But then his father straightened and frowned. “What is this I’ve just learned from Tokyo? Without agreement, it appears that you left Alaska to travel to New York—across the country. Without agreement you abandoned your mission. Have you become so influenced by American ways that, without permission from those who sent you, you acted on your own?”
“At my own expense, Father. Money I’ve saved year by year.”
“Irrelevant! How am I to justify this to the others?”
Kiyoshi considered, debated with himself, then declared with a boldness that he had never before used with his father, “I did no harm. You can say that in America I acted like an American would have done.” Mother clapped a hand to her mouth. “To better understand Americans with whom we wish to do business, Father,” Kiyoshi added, suddenly anxious in spite of himself.
After a silence, his father said in a quiet voice, “The owners are all waiting to hear of your mission. We’ll meet today, at once.”
Kiyoshi felt relief, followed by a surge of confidence. “Let me first collect my thoughts, Father. Forgive me. Let us meet tomorrow.”
Next day the assembled vessel owners listened gravely to Kiyoshi’s report of the information he had gained regarding American red salmon fishing in Bristol Bay, Alaska. Some of the six nodded in support—even now his father, who held authority as the oldest among them, and his father-in-law Munio Nitta who fumbled with his cane. Others, especially the aggressive Mr. Susumu Nojiri, were overtly impatient. Nojiri glowered and shook his head as Kiyoshi went on to explain—picking his words from what Mr. Sasaki of the Japan foreign office had told him on the plane ride home—that only after another year of high level negotiation could they expect Japanese fishing vessels to be permitted again in American waters off Alaska.
“The American State Department wishes it,” Kiyoshi explained. “However, many citizens do not. Sasaki-san tells me he’ll say this in his formal report. Many citizens were soldiers and have not forgotten the war. An example. A former soldier whom I encountered, now a respected fisherman—”
Susumu Nojiri contained himself no longer. “Facts, facts, young Tsurifune—not impressions!” Nojiri was a big man—once fuller-bodied, but now the shoulders of his jacket slumped. As a former trawlerman in American waters and a man of samurai descent, he considered himself the greatest authority in the group. “Oh yes. We saw their soldiers during the occupation.” He glared. “I am speaking among colleagues or I wouldn’t be so blunt. American soldiers who ate-ate-ate while we watched them hungrily. Well. So now they leave us to starve another year! Not enough sea product off Japan to feed us, but that makes no difference to the Americans. I’ve heard they even object to eating whales for nourishment. They feast on cow and pig. How would they understand?”
Munio Nitta cleared his throat for attention. “Then allow me also to be blunt among colleagues. We might have gone hungry for a time. But after a few months, they did not let us starve. Let us recognize that.” Kiyoshi knew that his respected father-in-law, sometimes acerbic in his own home—perhaps from the loss of his oldest daughter from wartime privation—now strove to be reasonable when no one inflamed him. Father Nitta had regained enough flesh in the six years since the war to have a face now rounded and a disposition no longer despairing, although a cane remained by his side. “Remember that after the first terrible months they let our vessels fish again in water close to Japan.” Nitta glanced around hastily. “Not that Americans understand us.”
“How could they?” Shoichi Hosono snapped. “But you’re correct, Nitta-san.” He was bony and shrewd-eyed, in control except that his lip twitched when he became too excited and had more to say than he could get out in time. “Yes, yes. Only logical. Therefore yes! No! Therefore, no indeed! The truth was, at last, they did not want the burden of too many starving. Therefore, they were only being logical, to open a few fishing waters that mattered to them not at all.”
Hitoshi Uchimura, the former clerk turned vessel owner, rose to interrupt. “Please face the truth, gentlemen.” He looked around cautiously. “Forgive my observation, but we’re dealing with the victors.” After a silence, Nojiri made a gesture of annoyed dismissal, while bony Hosono’s lip twitched even more under a face that otherwise went blank. Compared against the lean frames of the others, Uchimura was fat, but he moved with alacrity despite his girth. During the years since the war he had gained confidence despite the disgrace of once being caught selling village food—the best fish in the village set net—on the black market.
