Mr. Matsu is there to meet her, as she knew he would be. This as much his idea, his passion, as it is hers. Certainly much more personal. She hands him the bag and leaves quickly. It is not unusual for him sometimes to be there late at night, but for her it is. On the way past the small shack where Mr. Oyama paints the urns, she ties a single green ribbon around the door handle and goes back to her room.
She feels nearly as alive as she did on those nights when she swam, the nights when she left the soap for the children. She goes over to Mrs. Matsu’s futon and touches her on the left shoulder, where she knows she still has some feeling, tells her it is okay, that it is done.
The next day at work is long, longer because of the waiting, the wondering if it all worked out okay. When the clinic closes, she hurries across and down to where the gardens are, where Mr. Shirayama has his little work shed. She turns over the wheelbarrow, leaves it upright, picks up the small cloth sack with the urn in it. On her way up to Building A-7, she hides the sack among several large rocks. This evening, it is quite easy finding the woman—Mrs. Wakano—for she saw the nurse holding the chart yesterday morning before the procedure. Saw the name, even the building number. All she has to do is go there and ask for her.
A-7 is no different from A-10, where she lives, or any of the other dozens of buildings for the patients. She enters the building and takes a deep breath. This is the most difficult part for her.
“Where can I find Mrs. Wakano?” she asks the first person she sees.
“Straight down the hall, the second wing on the right.”
“Thank you.”
She goes to where the woman told her and immediately picks out Mrs. Wakano from the other patients in the room.
“Mrs. Wakano?”
She wonders if the woman recognizes her from the day before but imagines not, for she had on her mask.
“Yes.”
“I’m Miss Fuji from A-10. May I speak with you for a minute?”
“Yes.”
She stands there, hating this moment when fear rushes over the patient’s face. With some of them, the look disappears as quickly as it came; with others, it sits there heavily, impossible to move. She waits a few seconds before realizing that Mrs. Wakano thinks that she meant in the room, not in private.
“I’m sorry, but outside, if it’s not too much trouble.”
They walk down the hall, saying nothing. She wants to talk to her, reassure her that everything is okay, but she knows that she mustn’t say anything in order to protect both of them. When outside, Mrs. Wakano speaks first.
“What is it you want?” Her voice is guarded.
“I’m here to help, Mrs. Wakano. I was in the clinic yesterday.”
They continue on without talking, passing a cluster of patients.
“I have been assigned to Clinic B for the past few years and—”
“I know who you are, Miss Fuji. I remember you were the one swimming at night. It’s okay.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wakano.” She feels uncomfortable that instead of she consoling Mrs. Wakano, Mrs. Wakano is consoling her. This isn’t the first time that this has happened, but she hasn’t gotten used to it, may never get used to it. They walk up the small path and she removes the cloth sack from behind the rocks.
“This is for you. I know it isn’t much, but it is all we can do.”
Mrs. Wakano opens the sack, pulls out the blank white urn. She says nothing.
“I can’t keep it.”
“If you don’t want the ashes, we understand. Some people have scattered them in the sea, others around here; some don’t want them at all.”
“No, I want them, for both my husband and me, but it’s too much of a risk. I don’t want any more problems, Miss Fuji.”
“We know. We have started a shrine over there on that small island. Tomorrow night, there will be low tide at about eleven-thirty. We can cross over, and then you can go there with your husband anytime and visit.”
Mrs. Wakano closes the cloth sack, hands it back to her.
“Thank you, Miss Fuji. I will meet you back here tomorrow night at eleven-thirty.”
She crosses over to Key of the Hand Island with Mr. Shirayama and Mrs. and Mr. Wakano. The late-May night is cool, the first night of the quarter moon; each of them has a small kerosene lantern to help them cross. When they climb the ninety-five steps and arrive at the top, she unlocks the small shrine that they have built while Mr. Shirayama holds her lantern. Mrs. Wakano grips the sack while her husband pulls the urn from it. They step to the shrine and place it inside, where the other sixteen same blank white urns rest. They light a stick of incense and a candle, then say a prayer. She and Mr. Shirayama pick up their lanterns and leave Mrs. and Mr. Wakano alone, telling them only that they must go back across the path before one o’clock, when the tide will close for at least another twelve hours.
ARTIFACT Number 0735
A Nagashima wedding certificate
“Miss Fuji, I have to ask a big favor of you,” says Miss Min one night while receiving her massage.
“If I can help, I will try. What is it?”
“I shouldn’t be asking you to do something like this.”
“What is it, Miss Min?”
“It’s embarrassing to ask.”
“Please, just ask me.”
“I want to get married and I need your help.”
Her hands stop where they are, on Miss Min’s lower back. “I’m sorry, Miss Fuji, I knew that I shouldn’t have put you in this position.”
She smiles and her hands get moving again.
“I would be glad to try to help you. I’m just shocked that anyone would ask me to do such a thing.”
“It’s Mr. Munakani.”
“The one with leprosy?”
