The pilot watched his hosts from half-closed lids. For a while he focused on the native man, wondering where he might have hidden the papers, how to effect their return without arousing more ire or suspicion. It seemed useless to keep insisting directly, because the man acted as he thought his emperor would want him to, and a strange intruder would not change that. Nishikaichi understood, even admired this. He also admired the way the man smiled so heartily, despite his awful teeth, and moved with compressed excitement, as if the world was constantly new and interesting to him. True, he spoke too much, thought Nishikaichi, but the melody of his strange language was beautiful, and brought to mind birds soaring on the flanks of Mount Fuji, or sometimes, when the man was really excited, the pillowy building of a thunder cloud. Nishikaichi didn’t need to know the words. The curve and bend of them, the way they swung in the air, reminded him of haiku. It was, he thought, close to the sound of his love for the fishmonger’s daughter, if he dared to make that sound out loud: lyrical, joyous, never ending.
Finally Nishikaichi flickered his eyes to the Japanese man. Harada-san was larger than anyone he knew back home, as if American excesses puffed and elongated a normal Asian body. The man had broad shoulders and long fingers which, Nishikaichi noticed, held his legs as if he worried they would collapse into a pile of bones and tendons otherwise. At first glance he had the lifted chin and direct gaze of a military man, but his habit of squeezing his hands together nervously betrayed the fact that he was not a soldier. Nishikaichi puzzled over what his next move would be with Harada-san. He knew that he couldn’t get the papers back without some assistance. Worse, without gasoline on the island, it would be difficult to destroy his plane. He needed him, and it was best if he could convince Harada-san that this need was reciprocal. He had clearly become unnerved when Nishikaichi had convincingly agreed that the Japanese military were coming, and this, thought Nishikaichi, was good. Disorienting a man was the first step toward his pliability, something Nishikaichi knew from the old boastings of a drunken military officer who, with enough rice wine, would tell lengthy and gruesome anecdotes of interrogations. Nishikaichi had never liked these stories and dismissed the most horrific of them as tall tales, impossible, against the tenets of Bushido, not the doings of the emperor’s people. Still, he’d gleaned that a man’s greatest vulnerability was his mind, not his body. Hadn’t he been overwhelmed by it himself as he tried to sacrifice his plane and himself to the ocean? He winced again at the memory. If he had acted like a true son of Japan, he would not be here, in a hot, dark warehouse, with a slice of the brilliant day bleeding in through a tilted wooden door, and his eyes fixed on that opening as if it were a last meal, or the doorway through which the Son of Heaven himself would step. He would instead be dead, and the letter announcing this sacrifice would soon be opened slowly by his parents, and read with commingled joy and sadness.
-Harada-san, he called out, his voice raspy.
Yoshio did not move.
-Harada-san, he said more loudly.
The man’s head jerked up as if he had been stung by a bee. Howard looked over with interest.
-Harada-san, my bladder is bursting.
Yoshio blinked as if not understanding.
-I have to pee, repeated the pilot.
Still, Yoshio did not react.
-Should I go out on my own?
-No, no, said Yoshio hurriedly. He put up his hand and began to speak to Howard.
-You come, interrupted the pilot. We need to talk. About the soldiers.
Howard was beginning to rise, brushing off his denim pants, pulling his sweated shirt from his chest.
-I know you’re acting calm on the outside for the sake of your neighbor here, insisted the pilot. But inside you’re shaking because you know the terribleness of what I’m saying. Our soldiers are angry and determined. It’s time to talk, really.
Howard was stretching his arms.
-I can make sure that the commander knows—
Yoshio scrambled to his own feet suddenly.
-Be quiet, he said to the pilot sharply. Then he addressed Howard, who shrugged and sat back down against the wall.
-Well, make sure he has a good, long piss. And try to get him to take off that gosh-darn flight suit, Mr. Harada. I don’t want a dead guest when the Old Lord arrives.
Yoshio flinched at the word “dead” and then forced himself to smile.
-A good piss it’ll be, Mr. Kaleohano, he said.