“My colleagues! We’ll survive only by being realistic.” Uchimura’s tone commanded the others’ attention. “First accept the truth. If we were weak enough to lose, our leaders should never have made an attack on Americans. They failed to understand this.” He looked around hastily. “Not the fault of our Emperor, of course. But nevertheless. We must now deal with Americans on their own terms. Although perhaps not forever.”
Tsurifune senior stroked his mustache—still modeled after the Emperor’s—and looked down at the table. Since Uchimura’s disgrace, Father had dealt with the man only at a distance. Of course, such a man might now disparage Japan’s failed heroic effort to deliver Asia from the Western armies. The others stayed silent. “Thus,” Uchimura declared, “Making such war was immoral since we failed to win it. Our leaders lied. That’s the truth we must accept.” Father shook his head, while Nojiri snapped, “Not to be spoken!”
“Not the fault of our Emperor, of course,” Uchimura repeated hastily. “But we must face it. Our leaders led us on, then humiliated us. Thus, we must now make terms with the enemy as best we can.”
Nojiri rapped a fist on the table. “Don’t talk of this further,” he muttered. Tsurifune Senior looked up suddenly. “As you know, one of my sons died heroically, fighting this enemy we now call friend. But Americans have been generous.”
“I agree.” The forty-year-old Muritaka Tamai, who had served as an officer in Manchuria, broke his usual brooding silence. “And not your son alone, Yuichiro-san. Even the youngest here have carried ashes in sorrow and humiliation. As you know, I myself survived the war to find that my honored father had been taken by police, never to be seen again. Our Emperor wouldn’t have permitted such a thing if the military hadn’t stolen his power.”
They all fell silent once more. Uchimura allowed time for his colleagues to regain their composure. “The past is over. Let us plan. This is why we’re here. We sent young Tsurifune to observe for us, so we’ll hear what he has to tell us. Never fear.” He nodded meaningfully to them all. “When we’re finally let back into American waters we’ll make up for lost time.”
“Well, at least you’re thinking ahead instead of toward the past,” conceded Hosono. “Wisely. Good. We must think ahead.”
Uchimura rubbed the sides of his jacket, smoothing wrinkles to reveal his girth. “All the Americans care about is salmon and halibut. This is common knowledge, eh? They don’t care for crab except what comes from a can, or for the smaller fish in their waters that can make more common food or fish paste. There lies our fortune and future.”
“Concerning crabs, I must tell you,” Kiyoshi began. “I overheard—” Nojiri interrupted. “So long as they don’t disturb a Bering Sea ground that one of my boats discovered before the war. It had great mountains of those big crabs. One of my colleagues in Tokyo now has a vessel allowed to catch them in the Sea of Okhotsk alongside the Russians. He puts the meat into those cans you speak of. Sells it around the world under the clever label ‘Geisha’ and calls it ‘King Crab.’” He shared an appreciative chuckle with Uchimura for its aptness to attract buyers in the West. Kiyoshi ventured again to speak of the new American interest in such king crabs that he had heard of toward the end of his stay.
Uchimura spoke over him. “Let me finish, young Tsurifune. If, I say, we leave them their salmon and halibut—we’ll buy their red salmon from Bristol Bay out of necessity, for a while at least—but if we leave the Americans those two species alone,
then we’ll have all the rest. Don’t you understand? The crabs and the bottom fish I mean, of course.” Some of the others grunted their approval.
“Their fish trawlers are of negligible size,” Uchimura continued. “And Americans have no experience in the successful canning of crab meat. It doesn’t interest them. Our Geisha brand is world famous for its taste and quality and so Japan will control that market again. And where are these vast schools of smaller fish and those big crabs for future harvest? In the American Bering Sea, ignored! Waiting for the day when they let us back into those waters.”
“Waters that my vessels are now impatient to enter!” declared Nojiri.
Uchimura nodded assent. “Therefore, you see, Nojiri-san and others here, we must keep urging our diplomats further and be patient. The Americans have lost themselves in a new war with our Korean neighbor and they need Japan’s landing fields. They need our goodwill and support. We’ll have their waters back soon if we don’t upset them by appearing too urgent. Eh?”
