Vulcan's forge m-1

by Jack Du Brul

  Jill had expected traditional Japanese architecture on a grand scale, yet what was before her was unlike anything she had ever seen before. Takahiro Ohnishi lived in a glass house, modeled somewhat like the entrance to the Louvre designed by I. M. Pei, but much, much larger. Tubular steel struts supported small panels of glass in a framework that could only be described as obtuse. Spheres, cones, and slab-sided rectangles melded together in a multisided building that was not displeasing to view. Jill could see completely through the home to the shallow valley which stretched beyond.

  Still not over her initial shock, Jill drove up to the porte-cochere and slid out. Her heels clicked against the white inlaid marble as she walked toward the glass front doors. Just as she reached them, they were opened by a servant.

  “Miss Tzu, Mr. Ohnishi is waiting for you in the breakfast garden. Would you please follow me?” The butler was Japanese, of course, wearing a somber black livery reminiscent of the early part of the century.

  “Thank you,” she replied, slinging her purse over her shoulder.

  The interior spaces of the house were broken by stark geometrical walls. The structures were not bound by any normal parameters of construction. Some hung ten feet or more in the air, and others were mere ripples across the floor. The foyer was a massive open space, domed by a delicate lattice of steel and glass that cast a spiderweb shadow on the white marble floor. Stairs, landings, and balconies cantilevered into the foyer as if defying gravity. Having no basis of comparison, Jill simply assumed that the decidedly Oriental watercolors and paintings on the walls were priceless.

  The butler led her through several rooms, some traditional Japanese and some Western in style. At the open doors of an elevator, the butler indicated that Jill was to proceed alone.

  “Mr. Ohnishi is waiting to the right as you exit the elevator.”

  There was a discreet chime and the doors slid closed.

  Feeling like an ant in the bottom of a kitchen sink, Jill smoothed her cream skirt against her legs as the brushed stainless steel elevator sedately ascended. When it stopped, Jill stepped onto a breezy loggia, forty feet above the ground. She turned to her right and saw a table set for two people, the silver glinting in the early Pacific light.

  “I am delighted to be able to share my breakfast with you, Miss Tzu,” Takahiro Ohnishi said as he stood.

  “I am delighted that you invited me,” Jill replied, walking toward the table.

  She extended her hand, which Ohnishi ignored. Pissed at herself, Jill remembered whom she was dealing with and bowed deeply. Ohnishi replied with the barest nod of his head. “Won’t you sit down?”

  Ohnishi did not look like an industrialist. He was thin and frail, with a voice made tenuous by the years. His snowy hair was sparse, revealing red blotches of scalp. His face was cadaverous, sallow and drawn. His hands were darkly liver-spotted and bony, like the claws of a small bird.

  “Miss Tzu, I did not invite you, I merely caved in to your persistence. One hundred and fourteen calls and seventy-eight letters are enough to make any man capitulate.” Jill believed the comment was meant to be charming, but his flat delivery made her uncomfortable. In fact, Ohnishi made her uncomfortable. He looked like a corpse that refused to stop moving.

  She smiled her best reporter’s smile. “I’m glad you did. Any longer and the station was going to make me pay for the stamps I was using.”

  A servant appeared and poured coffee into her cup, adding one spoonful of sugar. Jill looked at him queerly, wondered how he knew she took her coffee this way.

  “I know much more than that, Miss Tzu, otherwise I would have never let you on the grounds,” Ohnishi said, reading her expression, possibly her mind, for all she knew.

  “Is that why no one asked to see my ID or search me when I came here?” She meant the question to be friendly, but it sounded almost defensive.

  “I had you followed from your home at 1123 Blossom Tree Court in the Muani Condominium development. In fact, I’ve had you followed every day since granting this interview,” Ohnishi said so casually that Jill could not respond for a moment.

  “Did you learn anything interesting?” she said sarcastically, her anger now beginning to rise.

  “Yes, a lovely successful woman like you needs to get out more.”

  Jill’s anger evaporated at his reply. “That’s the same thing my mother tells me.”

  Much later, Jill realized his use of her mother’s exact words was no coincidence.

  “I am sorry if my actions make you uncomfortable, but a man in my position must be cautious.”

  “I understand. I don’t particularly like it, but I understand.”

  The servant reappeared and placed a bowl of fruit in front of Jill. Again he gave nothing to Ohnishi.

  “As my aide Kenji told you on the phone, I do not allow cameras on my property nor is this conversation to be recorded.”

  “It won’t be, I assure you,” Jill said, setting her coffee cup into its saucer, fearful of spilling anything on the crisp linen cloth or cracking the translucent porcelain. She did not realize that she had been x-rayed twice since entering Ohnishi’s home, once at the front door and again in the elevator. Her verbal assurances were superfluous.

  “I must say this is an amazing home,” Jill remarked to break the silence.

  “Believe it or not, this structure was designed in 1867 by an obscure Tokyo architect, long before the technology was available for its construction. He took his own life only a few months after completing the drawings, knowing that his genius would never be appreciated in his time. It is supposition on my part, but I believe he thought his suicide would give his work the immortality it would never receive through construction.”

