East Wind, Rain

by Caroline Paul

  Now, in the small ranch store, Ella knew that Mabel would not put her bauble back. They all understood its power, how everyone had quickly looked away from the bright red Christmas ornament to the shiny glow in her hand. Ella imagined that Mabel had polished it carefully and had soon been able to see, when she peered in close, a small, distorted reflection of herself in its face. The blue sky became a line of azure, the white of her house behind her a halo around her head. It took in the world, like a divine hole that only special people stepped into. No, Mabel would keep this on her shelf in the firm belief that it would protect her and her family against bad luck and the jealous stares of her neighbors.

  -Anyway, said Hannah, happy to divert the conversation from the plane, which seemed to arouse high emotions in her neighbors and even, she disliked admitting, in herself. My husband has gone to signal tonight. To Mr. Robinson. Everyone’s so nervous that he’s late like this.

  -What? Irene took a step back, alarmed.

  -Oh, Mrs. Harada, it’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just so strange that he hasn’t come, or sent the boatman with a message. So we signal to the Old Lord’s Kauai ranch from the mountain. Emergency lights.

  Irene’s hand flew to her mouth.

  -Something wrong, Mrs. Harada? asked Mabel. The Old Lord should know he’s needed here. The last time we used them was when the sickness came. He was here by the next day.

  -It’s just that…She blinked rapidly and hesitated.

  -Yes, Mrs. Harada? Hannah looked at her as if worried she might faint.

  -I just, you see, didn’t think it had come to this, lighting emergency signals. She laughed in a stuttered, high-pitched way. Isn’t that a bit much, for a mere boy who had the misfortune to crash his plane?

  You’re signaling the Japanese, she wanted to say. Shake each by the shoulder, and tell them the truth. Cry out for their help and forgiveness, at once.

  -But, Mrs. Harada, we’d like to get the visitor off the island, said Mabel. He’s not supposed to be here, you know. But we want Mr. Robinson to handle it.

  -Of course, said Irene. No, she thought. NO.

  The four women looked away from one another. Hannah coughed once, Mabel noisily pushed the bright ornament from the plane back into her mu‘umu‘u.

  -I’m a good Christian, and don’t you think otherwise, Ella finally barked. She sniffed and held her head up. Only that plane would make me think of spirits. The good Lord’s telling us something, that we should get rid of it as soon as we can, so that this island can go back to normal again. Mr. Kanahele hasn’t been able to look after the cattle all afternoon because of this pilot. And, Mabel, I know your husband has been at the boat dock for three days now. The sooner Mr. Robinson comes, the better. Now, it’s cooling down out there, so let’s take the cart back. Thank you, Mrs. Harada.

  Ella nodded at Irene and gathered her ornaments carefully. The other two women followed her out. Once on the pathway, Ella, feeling sheepish about her bad temper, turned to wave to Irene, but she was not in sight. There were only her ornaments, glinting, colorful, in unnoticed disarray on the counter.

  19

  On the late afternoon of Wednesday, December 10, Howard had consented to the emergency signal. He had also agreed, reluctantly, to return to the village for a large meal and a restful sleep. And when Yoshio told him that it would be best if the pilot stayed with his family and out of everyone else’s way, Howard agreed to that too.

  Nishikaichi entered the Haradas’ small, neat house and sat down on the simple handmade chair Yoshio nervously offered him.

  The Keo twins shuffled in the doorway. They were typical of Niihauan youth, solid boys with hair yellowed by the sun and faces dirtied by the dust. The twin on the left (Yoshio could not tell them apart) held the round kakalaioa seeds in one hand. Later, he would hear the murmurs of the kini kini marble game in progress near the store’s shed. Now he handed them long, twisted strips of salted pork, which they accepted with diffident smiles, stuffing them into their denim pockets to eat on the ground near the horses where, as guards, they had been told by Mr. Kaleohano to sleep.

  Yoshio sat down next to the pilot. They said nothing, just stared at their hands as Irene prepared their dinner.

  Irene put plates of poi and salted pork in front of them. On another plate lay pieces of fruit.

