“Americans growing tall,” muttered Kodama. “Because always eating, eating.”
Hank smiled, taking it as banter. “You sure stuff it down yourself, Kodama-san.”
A pause, then curtly, “This so not always.”
“Sorry. You grew up poor?”
The edge continued. “As boy no food. Thusly not grow tall. Every Japanese depriving.”
“Oh.” Caution. “After the war?”
“Of course. Americans have dropped atomic bombs on innocent Japanese, and so conquer heroic Japanese soldiers who are fighting for homeland. All nations in hate for Nippon. Very jealous. So thusly, Americans drop atomic bombs. And thusly, everybody going hungry.”
“I’m sorry for the hunger,” Hank said quietly. “You’ve got the rest wrong.”
“The rest of course you say, is how American propaganda! Of course. And more lately, Japanese people building ships to catch fish so not going hungry. But Americans say go home, there is fish we do not want, do not catch, but Japanese must not have fish because we are in hate for Nippon.”
“Oh, bullshit! What screwed-up history do they teach you people?” Hank caught himself and softened his tone. “Come on, Kodama. Mr. Kodama. Where to start?” He summarized Japanese 1940s aggression with a veneer of diplomacy (certainly compared to how Jones Henry would have snapped it!).
Kodama interrupted angrily. “Japanese trying to liberate all Asia from greedy colonial nations of America and Europe. Then atomic bomb. This is truth and history, Mr. Carford. Nippon is great Bushido people. Other nations jer’us.”
“Other nations what?”
“Jer’us! Jer’us!”
“Oh. Jealous.” Hank shook his head. “Come on, Kodama-san. You really believe that?”
“Of course.” Suddenly it was a snarl.
Hank studied splats and snakes of rain on the windows. Go on with this? No purpose unless the guy cooled enough to listen. They’d be rid of each other in a few days. Without further comment he returned outside and dressed for deck.
When the first tow came aboard he helped strap in the net and pull it bulging with fish and shrimp beyond the rail. Good feel, the dripping bag’s heft, even the slime globs. Better yet, when his long-faced friend pulled the cord that opened the money bag, was the mass of sea creatures that gushed around their legs.
The haul had targeted shrimp. Fish bycatch included the thick, flat, black-striped ishidai they had eaten raw, and a rounded red-snapper type. Pink squids wrapped their tentacles around the web and needed to be pried loose. (Squids had personality. Hank shut his mind to it.)
The pace now went steadily since, after they set the trawl again, there was catch to be sorted and iced. Hank entered the work pattern step by step. Soon he knew their names. Junzo, the long face, coached him on the Japanese words for the varieties of fish. Round Hajime showed him how to distinguish two nearly identical fish he’d never seen in American waters. Words and instructions became their game. The net was teichiami, sometimes just ami. The boat was gyosen and they were gyomin. When he mispronounced, they chuckled, but their biggest laughs came from mouthing American words themselves. Hank invented “lovely little highliner” for the boat itself, to play with the l’s. The effort that produced “ruvrey ritter highriner” sent Haji-san rolling on the deck.
The sea, not cold by Alaskan standards, still chilled Hank as hours passed. Thermals had not been part of his travel pack, nor gloves, and he missed them. Sorting fish and strapping a net lacked the action of working seines or crab pots. He glanced at the wheelhouse. Kodama watched, but turned away at his look. Warm up there. The day would end eventually. When it came time to ice the shrimp he followed into the dank hold despite their polite objections, and grabbed one of the three shovels before someone else could take it. Shoveling ice restored his heat.
At last there came a break and everyone went inside. Up in the wheel-house Kodama’s set face watched Hank follow the others. They hung rubber jackets outside but, with another tow coming soon, merely peeled pants to their boots as they bunched around the stove. The man who served as cook brought out a panful of squids he had gathered from the nets. The creatures’ tentacles moved as they crackled on the grill. Still alive! Hank held back at first, then shrugged and, following the others’ example, picked them off with chopsticks. Chewy and sweet when picked off at once, charred and crisp when left over the coals for a while.
