Читать книгу After the Bloom - Leslie Shimotakahara - Страница 8

Some afternoons they took long walks together under the tattered canopy of dead fruit trees. Yellow splotches of brittlebush and spiny hopsage tickled Lily’s ankles. She tried to brush against Kaz’s side so he’d take her hand, but he seemed oblivious to the opportunity.

He just kept rambling on about his hick dreams. Before the war he’d been driving down the coast, taking pictures of the lush strawberry farms owned by Japanese farmers, salt of the earth. That was what he planned do after the war: buy a farm and start afresh.

“When I think of how those farms had to be sold off or abandoned, I want to kill somebody. That land belongs to our people.” He spat on the parched, colourless ground.

“Don’t you think you could do more good by following in your father’s footsteps?”

“Naw, I’m just a med-school flunky. Couldn’t even pass the entrance exam. I don’t know why the old man deludes himself I’m gonna be a doctor after the war.”

“You could be! Why don’t you get involved in the JACC? That’d look good on a med-school application.”

“I’m no Jackalope. Who appointed them as our leaders anyway? They’re just a bunch of college boys the government propped up after they’d dragged all the real leaders off to jail.”

Shame spread over Lily. Her father had been one of the men the FBI singled out first as an issei leader, an elder. They’d shown up in the middle of the night when he was in his pyjamas and hadn’t even let him change before dragging him in for questioning. Now he was imprisoned someplace far away and hadn’t responded to her letters in months. Why wouldn’t the JACC do anything to help him?

Japanese American Citizens Confederacy. JACC. It was getting to be a bad word around here. At first, all the nisei guys were members. You had to be a nisei — second generation, Japanese-American — in order to belong. Not surprisingly, the issei didn’t like being excluded. Nor did the kibei, that proud group of young men educated in Japan. Apparently, the government considered them the most dangerous, traitorous group of all.

JACCers. Jackalopes. Jackrabbits. Traitors. Lapdogs. The guys who sold the community out. While people once felt privileged to be associated with the JACC, now many were jumping ship. They were worried that next the fingers would be pointed their way with name-calling and raised fists.

Much as she felt terrible about her dad, why did Kaz have to swing so far in the opposite direction? He’d taken a liking to a certain group of kitchen boys who stood around outside the mess hall, immersed in smoke and secrecy. It bothered her that Kaz dressed as though he were part of their gang. Time and time again, she urged him to be more careful. Fantasizing that she alone had the power to reform him, reshape him in his father’s image. And then he’d marry her and they’d live in a beautiful white house with a trellis, like all doctors’ families, right in the centre of town.

Kaz laughed her warnings off. “What are you so scared of?”

“Are you crazy? You know where they send the troublemakers — a far worse prison.”

She’d heard rumours that the uniforms had a giant X on the back to make it easier for guards to shoot anyone trying to escape. Her poor father. If anything happened to him, she’d have no one.

“Look around you, Lily. Truth is they’re understaffed as hell. If we wanted, we could have the run of the place, easy.”

Something crumpled inside her when Kaz talked this way.

“What’s wrong, Water Lily? You’re crying.”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

“You can tell me.”

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

He leaned in and their lips brushed, her tears pooling, salty as seawater, in the cleft between their mouths. He kissed her more deeply and her arms reached for his shoulders, as though she were seizing a lifebuoy or a slippery rock.

“Can’t I take your picture?”

So they were back to this again. “Where’s your camera, Kaz?”

He extended the wooden box that was always tucked under his arm.

“That’s not a camera. It looks more like a lunch box.”

“That’s exactly what I want people to think. Can you keep a secret?”

She nodded.

He lifted the lid to expose a black metal dial. “It was easy enough to sneak in this lens and shutter. My friend Shig, who’s a carpenter, he made this box from scraps of wood, attaching the lens to an old pipe so the camera can focus.” He smiled at her astonishment.

“But … the film? How do you get the film?”

“You’d be surprised. Not everyone who works here agrees with what the government’s done. Some people are actually on our side.”

Someone on staff was sneaking in rolls of film?

From the satchel over his shoulder, Kaz pulled out something that expanded into a peculiar three-legged stand. He perched the camera down on top of it. “C’mon. It’s just one picture.”

“There’s a guard right over there. He can see us!”

“Oh, don’t worry about him. We have an understanding.”

And it was true: for some reason, the guard looked right past them. Because Kaz was the doctor’s son. Surely that must be why they cut him so much slack.

“So, okay then?”

