East Wind, Rain

by Caroline Paul

  Yoshio coughed, stretched slowly, and leaned back in his chair.

  -Tomorrow we see Mr. Shintani, he said. It’s all arranged.

  Irene glanced at him, alarmed.

  -Do you think that’s a good idea? He’s been on Niihau long enough to be one of them, not one of us.

  -There is no them or us, said Yoshio abruptly. Anyway, Old Shintani is well respected by Mr. Robinson for his beekeeping. Howard will not want to defy him.

  -But why involve someone else? asked Irene.

  -Shintani understood every word the pilot told him that day. So he’s already involved. And I’m sure he understands the peculiar situation of being Japanese at this time—clearly he hasn’t told anybody, not even his wife, that there’s a war on. And Howard is much more likely to take him seriously—he’s an elder and he’s been on the island for so long.

  He looked at Irene with what he was sure was his most confident face. He wanted to see in her eyes what he had seen the evening before, when he’d agreed to make a plan with the pilot. But it wasn’t there. Outside, the heated air settled into evening. A horse brayed. The lights on Mount Paniau were again being shone. He wondered what it would be like to see the silver flash of a propeller in front of him, hear the roar of an engine ready to do his bidding. To the stars, he thought.

  At seven o’clock on Friday morning, Yoshio and Nishikaichi met with Old Shintani in his apiary. Outside in the shade, the new guards—large Hanaiki Niau and Ben’s nephew Joe Kanahele—were bored. Joe decided to go fishing. Hanaiki shrugged and closed his eyes.

  Inside the apiary Shintani spoke in rapid Japanese.

  -Nothing I can do. Don’t know where the papers are, or how to get them. Now leave me alone to do my work, eh?

  He kneaded his large-knuckled hands and turned away. His cheeks sagged, his chin was square, his graying hair was cut short by an inexpert hand, possibly his own. His mouth turned downward of its own accord, as if by gravity; his neck was thin. His skin was burned into a deep brown and he had deep lines in his forehead. He held himself slightly forward, as if pushing against a wind, and from the side, with his jutting neck, he looked like a small, angry goose.

  -Go ask Howard, urged Yoshio, putting a large hand on the old man’s shoulders. Look, what will we tell the Japanese navy when they land? That you refused to help your country?

  -Niihau is my country.

  Yoshio blinked. He was at a loss for a moment.

  -It is for the good of the whole island that we do this. Niihauans don’t understand war, or Japan. They’re waiting for Robinson to come. But Kauai’s been taken.

  -Taken? Shintani jerked his head from one man to the other, his skin graying, his mouth, thought Nishikaichi, working like a fish’s.

  Yoshio nodded.

  -And there’s little time to save our families, Mr. Shintani. The Niihauans too. You must cooperate with Airman Nishikaichi.

  Nishikaichi suddenly stepped forward.

  -The emperor demands it of you, Shintani-san.

  Shintani raised his eyes. He looked at Nishikaichi full in the face.

  -The young are more impudent than I remember, he said.

  -Our Divine Emperor, the Son in Heaven, Nishikaichi murmured, but he could not hold the old man’s stare.

  -My obligations are to my family, Shintani said finally. He frowned.

  -Forgive me, Shintani-san, said Nishikaichi, bowing now. It’s just that—

  -Big pilikia for everyone if we don’t cooperate with the Japanese navy, Yoshio interrupted. Time you did your part.

  Shintani stiffened.

  -You would tell them that I did not cooperate, Mr. Harada? he said.

  -It won’t be up to me. What can I do against a group of soldiers? Yoshio cried.

  -And why, Mr. Harada, don’t you talk to Howard? Shintani stared at him, half beseeching, half furious. Leave me out of this.

  Yoshio hesitated. He knew that Shintani was not a perfect choice; he had not shown any interest in being anything but far away from the pilot and the situation. He was married to a Niihauan—he was Niihauan in many ways. But at his core he was Japanese—not even an American citizen, like Yoshio and Irene—and he would see that in the end he had little choice. But Yoshio also knew that in his heart of hearts he was picking Shintani to do this one last thing for another reason: Yoshio was not sure he could himself ask for the papers without trembling just a little. As much as he believed that he was doing what was best for the island, he would not be able to lie to Howard Kaleohano. He was, finally, too weak to look into his neighbor’s eyes and deceive him without a blink.

