O plus F

by John Moncure Wetterau

  Chapter 9

  Oliver changed planes in Chicago and landed in Oregon at one o’clock, Pacific time. “Funny thing,’’ he said to a cab driver. “I always thought Portland was on the ocean. It’s a river port.’’

  “The Columbia,’’ the driver said. “Where you from?’’

  “The other Portland—in Maine.’’

  “Back east. I’m from Worcester, Mass, myself. Long time ago.’’

  “You like it out here?’’

  “It’s all right. Beats shoveling snow.’’

  “It feels a lot milder,’’ Oliver said. “We could get snow anytime in Maine.’’

  “Friggin snow,’’ the driver said. “Here you go.’’

  “You want to wait a couple of minutes—off the meter? I’ll need another ride.’’

  “Where to?’’

  “There’s supposed to be a big Japanese garden up on a hill…”

  “I’ll wait.’’

  “Be right out.’’ Oliver checked in, left his bag in his room, and came out feeling light–footed. He had a map in one pocket of his bush jacket. He unfolded it in the cab. “So—where is it?’’

  “Washington Park, Kingston Avenue.’’

  “I see it. Great. Let’s go.’’ They drove into the city and climbed through a residential district. The driver stopped at the entrance to the garden.

  “You can get a bus downtown on that corner over there,’’ he said, pointing.

  “Thanks.’’ The cab rolled away down the hill. It was quiet. The neighborhood trees and hedges were lush. A layer of cloud imparted a soft gray tone to the buildings and the streets stretched out below.

  Oliver entered the park and strolled along paths that were nearly deserted. He walked up and down through trees, past tiny ponds, mossy rock faces, handmade bamboo fountains, patches of flowers, and unexpected views. The effect was both wild and intensely cultivated. The garden was an homage to nature, a carefully tended frame within which blossoms fell and birds flitted in their own time.

  A light drizzle began to fall. Oliver sat on his heels, warm enough in his jacket and his canvas hat. The live silence of the garden gradually entered him, replacing an inner deafness. When he stood, his knees were stiff, but he had become otherwise more flexible. His plans were not so important—they mattered, but not to the exclusion of what was around him.

  He caught a bus downtown and wandered through an area of mixed industry, galleries, and restaurants. He spent time in a leather shop that sold skins and hides. Oliver had never seen an elk hide. He bought a rattlesnake skin, five feet long, that had intricate brown and black diamond–shaped markings. The clerk rolled it in a tight coil and put a rubber band around it.

  Oliver ate in a Japanese restaurant. A scroll hung in an illuminated recess at one end of the room. The characters were bold, the brush strokes fresh and immediate. Stringed music twanged of duty, consequence, and the inevitable flow of time. The waitress, middle–aged and respectful, brought him dinner with a minimum of talk. Oliver ate slowly, feeling no need for conversation. He was conversing, he realized, with each move of his chopsticks, each glance around the room.

  The cab ride and the hotel seemed loud in comparison. He turned the TV on and turned it off. It was better to lie in bed and revisit the garden. Tomorrow was coming. Another long flight.

  In the morning, Oliver’s spirits rose as the jet cleared the coast, high above the ocean. “Here we go,’’ he said to the slim woman seated next to him. She smiled and resumed reading what appeared to be a textbook. He had a glass of Chardonnay with lunch, but he was too wide awake to sleep afterward. The plane passed above slabs of cloud and intermittent vistas of empty ocean. Once, a jet slid by below them, several miles away, flying in the opposite direction.

  Hours later, as they descended toward the islands, a general excitement spread through the plane and the student became talkative. “There is tourist Hawaii,’’ she said, “and military Hawaii, and everywhere else—the real Hawaii.’’

  “I’m staying in Waikiki,’’ Oliver said. “I guess that’s tourist Hawaii.’’

  “Yes,’’ she said. “But the buses are good. You can get out, go around the island.’’

  “I will. I’m going to try and look up family I’ve never met.’’

  “Where do they live?’’ Oliver had found a listing for Kenso Nakano in a phone book at the airport.

  “Alewa Heights,’’ he said.

  She laughed. “Ah—LEV—Ah… That’s the real Hawaii.’’

  “Look at that!’’ The plane was banking over a large crater with a grassy center and steep green sides.

  “Diamond Head,’’ she said. She wiped away a tear.

  “Diamond Head? I didn’t know it was a crater. I never saw a crater before.’’

  “It nice and green, this time year,’’ she said in a different voice, intense and musical. The tires jerked and the plane slowed with a rush of engines. They taxied to the terminal. Passengers unlatched overhead bins and waited in the aisle for the door to open.

  “Goodbye,’’ Oliver said to the woman.

