East Wind, Rain

by Caroline Paul

  She always marveled at the good reception, despite the distance from the other islands. She imagined the radio waves slowing in the heat, perhaps dragging a long trail of red dust as they dropped down the chimney and squeezed through the cracks in the walls, finally alighting on her machine and wiggling inside. It was a miracle really, and a miracle too that Robinson had not removed what Howard Kaleohano had once called, in English, “a modern conniption,” after the white foreman had died. Mr. Robinson had not been happy that the old man had wanted a radio, but had relented, only after making him promise that the natives would not come over to the house and listen to the frivolity that burst from its wooden ribs. The old foreman had agreed, but sometimes the cowboys heard its melodies anyway, drifting to the wiliwili in the back field when they were tending the Arabians, or carried by the afternoon wind toward Puuwai. At first the radio had been a thing of mild interest, and the few who caught a glimpse of it told tales of mysterious gurgling and hissing inside a wooden crate. But no one understood the language that came out of it, and the music itself was strange and tinny—not nearly as nice as a live Niihauan voice and a ukulele—and it was easy to forget about because soon enough Mr. Robinson scolded the foreman and he was more careful to keep the music down. But the Haradas were glad for the “conniption,” and Irene was vigilant about putting it away when Robinson came around, to make sure she never lost her only connection to the world beyond Niihau.

  Irene spent most of the day heaving the radio from place to place in the house, trying to pick up some news from outside. But there was only an insectlike hum; broadcasting had stopped completely except for an occasional voice that came on, clearing its throat in strangled bursts and saying in a high, nervous tone, Be calm, be calm. In the background Irene could hear the scraping of furniture in what she imagined was a fortress being quickly erected. The radio station that was the only link the world had to itself was barricading itself in, and that could not be good.

  Behind the quick, repeated two-word pronouncement (Be calm, be calm) she caught the indecipherable shuffle of other voices, high and low, falling out as they moved too far from the microphone, wafting back in, disappearing again. Then, after only a few moments, the radio would return to its hiss and static. She swung the dial first with the careful precision of a sniper taking aim, then with abandon, trying to pluck the airwaves from the sky. She did not know that all over the Hawaiian Islands, radio broadcasts had dropped out hours ago. The broadcasters dared to come on only infrequently, for just a few seconds, lest enemy Zeros navigate by their signal. Irene was not the only one fiddling anxiously with the buttons, waiting in vain for news of what was happening in the outside world. Everyone in the Hawaiian Islands was. But she was the one most isolated. She imagined people on Kauai and Maui and Oahu walking to their neighbors, then clustering on porches or slouching around kitchen tables. There they would trade rumor and fact, not knowing which was which, but still comforted by each other and news, any news. Not Irene. The almost complete silence from the world outside was like being lost on a mountain and peering into a dark night for a light that had flickered once in the distance and then had disappeared. What was going on out there? Was it all over? Had the Japanese invaded, or was the United States military right now dropping bombs on Tokyo? How could she and Yoshio know what to do with the pilot if there was no clue from outside about the war and its combatants? Irene felt again her anger against Mr. Robinson and his silly, vain need to keep the island cut off from everything.

  As she listened throughout the day, though, she pieced the fragmented words into a fuller story: Enemy parachutists had landed near King Street. Nisei citizens had been rounded up for questioning and detention. There were reports, then retractions, of Kauai being invaded by Japanese frogmen. As Monday afternoon gave way to Monday evening and Yoshio still had not returned, Irene’s panic level rose. The reception wandered in and out with fickle abandon, but Irene, her ear pressed against the ribbed amplifier as if listening for a heartbeat, had heard enough to understand. Japanese Americans were being forcibly taken from their Oahu homes by police and military. There were shots in the street. People attacked Japanese businesses and, in a few cases, beat up Japanese men. Police were being sent to investigate “suspicious” Japanese locals. Who qualified as suspicious? Irene wondered. Who called these suspicions in?