They walked to the scrub behind the beach and stood in silence. The pilot unzipped the angulated fly of his flight suit and Yoshio took a few steps back. The pilot urinated without a word, letting Yoshio’s tension build, in no hurry to speak first. Feeling the man’s anxious presence just a few feet away, he casually cased his surroundings in full, looking one way and the other, taking in the beach in its entirety. When he was done he zipped and turned, surveying the inland flats. Scrubby trees he did not recognize fizzed from hard, red soil. The land rose and fell gently, like a line of easy waves. It was then that the pilot realized he no longer thought of the island as desolate and ugly. The sparse simplicity moved him, the hues of brown against the blue sky lifted his heart. It was, in a distinctly Japanese way, beautiful.
He looked at Yoshio. He bowed slightly.
-Harada-san, you are the elder of us. You know the ways of the world with far more intelligence than I. But I know the ways of the military. Things will go better if you help. There’s a sub looking for me and angry Japanese warriors on the way. I’ll make sure no harm comes to any of you on this island; I can talk to the commanders who land. Should I even tell you what China looked like after we were through with her? No, I won’t, it was a terrible thing.
-If you’ll just get in it and row away quietly, Yoshio responded roughly, I’ll see what I can do about a boat. But I can’t help you with your papers and your plane.
Nishikaichi stared at him.
-Those must be destroyed, he said. You understand. I am a warrior for the emperor and I have a duty. It is my imperial on. Don’t you understand on?
-Then we are at an impasse. Yoshio turned away.
The pilot sighed and shook his head.
-Harada-san, he said. You’re more Japanese than you admit. Your loyalty to your neighbors, your concern for your family. You understand on perfectly. Perhaps you’ll think about this for a while and we’ll talk later. For now, thank you for accompanying me.
He bowed again, nodded solemnly, and without another word began to walk back to the warehouse.
-And what of your submarine, Nishikaichi-san? Yoshio called out.
Nishikaichi stopped.
-She’ll come.
-Then you won’t need me.
-But then it will be too late for the island. If you don’t help me now…
The pilot let the sentence trail off.
Yoshio shook his head, and followed the pilot.
12
Aylmer Robinson squinted down the beach. He could see men stumbling in the heavy sand, and every now and then a curse floated toward him. He thought he would immediately know which men were his, but from where he sat, on his horse, with one hand over his eyes to shield them from the low-hanging sun, there was no telling who came from the next plantation, who was the local storekeeper, who the bank clerk—even the pastor was said to be there. From Robinson’s vantage point, the men—and even some women—had fused into one strange land creature pinwheeling across the sand. Grunting and snuffling and snorting, it was an amalgam of pale, pudgy shoulders and brown, muscled ones, bare feet and loafers and boots all working to string a long barbed-wire fence along the beach before the Japanese military emerged like walking fish from the sea. For a moment Robinson thought he should strip off his own shirt and trudge toward the creature; without a doubt this was what his father would have done. The old man would have eschewed the paperwork, the tête-à-têtes with the local muckety-mucks, and instead picked up a shovel and joined the rabble out there in the hot sun. How many times
did he tell Aylmer about the long days building houses and barns on Niihau, how with enough hammer strokes a man could transform not just the land but himself—didn’t the Bible itself say so? (Aylmer had looked, but couldn’t find it.) But Aylmer wasn’t the showy man his father had been, knew that the ruckus caused by the old man peeling off his shirt to show his skinny white chest and stringy forearms was what the man would’ve been partially after, the need always to prove himself above and beyond what everyone thought he could do, even at the end when he had the houseboy read the Bible non-stop while he knelt and prayed, coughing up blood the whole time.
Aylmer reminded himself that he was needed in town, and wheeled his horse onto the dirt road. At a canter he passed a group of men who clutched pellet guns and pitchforks, heading to the bridges, and when he got to the one and only streetlight on the island, he saw a few children with stones in their hands. Their faces were set in what they took to be serious expressions, mouths turned down like the adults, brows hunched together. They looked him up and down before becoming distracted by a lizard flushed out by the dust and noise and which had made the fatal mistake of dodging onto the road. Even women carried shovels or knives, ready to slit a yellow throat if necessary. It occurred to Robinson suddenly that it was Monday, December 8, and he was due on Niihau today.
