’s worth.” He held up the empty glass bottle that held only the dregs and tossed it into the rain.
PART THREE
24
JACKSON POLLOCK IN TOKYO
JULY 1951
Your trip beyond Anchorage was not authorized,” Itaru Sasaki snapped, after he’d recovered from the sight of a respectful, but grinning, Kiyoshi Tsurifune. Kiyoshi had overtaken him at the Chicago airport. Both now waited for the connecting flight home to Tokyo via Seattle. “Our company had no concerns in New York. I am your senior—how am I to explain it? Don’t expect your sponsors or your government to pay for your vacation.”
“I understand.”
“What an extravagance. You must be wealthy.”
“It was my personal expense.”
“For two days, three days? No way to understand why you’d go to that place when I was already here in Washington dealing with these people. Why didn’t you stay in Alaska where you’d been sent?”
“My work there was accomplished.”
“Work is never finished. And what’s that you’re carrying?” Indeed, Kiyoshi was cradling a large, flat parcel, and he gripped it nonchalantly at Sasaki-san’s inquiry. It sounded almost like an accusation.
“A painting.”
“Pictures enough to be had in Tokyo for anyone so foolish as to pay money for them!” Kiyoshi knew he had overstepped his mission and would probably be called to account. There was no need to make this worse than it was. Yet in spite of himself he said, “Original abstract expressionist painting by the famous artist Willem de Kooning! Original! No other like it, you see. There would be nothing like it in Tokyo.” He didn’t bother to add that any work by Jackson Pollock had now become too expensive for his limited means. Nor that the newly-popular de Kooning—while only part American—had, by his presence in New York, helped make this city the hub of the art world.
“Ah. So, cleverly, you’ll sell this picture in Japan for a high price?”
“I’ll keep it for my own pleasure.”
“You were sent to America—at great expense—to examine and arrange for the purchase of fish in Alaska. Certainly not for pictures in New York City.”
“But, however!” Kiyoshi had begun to understand how often consent rested on persuasion, and he’d rehearsed his words for days. “We’re forced to understand Americans in order to make them willing to do business with us. Not only with fish. I was exploring other ways into the strange American understanding. When I meet with Americans, I’ll now have one of their famous artists to talk about in addition to fish.”
“Hah!”
“As, also, knowledge of their New York City. I can speak of the Empire State Building. And the Statue of Liberty, which is of great importance to Americans.” Kiyoshi decided not to mention the Museum of Modern Art that he had visited twice in as many days. But, with Sasaki’s “Well . . .” he knew he had the man’s grudging attention.
“It is many hours before our connecting flight to Seattle and then Tokyo. Could I suggest that, for informational purposes again, I take a taxicab to now observe some of the streets of Chicago? Every great city has famous sights. It will provide much conversation when we meet with Americans.” He tried not to sound at all eager. “I can do this without inconvenience to you and report back all details.”
Mr. Sasaki made a show of considering before he spoke. “Well . . . then I too shall go! We won’t leave the taxicab for any reason and shall return here quickly. This Chicago is famous all over the world for gangsters. It will be interesting to see safely from a vehicle.”
Gone was the chance to rush into the famous Chicago Art Museum for a few minutes! But still, Kiyoshi realized, even a glimpse of the city was better than nothing. And indeed, perhaps they might see Chicago gangsters as in American movies with the famous Edward G. Robinson!
By now, Kiyoshi had become accustomed to the sight of great American cities untouched by destruction. Chicago turned out to be a metropolis almost as lordly as New York. It was bordered by a great circle of waterfront. Nothing they saw suggested crime or even destruction. Sunlight gleamed over the vast water and reflected on windows in tall, handsome buildings.
“They stayed safe enough, you see,” muttered Sasaki. “No atomic bombs fell here.”
“Yes, I see,” said Kiyoshi respectfully. To himself he remembered the promises made in the name of the Emperor. Made with true conviction, made from his own lips and those of soldiers under him as they survived jungle rot and the filth of a cave. Promises that the downtrodden cities of the weak, decadent Americans would be leveled in punishment. They would retaliate against the Americans’ arrogant opposition to Japan’s march toward destiny. So far in the past!
For the Japanese soldier, the promise of that destiny had meant sacrifice after sacrifice, while they ate food crawling with insects and diluted with sawdust. Without first American science and then the victor’s generosity, Kiyoshi would still be living on sawdust, or maimed or dead. His parents would be destitute. You too, Sasaki-san. You’d also be dead or still picking lice, rather than dressed cleanly and waiting for our next meal to be served on washed dishes. But for those two terrible bombs. And now, thanks to the power of the Americans who needed Japan in the fight against the Communists in Korea, wasn’t Japan becoming stronger again by the day? Sasaki wasn’t thinking.