  “Aloha,’’ she said, “good luck, huh.’’

  “Aloha,’’ Oliver said, for the first time without irony. The word felt good in his mouth.

  He stepped through the door into a perfume of flowers and burnt jet fuel. White clouds ballooned over green mountain ridges. Heat waves eddied on the tarmac. The passengers moved quickly into the terminal and dispersed.

  A young woman with brown skin and black hair, dressed in shorts and halter top, held a sign that read: Polynesian Paradise Adventures. She put a lei around Oliver’s neck and directed him to a bus where he waited half an hour while other vacationers collected their luggage and boarded in small groups. The flowers in his lei were white with yellow centers. They had the same sweet smell that had greeted him at the airplane door. “Plumeria,’’ the hostess told him.

  The bus passed through an industrial area and then along the shore by several blocks of downtown business buildings, a marina, a park, and a large shopping mall. They entered an avenue congested with high–rise hotels and condominiums. “Waikiki,’’ the hostess announced. The bus stopped in front of a nondescript hotel, and the hostess wished them a good vacation. “You have your discount coupons,’’ she said.

  “Where’s the beach?’’ someone called.

  “Over there.’’ She pointed across an avenue choked with cars, taxis, and buses. “Two blocks.’’

  Oliver’s room was spare. The walls were made of concrete blocks painted a light aqua color. Sliding glass doors opened on a tiny porch. He went out and sat in a white plastic lawn chair for a moment. He was on the tenth floor, overlooking a side street. There was a building directly in front of him and more buildings in the direction of the beach. In the other direction, he could see a strip of mountain and what appeared to be a canal a few blocks away. It wasn’t Paradise, and it wasn’t particularly Polynesian, though there were palm trees by the canal.

  The map that he had been given showed tourist attractions and how to get to them. He bought a decent map in the lobby and walked over to Kalakaua Avenue and down to the beach. It was a pretty beach, a gentle crescent that curved along a green park. In the other direction, back the way he had come, the sand fronted a strip of hotels. The waves were quiet, though larger than they had been in Atlantic City. Diamond Head guarded the far end of the beach. He felt differently about the postcard view now that he knew its secret. There’s a crater in there.

  He took off his shoes and socks and walked to the Diamond Head end of the beach, turning back at a small cluster of expensive houses and condominiums. The sand underfoot made him feel like a little kid. He retraced his steps and stopped by the first hotel that he reached on the beach side of Kalakaua. It was older than the others. A huge tree shaded a polygonal bar and a courtyard paved with stone. He ordered a Glenlivet.

  “Some tree! What kind is it?’’

  “Banyan,’’ the bartender
said.

  “Oh.’’ Hanging roots, dense green leaves, and thick nearly horizontal branches created an inviting world. Oliver imagined a tree house. He took a table in the shade and looked out over the ocean. Maybe he should just be a tourist and forget the whole thing. He’d gotten along without his father this long; what difference would it make to meet him now? He didn’t know. That was the problem. That was why he had to look up Kenso Nakano—Ken—on Alewa Heights. Chances were good that Ken was his uncle.

  Oliver rolled the whiskey around in his glass. A very tall man in shorts trudged past on the sand. He was a foot taller than a tall man. Long legs held his upper body high in the air. Like a heron, Oliver thought. Holy shit! Wilt Chamberlain! Wilt looked patient, proud, and tired. A sports king, still holding his head up. He scored a hundred points once. No one could take that away from him. A familiar pang squeezed Oliver. The nothing pang. What have you done? Nothing.

  Scotch trickled down Oliver’s throat. Wilt kept a steady pace down the beach. Oliver thought of getting a ticket to another world—the Philippines, say—and disappearing. He could go to a village on a remote island and live until he ran out of money. It would be perfect for a while, and then, to hell with it, he would get kidnapped or lost in the jungle; it wouldn’t matter.

  No use. A force inside him would not let go. His spirit assumed a stone face. Forward.

  He awoke the next morning at 4 a.m., out of synch from jet lag. Half an hour later he gave up trying to get back to sleep. He dressed and walked toward the shopping mall, stopping at a Tops Restaurant busy with cab drivers, early risers, and night owls winding down. He had half a papaya, served with a piece of lemon. Delicious. Eggs came with two scoops of rice. Eggs and rice? Not bad. Full daylight came as he finished a second cup of coffee and looked at his map.

  Alewa Heights was on the other side of the city. He could find a bus that would get him close, no doubt, but it was early to be visiting. Should he call? No. That was too much of a commitment. He wanted to walk to the address and see how he felt when he got there, leaving open the chance for a last–minute escape.