Junzo showed Hank photos of his family. Hank passed around photos of Jody and the children. Hajimi in turn displayed his naked pinups. They had started another round of “ruvrey ritter highriner” with high-pitched laughs when Kodama appeared. He watched with a puzzled scowl, regarded sideways by Hank but ignored by the others.
At length Kodama cleared his throat to attract attention. “Mr. Carford, you are having good time?”
“Very good time, K-san.”
“Yes, I think it. You are having good time. I will therefore stay and make you translations.”
Hank glanced at the intrusively authoritative face. The man would change everything. “Thanks, Mr. Kodama. But not necessary.”
“Ah.”
Hajime pushed the last squid on the grill toward Hank and gestured for him to take it. “Ruvrey ritter highriner,” he declared, delighted afresh.
Kodama studied Hank. He seemed to struggle with half a smile before he turned abruptly and left. A moment later a bell rang from the bridge to signal haul-in, and everyone scrambled back to deck.
9
BUSHIDO
JAPAN: KUSHIRO AND TOKYO, LATE AUGUST 1982
At last Shoji Tsurifune—Mike to his western contacts and by either name heir apparent to Tsurifune Suisan Fishing Co., Ltd.—arrived back in Tokyo and flew with Hank north to Kushiro to see the ship that the company had prepared for Hank’s captaincy.
As he had three months before, Mike alternated between being the structured young Harvard-educated executive, and the bright connoisseur of Japanese pleasures who had insisted last spring on entertaining Hank every night with lavish food and attentive individual waitresses. Hank remembered his occasional unsure laugh, and his sudden quiet in the presence of his father, the director, but otherwise Mike appeared to be a man totally comfortable in his two cultures.
On the plane Mike spoke gaily of his favorite restaurant in Kushiro and the quality there of the serving girls—”You’ll see tonight for yourself, Hank-san”—but then snapped arrogantly at the stewardess to remove their lunch trays. He pulled papers from his briefcase. “Specs of your vessel. Study them closely, please,” he said, all business. It was a longliner already geared, four years old, 135 feet long, named something-Mam but to be repainted with an American name. “Now it’s your choice, Hank. Japanese crew to sail her to Kodiak or Seattle discreetly and then flown back, or your own Yanks flown here to take over at once. Naturally, in any case you’ll need a Japanese processing master to ensure quality product.”
Hank had avoided the thought of foreigners aboard his boat. He’d hoped there would be some way around it when the time came. “I already have capable men, so I don’t need a Japanese boss on the payroll. It might cause friction. Believe me, I know how to process fish.”
“Nonnegotiable, I’m afraid. Absolutely necessary to have one person aboard knowing Japanese market requirement. Especially the proper way to cut black cod for us, J-cut only, very tricky. Understand, Hank—Japan is the market. We do recognize the difference of personalities, so I’ll have you meet four of our processing masters and leave you to pick.”
When they reached the Kushiro shipyard, there it stood, scraped and huge on the ways. Hank surveyed it with mixed emotions. It was a ship that would require a large crew, rather than a comfortably sized boat that a handful of men could work as buddies. That would take some adjusting to. But—captain of a ship! He climbed aboard, determined to be positive. It felt wrong, however, the second he entered the housing and bumped his head. The overheads were built for short Japanese. Dream’s end. He wanted to sit an
d cover his face to think.
“Don’t let the rust bother you, Hank,” said Mike. “She’ll shine by the time our people have her reflagged and ready to fish American.”
“Won’t work. The overheads. We can’t run stooped all day. I’d never keep a crew.”
“Ai!” Mike’s smooth Japanese face lost its composure for an instant, then became impassive again. “Let’s consider.” He remained quiet until they left the ship. In the car back to town: “Forget fishing vessels for to-night. Serious party with local friends who wish to know you. Men you’ll need to do business with. And, of course, girls, like last spring, one that might attract you yet.”