At the Seattle airport they waited for the long flight home across the ocean. Kiyoshi feasted his eyes on the men and women who walked past down the long, pristine hallways. Some seemed to be gentlemen and were dressed prosperously—others looked more rugged, carrying heavy knapsacks and lining up for voyages to places bearing names unpronounceable. No place in America seemed ordinary!
“Don’t wander,” Sasaki warned. “Our plane might decide to leave early.” He kept his eyes fixed on a sign behind the checkout counter that read:
“We have more than two hours before we must go aboard.” Sasaki shook his head.
“No time is soon enough.” He glanced around and switched to speaking Japanese. Still, he lowered his voice until it was nearly inaudible. “Keepers of world-famous fishing grounds that they refuse to share—even though all they eat is beefsteak while Japanese starve for seafood!” His jowls quivered. “Their greasy food has given me indigestion for days!”
Kiyoshi found his attention drifting from Sasaki-san’s diatribe. Suddenly, he remembered the caresses that awaited him from his wife Miki—at home, after their initial formal greeting. Perhaps a spontaneous hug from his little son Shoji. “Do not worry,” he said, firmly. “We won’t miss that plane.”
At the Tokyo airport, a car with a driver and two senior officials, who Kiyoshi knew as Yoshihide Namamura and Hajimi Itai, waited to take Sasaki-san and Kiyoshi into the city as soon as they cleared customs. Kiyoshi held onto his wrapped painting while the driver thumped their bags into the rear, before resting it carefully himself atop their suitcases with the admonition that the object was fragile. He spoke with such straight-backed authority that the driver saluted automatically. Then Kiyoshi took his place inside the car, with suitable deference to the senior men around him.
After they had settled in, Namamura, who sat in the front passenger seat, turned around and demanded, “Well. We’re anxious for your news, so we decided to meet you ourselves rather than wait for the formal briefing.” His bald head glistened, and with his dark suit, he was grave enough in bearing to take charge even without his apparent seniority.
Sasaki settled back. “Willfulness unchecked, sir, as with all Americans. And their food, mostly grease and raw flavors.”
“Yes, yes, we know all that. Not what you went for.”
Sasaki continued, “But they need us. People at their State Department assure me that enough members of their Congress have agreed. Aleutian fishing waters will be reopened to Japan.”
“We assumed this would happen eventually, since they need us in Korea. What we hoped for was to speed up the process. Our vessels with nets for salmon are ready to leave immediately. I’ve seen to it that the fishery’s organized for maximum productivity.”
“Americans are slow, sir, when it comes to their selfish interests. As I understand it, with their process we can’t expect to have Japanese fishing vessels back in Aleutian waters before next June.”
“Bah!”
Kiyoshi listened with mixed feelings. Americans had so many facets. So many interests. Perhaps the delay would provide an excuse for Kiyoshi to be sent back—if he kept the trust and goodwill of the men in the car. Thus, he reacted audibly with the rest.
“All right, now. And you, Kiyoshi Tsurifune?”
Kiyoshi told them, making it sound as positive as possible, that the famous red salmon of Bristol Bay were in short abundance this year, as they had been in the year previous. Also the entire fishery was in transition, with boats converting from sail to engine while the labor unions called strikes and caused discontent.
“With respect, then, this is a year of commotion in Bristol Bay. We should proceed with caution until they settle their own problems, so that they don’t direct their outbursts of anger toward us. Out on the water, however, some vessels now freeze salmon for shipment to canneries further south. Cannery people do not appear hostile to selling Japan such products—if we can pay and provide a market.”
“Good. Good.”
Kiyoshi considered, then added—hoping it would sound positive: “Some fishermen themselves don’t appear happy to see Japanese. However . . .” He decided to keep to himself the sense that American fishermen, like other Americans, were aggressive and sometimes violent in their independence. “However, I myself, speaking English, found many fishermen friendly. They need more contact with us, to understand our need. This is one of the reasons I’ve worked hard to learn English. On my part, I—”
“Pah! Fishermen don’t matter,” Namamura snapped. “They’ll do as they’re told, like common workers.”
“That is certainly true,” said Sasaki automatically.
“No no no. Not necessarily,” said Hajimi Itai, seated beside Kiyoshi in the back of the car. He was lean, with a full head of hair. The glasses that made him appear studious also made him seem more thoughtful than his colleagues. “We should try to gain the good opinion of even common Americans, because they too vote and sometimes their leaders listen to them. I’ve made it my business to study this. You started to say something further, Tsurifune-san?”