  It was well past sundown when Irene turned the radio off and checked on Taeko. Irene dropped her face to her child’s tiny hands. In the dark, resting on her plump chest, the fists looked like small, perfect shells. Her musty, milky smell, ubiquitous to small children, hit Irene’s nostrils. She breathed it in and thought instantly of her younger sister. Perhaps she was right now, at this moment, being rounded up and pushed into some dark jail cell. Her oldest nephew had probably signed up hastily for military service at the Kauai airbase. He was that kind of boy, foolish and sincere. She fought the urge to pick Taeko up and press her to her breast and run to the boat dock to see why Yoshio still had not returned. It occurred to her how furious she was that she had ever agreed to come to Niihau.

  She woke to Yoshio slipping into the single bed, next to her. He put a hand on her shoulder but she did not move. He pulled his hand away, rose, and went to his own bed.

  -Everything okay with Mr. Robinson? she finally said. He didn’t reply for a long time.

  -He didn’t come, he said finally.

  -They’re rounding up Japanese on the other islands, she said.

  There was a pause.

  -Robinson comes tomorrow. Yoshio’s voice was muffled under the sheets.

  -Yoshio, for all we know he’s dead. They say the Imperial Navy is sneaking up on the beaches as we speak. She sat up and looked at his prone form. It’s time to help the pilot.

  -No, he said after a long pause. And when it was clear she was not going to lie back down, he added, Wives don’t disobey their husbands.

  After a moment she whispered a response.

  -Husbands protect their families.

  He didn’t answer. Somewhere the wind swung a board against a shed. The scrub outside the house rustled. The island, thought Irene, creaked and swayed like a ship at anchor, and it wouldn’t take much for the chain to snap and set them all adrift on a dark, endless sea.

  14

  In the morning, Tuesday, December 9, Irene prepared Yoshio’s tea without a word. It was still dark. Yoshio sat down to drink it, his wife a dark, slight shadow in the graying light.

  -You’re sure the Japanese have landed, Yoshio finally said. You heard for certain.

  Well, she had heard for certain. Panicked reports of parachutists landing on King Street, those frogmen in Kauai. Warnings of sabotage by local issei, first-generation immigrants, and nisei, their American offspring. The information was unreliable of course, and it had come only briefly every few hours. She had also heard the opposite: intermittent appeals for calm, assurances that the islands were now secure.

  Abruptly, she flung herself down on her knees. She held her hands forward in a dramatic gesture of supplication. Her hair fell from behind her ears onto her face and she made no effort to remove it.

  -You see for yourself that Robinson does not arrive! We must be practical, Yoshio, my love, or we die! We must help this pilot, don’t you understand, we have no choice. The Japanese have destroyed all the ships in Pearl Harbor. Next they’ll take over the islands, or else why would they do such a thing? It’s time we were on the winning side, Yoshio. The white Americans have no love for us, it’s all over the radio what they’re doing. But when the Japanese come, who will we be? In the eyes of the United States, we’re not American, why would you want the Japanese navy to think so? If we’re not American and we’re not Japanese, who are we? Please, for your child’s sake, if not for mine, we must make a deal with the pilot!

  Yoshio reared back momentarily, shocked by his wife’s sudden outburst. Then he leaned forward and touched her forehead, but she pulled away like a wild animal.

  -And the Niih
auans? Yoshio cried, dropping his arm. We just side with the pilot and forget about them?

  -Your family! She rocked forward. With both of her small hands, she squeezed his face with a sudden and surprising force. Do you really think that the Niihauans love us as you say? We’ll always be outsiders, Yoshio. Even old Shintani, as long as he’s been here, is ultimately called Japanese Man by his neighbors. And look at Howard, even though he taught you to ride, you can tell he comes here and steps into the kitchen and the first thing he wonders is why he, the most educated Hawaiian on Niihau, wasn’t picked to run the ranch for Mr. Robinson. You see it too, the way he flicks at those teeth with his tongue. Before he even greets us with the traditional Hele mai ai, he’s thinking to himself, Why aren’t I in charge of the Old Lord’s house? Mr. Robinson loves his Hawaiians, no doubt about that, but it’s the love one has for small children. One day they will know this, and his paradise will be gone!