At least the Niihauans won’t hear what’s going on, Robinson thought. The news was devastating, almost unimaginable. More than two thousand Americans had died in an inferno of fire and explosions. Many were still trapped in overturned ships, knocking frantically in hopes of rescue. Hundreds of aircraft strafed. Hangars bombed. Buildings collapsed. Yesterday KGMB kept intoning, This is the real McCoy. The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor. This is the real McCoy, until its signal was shut down for fear that a new wave of Japanese fliers would navigate by it. Only KTOH kept broadcasting intermittently throughout the night, mistakenly overlooked by the government, until just hours ago it too finally went silent. What he would give to be on Niihau right now, Robinson thought, to ride the plateau past the merino sheep and the star-apple trees, far from the guns and radios, the shock and the fear, shielded from the world and its discontents.
At the Piggly Wiggly, Robinson dismounted and entered. The place was jammed with people desperate to pick up emergency supplies and trade the latest rumors. They scooped up batteries and canned food and talked under their breath, as if they didn’t know who might be listening: They’ll come by sea, they’ll poison the water supply, they’ll knock out the electricity towers. None of it was confirmed, but people drank from the streams anyway and took up posts along the high-tide mark, lying flat on the sand, using anything as a weapon. Here at the Piggly Wiggly items like garden rakes, which wouldn’t sell for half price last week, were reimagined as swords and now flew off the shelves into defiant hands.
-Any news? Robinson yelled to the storekeeper, who was himself yelling something at his young son over the bedlam. The Japs getting to Kauai?
-They’ve been here for years, that’s the problem, the man cried. He waved a hand at the emptying shelves. Grab what you can, Mr. Robinson. We’ll be out of everything by nightfall.
But Robinson hadn’t come for food or batteries, just reliable information, which he now realized was in short supply too. He pushed his way outside and remounted his horse. He’d head to the hospital and see if his brother Lester’s wife was there. He was sure she was; she had her hands full with two young sons, but everyone was pitching in, in whatever way they could. He felt partially responsible for her, because Lester himself was on the mainland, arranging sales of the Makeweli Ranch sugar yield. He would know what had happened to the islands, and be sick with worry.
Of Kauai’s 35,000 citizens, half were of Japanese descent. As Robinson rode up to the hospital, all of them seemed to be there, in a silent line that stretched from the front door and around the corner to the sugar field beyond. He tipped his hat mechanically but they glanced away without speaking. He wasn’t sure what he thought of the local Japanese now, and they weren’t sure either. He’d always admired the nisei’s discipline and reserve. That’s why he’d hired young Mr. Matsuda to oversee the feed supplies here at Makeweli and why he’d asked the Haradas to take care of his house on Niihau, and eventually run the small store out of one of the sheds. His only complaint had been that the nisei weren’t Christian. This would come in time, he’d thought. Heathens everywhere were flocking to the Lord, and Kauai would be no different. But after Pearl Harbor his heart was heavy, his fist clenched in anger. He’d prayed over and over to rid himself of this devilish fury, but still, last night he’d woken in a sweat, his heart pounding, his tongue dry, his throat tight. And he’d heard about things in the past twenty-four hours—Japanese men dragged from their homes, Japanese women—well, he wasn’t sure what had happened. The island was tense, that’s all he knew. Jaws were set and eyes were clamped on the horizon.
Robinson stopped his horse next to a man he recognized who worked with his turkeys.
-Mr. Komichi, he said. What’s going on here?
-Blood, Mr. Robinson, the man said. He lifted his arm briefly and twisted at his sleeve. To give to our soldiers.
For a moment Robinson wondered if a big cache of enemy Japanese had been caught and were for some reason being resuscitated by the blood of their expat countrymen and-women. Then he realized that Mr. Komichi was talking about our soldiers, as in American ones, and it took Robinson a minute to process this.