There was something about the way Kaz kept looking at her, as if he alone had the power to create her image by crafting this whole desert mise en scène. Marlene Dietrich in Morocco, maybe. Or perhaps he was envisioning her as a more American girl — the spunky prostitute in Stagecoach, run out of town by those righteous ladies. She gazed out at the untamed landscape, hoping that she, too, would find her final refuge in John Wayne’s brawny arms.

“Smile like you’re Miss California.”

So she smiled. Blindly, she smiled. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t trying to look demure or dainty, she was just responding to the glow of energy on this man’s face, bright as the flash of a camera.

Aunt Tetsuko clomped over in homemade geta sandals, which Uncle Mas had fashioned from scraps of wood. She tripped on a knot of sagebrush that poked up between the floorboards. Her hair was pulled up in an old scarf like a cleaning lady. Lily was glad that her father had been spared from seeing his sister go to seed.

The hand on Lily’s arm felt like a chicken foot. “Who’s this boy you’ve been seen with?”

Ignoring the question, Lily pushed aside the grey blanket draped across the room like a curtain to partition off a small private space, where she shared a bunk bed with her cousin Audrey. Straw poked up through the crude mattress cover, rustling, itchy against the thighs.

Lily’s old bed had had a frilly white bedspread. Her collection of Japanese dolls used to perch on the dresser. She’d had to give them away to hakujin friends — supposedly for safekeeping, but she doubted she’d get them back. They’d had to pack quickly; she’d had to report to the community centre early the next morning, where the bus had come to get them. In the end, she’d just stuffed as many dresses as she could into two pillowcases and dragged them down the street. How she wished she’d brought a pretty blanket or a nice sheet at least.

Aunt Tetsuko followed and clawed her arm again. “Who is he? I won’t have you running around like some of the silly girls here!”

Youth was in the air — a new spirit of risk and rebelliousness that accompanied fathers and elders being dragged off. You could feel it in the way many of the young people eyed each other adventurously and kissed right out in the open. It terrified folks of Aunt Tetsuko’s generation, who’d barely dared to glance at the opposite sex until proper introductions had been made.

“He’s Dr. Takemitsu’s son. He’s taking care of me. I’m going to be his girl.”

An exhausted laugh. “Baka! Stupid girl.”

“Shush.”

They had to be careful not to say anything too loudly because the flimsy partitions between apartments didn’t extend as high as the ceiling. Raised voices and grunts of all kinds could be heard; the creaking and moaning of young couples trying to have honeymoons went on and on all night. Lily didn’t want her news being broadcast across camp.

She turned away and curled up on the bed, face to the wall. Her aunt’s dismissive words continued to gnaw at her. Who could deny that Kaz was chummy with Susie Tadashi and Kei Takahara and who knew who else? And Kei — with her chipmunk cheeks — wasn’t even pretty. But he’d taken their pictures, too. A whole album full of other girls. Although Lily tried to pretend it didn’t bother her, a lizard was scaling the walls of her stomach.

Darkness fell like a shroud. Coldness seeped into her bones, a numbness that was almost comforting. Aunt Tetsuko was arguing with Uncle Mas in Japanese, her voice barely a crackle above the whoosh. Sand whipped up against the side of their quarters and rocks flew up, hit the walls, made them tremble. Through the cracks in the floorboards, a steady stream of fine white powder sprayed up, settling on everything. The air was soon thick as fog.

A guard’s footsteps. His flashlight sent glitter over their window. In front of the barbed wire fence, just beyond the next barrack, the watchtower beamed down its Cyclops light, turning figure eights across the gusty ground.

Frank Isaka’s back, everyone was saying, all in an uproar. Curious how the name of the president of the JACC — the very name once said with pride, with hope — now left a bitter taste in people’s mouths.

Lily tried to stay aloof from all the gossip. It would blow over; it always did. People were being too harsh on Frank. When he came to give talks, she still liked his fresh-faced charisma, his self-assured voice. After hearing him talk, she always felt better, like she was protected, because she was nisei and the JACC would take care of her.

She made her way to the area outside the largest mess hall, where a podium had been set up on a stage bearing the JACC banner. A sizable crowd had gathered, some faces surly, others bright and attentive.