Miss Min, stunned, looks back at her. And they look at each other for quite a while before they both start laughing. They laugh and laugh, so loudly that others passing by can hear. She takes her hands from Miss Min’s back to wipe away the tears, using her sleeves to avoid the ointment on her hands. Then, after a calm in the laughing, they both start up again, and more tears run down Miss Fuji’s cheeks. This keeps up until she finally sees Miss Min through a watery blur, and she realizes that there are no tears in Miss Min’s eyes, or on her cheeks, or on the futon.
Where do all those tears go? she asks herself.
“I would be glad to help you, Miss Min,” she says once again, removing the towel from her back and helping her on with her cotton robe, which she sleeps in.
“Thank you, Miss Fuji.”
“It’s okay.”
“No. Thank you for the laughter.”
“You, too, Miss Min. Good night.”
“Good night, Miss Fuji.”
She closes the door, arrives at her building, feeling alone. When did the tears of laughter turn to such a river of sadness? She knows that tonight will be one of little sleep.
The following week, she goes to see Mr. Munakani. Miss Min and Mr. Munakani have known each other for quite a while. He is a former naval officer and has an interest in Korea, often talking to Miss Min and a few other of the Koreans about their country. She often feels a sadness when around Mr. Munakani because he still has enough of himself left from before the disease for her to see what he once was. Still hints of broad shoulders, strong hands, a tough, square face, large eyes. With some of the patients, it takes some imagination for her to re-create them, and some she can’t do at all, but with Mr. Munakani, it is easy.
She feels uncomfortable with this position of go-between, not sure about how to bring up the subject. The past few nights, she has gone over and over possible ways of approaching it:
Miss Min would like to marry you.
What do you think about marrying Miss Min?
I know someone who would like to marry you.
All seemed too direct, childish. She wanted to go and ask someone for advice but thought this would be wrong. She knows nothing of this task of go-between, nothing of the
formalities.
They sit drinking barley tea, sharing small talk and rice crackers. Then it is out there.
“Miss Min would like to marry you, Mr. Munakani.”
It shocks and relieves her at the same time. The longer Mr. Munakani doesn’t say a word, the more difficult, awkward it is. She wonders what she did wrong. Was there something she skipped?
“I can’t, Miss Fuji. I can’t ever allow myself to marry.”
“She’s a wonderful person.”
“That she is. But it’s not Miss Min I object to. It’s not that at all.”
She sits there, not sure where to go next, so she allows Mr. Munakani to speak when he is ready. She wishes she had more barley tea to drink.
“It is the rules of this place that stand in the way.”
“Rules? You are allowed to marry, Mr. Munakani.”
“Yes, I know. But if I get married, I must agree to sterilization. And that, Miss Fuji, I can’t do. Not even for Miss Min, who, as you say, is a wonderful woman. They may take everything else from me, but this is one thing, at least for now, that I have control over.”
She thinks of how she will tell Miss Min. But what is there to say?
“At the clinic I’ve heard the doctors tell patients that in a couple of years after the sterilization, they can be desterilized.”
“You believe too much of what they say, Miss Fuji.”
She holds the teacup in her hand, stares into its emptiness, a few granules of brown tea at the bottom.
“Who has ever heard of such a place? A place without the playing and laughter of children.”
She says nothing, again waits for him to continue if he wants.
ARTIFACT Number 1059
A medical release form
“Of course you can leave, Miss Fuji,” Administrator Kaneko says.
She stands there before his desk, stunned at the words. Even more startling to her than the fact that she is even standing there. Something she went and did, no real plan, just walked right in and asked to speak to him. Is it possible that if she had asked five, ten years ago that the answer would have been the same? She wasn’t prepared in any way for these words, so matter-of-fact. He digs through a filing cabinet and pulls out a thin yellow folder, tosses it on the desk while shutting the cabinet drawer with his other hand. He opens a folder, pulls out a paper, turns it so she can read it.
“We have patients go over to Honshu almost every day. However, in order for release, permanent release, Miss Fuji, there are a couple of rules that must be followed. First, you must be free of the disease for twelve months. So, of course, that means the earliest you could get your release, if your test proves you are free of the disease, would be around this time next year. Secondly, you must have a job secured before you are given your release.”
“A job?”
“Yes. We can’t have you thrown out there without a way to support yourself. We don’t want you to be dependent on others, troublesome.”
“How can I get a job?”
“Now, I didn’t say it was easy to do this. There are many other hurdles to overcome, Miss Fuji. You have to live near a sanatorium so that you can get your medicine each day.”
“Can I go back to my diving?”
“Sure, if you return each day and get your medicine.”
She thinks of the rowboat that brought her here. Impossible to return each day.
“Can’t I be given a month of doses at a time? Or go to a clinic?”
“We can’t do that. The laws don’t allow the distribution of the medicine other than single doses. Thus far, there have been no medical establishments set up to distribute medicine in the communities.”
She pulls her eyes away from the paper sitting on the desk in front of her. The walls are blank except for a couple of medical certificates. She gives Administrator Kaneko a quick bow and turns to leave.
“But Miss Fuji, don’t you want to take one of these release forms with you?”