Robinson finally nodded. He knew that the nisei had been abruptly banned from much of daily life, or at least that which included gun carrying and war planning, which was most of what was going on. But yesterday he’d seen them in small, quiet groups of their own, towing abandoned cars to block the airstrips from Japanese planes, clearing kiawe for American military vehicles. Now here, giving blood.
Robinson rested his hands on the pommel of the saddle and scanned the line, finally lighting on three white women standing just apart from the rest. Their faces were shadowed by hats perched like mongooses on their heads, their stiff postures radiated discontent. They had come to give blood, yes, but had not wanted to stand so close to the nisei, who had always been disdained and were now downright dangerous. He tried to acknowledge the women with a touch of his hat, but they were turned in profile toward each other, clutching, as if to keep their balance on a swaying ship. One woman held her lips together so tightly they overlapped, as if she was telling the world that even she herself did not believe the ends she would go to for duty.
Just then Shanagan galloped up with a gun on his shoulder.
-I’m hearing we’ll be switching the crops away from sugar and back to foodstuff for the troops.
-If necessary, Robinson said. News?
-The usual blarney. Subs offshore, Japs under every tree, waiting to slit your throat.
He brought a big hand to his face and wiped the sweat from his brow. For a moment the two men were silent, busy fiddling with their reins, their hats. Shanagan patted his shirt pocket and looked at the sky. Finally he said,
-I was thinking, sir, about the band I was hearing the night before this all happened. The radio had the navy boys playing against each other, boat against boat. You know, the California against the Arizona against the Pennsylvania and all that. The whole lot of us got up and danced, twisting the knobs on that radio as high as they’d go. Well, the Pennsylvania won, and that was all right, but the Arizona should’ve taken it, I tell you.
He shifted in his saddle. Robinson could hear the clickety-click of his throat swallowing.
-See, they’re all dead, sir. Every one of those jitterbug-playing boys. Gone. They’re saying the Arizona took the worst of it, no one had a chance. I can’t believe it. Mind-doogling, it is. He spat on the ground, and pressed a hand to his eyes. And this. He jerked his chin at the crowd. Don’t think it’s a good idea, this. Nisei probably poisoned their own blood on orders of their emperor. Sly devils, these Japs. Let ’em live here and now it’s coming
around to bite us in the arse, ’scuse my French.
He didn’t lower his voice when he said this, but kept staring down the line at the men and women who stood without a word, their heads turned pointedly away or looking at the ground. He shifted his gun from one hand to the other and spat again.
-Well, I’ll be taking a turn guarding the electricity plant, Mr. Robinson, unless you’ll be needing me for something else. Word’s out that there’s saboteurs about, see—and here he lowered his voice and flicked his eyes meaningfully to the line of people and back. But every good man’s got a gun, so they won’t be taking Kauai without a brawl.
-That’s fine, Mr. Shanagan, said Robinson. No boats allowed on the water anyway, so I won’t be going to Niihau right now. When I do, you come back and take care of Makeweli Ranch. Until then, go where you’re needed, and Godspeed.
Robinson nicked the brim of his hat with his forefingers and turned his horse away. He was tired and suddenly uneasy about missing his monthly visit to Niihau. It’ll be fine, he thought. Just fine. That island’s protected by God, if any are.
13
In the late afternoon, they left Kii. Even Howard had lost his good humor. He cursed quietly at the horse and combed his hair only once. The sun condensed from blinding yellow to a tight orange ball and began to sink below the horizon. The pilot was quiet. Yoshio ignored them both and stared silently at the water, thinking of the submarine. What would the Hawaiian sharks think when they saw that dark, silent shadow? Legend said that the large mano protected the island in an ancient pact bartered by the Niihauans’ ancestors. And it was true, no shark attacks had ever been recorded on Niihau, though men swam through infested waters often. Could the mano spirits protect them against this deadly man-made machine? Yoshio did not think so.
The radio was about the size of a small pig. It was wood paneled, with a dial on the right side that spun a thick metal shaft in a circle to catch the radio stations. The only identifying mark was the word “Supreme” etched in a copper plate on one corner, which Irene supposed was the silly, boastful name of a mainland radio company.
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