  Nishikaichi looked from one man to the other, beginning to regret this course of action. The old man looked so frightened. Yoshio had become uncommonly agitated, as if he had convinced himself of something that even Nishikaichi did not know. The island itself had just yesterday seemed so beautiful, so lyrical, and yet now it was back to the dirty business of the war. Nishikaichi felt suddenly tired, as if he had just spent hours flying his plane through the dark, staring at both the dimly lit instruments and the black funnel of night in front of him. Flying like that, by compass, was exhausting. Your senses played tricks on you, your body lied. Your mind whispered that the plane was in a turn when the instruments plainly indicated it was not; your eyes were sure that the nose was pitched too far upward when there was only blackness and not a reference to be found. Finally you might see the tossing lights of the waiting ship, but they blended with the stars so that you were sure until the last minute that you would land somewhere on the moon, not on the deck of an aircraft carrier. It was a fight not to disorient yourself right into the water. As Shintani whipped his head back and forth, telling Yoshio something in Hawaiian, Nishikaichi fought the urge to sit down and lean against one of these bee crates and forget all of this. He wanted only to think about the fishmonger’s daughter, perhaps take a swim in the warm, comforting ocean.

  -Don’t anger the navy, Shintani-san, Nishikaichi suddenly barked. Let’s get on with this or there’s no saying what will happen to you both. He stared at them as fiercely as he could. He fought the need to close his eyes and sleep. Get my papers. Meet us back at the house of Harada-san. Nishikaichi shook his fist. To punctuate his outburst he started to stalk out of the bee house, until he realized that there were guards outside. No matter how lax they were, he was still a prisoner.

  -Harada-san, he said with a lowered voice, but his nostrils still flared. Let’s go.

  Howard was taking a lunchtime nap and Mabel was at Ella’s, so Shintani had to pound vigorously on the door before it was answered. Old Shintani was not one for visits, so Howard was surprised to see him, but not so much that he didn’t launch into a long explanation of the dream he’d been having before Shintani woke him up.

  -The papers, interrupted Shintani. You have?

  Howard blinked at him.

  -Of course.

  The papers were no secret; they were shown off the first night to the crowd of onlookers, and since then, to individuals like his wife, Mabel (numerous times), and Ben (twice). Nishikaichi had continued to ask for these papers, which Howard had made proudly clear were hidden away—which meant they were under his mattress. The pilot’s insistent badgering had gradually become more and more annoying. The polite Niihauans had not said so to their guest, however, but endured them with a smile and a look of pleasant incomprehension.

  What the papers showed were maps of Oahu and the approach for fighter planes through the pass. There were also rows of radio channels and some sketches of American warships. But Howard had been to Oahu only once, by steamer; his view of the island had been horizontal and three-dimensional, not the two-dimensional bird’s-eye view that the Japanese pilots needed. He remembered the long, low coastline, behind which rose startlingly green mountains, and two large hotels, one pink, one white. To the far right jutted the high cliffs of Diamond Head, an old volcano that from the boat had looked like one long, rocky beard, well-groomed and flowing into the sea. Ther
e was nothing on these papers that resembled this. Instead Howard assumed that the papers detailed Japan, and told everyone so with an authority they didn’t question. But now he had to face what had become evident early on, when he’d looked closer at the sketches of large warships on subsequent pages. The map was of the United States, perhaps even of Kauai or Niihau. Whatever it was, it had something ominous to do with the Hawaiian Islands.

  The plane, the papers, the gun. Howard had at first refused to worry, thinking that the Old Lord would arrive soon enough to handle it. But he hadn’t arrived, and now, on this fifth day after the Old Lord was due, Howard decided that a little worrying might be good. Already he knew that others were going to heiaus to pray to gods other than Jesus, that faith was being lost in Mr. Robinson himself.

  Well, now that the beekeeper Shintani was here, maybe he’d get some more answers, thought Howard. He walked into his bedroom and pulled the sheaf from under his mattress. He returned to Shintani, who was gulping and shifting from foot to foot in the doorway. Howard waved the papers; Shintani wiped his hands on his shirt and then reached forward, in a move half hopeful, half hesitant. But Howard spread the papers out on the kitchen table without noticing that Shintani kept his open hand in front of him, his fingers wiggling.