  -Eat, she said to the pilot softly, gesturing with the back of her hand in a scooting motion. She described the food carefully, practicing the language of her parents with each noun. Then she looked at him expectantly. He nodded.

  -Arigato. You remember your native tongue well.

  She bowed.

  -No. Only a little.

  Yoshio noticed that she blushed as she turned back to the food. He felt something in him suddenly thicken. Was he jealous? The pilot did look dashing, despite the fact that his skin was now burned a reddish brown and his hair stood churlishly on end, stiff with dust and salt. He was handsome, yes, but it was more than that. The uniform, for one. Even though it was blotted with dust and sweat, it was an impressive piece of clothing: hemmed and pocketed and riveted and seamed for every eventuality. He wanted to tear it suddenly from the pilot and put it on himself, as he had done with the hat. Instead, he anxiously wound his fingers together and watched his wife hover nearby. What should he say to the pilot? Was bargaining really the right thing to do? Once or twice he saw his wife glance at him, or perhaps at the pilot, he couldn’t tell.

  Irene gestured and walked to the front door.

  -Come with me for a moment, Yoshio.

  He hesitated and then followed her outside.

  -They’ve lit a signal, she whispered, though they spoke in English, which neither the pilot nor the Keo boys understood.

  I know, he said. It’s all right. If he’s still alive, he’ll come. If not, we’re no worse off than before.

  -But the Japanese! They will see the light and come to investigate! If they’re on Kauai like we think, they’ll be the ones the villagers are signaling to, not Mr. Robinson. Yoshio, can’t you see? We have so little time.

  -Well, then, we must tell our neighbors why he’s here. It’s no good trying to do all this ourselves.

  -Are you crazy? We’ll be blamed for everything! They’ll wonder why we didn’t speak up earlier!

  -Shh. Please. Look, we’ll tell them that the pilot didn’t say.

  -And you think they’ll believe us? Yoshio, I was at the store today and do you know what I smelled?

  -I don’t—

  -I smelled tobacco. It was as clear as if someone had blown it in my face. Well, not immediately. At first it was just like any other day, the women coming in and they loved my ornaments and that was so nice and I almost felt like telling them all about this, bringing them to our side, getting their help. It was hard to order those decorations without Mr. Robinson knowing, but I felt the women deserved them, that I could do this for the island. And they appreciated it and for a moment there was—well, I was happy. But then this smell. Sour. At first I thought it was that old bitterness of mine—here she laughed—leaking out into the air, but then I realized that it came from one of the women. It was in her hair. It was tobacco, Yoshio. Ella Kanahele smokes cigarettes!

  -It doesn’t matter, said Yoshio. I mean, it’s just tobacco. Howard smokes like an imu. All day, all night. I know women don’t usually, but…He shrugged.

  -You don’t understand, Yoshio. Would you ever have thought she smoked? An old lady like that? Of course not. And what else don’t we know? Perhaps the islanders don’t like us as you think. Perhaps the second they hear that Pearl Harbor has been bombed by the Japanese, they’ll blame us too, and then where will we be? Unable to save ourselves, and then the Japanese come and we don’t belong to them either. We’re shot with the rest of the villagers and the pilot goes free.

  Yoshio turned away.

  -All this because of a cigarette? He tried to keep his voice low, so that he found he was hissing. We’ve been here two years and when can you think of
a single instance where we’ve been openly wronged? You’re being hysterical, kachan, I mean it.

  -Am I? Or am I the only one here who can make a decision?

  With that she walked back into the house, past the pilot and into the back room where Taeko napped.

  Yoshio sat back down at the kitchen table and tried to appear unflustered. Perhaps his wife was right. It was time to make a decision.

  -I should wash your flight suit, he said. The pilot looked up from his food.

  -It smells? the pilot asked. It was half a question and half an apology.

  -After a while, everything here smells.

  -They didn’t tell us about this heat.

  -I will bring you some of my clothes. They’ll be big, but all right.

  -I don’t think so.

  -If you’re asking us to trust you, you should at least trust us.

  -It’s not that. It’s—He pushed his plate to one side. Okay then, he said.