Tsurifune senior rapped on the table to gain their attention. Uchimura deferred to him and concluded his message with: “So. Thus my . . . respectful urgings.”
“My colleagues,” began Tsurifune senior. As the eldest and most composed of the council, he was able to take his time without worry of interruption. He removed his thick glasses, wiped them, and replaced them, holding their attention despite his trembling hands. “My son Kiyoshi traveled to America to represent our interests. From our conversations since his return, I wish to inform you, he’s not only talked to the people of the fisheries but has absorbed much information about American tastes and character that we may in future put to use.” He looked around, almost defiantly. “Information. Not mere impressions.”
Munio Nitta had stirred in silence since venturing a positive word for the American occupation. Yet suddenly he grasped his cane and faced his son-in-law. “Everybody knows Americans gobble beef, not fish. I’m surprised you didn’t notice that. Instead of running off to buy a picture that doesn’t make sense. Oh yes—your wife, my daughter, showed it to me. Yet, being a faithful wife to her husband, she tried to tell me what a good picture it was despite the truth before my very eyes.”
“Let us stick to the point,” snapped Nojiri. The aggressive former fisherman hunched over a paper in his hand. “I have here harvest statistics. And I must disagree with Uchimura-san when he suggests that we leave red salmon to the Americans. Perhaps leave them local Native catching and initial processing if we can then buy the product from them cheaply, but not the market. Yuichiro Tsurifune, your son went to inquire about the Japanese purchase of red salmon caught by Americans. Clearly we should find a way into this prosperous fishery. And I wish to hear what he has to tell us.”
“No, no,” persisted Nitta. “Now that I’ve started let me finish. Kiyoshi-kun, young man. You’re my respected son-in-law but, however! My daughter has told me.” He turned to the father. “Yuichiro Tsurifune, I spoke earlier today with Mr. Itaru Sasaki, whom your son accompanied. Oh yes, I spoke to him in Tokyo by telephone. Your son is entranced by American paintings that don’t even look like living creatures. Do you call that the American understanding, young man? Perhaps they’ve been so much affected by bodies dismembered by their atomic bombs that they can’t even look and see a complete human being anymore! As for me, please give me something comprehensible to see, even if it is only a humble fish or crab!”
Kiyoshi bowed his head, uncertain how to reply. Indeed, as he reflected, Miki had at first nodded gravely at the splendid de Kooning painting, but had then sucked in her breath—a hand clapped to her mouth—when she learned that the price he’d paid for it had taken much of their savings. Before Kiyoshi could answer for himself, Uchimura declared: “Yes, yes, Nitta-san, interesting. But we’ve met to discuss other matters. Let us hear from young Tsurifune about the Americans, since he went there on our behalf. To start, tell me, young man. What are Americans like in their homeland? Eh?”
Relieved, Kiyoshi bowed and began his narrative. “Americans may be strange to us in many ways. But I found most of them generous.” He thought of the hostile man named Jones Henry, who had been his savior on distant Okinawa. “Although sometimes they can be angry. Rough even—at least among workmen, who are, incidentally, not ignorant and stupid like our own.” He looked from one to another. They did not seem impressed. “But please listen. I believe that they’re now investigating those large crabs! I heard talk of this.”
“Exactly what I was urging you to hear from my son,” Tsurifune Senior declared. Another silence. Again, Uchimura took the initiative.
“Bad news. Well. We cannot control their encroaching on grounds that we once fished exclusively. These are American waters, after all. But before our negotiators win us the right to fish off Alaska once more, we should know the extent of these operations.”
Nojiri pounded his fist on the table. “Tell them that historically it was the Japanese who have processed these crabs into canned meat, and it should be left to us!”
“With respect, sir. That would make Americans all the more eager to learn the process and do it themselves!” Kiyoshi’s sudden boldness astonished both himself and the others. Even more surprising, the seniors at the table didn’t challenge his right to speak.