A few years ago, Frank first came to the community’s attention. Even in those early days he was fond of slogans. They stood him in good stead in the months leading up to the internment, as the government must have seen it would need some leader to convince the Japanese people to go peacefully. And how eloquently Frank delivered that message: Go calmly, without protest, without fuss. What were those snappy phrases he’d used over and over again? “The end justifies the means.” “The greatest good for the greatest number.” And in the vast land of America, the Japanese community proved but a small number indeed. At times, his speeches took on an apocalyptic fervour, as though he were a country preacher: “We know that our exodus will be a patriotic sacrifice, and what a sacrifice it will be. But the government should not fear any resistance on our part. Our people will go protesting only one thing — their patriotism to the United States flag…. We shall look at this movement as a grand adventure, of the order that our parents took in pioneering the new country, like the hardy souls of Biblical times….”

His speech today, however, had a less upbeat tone. Frank was talking about how certain “seeds of bitterness” had been planted throughout the community by a handful of “bad apples,” who, out of nothing other than boredom and malice, had taken it upon themselves to “stir the pot” at every opportunity. Naturally, he didn’t want to say too much, preferring to talk around these “unfortunate incidents.”

Of course, everyone knew what he was actually referring to.

An image of Bob’s swollen face, the other day at the hospital, flashed in Lily’s mind.

“It’s up to us to come together as a community, a family.” Frank’s arms rose in an expansive gesture. “Nisei, issei, kibei — we need to look beyond these superficial divisions. Only then will we win the respect of the American people.”

A hush settled over the crowd. Some nisei nodded, their faces aglow, still convinced he was their prophet. Others muttered under their breath and some were hissing, softly at first, yet it grew louder, like steam escaping from a pot.

“What d’you know about what we need to do?” someone shouted out. “You’re hardly even here. You’re off travelling the country making pretty speeches!”

Frank pretended he hadn’t heard or maybe he really hadn’t. Nothing could penetrate his shell of confidence, his unbreakable smile.

The photo showed a girl walking across a windy desert, her face hidden beneath a tangle of hair. Hair blending into ribbons of flying sand. Skin melting in the thick, shimmering heat.

The picture didn’t at all match how Lily envisioned herself: if it was her, it also wasn’t her. Or it was one of the other hers. That faint kaleidoscope of shattered, other selves whirring along the edges of consciousness — so fast, so light, it was difficult to know if they existed at all.

But Kaz said the picture was beautiful. It was hers to keep. More pictures followed. Her face caught in so many varied, fleeting expressions that never quite felt like her own.

Other times, he gave her shots of the landscape: the sultry hor­izon, its mesmerizing flatness and sudden curves, mountains soaring up into the ink-washed sky.

The camp got an order for camouflage nets, so a factory was built overnight.

Lily and the other women were led into an open-air building, twenty feet high. From a massive stand, hemp nets flowed down — giant spiderwebs across the sky. Their task was to weave long scraps of green and beige fabric through the web in zigzag patterns.

Her shoulders ached, her fingers cramped up. Hemp bits snowed down on her cheeks.

“It’s crazy,” a girl named Sachi said under her breath. “We’re not loyal enough to walk in the street, but we’re good enough to take the jobs no one else wants?”

“Just be glad you have a job,” Mrs. Okada said down the line.

Silence fell over the group. Only the nisei were allowed to work in the net factory, and since their wages were the best in the camp, the issei folks were furious.

Lily tried to focus on her work. A peculiar smell — as though someone had placed a penny in salt water — filled her nostrils. The skyline faded and fell away from her, a swoosh of blue.

When she came to, she was lying on a bench and Mrs. Okada was stroking her forehead. She felt wasted, limp as an overboiled vegetable.

Mrs. Okada and her daughter helped Lily to the doctor’s office. Dr. Takemitsu appeared startled but pleased to see them.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such a bother.”

“You’re not meant to work so hard. You shouldn’t be in that factory. I’m going to get you a job in my hospital.”

The nurse pressed a glass to Lily’s lips and the cool water rushed down her throat, cleansing away the dust and grime. She tried to keep her eyes open while the room spun gently.

“Rest.” The doctor’s face turned fuzzy, a receding shadow.

He was at her bedside when she awoke: the first thing she saw was the resemblance between father and son. Kaz had the same high cheekbones and slightly near-set eyes. The same stubborn lips. She could see how the years would add charcoal streaks and reconfigure his hairline. The thought of spending her life with him was so enticing that for a moment, she had a strange, misplaced impulse to lean forward and kiss the doctor’s lips.

“So I hear Kaz’s going to be a doctor.”

“Is that what he told you, Lily?”

“That’s what you told him.”

