"Look at me! I'm going to swim back to America!"
His last words before he dove headfirst into the water were garbled, but Hiroki thought they sounded like, "Maybe going back won't be so bad after all!"
He didn't know what to make of that.
NOVEMBER
KYOTO
Matsuo was in love.
After almost two years in his homeland, he had finally found the Japan he had been seeking.
Kyoto.
He stood at dawn on the Togetsukyo, the Moon Crossing Bridge, and listened to the Oigawa flowing beneath his feet as he stared out at the misty ancient city, its multifaceted expanse of low tiled roofs regularly interrupted by jutting temple pagodas. And over the whole scene towered Arashiyama, Storm Mountain.
He had been so overwhelmed by the city that he had been struck dumb during the carriage ride from the station. He had strolled her streets and marveled at her temples and shrines—two thousand of them—and her beautiful people, all properly kimonoed. He had toured endlessly, soaking up the essences of the city that was the spiritual heart of Japan, the Japan he longed for, the Japan he had dreamed of for so long.
And now it was the morning of the tenth of November, the day of the Enthronement ceremonies, the event that had brought him here.
He had been at the Kashiko-Dokoro, the Imperial Sanctuary, with the other guests and dignitaries, Japanese and foreign, when Emperor Hirohito, dressed in a ceremonial robe of white silk damask, arrived with the Empress to inform the Sun Goddess, Amaterasu, of his ascension to the throne.
Matsuo was present now at the formal enthronement in the afternoon when the Emperor, in bright orange robes colored like the sun, sat on a canopied throne next to his Empress and the air filled with the clamor of drums, gongs, and cymbals. He heard the Emperor declare that he now occupied the throne of Japan and henceforth his reign would be called Showa—Enlightened Peace. His heart filled to bursting, Matsuo bowed as low as he could along with the rest of the throng.
The second day of the ceremony was taken up with ritual baths and the ringing of bells throughout the city to summon all the Emperor's ancestors.
On the third day came the rite of Daijosai, the Thanksgiving Festival. All foreigners were excluded from this. The Emperor bathed and donned a robe of pure white. After his hands were cleaned by a Shinto priest, he went out to the grounds of the Imperial Palace where two huts had been constructed of raw pine and held together by vines. Barefoot, under an umbrella of woven rushes, he walked along a torch-lit path upon a carpet of rushes which was rolled up after him so that no other might trod it. He entered the first hut, the curtains were drawn, and he was left alone within to serve and wait upon the Goddess Amaterasu. Hours later, the Emperor entered the second hut to repeat the ceremony. Finally, with the coming of the dawn, he retired.
Matsuo had not slept at all during the entire three days. Far from tired, he felt exhilarated by the Enthronement. He felt as if the centuries between himself and all his ancestors had been breached and that they had been in silent communion with him throughout the ceremonies. He felt alive, refreshed, renewed. He was ready to face anything.
Even America.
1929
THE YEAR OF THE SNAKE
OCTOBER
The last Tuesday in October—a day I'll never forget.
I had won the scholarship and was in my second year at the University of San Francisco. The engineering courses were going swimmingly. I had no morning classes on Tuesdays that semester so I was home having coffee in the kitchen when I heard shouting from Dad's office down the hall.
I looked at Mom. "What's going on?"
She sighed. "Probably your father's made another ‘killing' in the market." She looked tired as she puffed on her cigarette and sipped her coffee.
"I know you don't like the market," I began
"Don't like it? I hate it. It's not real."
"He's making millions."
"Millions on paper, but nothing real. A diamond is a real investment, gold is real—you can hold them in your hand and know you really own them. Even this house—" she stopped herself.
"I know it's mortgaged," I said.
"Mortgaged to the hilt. He's borrowed against everything we own. It's one thing to take a flyer or two, but it's quite another to risk the roof over our heads."