Hank remembered the disturbing temptations of the last visit. “Well, Mike . . . food sounds great, but leave off on the pretty hostesses.”
“Disappoint local friends? Come on, Hank-san. I’ve told them you’re a tiger.”
The toasts were many, as usual. Once he’d decided to let himself go, it was easy to progress with the others from polite good humor to boisterous conviviality. Delicious seafood came in volleys, all of it delicately presented. And despite his protestations, what harm to have his own charming lady ready to refill a sake cup or feed him if he’d let her? He knew now that it had no more expectation than casual male ego stroking. Maybe the Japan venture wasn’t going to work after all, but he might as well enjoy a banquet night. It led to nothing dangerous.
Next morning over abundant coffee at an otherwise Japanese breakfast, Mike said calmly, “I talked to Father. You’re right. We must have American headroom, western vessel. It’s a shock to us, this idle fleet we’d hoped to use.” As offhandedly as he had been ordering breakfast, he added, “Must now seek credit ourselves, buy or build with western headroom.”
“You mean the deal’s not off?”
“It’s sink or survive, Hank.”
“I don’t have money of my own for this, you know.”
“No, no. We shall buy the vessel outright, and then, just as done for vessel Jody Dawn, shall assign you fifty-one percent ownership on paper. Formality, as our lawyer explained to you last spring when we assumed your debts. Naturally, vessel Jody Dawn remains Tsurifune property for security, as does your house, until debt is paid.”
Hank’s mouth tightened but he nodded. Whenever the terms were stated it chilled him as if they’d been spoken for the first time, even though he’d agreed and signed.
“This is only business, Hank. Mere formality among friends, I assure you. Soon you will earn such money aboard the new longline vessel that you’ll pay off all obligation, also own new vessel, and be rich. And will happily continue by contract for six more years to deliver exclusively to Tsurifune. But, ha-ha, we hope of course deliver for longer among grateful friends.”
Hank nodded again.
He met two processing masters from Tsurifune ships. Both tried hard to please him, and they probably needed the job, but he felt comfortable with neither. Once committed, they’d be hard to send back. He knew that it was a position of authority on Japanese ships, one that could rival his own if accepted in the Japanese pattern. Not going to be that way. Two other candidates remained to be interviewed in Tokyo.
During the flight back to Tokyo, Hank wore jeans to save the suit he had brought, but Mike—Shoji Tsurifune, heir to a distinguished fishing company—was crisp in a dark suit and tie. Mike’s conversation shunted with ease between chatty informality and blunt business. He talked of a forthcoming tennis tournament and his own chances for the trophy, then of his undergraduate days at Harvard. “Miss it, Hank. Miss Cambridge and all the fellows. Part of me, you see, has adjusted American.” Then, all business: “By the way, the director expects you for lunch tomorrow in his office. A driver will pick you up at twelve fifteen from wherever you are. I believe we have you interviewing processing masters. You know, you made more impression on Father last spring than most who meet him these days.”
“I like your dad. Glad he’s still friendly after what I told him during that long meeting with interpreters. John Gains figured it was the end between us.”
“John Gains? The fellow kisses ass, as you’d say. He’s useful to us and efficient, thus he has future here so long as . . . But we don’t take John to special places. Oh, yes. Remembered well, how you tried to give the director Japanese guilt for the war. Told Father perhaps he’d be in prison except for merciful American conquerors. Flo ho. Nobody had ever dared to say that before. It gave the rest of us breathless moments until Father decided to laugh. I suppose we had been pushing you for a while over wicked Americans now taking our fish.”
“Four long goddamned hours at least.”
“But Father laughed! He liked your straightforwardness. Between us, Hank, in reality, we’ve wondered why America has taken so long to claim possession of fish off your coasts.”
“If you and the Russians hadn’t been so greedy with your hundreds of boats fishing straight over American gear, including mine, you’d probably still be there pulling your share of crabs and pollack.”
“Oh my, say that next to my poor pater. And you’d get away with it! You remind him, he tells me, of the vigor in his valued American abstract expressionists.”