  Yoshio pulled back from his wife, and drummed the table with one thumb. His cheeks were red from Irene’s fingers, his ears rang with her pleas. She was right, he knew. After all, didn’t he understand? He had often been passed over for a job position that was instead given to a white man, and ironically, as bad as things got for the Japanese Americans, things were sometimes worse for the Hawaiians. All over the islands they were treated as a vanquished people would be, with a kind of pity and condescension, while at least the nisei inspired fear and some respect because of their obvious education and their sheer numbers. Somewhere in there was the Negro, but he had met so few he had no idea where to put him. Also, the Portuguese, the Filipino, the Chinese, the Korean—the list would go on, each a rung in a steep and unforgiving ladder the haoles had successfully built, themselves perched smack on the top, looking down with large, fixed smiles and angry, fearful eyes.

  Yoshio pushed his tea away, and stood up.

  -You don’t think we can trust our neighbors. That’s what you’re saying.

  -Who treat Mr. Robinson as a god! You really think we can depend upon a people who deify a haole?

  Yoshio ran one hand across his eyes. He felt tired and older than his thirty-seven years. He hated the hollow cast of his wife’s eyes, the disgust at him implicit in her voice. Perhaps she was right. There was no reason to think that the Niihauans would be good allies, that they would rise above the anti-Japanese hysteria of the other islands. They were, after all, willing minions to an eccentric white man. He put a hand on Irene’s shoulder.

  -If Mr. Robinson doesn’t come today, I’ll ask that the pilot stay with us tonight. We will talk to him frankly and decide what’s best to do.

  They rode by cart again to Kii, and waited in the warehouse. Sometimes Howard walked out onto the sand as if the reason Robinson did not arrive was simply a matter of the right vantage point. He returned each time and wagged a finger in the air to indicate that the boat’s arrival was not imminent, but impending nonetheless. Yoshio said little and studiously avoided Nishikaichi’s gaze.

  Howard called his name.

  -Do you want a swim? It’s hot enough to roast a pig. I could throw a popola on the sand and we’d eat in ten minutes. How about it, a swim?

  He pointed to the ocean and then back at himself and then at Nishikaichi. When Nishikaichi did not respond, he prodded Yoshio.

  -Tell our guest what I’m asking. A swim! Do they do that where he comes from? Or does a machine swim for him? He chuckled, not unkindly, at his joke.

  Yoshio watched the cigarette jump up and down on Howard’s lips like a dying fish. A swim? It seemed inappropriate, but then Howard did not know all the circumstances surrounding the strange pilot.

  -Swim? said Yoshio to Nishikaichi. He jerked his head toward the ocean and then, unsure whether he had chosen the correct Japanese word, raised his arms and grabbed at the air, closing his mouth and squinting his eyes against a cool, imaginary wave.

  Nishikaichi jerked his head with a sudden rushing smile.

  Yoshio was an excellent swimmer, but today he waded in only to his knees and slapped his hands at the surface, cooling himself. After a while he removed his white shirt and scrubbed its underarms, thinking how Irene would be pleased. When he was done he laid the shirt flat on the water and let it float in front of him, a jellyfish of cloth. He glanced once at Nishikaichi. The boy was clearly enjoying himself; he made large, splashing noises when he surfaced and held his breath with his cheeks puffed out, like a child. He was not a good swimmer and Yoshio was disappointed by this; part of him hoped that the young man would just up and breaststroke away, that he would disappear from their lives like a receding wave.

  Today Robinson would again not arrive. Yoshio knew this because the sun was beginning its downward descent into the horizon and there was still no speck on the ocean, and because in his heart of hearts he knew that what had happened was bigger than Robinson. Pearl Harbor, gone. America, at war. Even if he told the Niihauans the truth, they would refuse to believe this; Robinson was the Old Lord, after all, and only God could keep him from Niihau. War? Not something that would get in the way of Ka Haku Makua. Yoshio sighed and folded his arms. He stared out at the small splash of Howard’s kick and, beyond that, to Kauai’s leaning parapets. Perhaps Irene was right. Perhaps Kauai had been invaded and Robinson was at this moment being interrogated by Japanese soldiers. The thought made his throat constrict. It would be only a matter of time before they came to Niihau and did what victorious armies did—loot, pillage, torture, rape, shoot.