Uchimura raised a hand for attention. “Young Tsurifune may understand Americans better than some of us.” He considered. “Perhaps our best chance is to prove we can do it better than they can. And thus keep their good will and keep the crab market for as long as possible.” He paused. “Then, as it will probably happen, once the Americans learn to find and process the crabs that were once ours, we will still retain our rightful share of the market.” Another pause. “In all matters be realistic. We’re in a world that changes year by year, my colleagues. To survive, we must be friendly and understanding—like young Tsurifune has been trying to say—to keep all that we can.” He surveyed their grave faces. “Control by military conquest is no longer our option.”
After a silence, Tsurifune Senior said, “Very well. Then give us your frank opinion, Uchimura.”
Uchimura acknowledged with a nod. “All the more reason to be friendly to them, then. Friendly and generous may also suggest that they are easy to persuade. We need their fishing waters. And, worst case, at least their markets to buy and sell. So we’d better forget our memories of American Imperialism and concentrate on this generosity that our young Tsurifune has spoken of. I, for one, would be willing to send him again to America on our behalf. We must learn more about their interest in crab and whether or not it truly grows.” He looked around in challenge.
Both Nojiri and Hosono signaled assent, while Tsurifune Senior inclined his head to acknowledge his son’s endorsement.
Kiyoshi could not conceal his surprise. At last, the words he had not dared to hope for!
Uchimura turned to Kiyoshi. “Now, perhaps, you would show me this American painting Nitta-san speaks of. Yes, gentlemen,” he continued, with a hint of a smile. “Do not suppose I am uncultured because I deal in fish.”
25
PROSPECTING KODIAK
JULY 1951
As July drew to a close, Jones and Buck Henry did their part to help in the shutdown of the Bristol Bay cannery for the season. Bum year all around, Jones thought. At least their run money for setting up and closing down was guaranteed. Their gang moved crates of canned fish from the storeroom to the cargo ship. Gus and some of the others with engine boats worked another part of the shutdown. Swede had kept them on with no hard feelings.
“We could stay a while longer and fish for silvers,” ventured Buck Henry. “Course I’m getting to miss your mother, and there’s Adele waiting for you.”
“Adele’s always waiting these days. Hard even to catch your breath around her.”
Buck turned grave. “She’s your lady, boy. Yours however she acts. Remember what we talked about?”
“Well, Gus is on me to go look further west. Like Kodiak. Might be op
portunity, if you come too.”
“Me? I’m settled. But they say Kodiak’s where the action is, for a young guy like yourself. And for a wife who needs to meet new people who don’t remind her of things.
“Don’t want to leave you and Mom behind.”
Buck grunted as he heaved a crate from the floor. “Way it has to be, I suppose. It’s Alaska, at any rate. Unless you want her to drag you down to California where her folks are retired.” He raised an eyebrow at Jones. “Yeah, that got your attention, didn’t it?”
Jones Henry looked around him at the busy Kodiak airport. There were men with cased rifles, others with hip boots strapped across their rucksacks, many in navy uniform, and even some fellows in suits and ties. There were few women.
“Fleet must be in town,” Jones observed.
“You sure are ignorant,” Gus laughed, his sly grin back in place. “There’s a big naval base on Kodiak Island—just a few miles down the road. Kodiak town’s in the other direction, where we’re headed. Of course, since I was in the navy, I pay attention to such things.” He puffed out his chest. “Looked it up. You Marines just went where they sent you.”
“We went ashore and took care of things, while you navy goldbricks waited in clean bunks for the all clear.”
“Waited close in to give you cover. Dodged shore barrage. Some of us got sunk.”
Jones shrugged. “At least you sunk in water, not fuckin’ mud.”
The airport shuttle to town followed a paved road. Mountain slopes rose on one side and open water lay on the other. Unlike the tree-bordered waterways around Ketchikan, sheltered bays here stretched beyond land points into the open sea, where sun sparkled on ripples. The light silhouetted an array of boats pitching on various courses.
“Whole fleets for all kinds of fish and crabs you don’t get down south,” muttered Gus. “They say.”
WARRIORS Page 28