  -What do you make of this, Mr. Shintani? It’s a map of something, perhaps Kauai, and here, pictures of ships. He tapped the Japanese letters. Maybe you can recognize these, tell me what they mean.

  -I don’t read, Mr. Kaleohano, Shintani said, but let me get them to Mr. Harada, who can.

  -Tell Mr. Harada to come here, said Howard.

  -No, no, give them now, Shintani stuttered, and began to rake the papers into a pile.

  -Whoa, old man, Howard said, grabbing Shintani’s arm.

  -Big pilikia if you don’t give them to me, Shintani cried. For the good of Niihau! And Jesus Christ! he added for good measure, as if this final appeal would make the most sense to a man like Howard.

  Howard pushed him away roughly. Weeping, Shintani grabbed for his sleeves.

  -You must! The papers!

  -No! yelled Howard, turning his back to gather the maps and sketches. A keening sound came from Shintani, and the sound of something falling onto the ground, the chair, Howard thought without turning.

  -The Japanese navy will kill us all, Shintani moaned as he backed out of the house. Howard swept wildly at the pages and didn’t look back around until they had all been stuffed roughly into his pockets for safety. When he was done, he turned to see the chair on the floor, Shintani gone. For a moment Howard stayed still, letting his heart relax its frantic beating. All the unease, the finger-light but unremitting anxiety he’d felt all week now thrummed in his ears and made his hands shake. The Japanese navy will kill us all? Things were starting to look frighteningly clear, and the war that he had managed to put in the back of his mind pushed forward again. Things were wrong, he couldn’t avoid it anymore. And it would do no good to wait any longer for Robinson. The Niihauans would have to take this into their own hands now.

  24

  Yoshio laid the double-barreled shotgun on the table and stared at it grimly. It had a thin gossamer of dust on it and an unnatural heft, but perhaps that was only because he had not handled a weapon in so long. The gun had been his idea, but the sight of it made him reconsider. Years ago, under orders from Aylmer Robinson’s father, all the wild goats—offspring of those first goats brought by Captain Cook—had been slaughtered with this gun. Otherwise guns were prohibited on Niihau; this one had been pushed to the back of a shed, almost forgotten.

  He glanced at Nishikaichi, then back at the gun.

  -Well, he said. Here it is. He nodded at the butt, as if it was invisible without his direction.

  -Does it shoot? Nishikaichi frowned.

  -It doesn’t need to shoot, said Yoshio. It’s just for scaring, right? To get Howard to cough up your papers.

  The pilot picked the weapon up and blew at the hammer. He put it on his shoulder and squinted down the barrels. He wanted to fire a test shot but knew that this was out of the question.

  -We can’t be sure it works, he said.

  -But that doesn’t matter, insisted Yoshio. No shooting, remember?

  The pilot averted his eyes from the gun and stared at Yoshio. He flickered them back and swung the barrels sideways, taking aim at someplace near the wall. Then, with a sudden movement, the shotgun was off his shoulder and broken open, the cartridges exposed in their chambers.

  -Right, Nishikaichi said offhandedly. At least it’s loaded.

  He would have to hope that it worked.

  -If it’s loaded perhaps I should carry it. Yoshio shifted and held out one hand. I don’t want you getting too aggressive.

  -You want to carry a gun? Nishikaichi smiled. Okay, then.

  He put a hand on Yoshio’s shoulder amiably.

  Yoshio frowned. He looked at the gun and back at the pilot.

  -All right, all right. I don’t like guns, okay? You take it, but no shooting.

  Nishikaichi nodded. Yoshio watched as he laid the gun back on the table and walked to the window, staring out with a grim set to his mouth. Yoshio knew that, from under downcast lids, Irene also watched the pilot. With surprise he realized that he truly no longer minded. It would just take Irene a little while to see that her husband was a different man than a week ago; he was stronger, more decisive, a man of action, like the soldier she stared at. Idly he wondered what the pilot was thinking about. Perhaps he imagined his beloved emperor, or the orders he was finally about to carry out, and how soon he would be free. Perhaps he had a girl at home whom he was pledged to marry. Perhaps he thought of what life would be like here in the United States, under Japanese control. Would he stay? Would he settle here, in Hawaii?