A bemused look, his expression relaxing for just a second. “Let me tell you something about being a doctor. It takes tenacity — stick-to-it-ness. Like the stickiness of good rice.”

“Kaz will come through. He’ll be the next Dr. Takemitsu.”

“You certainly are an optimist. His prospects aren’t great. He’s flunked the exam twice, and all he seems to care about is dancing and women.”

This was the first time Lily had seen the doctor let his guard down. It meant something to her that he felt comfortable talking to her so frankly. “Kaz does seem … kind of lost.”

“That’s putting it mildly. If it hadn’t been for the war, he’d have run off with that jazz singer from San Francisco. I was almost glad when the war struck, if you can believe it, because at least here I can keep an eye on him.” A soft, shuddering sigh. “He never was the same after his mother died when he was little.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Kaz’s mother was an incredible woman. She could have saved him. She was a woman so innocent and pure she never even wanted to get married.”

“How did you meet her?”

His face tensed up. Lily worried she’d overstepped, trod on too-intimate territory.

“I met her on the first trip I made back to Japan, after I’d graduated from med school. I went in order to find a wife. The baishakunin from my hometown had sent me photographs of picture brides.”

“And you selected Kaz’s mother.”

“Not exactly. I wanted to meet the women in person. I wasn’t about to just choose a wife from a photo and send her a ticket to America.”

“What was it like going to the matchmaker’s studio?”

“Horrible. All the women I’d selected were decked out in their best kimonos, their faces painted white, like geishas. Not one had a face that touched my soul.”

“Did you find another baishakunin?”

“No, I’d had it with the old ways. Figured I’d just stay a bachelor for the time being. Then the next morning, as I was walking down the street, a wisp of whiteness caught my eye: a young woman in a simple white dress. She was passing out rice cakes to homeless men and she looked at each dirty face with such gentleness, such love in her eyes. In Japan, beggars are very ashamed; they kneel with their foreheads pressed to the ground. But this girl — Fumiko, I’d later learn her name was — insisted they sit up and eat with dignity. Perhaps she took pity on them because she, too, came from a group that had been hated for centuries, the Kakure Kirishitans. Hidden Christians.”

“Christians were hated in Japan?”

“For over three hundred years. Whole communities were rounded up and their ears chopped off. They were made to repent or march hundreds of miles to their place of execution.” The doctor shook his head, like he couldn’t imagine the horrors. He talked about how this only attracted more converts as the religion was pushed underground. Fumiko’s family came from a sect of Hidden Christians who’d secretly worshipped in their homes for generations. “Of course, I didn’t discover any of this until later, after I’d gotten up the nerve to actually talk to her.”

Warmth spread across Lily’s chest as she watched the doctor’s face soften and glow. “How did you manage that?”

The doctor told Lily how the next day, he’d caught sight of the girl again. She was wearing the same white dress, this time with a veil over her head, pulled back such that he could glimpse her face. He trailed her for many blocks until they reached the edge of town, where a wooded area began. He followed her deep into the densely packed trees, clambering over rocks and boulders, and he tripped on some giant roots, nearly killing himself. Always that slip of translucent white, like a moth’s wings fluttering before him.

At last, he came to a clearing. There were rows of benches where people were seated while more people stood or perched on rocks around the edges. A small choir was gathered in front of the shrine; several priests and nuns were milling about greeting people. The girl in white was at the front with a cluster of people whom the doctor was later introduced to as her family. Several other ladies also had on white veils, including her twin sister, Haruko. As the doctor hung back, one of the priests began leading everyone in Hidden Christian prayers. “Orashio, as they call them. A soft, strange chanting in garbled Latin. The scene touched my heart and I knew that this was the woman I would marry.”

Lily thought about how the doctor must have looked that balmy morning in the glade, the sun refracting from the lush leaves, sending flecks of verdant light across his excited cheeks. The girl in white, the girl of his dreams, at the centre of all this beauty and strangeness. Even now, all these years later, his face shone at the memory. Love. Yes, this is what love looks like, Lily thought, and she wanted to draw closer to him — impulsively, desperately, like a moth to a votive.

She thought about how her own parents had met; though, their marriage couldn’t have been more different. In her earliest memories, she’d always been aware of her mother’s brittle moods and deep unhappiness: she’d never wanted to come to America as a picture bride; she’d never wanted to marry a man double her age — a dry cleaner no less. The matchmaker had duped her into it. She’d never adjusted to life away from home. Lily remembered watching her mother standing bewildered in her bedroom, her skirt falling down to her knees, as she struggled with the buttons. Clothes in Japan didn’t have buttons, and her fingers would never get used to the awkward motion. Lily had begged her to learn English and turned up the radio full blast in hopes that the English words would sink into her brain, but it hadn’t done any good. Her soul just faded away, lost in the memory of some distant koto music….