  Underwater, Nishikaichi watched his flight suit billow like loose skin in the water. Momentarily he let himself forget that he was racing against time, beholden to his chu. Instead, he was relaxed and, finally, cool. He held his stinging eyes open so that the swirling underwater colors blurred together—the green flight suit, his silvery hands, the beige sand, the turquoise sky. He was for a moment indistinct from the world, part of the silt he disturbed as he floated by.

  When small, orbiting diamonds rose from his exhaling mouth, he thought of a night flight he had once taken over the China Sea. The sky had been moonless, and the thicket of stars made way for him and his plane as if they were gods. His gauges had risen fast—altimeter, engine, oil temperature—as his stomach had dropped with the beauty of it. Now, underwater, he felt just as glorious. Miraculously cool and heavy on his body, the ocean had the thick but calming embrace he could liken only to his one encounter with a whore when he had been stationed on the outskirts of Shanghai. He had been young, just seventeen, and depressed by the destruction all around him, the dull-eyed women, the dirty, half-dressed children with plundered gazes, the smell of burning rice paper and wood, the endless hiccup of random artillery fired by bored, homesick soldiers. He had gone to the brothel because his flying unit had insisted on it. He was afraid that the woman would be young and recently brutalized, so he chose an old one, her face plastered with bright color, so fat and heavy breasted that, midpleasure, he thought he might suffocate. But there was no doubt that the interaction did what it was supposed to—transported him momentarily away from there. He felt as if he were in the hold of some dark, listing ship that smelled of mold and chalk, bound for somewhere far, far off. Now, for an unguarded moment as he pedaled through the water, he wondered what he’d ever seen in his life as a soldier, the drone of days waiting for a conflict, the mindless destruction. Even flying had its downside. Yes, the sudden thrill of loosing free of the ground and the dizzying spirals and sudden climbs of combat suited him, as did those beautiful views of the whirling, tilting ground. But once in a while, when there was nothing but cavernous sky and a straight compass bearing to the carrier, he felt a pure and weary loneliness. It mingled with the g-force-induced nausea and the hammer of the engine in his ears. He inhaled it with the smell of gasoline and leather so strong it watered his eyes. It pulsed through him like blood. When he landed and whatever hormones and secretions that surged in combat flight (endorphins, adrenaline) had receded, a small part of this loneliness remained, whirring and clacking thro
ugh his bloodstream like a broken piece of machinery. He had wanted to ask other pilots about this, whether they felt it too, this certainty that each human is ultimately alone. Like islands, he’d wanted to say. But he had never found that kind of bravery.

  Finally out of breath he scrabbled his arms and legs to the surface. He swam (if one could have called it swimming) as if through a thunderhead, buffeted and churned by the wash of his own windmilling limbs. He could have just touched the bottom and straightened up—he had not gone out of his depth—but he wanted to remain as long as possible part of this pelagic world. As he broke the surface, one hand swatted the water from his eyes; the bright, shimmering day came harshly into focus. Blue sky, yellow land, red rocks, and pounding heat all jockeyed to copilot his senses. He didn’t want to think about his mission, or try to summon up the energy to talk to Harada-san and convince him of a new allegiance. He wanted to go back underwater.

  The pilot shook as if suddenly cold, but already the sun heated the back of his neck, the cloth on his arms. Yoshio thought how he looked more boyish than ever; only two days on Niihau and already he had unknowingly molted. His wet flight suit clung to a thin frame, and his skin, rosied from the sun and now clean, had lost any of the fierceness that dried blood and dirt may have given it. Yoshio wanted to steer as clear of the pilot as possible until Irene was present, but at this moment he looked so harmless, he decided it would not hurt to find out a little more now.

  He nodded at the boy, who waded toward him and then stopped and turned wordlessly to face the ocean. For a while they both watched Howard swim. Then Yoshio cleared his throat.