Hank was glad to change the subject. “Those paintings your dad showed me. Do you really think they’re good? I don’t understand ’em, so I’ll lay off if you do. No offense.”
Mike leaned forward, his eyes suddenly merry. “They’re quite valuable, Hank.”
“Come on. It looks like you could just flip paint around on a brush and do the same. And get the price of a good boat for it, that’s what bugs me.”
“Then go flipping and astonish us all!” Mike settled back and rolled his martini like an old brandy. “Boats wear old, you see, while abstract expressionists are rising in world price slowly. Little bit higher now than just last May. You’d be wise to understand and start buying while they still cost just a little boat. Other Japanese now pay price of a ship for Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, while Father looks ahead with his Rothko and Pollock bought now for mere thousands instead of future millions.”
Crazy.
Mike shifted in his seat to make sure he had Hank’s attention. “Good luck that Dad loves his paintings since so much is invested.” His tone lost its easy bounce although he kept it casual. “Bad luck, of course, if he ever needs to say good-bye and sell. Many fishermen and fish-factory workers now unemployed. We need raw product to keep our vessels going.”
They’re running scared! Hank realized. It hadn’t occurred to him before.
Back in Tokyo the two other potential processing masters proved as troublesome to Hank as the first ones. They all were committed company men, probably ready, if things weren’t going Japanese enough, to overbear and complain, even tattle back home. He’d seen it happen in Bristol Bay on the Japan-funded processors. And what if they were running scared?
Hank expected the meeting with the old man—Director Kiyoshi Tsurifune himself—to be a resumption of the grind over the American drawdown of fish quotas to the Japanese, and he’d steadied himself to fend off accusations without losing his temper as before. Instead, the meeting was informal to the point of friendliness. Hank had thought ahead despite having been summoned to Japan on short notice, and had bought the best Kodiak souvenir cup he could find. He presented it with, “Nothing much, sir.” Nothing much indeed, compared to some of the other gifts in the glass case he’d remembered, but the director placed it ceremoniously among fans, dolls, and other cups from American senators and admirals.
The senior Tsurifune’s smile stretched over his teeth. Short and wiry, with tight yellowing skin over a shiny bald head, he still moved erect although he was in his seventies. He reached a hand up to grip Hank’s shoulder and led him through the door cut in the office paneling, into the private gallery. When Hank had seen the gallery back in May, it had been brightly illuminated, and some two dozen modern paintings had lined the walls. Now, in subdued light, there were only seven or eight. Each had a ceiling
beam directed on it.
“As you see, Mr. Crawford, new Jasper Johns on that wall, purchased since you came before. The perfectly nice Sam Francis and other small good artists now removed to back room, so that here we have only most famous Americans, Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and Jasper Johns. You are continued amazed I am sure, to find such distinguished collection in the office of Japanese fishing company.”
“Amazed as ever, sir.” And impressed, as before, by the director’s ease with English even though, months before during official meetings, he had spoken only in Japanese through an interpreter and pretended to understand nothing in English.
After they had stopped by each painting in turn, Mr. T (as Hank had begun to term the director affectionately to himself) placed a firm hand on his shoulder again to guide him back to the office. “Now, Mr. Crawford. Before eating must please tell me of American events and your impressions. The aggressive Mr. Alexander Haig of State Department. Is it true that President Ronald Reagan now decides nothing without him? And there are reports of building an American vessel with American crew for catching and processing groundfish in the Bering Sea. I am told ship is called Golden . . . Golden what? Now please tell me how this can succeed. Very, very risky for investors. I wish you to please warn Mr. Haig, that American fishermen too restless to stay long months at sea on catcher processor vessel. This is work where Japanese fishermen are very good and very successful, please speak him seriously.”
Hank glanced around. In a sunny adjacent room, bare except for tatami mats and a polished table inches from the floor, women were arranging lacquered dishes. It was going to be a long meal, and with not even Mike to help absorb conversation. Maybe he could divert back to the big messy paintings and ask questions. At least then he could merely listen.
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