  “I did not know that you were such a student of history.”

  “Everything we know, Miss Tzu, is history. Just because it is not taught in schools from dusty texts does not lessen any information’s importance.”

  “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Allow me to explain. The latest piece of information, no matter how current, is already history. I can look at a stock ticker as the trading goes on and already the information I’m seeing is history. Maybe it’s only a second old, but the events have already happened and nothing in my power can change them. If I decide to buy or sell based on that information, I would be basing that choice on history. All knowledge is like that and all decisions are made that way.”

  “What if I decide to do something on a whim?”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know, say, quit my job.”

  “In that case, you would have a history of job dissatisfaction, a knowledge based on past performance that you could find another job, and confidence that you have put sufficient money in a bank to ensure security until you begin working again. All of these factors make your decision not whimsical at all, but rather calculating in fact.”

  “I never thought about it in that way,” Jill said, intrigued.

  “That is why you are not worth eight billion dollars and I am,” Ohnishi remarked, not boastful, just stating the truth.

  “I asked your assistant if there were any taboo subjects for this interview and he assured me that you would be candid about anything I asked.”

  “That is true.” The servant cleared Jill’s fruit plate and brought a silver salver of raw fish and thinly sliced beef. He placed some on her plate along with rice and several varieties of seaweed.

  “Aren’t you eating, Mr. Ohnishi?” Jill asked after the servant vanished, again leaving his plate empty.

  “My stomach and some of my small intestine were removed several years ago after I was diagnosed with cancer, Miss Tzu. I’m afraid I must eat intravenously. I may sample some of these dishes later, but I can’t swallow them. It is an unpleasant sight I assure you.”

  Jill was thankful he did not get more graphic.

  “I know your basic biography, Mr. Ohnishi,” Jill began the formal interview, a Waterman pen poised over he
r notebook. “You were born in Osaka, but your parents immigrated to the United States with your two older sisters when you were an infant. Your father was a chemical engineer working for UC at San Diego.”

  “Correct,” Ohnishi interrupted. “My family all died during World War Two when Roosevelt imprisoned all Japanese nationals. My sisters died of typhus; they were barely into their teens. My mother died soon afterward of the same disease. The day he took his own life, my father told me to never forget them. I was seventeen years old.”

  “You had an uncle who became your legal ward?”

  “Yes, his name was Chuichi Genda.”

  “If I read this correctly,” Jill said looking through her notes, “he was released from an internment camp in January 1943, arrested one week later, released again at the end of the war and spent the remainder of his life in and out of prisons on various charges.”

  “Yes, my uncle had very strong beliefs about America and her treatment of our people both during the war and after. He often led violent campaigns against various policies. He was charged with inciting riots three times and convicted twice. He was, without a doubt, the most influential person in my life.”

  “In what way?”

  “His ideas on race, principally.”

  “And what are those?” Jill asked, uncrossing her long legs. She knew that this was the most important part of her interview.

  “You are a journalist — surely you are aware of my views.”

  “I know you’ve been called a racist by nearly every social group in the United States and that your hiring policies resemble Nazi purity laws.”

  Ohnishi laughed, a high thin note that startled Jill. “For lack of a better word, Miss Tzu, you are very naive. There is no such thing as racism.” Before Jill could voice a protest, Ohnishi continued. “According to anthropologists, there are only four races on this planet: Asian, negro, caucasian, and aboriginal. Yet there is tension and fighting between hundreds of different groups. Correct?”

  He did not wait for a reply. “If race is a motivating factor as you in the press imply, why is there so much fighting in the nations of Africa, why do the English and Irish bomb each other on a regular basis, why did the Nazis gas six million Jews? The answer is not racism, it’s tribalism.

  “There may be only four races, but there are hundreds of different tribes, maybe thousands. Many groups still maintain a tribal name, such as the Apache or Zulu. But numerous groups no longer have distinct names, the white Anglo-Saxon here in America, the Northern Irish Protestants, or the upper class of Brazil.

  “Each group is fighting to maintain the integrity of their tribe. The French and Germans are two separate tribes of people, culturally and religiously different, yet each falling into the caucasian race. There is only one way to account for the four wars they have fought since the middle of the last century: tribalism. The need to protect and ensure the security in perpetuity of one’s immediate group.

  “Just because interracial strife makes good press does not make it the most common form. I will deny until my death that I am a racist. I care nothing for race. I am a tribalist. And my tribe, the Japanese, is all that I care for.

  “Tribes are basically extended families, so when I give a top position to a fellow Japanese, I am merely helping one of my kin. That is no different than a man turning over his business to his son, a common practice all over the world. I have fought nearly three hundred court cases defending my right to hire and promote who I wish, and to date no one has been able to deny me.”

  “If you have such a pro-Japanese view of the world, why is it you recently took up residence in the United States?” Jill asked, trying to remain calm and professional despite her revulsion.

  “I had this home built six years ago,” Ohnishi pointed out.

  “Yet you only moved here three months ago,” Jill retorted.

  “I feel that I am most needed here. As you know, the Japanese are now the largest ethnic group in Hawaii, and if you’ll pardon my arrogance, I believe that they need my help.”