Kiyoshi turned to address the astute Itai-san specifically. “It would be wise for us to know Americans and their culture. Thus, as I’ve said, I’ve worked to learn and speak English. While Sasaki-san was dealing with officials in the great capital of Washington, DC, and wisely examining their culture and monuments . . .” He glanced at Sasaki on his other side and was rewarded with a cautious nod. “I myself traveled to their largest city of New York, second in influence to Washington, DC, to observe another part of America’s culture. Their Statue of Liberty, the famous Broadway, the notorious Wall Street. Even,” Kiyoshi paused, embarrassed, “even their Museum of Modern Art. To increase our ability to understand Americans.”
“Did I hear correctly?” growled Namamura in the front seat. “This was not part of your mission. Sasaki-san, you are the senior. Why did you allow it?”
“Questionable initiative,” interrupted Itai. “But interesting. Perhaps going to New York for perspective was a good idea.”
“Huh. Only perhaps,” Namamura grunted.
“I did not—” began Sasaki. He turned from Namamura to Itai, blinked, and caught himself. “Yes. Yes, interesting. I . . . felt that . . . since Tsurifune-san spoke English and appears to be a good observer . . . since he had gathered all pertinent information in Bristol Bay . . . and was willing to pay his own expenses.” He glanced sharply at Kiyoshi, who nodded him on. “Thus, in order to gain extra knowledge—perhaps useful in negotiation, without extra expense . . .”
“Still far from the mission,” Namamura snapped.
“But interesting. Interesting,” Itai repeated.
Itai-san’s comment gave Kiyoshi the impetus to continue. “Then, as Mr. Sasaki and I were returning home, we together made a rapid taxi ride through their great central metropolis of Chicago. For impressions. In time otherwise wasted—as we would have been waiting in the airport between plane flights. Again to better engage in future negotiation.”
Itai nodded. “Not planned, but perhaps it could prove useful.”
“We felt so.” Sasaki nodded relieved approval across at Kiyoshi.
“But you were not sent to gather impressions,” Namamura insisted. “Did you collect any facts that we could not have found by reading a book?” Itai shrugged. “In the West, I understand that impressions sometimes matter more than facts. And that interesting flat package you brought with you from America, Tsurifune-san. Am I to hope perhaps that those are Alaska charts with sea-depths for our edification?”
Why did that not occur to me! Kiyoshi chastised himself. Aloud, he said meekly, “No, sir. Only a modern American painting. I had hoped it might give me something to speak with Americans about.”
“Bought with his own money,” interjected Sasaki.
“The true insubordination here, Sasaki-san,” said Namamura, “is that you allowed Tsurifune-san to go outside his mission without authority from Tokyo.”
Mr. Itai intervened again. “Too bad. Not one hundred percent on the mission. But Tsurifune-san’s actions may indeed prove useful. And at his own expense. So let us forget it.” They drove for a while in silence. Kiyoshi, stuck in the middle seat between Sasaki and Itai, stared out the window on Itai’s side. He was relieved, but avoided looking at Sasaki.
Rice stalks and hedgerows hemming the wetted fields were all in green, as were the trees in leaf, and the farm houses alongside showed fresh paint and red tile r
oofs—intact—that gleamed under the sun. Little remained of the desolation he had witnessed on the trains back from the war only half a dozen years before. Even the farmers who bent over the green shoots in one of the paddies seemed to be wearing brighter clothes. But for the quick ending of that war—by whatever means—the fields and houses he watched might still be a battleground, with Kiyoshi himself crouched somewhere in that mud.
“American painting eh?” Mr. Itai turned to face him again. He appeared both brusque and amused. “Of fishing vessels? Skyscrapers? Prostitutes? Their gangsters?”
“Abstract, sir. Nothing specific,” Kiyoshi replied, then continued with fervor, “Shapes and colors that lead the viewer to his own impressions. By a famous artist in a new style influenced by American energy.”
“Interesting. You’ll show it to us please, when we arrive. Perhaps we’ll learn something useful from it. The world’s changing. Young people have grown bolder—even in Japan. Perhaps they need to if they must deal with people outside of their own country.”
Kiyoshi spent the rest of the drive into Tokyo concentrating on what more he could say to this official who had the flexibility to grasp matters beyond his indoctrination. He himself began to believe that he had traveled to acquire the exciting and vital new American art as a part of his mission.
Back in his home town at last, Kiyoshi’s greeting upon entering his house was all he could have wished for. Little Shoji ran forward and clutched his legs. And Miki, although now the modern woman who managed the Tsurifune company office, greeted him with a smiling low bow while dressed in a traditional flowered silk kimono. Kiyoshi’s own eyes filled with emotion and happiness at his return.
Later, a few houses away, his welcome was far more mixed. His mother bowed while she wept happily. And at first Father—seated on the tatami but with legs now too weak to rise without effort—stretched out his arms. Kiyoshi had been absent only a few weeks, including the preliminary conference time in Tokyo, but he had indeed crossed the greatest ocean and traveled where none of his family had ever so much as considered going before.
WARRIORS Page 27