Whenever she thought about her mother, she felt herself slipping, her chest lurching, the ground loosening beneath her feet. The same feeling she’d had as a child, crouched under the kitchen table. It started gently with just a taunt — Can’t this woman get anything right? Can’t she even learn to cook pasta? — but then his hand unfurled in a slap and tightened into a fist. The thud of flesh against flesh, followed by her mother’s soft, stoic moaning. The beatings always seemed to be set off by some failure on her mother’s part to assimilate to American culture. Didn’t she realize that the porcelain plate with Eleanor Roosevelt’s picture in the centre was meant for hanging on the wall, not eating from? And was it really so difficult to learn to use a knife and fork?

Lily would curl into herself and pray that the release of violence might bring out her father’s relaxed, jovial side. Perhaps afterward her mother would clean herself up and her father would ask whether they wanted to go to the ocean for a picnic. The brisk air, the salty sting of tears. Gulls plunging and ascending across the horizon. The ocean scene somehow seemed to wash clean the situation, allowing Lily to forget what had just happened. So during the onslaught of violence, Lily learned to grasp on to these images and anticipate their purifying, lulling effect as she hid under the table and rocked on her haunches.

After her mother had left, her father’s drinking got worse, and the rumours spread by women in the community became more vicious by the day. Girls in Lily’s class were no longer allowed to associate with her. Your mother’s not coming back. She ran off with a man to Japan!

Her mother was rumoured to have met her lover on the ship that carried her back to Fukuoka. It was supposed to be just a visit to her ailing father. But that visit had turned into a lifetime of separation.

How different her mother’s life might have been if she’d married a man like Dr. Takemitsu. How different Lily’s own life could have been, too.

Things got worse. Late at night, her father would stagger around the house calling out for his wife, commanding her to fetch another bottle from the basement. Lily tried to soothe him by bringing whatever he asked for, and later she’d help him out of his clothes as he flopped onto the bed like a dead whale. Some nights he’d throw his sweaty arms around her and at first she thought he was just trying to get his balance, but it soon became clear there was a darker intention running through his body. “My little cherry blossom,” he called out, pulling her closer, his words slurring, “you always were so much sweeter than your mother….” She giggled to pretend it was all a joke. By tomorrow he’d sober up and everything would be just fine.

His moods only became more turbulent, however. While preparing dinner, she sensed his eyes following her backside, watching her every move.

Her head felt muddled because she wanted to please him, and if that meant replacing her mother — by cooking his favourite meals, by rubbing his feet — she was willing to try. The more she tried, the more he demanded when he’d come into her room late at night. She didn’t want to trust her memories…. That stale breath wafting down her neck in torrents, those callused, apelike hands making her go all soft and buttery, and she knew that what he was doing to her was horrible and disgusting and she wanted it to stop, yet she couldn’t afford to enrage him.

Gauzy white curtains hung across her bedroom window. She slept with the window open that summer when she was ten, when it happened a lot. The night breeze caught the translucent fabric and whipped it through the air, making her think of a tormented ghost, and she was able to imagine that it was her — it was her ghost whipping up a frenzy and flying up to the ceiling and billowing outside.

“Everything all right, Lily? You’re awfully quiet.”

Blushing, she prayed the doctor couldn’t see into her polluted mind. This man — so gentle, so wholesome, so good — appeared before her as everything her own father had never been.

“What my son needs is the influence of a good woman.”

“A good woman?”

“I’ve seen how Kaz looks at you and follows you around. He’d listen to you. You could help him.”

“What are you so worried about?”

“Kaz’s always hanging around those boys. The troublemakers.”

“Oh, he isn’t close to them.”

“Don’t delude yourself. I’ve seen them together.”

“He’s just a friendly guy. Friendly to everyone.”

“If anything happens, I want you to know you can come to me. Anytime. I would be grateful, Lily-san.”

She nodded, caught off guard, unsure of what exactly he was asking of her.

“In fact, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me what’s going on with my son, from time to time.”

“You want me to … spy on Kaz?”

“I want you to look out for him. He doesn’t have the best judgment, you see.”

As she nodded again, heat rushed over her face, warmed by the doctor’s bright, approving gaze.