  Nishikaichi thought of surfing.

  He wanted to fly across the water just one more time. But the gun was on the table. Mrs. Harada stood near the radio, her triangular face flushed and somber, the child at her feet. Harada-san was looking at him with a worried expression tinged with surprise, as if he had just stepped off the shallow sand into a deep part of the ocean and could not remember at the last moment whether he could swim. Looking at their faces, he suddenly saw his parents. They sat on the floor, saying not a word. The sun dappled their knees, and once or twice his mother looked up at his father, and perhaps she smiled. Is this how they would look after they got the news that their son had died for their country?

  Nishikaichi turned slowly. He felt suddenly that Irene and Yoshio were waiting for him to say something important, something that a brave commander would say to his troops before a battle. But he was not a commander, and he never would be. He was a soldier, born to carry out his duty by giving the only thing he really had to give, which was his life. The speech given to him and his fellow pilots on the aircraft carrier Hiryu had been all about that: how they were sure to die, and how honorable that would be, how the waves that would cover the bones of their corpses would always be lifted and formed by winds from their beloved Japan. It had been a stirring speech, and buoyed by it Nishikaichi had felt elated to be in the air in his Zero, with little chance of surviving the Pearl Harbor attack.

  Nishikaichi cleared his throat.

  -May the wind, he began. The wind on the waves…

  Irene looked at him, puzzled. Yoshio straightened his shoulders, his eyes bright, his face still. Nishikaichi frowned. The words did not have the spirited ring he had heard on the carrier. They seemed flat and meaningless.

  -We will remember that the grass, Nishikaichi started again, realizing that if they were to die, it would probably be on Niihau’s hard red soil and not in the ocean. That grass that will grow from the nutrient of our corpses…

  Irene’s eyes widened and Yoshio paled. Nishikaichi did not seem to notice.

  -That grass will sway, always in a wind. It will be nourished by our honor and humility. It will sway always—he raised his voice now, straining for a grand finale—in a wind tha
t blows from Japan!

  Then he lifted both arms awkwardly in what he hoped was triumph and inspiration, but Irene gave a small cry and turned away. Yoshio pulled his hand abruptly from where it rested on the table and the shotgun.

  -This isn’t about death, Airman Nishikaichi, Yoshio whispered. That’s exactly what we want to avoid. Isn’t that the point of all this, to avoid bloodshed?

  Nishikaichi blinked. An honorable death was his own wish, but an Americanized Japanese couple would never understand this. He looked from the man to the woman in front of him, and then to their little girl on the floor. He should not be too harsh about their weakness—hadn’t he avoided death for the love of the fishmonger’s daughter?

  -Harada-san, he said, bowing slightly. It’s a metaphor. An ancient Japanese metaphor. Nothing to worry about.

  He felt heavy suddenly, weighed down by the inevitability of the coming hours. He would die by his own hand, once the plane and papers were taken care of. But he would make sure that Yoshio was safe and sound. That would be his final giri, his obligation to the older, more timid man.

  -We go now, Nishikaichi said, smiling slowly. Afterward, when our mission is complete, and the island is safe…

  He shrugged.

  -Then we will surf.

  At four-thirty that Friday afternoon, Yoshio tried to dismiss Hanaiki Niau, but the man just smiled and said Howard had told him to stay, it was no trouble. Yoshio retreated to the house and became agitated, until Irene suggested a second way out. Later, he asked Hanaiki to escort Nishikaichi to the outhouse with him. Hanaiki obliged, but halfway down the path, Yoshio cocked his head toward the honey shed.

  -We stop for a moment? Yoshio asked Hanaiki, who nodded amiably.

  The three men traipsed to the shed.

  When they stepped inside, Hanaiki did not notice that the pilot had blocked the doorway they’d entered, or that he had pulled the shotgun from behind a door, just where Irene said she had put it the hour before. Hanaiki allowed himself to be marched to the back of the honey shed, but not without turning back once or twice to look at Mr. Harada, just to ascertain that the whole thing wasn’t a joke.