  He decided to wait a day. Look up Kenso Nakano tomorrow, he told himself. He walked back to the hotel by a different route and fell asleep easily.

  Later that morning, he walked to Tops again and on to the Ala Moana Shopping Center. Acres of parking lot surrounded two decks of stores—mainland chains and local names. There were fountains and sculptures, a mix of tourists and islanders, and, at one end, a Japanese department store named, “Shirokya.’’ He spent an hour in Shirokya admiring the packaging and design, listening to Japanese music, and feeling proud of the evident care taken with details. If you’re going to do something, do it well.

  He crossed Ala Moana Boulevard to the yacht harbor where rows of large sailboats were moored behind a stone breakwater. “Salty boats,’’ he said to a guy who was smoking at the end of a long dock.

  “Better be. It’s a mile deep right out there.’’ He looked down at Oliver, amused. Oliver was evidently too short for the Pacific.

  He spent the rest of the day poking around Waikiki and considering his visit to Kenso Nakano. The next morning, he caught a bus to the other side of the city.

  He walked up Alewa Drive in bright sunshine, enjoying the view of the city and the ocean which grew in immensity as he climbed. The higher he got, the more vast the ocean became and the smaller the island, until he began to sense that he was standing on a happy accident, a green miracle in a marine world. The planes taking off from the airport below him looked puny. It was an added pleasure to turn away from the Pacific to the street, to the plumeria, the bougainvillea, and the different shades of green. Doves called. There was little traffic.

  The street bent higher around a switchback curve. A pickup was parked in front of a wall and a gate which bore the number Oliver was seeking. Two heavyset men wearing shorts, T-shirts, and baseball caps were easing a boulder from the truck bed onto an impromptu ramp of two-by-sixes. A woman with trim graying hair and tanned cheeks watched. The planks sagged ominously.

  “She hold?’’

  “Plenty strong.’’

  “Damn—stuck. Excuse me, Mrs. Nakano.’’

  “I’ve heard worse,’’ she said. Oliver approached and braced one shoulder against the rock.

  “What is this?’’ one man said. “Who you?’’

  “Superman,’’ Oliver said.

  “You shrunk.’’ There was a cracking noise from one of the planks. “Watch it!’’ The other man got both hands under one edge of the boulder, bent his knees, and heaved. The boulder rocked and began to slide down the planks. They bowed farther but held as the three of them guided the boulder to the street.

  “One good moss–rock, Mrs. Nakano. Kind of small, though.’’

  “I know you guys like a challenge,’’ she said.

  “Where you want it?’’

  She pointed through the gate.

  “We better do it. This start down the road, it end up in somebody’s living room.’’ They walked the boulder through the gate and to one end of a flower bed. It took three of them to move it without using crowbars; Oliver helped until it was in place.

  “Hard to find a good moss–rock these days,’’ Mrs. Nakano said. “How about a soda?’’

  “Too early for anything else,’’ one said. “Sure.’’

  “Thank you so much for helping,’’ she said to Oliver. “Are you thirsty?’’

  “Yes. I was looking for you. I think. Actually, I’m looking for Muni Nakano who has a brother—Ken?’’

  “Oh,’’ she said. “Muni is my brother-in-law.’’

  “My name is Oliver, Oliver Prescott.’’

  “How do you do, Oliver. This is Jimmy. This is Kapono.’’ The others nodded, and she went inside.

  “Superman without a license—serious offense,’’ Jimmy said.

  “Batman worse,’’ Kapono said.

  “Still—he pretty strong for a midget.’’

  Oliver grinned and brushed the dirt off his hands. There were times to keep your mouth shut. Mrs. Nakano returned and handed out cans of Pepsi. “This was good of you guys.’’ She turned to Oliver. “I’m sorry. Ken is on a trip. Can I help you?’’

  “Oh.’’ Oliver thought. “I need to find Muni.’’

  “Ken will be back the day after tomorrow. He is coming in tomorrow night—late.’’

  “I’ll call on the phone, then, the day after tomorrow? Maybe around nine in the morning?’’

  “That will be fine.’’

  “Thanks,’’ Oliver said. He drained his soda and gave the can back to Mrs. Nakano. “Good,’’ he said. He waved and started out the gate.

  “You want a ride down the hill?’’ Jimmy asked.

  “No need,’’ Oliver said.

  “He fly,’’ Kapono said.

  When Oliver got back to Waikiki, he had lunch at the banyan bar and thought about what had happened. Mrs. Nakano was nice. The moss–rock delivery duo had been most respectful. The house was in an upscale neighborhood. Ken Nakano was well established, for sure. You couldn’t tell much from the house; like the other houses near it, the side facing the street was simple, almost anonymous. What was individual was out of sight. He was glad that he hadn’t given Mrs. Nakano his middle name. Who knows what Jimmy and Kapono would have thought? They were pretty sharp.