I stirred my coffee and said nothing. I had made heavy profits on the portfolio Dad had given me. Without telling him, I had sold most of it off two months ago and bought back the mortgages on the house. It was going to be my Christmas gift to both of them—but really to Mom because I knew how she had nightmares of being kicked out on the street. I was tempted to let her in on the secret so she could rest easy, but that would have ruined the Christmas present.
As I passed Dad's office, it sounded as if he were having a violent argument. He slammed down the phone as I peeked in.
His face was ashen. "My God, we're losing everything!"
Fear squeezed my gut. I had never seen him like this—positively frantic, striding from the ticker tape to the window, from the window to his desk, and from there back to the tape, running his hands through his hair as he muttered and shouted curses at the ceiling. He stopped moving only for glances at the ticker tape or for phone calls.
"Dad, what's wrong?"
"The Market! The bottom's dropping out of everything! Everything!"
"But didn't you tell me that a drop is just a signal to buy more at bargain prices?"
"A small drop, yes, but this is a catastrophe! All my margin accounts are calling. I've got to put up tens of thousands I don't have to cover them!"
"Can't you sell—?"
"Nobody's buying! And I'm already borrowed to the eyeballs! Somebody's got to do something about this, and fast! They should close the Market and let things cool off!" He glanced at the clock on his desk. "My God, it's only ten! Two more hours to go in New York! If it keeps up like this I'll be ruined! Completely ruined!"
"It's not so bad, Dad. I—"
"Don't tell me what's bad!" he screamed, his face turning scarlet. "You have no idea of the magnitude of what's happening!"
With his wild eyes and disheveled hair he looked almost insane then, and it frightened me. I took a step back from him.
"But Dad—!"
"Get out! Get out and leave me alone! I've got to think and I can't do it with you standing there making inane remarks!"
I left him there shaking his fists at the air. I wanted to tell him that we still had the house but guessed that now was not the best time. Maybe tomorrow, when he was more rational.
But tomorrow never came for Dad.
I awoke that night to my mother's screaming and followed the sound to the study where my father sat in his chair at his desk, a bullet hole in his forehead and blood and brains splattered all over the wall behind him.
* * *
It had been a short service after a brief closed-casket wake, and now I stood at the graveside and cried openly as they lowered him into the ground. Maybe he hadn't been the best father in the world, and maybe he hadn't been around as much as other fathers, but he had always seen the good things in people and in life. He had made his share of mistakes—the worst being his final act—but he had had such vitality and enthusiasm that I forgave him. I missed him terribly.
So I stood there, feeling hollow, beyond shock, beyond any emotion but grief after the ordeal of the past two days. Yet when I looked up at the graveside mourners, I received another shock. Far to the rear, standing next to a tree, was a vaguely familiar form. I wiped my eyes to clear my vision.
It was Matsuo. It had been almost three years. He was taller, broader, his face was different, changed, distorted somehow, but there was no doubt in my mind that it was Matsuo.
As soon as our eyes met, he turned and walked away. I wanted to run after him but I couldn't leave my mother alone at the graveside. So I stood there in silence and watched him disappear into the greenery.
Matsuo was back in
America. But where? I knew I had to find him. I had to apologize. I had to explain.
1930
THE YEAR OF THE HORSE
JANUARY
I didn't think I'd ever get over not having Dad around, but after a while the shock and the grief found their niches and our homelife began to settle into a new pattern. That was when I began to search for Matsuo. I wandered around Japantown in my spare time but never caught sight of him. I checked through the registration at the University of San Francisco but no one named Okumo was listed. I was beginning to think I had been imagining things.
As a last resort, I decided to try my luck across the bay. There were a number of Japanese students on the Berkeley campus. I thought I might talk to some of them and see if they could help me. Trouble was, I couldn't find any when I wanted to. I asked around the campus as to where I might find them. The general consensus was, "Who cares."
I gave up. Most likely I had been imagining Matsuo's presence. I'd been under tremendous stress at the time and my mind had picked someone out of a simpler, happier time to see.