  Yoshio told Irene to fetch clean clothes, and though she refused to meet his eyes, she did not hesitate to return to their room to rummage among his things as he’d asked. He ignored his need to apologize or touch her shoulder, and instead decided that he would walk to the apiary while the young pilot dressed. There was no pressing need to visit the bees; nectar gathering was over, honey no longer available. The hive was hunkered down for the winter. But Yoshio still liked to hover nearby, doing nothing much really, but feeling his inchoate part in the whole. After a while, feeling calmer, he returned to the house the long way, walking past the pasture with the six Arabian horses Mr. Robinson so loved and entrusted to his care, past the honey shed. When he got to the house, he peered into the window.

  Nishikaichi looked younger than ever, the too-big shirt and the pants, though cinched with a belt, perched just above his flat buttocks. He stood on the far side of the room. Yoshio watched as he raised his hands in front of his face and held them there, palms inward. Then he lifted them and began to pat his hair flat. This last gesture was so awkward, so boyish, that Yoshio turned away as if he had mistakenly interrupted him at an intimate moment of pure nakedness. When he looked back in again, the pilot was at the table, sitting quietly, his hands in his lap. He thought for a moment that this was a ruse; surely the pilot would prowl around the house in these spare moments, picking up small carvings, opening the few drawers. Yoshio watched him for a few more moments, feeling powerful and ashamed simultaneously, then walked quickly to the porch. There, to his surprise, was Irene, Taeko asleep in her arms.

  Yoshio didn’t want to startle his wife; she looked so relaxed, leaning against the balustrade, perhaps asleep. Now her eyes fluttered open. For a second she looked almost beatific, then he saw a wisp of disappointment slide across her features. He couldn’t say why he knew this, exactly what her eyes or mouth did to signal this, but his own heart sank. The next thing he said came out of his mouth in a whispered rush, as if he could blow the look off her face with the wind of his words.

  -We’ll help, kachan. It’s the right thing to do for everyone. It’s the only way to keep peace on the island. He’s just a boy, but there are his fellow soldiers to think about. We’ll destroy his papers and plane and figure it out from there.

  And her features transformed then, and he saw her dark eyes widen and her small triangular face lift and open with relief and joy and something unknowable. He felt better then, better than he had in a long time, and when he walked back into the house he buried his dread with a quick nod of his head.

  -Nishikaichi-san, he said. We must talk now.

  20

  The Burns Airfield sentry burst into the wooden barracks where First Lieutenant Jack Mizuha stabbed at a typewriter. It was an old typewriter and a bad one; the k didn’t work well, an especially unfortunate happenstance for an air base in Hawaii, where the names of so many streets and towns started with that letter. The young private saluted hurriedly, then dropped a bundle of papers on Mizuha’s desk. He left quickly, swinging his arms like an over-wound top. Everyone on Kauai was in motion—digging trenches, marching around bridges, waving in the newest cargo planes sent from the mainland. Still, no reason to behave sloppily, thought Mizuha. He was in a nervous mood himself. He blamed the typewriter, with its ornery keys.

  The office was crowded with two desks, two chairs, and a surplus of file cabinets pushed together so that they only opened when their neighbors were nudged away. There was a conspicuous lack of shiny medallions or framed diplomas on the walls, though someone had hastily tacked a poster of a large-breasted white woman half dressed in sailor wear, which upon closer inspection of the edges had been torn recently from another location, most likely from the wall of a drinking establishment. But the disarray was hard to see in the dim light; windows were taped tightly according to the strict blackout rules even though it was daytime, so that Mizuha squinted over a small, weak lamp that made the dust motes in the air shine but little else. Mizuha’s other office, the spacious one that until only recently had contained pictures of the Mizuha family smiling from a bright green background courtesy of Waimea’s Family Photography Shop, with framed diplomas and pictures of airplanes on the walls, and his habitually neat stack of papers on the left side of his desk, was now occupied by a white man who had only a few days ago been of lower rank. Mizuha, an American citizen, had been the commander at Burns Airfield. But he was of Japanese descent, which meant his demotion had been swift and efficient. He was now an executive officer in a makeshift office.

