Читать книгу Subduction - Todd Shimoda - Страница 7

Dealing with demons? I hadn’t met her yet, but I believe I was the one dealing with demons. Ms. Sunada for one. Her mask of pain still haunted me in a way I didn’t believe anything could. But whatever his motive, the seismologist’s warning wasn’t going to scare me away from meeting Mari Sasaki.

I spent the rest of the morning looking through the patients’ files. My patients’ files. I was struck with the irony that the only doctor on the island was a disgraced first-year resident intern. I pitied the poor residents of Marui-jima.

In Mrs. Takahashi’s file I found only five entries during her seventy-eight years of life, and all were relatively minor illnesses or sprains. Apparently the innkeeper never had children, no births were noted. The last entry was four years ago: she injured her shoulder, a rotator cuff strain. The treatment recommended was alternating ice and heat, and rehabilitation exercises. No follow-up visit was indicated.

I put away the files. The stuffy, mildewed air in the clinic was getting to me, and as I had no appointments, I went out for a walk.

Because of the island’s small radius, the road curved quickly and only a tiny arc of the island could be seen in one view, making the island seem even smaller. Along the road, the buildings were built so close it was difficult to tell where one started and one stopped. Occasionally, the island’s slope was too steep to build a structure and there was a break in the continuous line of homes and other buildings. In other areas, with a less steep slope, more than one tier could be built. Those homes climbed up the hill like teetering mountain goats.

I stopped at one of the island’s houses. Like the clinic, its siding was warped and split. I stepped closer and found I could peer through cracks into the house. The deep shadows and emptiness of the home made me shiver. I hurried away from the house and continued around the island.

I walked a good while before I encountered one of the islanders: she was sitting on the stone entryway of a dilapidated home as neatly maintained as a department store in Ginza. “Hello, obâ-san,” I said, trying to sound friendly and affectionate by calling her “granny.” I assumed she wasn’t Mari Sasaki.

The woman looked up at me but didn’t say anything. I said, “Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Mari Sasaki. Have you seen her perhaps?” The woman pointed ahead, in the clockwise direction. “Thank you very much,” I said, not sure if she had been helpful.

As I walked away, I felt dizzy and thought I was having a surge of residual seasickness. But the island was shaking in a mild earthquake. The waves of energy quickly dissipated. I looked around for any damage; the buildings I had seen so far looked to be in bad shape. No wonder the government forced the islanders to evacuate—a good earthquake would collapse them like they were made from dry reeds. I don’t know, maybe the island itself would crumble into the sea.

I came to a place that turned slightly toward the center of the island, an eroded break from the constant arc, and the gully created a gap in the continuous line of buildings. Away from the island the sea appeared calm, but the breakers crashing on the rocks below sprayed foamy seawater into the air, almost reaching me. The scene created an illusion of standing on the bow of a ship as it slipped through the ocean. Halfway down the cliff was a pile of splintered and bleached-white wood from a house that gave up to an earthquake or the winds of a typhoon.

Two women—one elderly, one much younger—appeared around the curve of the road. The younger woman, maybe in her mid-thirties, I guessed, wore faded blue jeans, tennis shoes, a simple white T-shirt. Her long hair was held back in a ponytail. A bulky camera bag was slung across one shoulder. At her side, the old woman clutched her arm just above the elbow.

When the younger woman saw me, she hesitated, then stopped. I took a couple of steps toward them. “Excuse me,” I said, “you must be Mari Sasaki.”

The young woman said, “Yes, I am.” The other woman whispered something to Mari that I didn’t catch. Mari shook her head. The woman said something else, then cackled. Mari laughed softly.

I smiled politely and introduced myself. “I’m Jun Endo, the new doctor.”

She nodded as if she already knew that. “It's nice to meet you,” she said. “I promised to help Mrs. Nagano. You can come with us, if you like.”

I started to suggest that she deal with her first, but said, “All right, if you don’t mind.” The two women pressed on with their journey. I lagged behind and watched the two as they walked a few steps ahead. Their pace was agonizingly slow: One or two steps, stop, chat, another step or two, stop, chat.

Finally, they came to a house that leaned severely toward the road. Mari led the woman inside. I walked up to the home. The lean of the structure didn’t look as bad as it had from the road; perhaps it was a distortion caused by the slope of the cliff on which it was perched. I tapped on a wood column; it sounded hollow, probably suffering from rot. I wondered if the house was securely attached to the foundation. If it wasn’t, a good earthquake would likely shake it loose and send it sliding down. Of course, I wasn’t an engineer or a seismologist, so what did I know.

A short, old-style plaster wall separated the home from the adjacent building. The plaster was a spider web of cracks, and a chunk the size of a serving plate had fallen off, exposing the rotted wooden frame beneath.

when I

enter this place

I rapped on the door to the home, opened it, and called out, “Excuse me, but are you going to be long?”

The house smelled of mildew, and the plaster on the interior walls was also cracked or patched in many places. The color of the plaster gradated from faded yellow to white, depending on how much direct sunlight it received. The floor mats were worn enough that the backing showed.

Mari’s voice came from a back room, as well as the sound of water rushing from a faucet. “I’m sorry. Please come inside to wait if you want.”