  The following day, he took TheBus around most of the island. That’s what it said in big letters on the side: “TheBus.’’ Mountains three thousand feet high separated the leeward and windward sides. The windward side was cooler, breezier, and less touristy. Steep sharp ridges radiated out to a coastal plain. Deep valleys disappeared into mysterious shade, wilder than he would have thought, so close to a city. TheBus returned across a central highland between two mountain groups. They passed a pineapple plantation, long rows of spiky bushes in red dirt, and a military base, Schofield Barracks. Pearl Harbor spread out before them—large, calm, and silver, warships moored at d
ocks, small boats moving about. Then they were back in traffic, back in the city. He got out at the shopping center and walked to Waikiki.

  It had been cloudy most of the day. The wind had begun to blow hard. Gusts caught the hair of young women and whipped ebony parabolas three feet over their heads. The women turned their heads like wild mustangs, laughing—counterpoint to their Asian composure and perfect make–up. This is it, Oliver thought. I could die right here. I’ll never see anything more beautiful.

  He ate dinner in a Thai restaurant. His waitress was another knockout. Across the room, someone who looked like Gomer Pyle was eating and joking. It was Gomer Pyle—Jim Nabors. Wilt. Gomer. Gorgeous women. Oliver began to feel that this was the way things should be, that it was his due. He was Oliver. He had family on Alewa Heights, he was sure of it. Tomorrow would tell.

  At nine the next morning, Oliver called the Nakano’s number.

  “Hello?’’ A quiet male voice. Island.

  “Hello, this is Oliver Prescott. Are you Ken?’’

  “Yes.’’

  “I’m trying to find Muni.’’

  “Michiko told me you helped with the moss–rock.’’

  “Not much. Those guys were pretty big…”

  “They my football coaches, phys–ed teachers,’’ Ken said.

  “Aha.’’

  “Do you have business with my brother?’’

  “Not business, exactly. My mother knew him a long time ago. Did he ever mention Dior Del’Unzio?’’

  “Mmmm…” Silence. “That was a long time ago.’’

  “My middle name is Muni. My mother told me that Muni was my father and that he had a brother named Ken. I think you are my uncle.’’ Ken made a sound deep in his throat.

  “Mmmm… What year were you born? Do you have identification?’’

  “1958. Yes, I have I.D.’’

  “Mmmm… Muni lives in Japan, but he is in California, now. I will try and contact him. I will give him your number.’’

  “Thank you.’’ Oliver gave him the hotel and room number and the name of the hotel in Eugene where he would be staying for a few days the following week. “I live in Maine. He could reach me there, after that.’’ He gave Ken the address.

  “I’ll see what I can do,’’ Ken said.

  “Thank you.’’

  “It may take a while. Muni unpredictable sometimes.’’

  “I’ll wait,’’ Oliver said.

  “O.K.… Maybe we get together sometime.’’

  “I’d like that,’’ Oliver said.

  When Ken hung up, Oliver felt truly disconnected. Ken had sounded like a decent guy. Made sense, with a wife like that. My coaches… He must be a principal or a superintendent in the school system. Having finally made contact, Oliver wanted more.

  But no one called the next day. Or the next. Oliver thought about visiting another island, but he didn’t want to be away from the hotel that long. He couldn’t sit by the phone for four days, so he explored the city, checking back for messages at least once during the day.

  Honolulu was interesting. With the exception of Waikiki and the downtown district, it was a residential city. There were distinctly different neighborhoods in each of the narrow valleys that stretched two and three miles back into the mountains. Other areas, like Alewa Heights, were built on the faces of the ridges; at night their lights reached with sparkling fingers high into the dark. He found formal gardens, temples, and a red light district with hustlers of every race and description. He found a dirt alley with mud puddles, wandering chickens, barefoot children, and a grandmother with two gold teeth. He discovered small factories and, incredibly, in the middle of the city, a watercress farm.

  He read The Advertiser every morning in Tops. He got to know the city as well as he could in a few days. But no one called.

  At the end of the week, he took a city bus to the airport, preferring not to travel with the vacation group. He was sad when he boarded the plane. He sat next to the small oval window and buckled his seat belt. The buckle clicked together with a finality that seemed to say: that’s it; you did what you could.

  The tour package had originated in Eugene. Oliver had chosen to return there instead of Portland. The cost was the same, and he could see another part of Oregon. He slept most of the way to the mainland. As he rode to his hotel in a light rain, shivering a bit, he thought, Hawaii made me soft. Good place, though. “Aloha,’’ he said, thinking of Ken and Michiko.