Sure. That was it. There was no other rational explanation. Why couldn't I make myself believe it?
On what I had sworn was to be my last day of searching over at Berkeley, I was sitting in the student cafeteria drinking a cup of coffee when I had a vision.
A group of girls, obviously just out of class, entered in a bunch, laughing, giggling, scanning the room to see if any of the Big Men On Campus were present. Their eyes slid over me like brook water over a mossy rock. And then someone broke from their group and took a seat at an empty table where she sat alone studying while she sipped and stirred her cup of tea. She was Japanese and wore a white silk kimono embroidered with pink cherry blossoms. Her hair was flawlessly black and straight, and her thick bangs blended perfectly with the rest of the hair that framed her face. And what a face. High cheekbones and dark, almond-shaped eyes, bow lips, and utterly flawless skin.
I could not remember ever seeing a woman half so beautiful. I'm sure that to almost anyone else in the room she stuck out like a sore thumb; but to me she was a swan gliding through a pool filled with toads.
I was mesmerized. I found myself on my feet and moving toward her. I stopped at her table where she sat alone. All the other girls had clustered elsewhere in clucking cliques. Finally, she looked up from her book.
* * *
Meiko sat and thought of how miserable she was in America.
She missed her mother and father. She missed her friends. She missed Japan. Most of all, she missed feeling that she belonged. If one—just one—American girl in all her classes had responded in kind to any of her friendly gestures, her whole outlook might have changed. But it seemed that she was condemned to be "the different one" in this university, condemned to be an outsider by her kimonos and her wooden geta and her difficulties with certain consonants.
The boys who had approached her had been friendly enough at first—warmly lascivious in their approach and angrily cruel in their retreat when they discovered that she was not interested in any relationship that went beyond friendly conversation.
Matsuo Okumo was the only person on this entire barbaric continent who kept her from despair. She had changed her mind about Hiroki's younger brother. He was not an ill-bred bumpkin who did not know proper behavior. She had seen his progress at the Gakushuin where he had learned to act as a true Japan man almost perfectly. She qualified her approval with an "almost" because she had always been able to spot his faux pas—but only because she was watching for them. To any casual observer, Matsuo would have blended in perfectly.
Here in America it was almost the same. He could not hide his pigmentation or facial features, of course, but he managed to blend in extraordinarily well nonetheless. Meiko still found herself bowing at the slightest provocation; Matsuo had dropped immediately the bows that were such a part of daily Japanese life. His walk and even his posture had changed. He now moved like an American. And his English—utterly flawless. He seemed to have not the slightest bit of trouble with the alien consonants that plagued her so.
And so attentive. He saw to it that she wanted for nothing. He toured her through San Francisco and the beautiful valleys inland. He had become her safe haven among the barbarians and she found herself looking forward more and more to their times together.
And yet . . . the better she got to know Matsuo and the more she grew to like him, the less she understood him. Secrets hid deep within him, in places he let no one see. But that made him all the more interesting. She felt challenged to penetrate his mystery.
He had unpredictable idiosyncrasies—such as his obsession with the American game of pool. Hardly a day would pass when she wanted to talk to him or be with him and he would say that he had to go practice pool. Honestly, at times it was quite—
"Konnichi wa."
Meiko started at the sound of an unfamiliar voice saying a familiar word. She looked up and saw a dark-haired American boy standing across the table, holding a tray with two cups and saucers.
"Yes. Hello and good day to you, as well," she said, off balance from his use of her native tongue—the first time since her arrival that an American had spoken a single word of Japanese to her.
"I brought you another tea," he said in surprisingly good Japanese.
"Koohii o nomimasu," she said quickly, telling him that she drank coffee.
His flustered expression and his stammered, "Oh, I'm so sorry, but I thought I saw a tea bag by your cup," convinced her that he had understood her.