I slipped out of my shoes and stepped inside. A simple, brushed calligraphy scroll hung in an alcove opposite the entrance. I couldn’t read the characters; the script was highly-stylized old Japanese, although they looked vaguely like the characters for “sea wave.”

The water stopped and a few moments later Mari came out from the back, drying her hands on a handkerchief. Her face was neither too round nor too thin, and her eyes were soft. She was certainly attractive enough, even with her lack of makeup and simple hairstyle. Or perhaps because of it. She folded her handkerchief and slipped it into her pocket. “Welcome to Marui-jima,” she said.

“Thank you.” Her statement was likely meant to be sincere, but I thought I detected a note of sarcasm.

She raised her head, glanced at me as if able to hear my thoughts, then looked toward the calligraphy. “It means ‘old wave.’ Her great-grandfather painted it.”

By “her” I assumed she meant the old woman. “Interesting.”

Mari gave me a small smile. “I’m sure you meant that.”

I had meant it, really, but didn’t feel like convincing her. “How long have you been here?”

“About a month.” She gestured to the low table in the middle of the room. “Would you care to sit down? I don’t think Mrs. Nagano would mind if we borrowed her house for a few minutes. I promised I’d help her move some of her things to a new house. This one is getting too rickety. Would you like some tea or something else to drink?”

“Actually, tea would be nice.” She seemed pleasant enough, I thought. Distracted, but not dealing with demons.

She returned in a moment carrying a tea service that Mrs. Nagano must have already prepared. As Mari leaned slightly forward to place the tray on the table, her T-shirt fell away from her chest, and I could see the swelling of her breasts. I blinked and averted my gaze. She seemed not to notice, and I accepted the cup of tea. The tea was foamy with bright green bubbles, made from the powder used in tea ceremonies, which I didn’t usually like but now it tasted good.

Mari raised her cup and took a sip. Her unpolished fingernails were trimmed short and one finger bore a small narrow scab. “I saw a report on TV news about the island being evacuated. Many of the senior citizens on the island didn’t want to leave. I remember one woman who answered the reporter’s question with ‘Where would I go? This is my home.’ I suppose that struck me as a powerful thing to say. You know, she really had a strong feeling of home, of belonging to a place. I felt that she believed she would die if she left the island.” She looked toward the back of the house. “That’s her.”

“You mean the woman who was interviewed? Mrs. Nagano?”

She nodded. “I came to the island to see if I could help. And, I suppose, to see if I could understand their feelings about the island.”

“I heard you’re a filmmaker.”

Mari sipped her tea. “From Aki?” she asked. “Of course, it was Aki. I suppose he had other things to say about me.”

“No, not really.”

She laughed. “You’re not a very good liar.”

The old woman, Mrs. Nagano, called out from the back room. Mari said, “Excuse me, I really should get going.”

“Can I help?”

“Thank you for offering, but no. That wouldn’t be a good idea.” She gave me a pleasant smile and a sideways glance that had a bit of seductiveness to it.

Of course, it was likely my imagination. Or wishful thinking.

I’m not a good judge of people on first impressions, or later ones for that matter. It takes me a long time to figure out a person. So it could have been that problem which kept me from seeing Mari’s demons, real or not, during our first meeting. True, she was introspective, although she simply may have been distracted.

I decided there was no rush to get to know her better. I would give her until tomorrow to fall in love with me.

Back at the harbor, three men were climbing onto the one boat that looked halfway seaworthy. I decided to be friendly to the natives and headed over to the pier. When I got up to the boat, the three men were in the engine compartment. I couldn’t see them but the hatch was open and I could hear them working.

I climbed onto the boat, and looked down into the engine compartment. Two of them I recognized, the floppy-hat-wearing driver of the truck and his bow-legged passenger. The other had a cigarette pinched between his lips. Not a safe practice, I thought. I did a quick mental review of burn treatments.

They were talking at the same time: “turn it that way,” “no, no,” “it’s that one over there,” “watch it, you old fool!”

I said, “Need some help?”

Three heads popped up. The floppy hat hit the compartment wall and drooped to one side. With a scowl, he adjusted it.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I’m the new doctor, Endo.”

They reluctantly grumbled their names. Harada was the one in the floppy hat, Nishio the one with bowed legs, and Ouchi, the smoker.

They stared at me for a second or two, then went back to work. I got down on one knee and watched them. Of course I knew very little about engines, so I wasn’t going to offer any advice. Harada seemed to be in charge. He fiddled with a few connections, tightening some of them. He checked wires, opened and closed valves. Seemingly satisfied, he told Nishio to start the engine. The old guy climbed up the ladder and ignored me as he went into the cabin.

The engine sputtered a little and died. Harada yelled at Nishio to try it again. The engine caught a little longer but still died. Harada and Ouchi argued about something, and then Ouchi climbed out of the engine compartment. He went over to the side of the boat where I assumed the nets were hauled in, and picked up a pole with a three-pronged hook on the end. I guessed it was used to pull the nets loaded with fish onto the deck.

Coming toward me, he waved the pole like a weapon. He was a scrawny old man, with the weak, raspy cough of someone with emphysema, but he wielded the pole like a pro baseball player. I made a quick and strategic retreat.