“No thank you. I’ll come back and get one at a later date.”
Again, she gives a quick bow before opening the door and leaving the room.
ARTIFACT Number 1012
From the bookshelves at Nagashima
When you are lonely and have nothing to do,
Let this song be your friend,
In place of I who hardly come to you.
—Empress Sadako’s tanka for Hansen’s disease patients
Unless I illuminate myself like a deep-sea fish Nowhere would I find even a glimmer of light.
—patient, Akashi Kaijin, from the tanka collection Haku Byo, 1939
Leprosy is a disease like tuberculosis and other infective diseases, and is not a result of a curse.
It is not a hereditary disease.
It is caused by small germs similar to the germs of TB.
There are two types of patients, the infective and non-infective.
It is only the infective patients that spread the disease to others by contact. Out of about 1,500,000 cases in India, only about 400,000 are infective.
Leprosy is curable, and in recent years there have been great advances in the treatment of this disease.
Leprosy is preventable. All necessary precautions should be taken for protection against infection.
In addition to the rational and helpful attitude on the part of individuals, an organized and determined effort on the part of the whole community is required to eradicate leprosy.
—from Leprosy in India, by Dharmendra (1958)
Among the discussion topics at the 1958 Global Leprosy Conference are: the organization of leprosy control programs in the South-East Asia and Western Pacific Regions and the latest findings on Promin and the disease and the policy of isolation. The disease, medical experts state, is rarely contagious and they call for an end to quarantine of most patients.
—from the 1958 Global Leprosy Conference;
host city: Tokyo, Japan
ARTIFACT Number 0199
Woman, sixty-one, painted on an urn
Less than twenty miles away, in the city of Okayama, the streets are lined with flag-waving citizens as the runner carrying the Olympic torch passes by. Miss Fuji is walking back from Clinic B when she passes Mr. Oyama, and he greets her on this January evening.
“One thousand eight hundred and seventy-one.”
ARTIFACT Number 1609
A wheelchair
She isn’t sure what to make of the rain. It hasn’t rained here before on any of her birthdays, and today she is forty-three and doesn’t know what to think. As she has on every birthday since her uncle’s visit, she goes down to the dock after sunset, but this year she takes an umbrella with her. It isn’t a heavy rain, only a steady drizzle. One where, if she were going out for a quick walk, such as the half mile from her room to Clinic B, she wouldn’t even take an umbrella, allowing the light rain to dew her face, her hair, her clothes.
It was in a rain much like this one, just months before, when out pushing a patient in a wheelchair, that she slowed her walk and stood there for a second, turning her face up to the sky, feeling the rain against it. She had remained like that for a little while before realizing that the patient was getting wet. She pushed the wheelchair quickly, almost breaking into a run, as if to make up for lost time, to hide her embarrassment. How could she forget, be so stupid, and before she could check herself, she had said what she was thinking.
“There’s no reason to apologize. I feel things by remembering them. I can still bring back the memory of the pain of a bee sting, how it is similar to that of a shot, but lasting longer. I remember leaving my umbrella at home in the morning, walking to school in the rain. A light rain, like today. I enjoyed it. My mother never understood why I did that, always told me that I was going to get sick. Maybe she was right.”
“Right about what?”
“Me getting sick.”
She slowed her pace a little, startled, looking at the patient pointing at himself.
“I’m jo
king, Miss Fuji.”
She kept the wheelchair at a slow pace, but faster than when they had first started out from the clinic. Neither of them said anything until the patient told her to stop. By then, she had forgotten the rain and wanted to get the patient back to his room. Again, he told her to stop, and she did.
“Please, remind me how it feels.”
She hesitated, wondering if he was joking, waited until he spoke again.
“Remind me.”
She leaned her head back, as she had done a few minutes earlier, again allowing the drizzle to graze her face.
“It is a warm rain, and it falls so softly that it almost tickles as it hits my face. But as it gets very close to tickling me, to where I want to rub my face, the tickling stops, and it goes back to feeling warm and soft again.”
“Thank you.”
That day, she had felt good, almost excited, as she moved the wheelchair again, as if she had learned something new, had taken a step forward somehow. Maybe it was the simplicity of what had happened, but suddenly it all started to become clearer to her. How all those years here she couldn’t understand how the patients could damage their hands and feet, how they could be so careless, how it angered her. How, even though she was surrounded by them, she was one herself—the longer she stayed here, the more she needed to remind herself of this—and maybe this made it all the more difficult; maybe it took something as simple as a light rain to make her understand them, and herself, a little more.
And, today, in the darkness of her forty-third birthday, it is the same kind of rain that falls as she stands on the dock holding an umbrella, which she has yet to open. She is early, as on every birthday, but there isn’t that rising excitement there had been the previous years. Because of the rain. Not that it doesn’t feel good, for it does, but because of the fire and whether or not he will climb to the top of the mountain and make one—the mountain for which she still has no name, not sure if she ever knew it or whether she has forgotten it. And what if he doesn’t light the fire tonight? she thinks. What do I do then?
The Pearl Diver Page 11