  “Your help?”

  “I wish to see Japanese prosper wherever their work takes them. While the media focuses on material trade imbalances, they completely ignore the amount of brain power that Japan exports each year. We send only our brightest people to work in foreign countries, strengthening our position overseas year by year. Let America send wide-eyed college students to build huts in Africa. We send CEOs to build corporations. I just want to do my part and ensure the success of this program.”

  “And do you see your help extending to Hawaii’s native population?”

  “They have suffered under the yoke of a white government far longer than we, so of course I wish to see them gain more power here on the islands. After all, tribally speaking, they are closer to us Japanese than to their current white overlords.”

  “Surely you exaggerate when you use a term such as overlord to describe the state government,” Jill said a little nervously.

  “On the contrary. How else would you describe a governing body that does not speak your language, does not understand your culture or religion, and has done nothing to bridge the socioeconomic gap? If the true Hawaiians are so satisfied with the current system, why do you think the island of Niihau, with its strict language and culture laws, is attracting so many natives to their traditional way of life? But primarily, my assistance is to those who are of Japanese descent, Miss Tzu.”

  “Does your help include aiding Mayor Takamora? Some consider his acts treasonous.”

  “I have not hidden my support of Mayor Takamora. I believe in his programs for ensuring the prosperity of Hawaii. It is time that the true owners of this state come forth and claim what is theirs without paying undue taxes to Washington.”

  Ohnishi was referring to the Takamora-sponsored referendum now being discussed in the State House that would make foreign owners of Honolulu real estate exempt from paying most taxes if they agreed to place the money in social programs solely beneficial to Japanese and Japanese-American residents. If passed, the law would put tens of millions of tax dollars into the hands of the Japanese residents of the island. Some political analysts called it vote-buying, while others saw something deeper, state-buying.

  The campaigning for Referendum 324 was at a crucial stage, with the vote only a week away. As with any controversial law, emotions across the state ran high and already had turned violent. The number of attacks against tourists and white residents had skyrocketed in the past few weeks. Roving gangs of Japanese youths prowled the city streets at night like modern-day ninjas, striking fear by their very presence.

  “What about the increase in violence?”

  “Miss Tzu, of course I don’t condone those people who use violence to achieve their aims, but I do understand their commitment. Hawaii has special needs and considerations that only we understand and it is paramount that we gain more control over our lives.”

  “Some people see this as an attempt at secession,” Jill said, referring to the vice president’s speech of the night before.

  “Some people would.” Ohnishi smiled, but his dark eyes remained impassive. “The interview is over, Miss Tzu. You must leave.”

  Jill was startled at her abrupt dismissal, but she knew better than to protest. She tossed her pen and pad into her bag and stood.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Ohnishi,” Jill said formally.

  “I wonder, Miss Tzu,” Ohnishi remarked absently, “which part of your racial heritage makes you the most uncomfortable with yourself, your Chinese half, or your Japanese which allows the Chinese to have any influence?”

  Later, Jill was amazed how easily her reply had rolled off her tongue. “The Chinese, it’s given me the patience to put up with all the freaks I meet on the job.”

  Her only memory of leaving the house was the echo of her heels against the marble foyer as she strode to the front door.

  “Apart from her physical charms, what do you think of Miss Tzu?” Ohnishi ask
ed after the elevator doors had closed behind her.

  A dark shape split from the shadows of the loggia as if by mitosis. It padded across the terrace silently and eased into the recently vacated chair with the ease of a predatory cat.

  “I believe that she is dangerous,” the shadow replied.

  “Kenji, you are a worrier. She is nothing more than a voice in the wind. She will report what every other journalist writes, some diatribe full of half-truths and hyperbole that will be lost among the juicy murder stories and baseball scores.”

  “Yet.”

  “Yet nothing. The people, I mean the real people of this state, the ones who matter, won’t care what she says. The mayor and I have been whipping them into such a frenzy that her little report won’t make a bit of difference.”

  “You and David Takamora may be creating a situation that you cannot control and one I am sure has no bearing on our true objective.”

  “You sound like Ivan Kerikov’s lackey,” Ohnishi accused.

  Kenji’s black eyes went flat. “That is not what I meant. But we have a responsibility to him that you may be jeopardizing by financing the youth gangs and talking to reporters like Jill Tzu.”

  “You have been in my employ since you were a boy, Kenji. You have only known the simplicity of one master. I, on the other hand, have known many, my conscience first and foremost and now that pig Kerikov. I know how to serve both. Kerikov will get his precious concession, but only at the price I dictate.”

  “This uprising is proceeding too quickly. That is not part of your bargain with him.”

  “But it is part of my plan, Kenji, and that is all you need to know and believe.” Ohnishi’s tone of finality subdued his aide. “I am wondering about your loyalty, Kenji. You no longer act like my Hachiko.”

  Ohnishi was referring to a much-beloved Japanese dog from the 1920s who waited each afternoon at a train station for his master to return from work. One day, the master did not return, for he had died at his desk at Tokyo University. The faithful dog returned every day to the very train platform for ten years, waiting for a master who would never come. The name Hachiko is still synonymous with loyalty in Japan.