"Actually, I hate coffee," she said in English. "I was just testing to see if you really spoke Japanese or had merely memorized a few phrases."
"May I sit here?" he said.
She could tell right then that he was terribly shy, but could not resist testing him again
"Hito de ippai dewa arimasen."
He told her in near-perfect Japanese that he was well aware that the room was not crowded but that he found this particular table the most appealing.
She laughed. "How can I refuse?"
His name was Frank Slater, an engineering major, and he was charming. His Japanese was surprisingly good, and since it was obvious that he wanted to try it out on her, she let him. The more he spoke, the better it got. And gradually his shyness drifted away. She liked him, whoever he was.
"Have you been to Japan?" she asked.
"No. But I'd like to visit someday."
"Then how did you learn to speak my language so well?"
He ran a hand across his face and as his fingers brushed at the hair hanging over his forehead, she caught a glimpse of a purple mark running up from his left eye.
"From a boyhood friend who was Japanese. He and his uncle taught me many things Japanese besides the language. We were the best of friends. Grew up together, in fact. Then I . . . he returned to Japan suddenly three years ago and I haven't seen him since. Or rather, I thought I saw him a couple of weeks ago and I've been searching for him."
"What's his name?" Meiko said. She had a strange feeling about this. "Maybe I know him."
"His name's Matsuo. Matsuo Okumo. Have you heard of him?"
Meiko was startled not only by Frank's mention of Matsuo's name, but by the way Matsuo himself suddenly appeared behind Frank like a ghost out of the night.
"Is that him?" she said, gazing over Frank's head into Matsuo's eyes.
Frank spun and leapt to his feet.
"Matsuo!"
He took an uncertain step forward, then retreated, as if repelled by what he saw. Then he stepped forward again, his arms rising as if to embrace him, but Matsuo turned instead to her and bowed.
"Frankie and I have matters to discuss outside," he said. "Excuse us."
He bowed again, then gripped Frank's upper arm and guided him from the cafeteria.
Meiko sat mute and still. She’d seen a new look in Matsuo's eyes just now, so cold, so bleak, it chilled her to the marrow. She had never imagined him capable of such dark feeli
ngs, but they had been there for all to see.
And Frank Slater seemed to be the cause.
* * *
Matsuo. I'd found him. God, it was good to see him again. Now I could explain everything.
But his face. My God, his nose had been broken and bent to the right. He was still clear-eyed and square-jawed, but that misshapen nose changed his face dramatically. I knew who was responsible for that deformity, and it made me sick.
He had changed in other ways, as well. As he strode ahead of me, I saw he had grown taller since we had parted, more sleekly muscular, with broader shoulders. And he moved differently. He had been vaguely tentative and hesitant in the past, but no longer. Here was a young man who knew exactly who he was and exactly where he was going.
"Matsuo," I said as soon as we stepped out into the hall. "I've been looking all over for you. Why didn't you—?"
"Stay away from her," he said coldly as he turned toward me. "She belongs to another."
"Matsuo, I was only talking to her."
He jabbed a finger at me. "Stay away."
I backed up a step. I had rehearsed this meeting in my mind endlessly for two years. I had worked out a plausible explanation for my cowardice and had structured a convincing plea for understanding and forgiveness.
But just as my courage had deserted me almost two years ago, so did my carefully rehearsed speech now. His eyes were cold and stony. I looked for anger there, or hatred or pity, anything that might tell me I had a chance of being forgiven. In a desperate search for something to open with, I said,
"Why were you at my father's funeral?"
"To 'pay my respects,' as you say. He was a fair man. He treated me as he did everyone else. I have found that rare in America. I was sorry to learn of his accident."
I felt a now familiar lump forming in my throat. Accident. That was how it had been reported in the obituary. Some accident.
"I—I thank you for coming," I said. "But why didn't you wait around after the service? Mom would have liked to see you. And I've been wanting to talk to you. For years."