  He’d never met Aylmer Robinson, but everyone on Kauai knew Makeweli. It was the biggest ranch on the island. He’d heard Robinson was an eccentric man, devout, a loner, unmarried, perhaps even celibate. Despite the interesting fact that there were distress signals coming from Robinson’s island of Niihau, Mizuha stopped reading the report the sentry had unceremoniously dumped on his desk before he was even halfway down the page. There was no point in continuing; boats were not allowed on the water, and that was that. It was understandable that Mr. Robinson was concerned, but he would have to wait. As powerful as he was, the military was now more powerful.

  Robinson did not know what to make of the flashes of light he saw from across the channel. He cursed himself for not using pigeons to communicate, as his brother Lester had suggested a few years before. Things could happen, Lester had insisted, but Aylmer couldn’t imagine what. Besides, Lester was not interested in Niihau; it was an affront to his acute business sense. Ranching that arid island lost money, lots of it. So he preferred to let Aylmer run its day-to-day affairs, though he was peculiarly insistent on this matter of carrier pigeons. Aylmer had scoffed. Niihauans had been living without that kind of speedy communication for centuries. He’d refused his brother, pointing out that one just never knew what disease the birds would bring on their feet and feathers. When Lester had looked unconvinced—many birds traveled to Niihau from other places, he argued—Aylmer had pressed; there was something spooky about messages dispatched by winged creatures—it brought to mind the devil’s hand. Furthermore, he added, it would just lead to frivolous contact with the outside world, messages to family members or friends on other islands. Besides, the Niihauans were mostly illiterate. Their schooling on the island didn’t go past fourth grade, if that. Education, in Aylmer’s mind, was for certain people, with certain temperaments. He was a Harvard man himself, and he knew that knowledge brought a responsibility for which some people did not have the constitution. This was not prejudice, just good sense. On Niihau, being under-educated meant that the people remained incurious about the world, and so protected from it, in Aylmer’s view. He was plain about this, and told everyone who asked with a defiant lift of his narrow chin, and even a quote from the Bible, whatever applied, a shepherd and sheep allegory, or something about the meek ultimately inheriting the earth. But he was not so eager to discuss the other obvious benefit, that a flimsy education ensured a ready workforce: by the age of sixteen, the boys were suited only to be ranch hands, the girls suited only to marry them,
making shell leis and keeping a good Christian house along the way. No, there was no need for reading and writing. He sometimes rued his own education, which had foisted such responsibilities on him. He knew the evils of the world. No one protected him from its temptations.

  Now he walked from the air base, past men in stiffly pressed uniforms with blank expressions and unnatural postures, and the incessant noise of planes landing and taking off, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. The brothers had ultimately compromised, deciding on a signal system using lanterns and reflectors. But now there was no way to know what the problem was. The Niihauans would learn to write a little more, he vowed, and they’d go to the carrier pigeon idea, once things had returned to normal.

  Back at the Makeweli Ranch, he sent for his dinner. It was early yet, but he would go to the beach once the sun had set. He wanted to see the lights again. Perhaps if he stared long enough, he could discern their meaning. He sat at his wooden kitchen table—there was a grand dining room, but that was used only for entertaining, which, as he hit his fifties, was something he liked less and less—and stared out the picture windows. The sinking sensation in his stomach had not been hunger, he realized, but fear.

  He cut his meat slowly and ate without relish. Again he glanced outside. The clouds rosied at the edges. They lost their billowed look, fanning out as the afternoon wind and heat lessened. He asked his manservant, a small, quiet Hawaiian who liked, inexplicably, to salute, to fetch Mr. Shanagan.

  A rock wall surrounded the back area of the house and what had once been Great-grandmother Sinclair’s beloved garden. It had been carefully planted with her own hand but was now, Robinson noted, tended by strangers. There was a fountain she would not recognize and flowers imported from the mainland whose names she could not have pronounced. And it wasn’t just the garden; the idea of two Great Wars only thirty years apart would have stymied her. She’d befriended the Maoris in New Zealand and the Hawaiians here; she would see no reason why the great governments couldn’t get along as the Lord commanded.