Chen eyed the pistol, then looked up at Dave with a bright smile. “Get doctor. Very good Chinese doctor. You sit. After, you come.” He gestured toward a small shed behind the house.
Dave almost nodded but shook his head instead. Keep your guard up, idiot.
Chen insisted. “You sit inside.” He pointed at the sun. “Hot.” He gestured at the shed again.
It would feel good to get a load off my feet. Stinking blisters. He relented, let Chen lead him behind the house and into the shed. The young man did his best to make him comfortable, clearing a Stone-Age-looking scythe and a crude plow out of his way. Dave settled on the floor in a shaded corner and sagged against the rickety plank walls. Chen perched in the doorway. The third soldier rested on the ground a few feet away.
Dave shifted his torso and propped his arm in its least painful position. It was cool under the thatched roof, the most comfortable he’d been since he bailed from Payback.
The rye. That was what he needed. He started to reach for the bottle in his breast pocket but noted Chen’s eyes on him.
Not now. Dang. That precious bottle was one thing he wasn’t going to share. He let his hand fall to the shed’s earthen floor.
“Very good Chinese doctor,” Dave repeated under his breath. Well, Chen, hope your doctor isn’t as backward as your farmers. Wonder what these people eat?
He fought to keep his eyes open, but he gradually lost the battle.
Voices outside woke him. His hand flew to the Colt’s grip. He sat bolt upright.
A shadow fell across the doorway. Several shadows. The fellow with the Hollywood-villain look was back. With company. And the others looked like soldiers, not doctors.
“China. China,” Chen reassured him.
“Mao? Or Chiang?”
“Chiang.”
The newcomers bobbed, smiled, and repeated the syllables, along with a lot of other babble. Chen coaxed him to come out of the shed. He took wary steps to the door, the Colt’s grip cool against his palm.
Six soldiers clustered around him, all in worn uniforms with leggings and the same blue-ball insignia. They smiled broadly as they filled the air with sing-song talk. A sallow-faced fellow gave Dave’s good hand a vigorous shake.
Chen carried on a rapid stream of back-and-forth discussion with the other soldiers. There seemed to be some kind of disagreement. After a long moment, Chen turned to Dave. “We go to doctor. You come.”
He looked his newfound friends over. Five guns against his Colt. The odds weren’t on his side.
I’d hate to drill a friendly. Sweat slicked his palms.
Chen gestured down the road.
His stomach rumbled on cue. These folks had enough Japanese trouble. They didn’t need their allies to parachute in and plug them.
He wiped his hands on his trousers and limped along with them.
Chapter Ten
Saturday, December 25, 1948
Osaka, Japan
That evening’s roundup had been a big one. In the district office waiting area, dozens of pan-pan perched on every surface and overflowed onto the floor.
To get recognized there would be unthinkable. If Papa-san found out, Miyako couldn’t imagine how he would react. She bowed her head and pulled the pins from her hair so it fell about her face.
It was difficult to move without stepping on a nylon-clad leg. When a pair of those legs turned out to be Kimi’s, Miyako settled next to her. “Now what?” She’d never been arrested.
“Now they interview us. And decide we all need to stay over for V.D. checks tomorrow. Then they keep us here until they get the results.”
“All of us?”
Kimi grimaced. “All of us. And it takes three days.”
“They’re going to keep us all three days, ah? No exceptions? I did nothing.”
Kimi snorted. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s enough.”
Kimi was right, of course. Prostitution was legal, but the police still knew how to harass a woman.
Miyako’s mind fluttered back and forth, a firefly in a jar. They had to let her go. Tonight, while she still had eight days before Delham’s presentation. Tonight, before Papa-san spent a whole day in the hospital, with no one to feed him or fix his kampo tea.
Kimi gave her a nudge. “If you can get your sergeant to come here and vouch for us, they might let us go tomorrow. After they hold us overnight for the exam.”
“He’s not going to be able to get off base for that. Besides, I’m not sure he’ll believe me.” The more she agonized, the bleaker her situation seemed. Caught in the wrong district, at the wrong time of night. No steady work. No family member with the means to support her. No story that would hold up under questioning.
They would assume she was guilty. Short of some gift from heaven—George-san appearing from nowhere, ready to tell them he was her husband—three of her eight days were gone. And what about Papa-san? She’d have to get a message to Tanaka-san somehow, asking her to see to him. She let out an exasperated sigh. She could never repay the debt she owed her kindly neighbor as it was.
And when she didn’t show up to pay the rent?
A sergeant motioned her over.
Goddess of Mercy, hear me now. Get me out of this thing and I’ll visit you at your Temple of the Wisteria Well. And I’ll bring a gift more substantial than a handful of incense sticks this time.
She sat across from the policeman. He introduced himself—Sergeant Shimizu. He poised a pen on a fresh notebook page. “I’m going to ask a few questions for our records. Your full name?”
She gave him her usual street name. “Ishikawa Midori.”
He wrote it down. “What were you doing in the Abeno this evening, ah?”
“I just got off my shift at the factory.” He wouldn’t call someone to verify that story at this time of night, would he? “I try to see my friend Kimi on my way home now and then.”
“Always a friend or a cousin or a sister with you women.” He tapped his pen on the desk. “Look. Here’s the truth. You’re going over for the exam no matter how much you lie. So you might as well give me the facts, ah? Now, Ishikawa—if that’s your name. How long have you been working the streets?”
“I’m not a prostitute.” She snorted and looked away from him.
She met a pair of eyes. An older man, studying her. She ducked her head, thinking the man seemed familiar. She had to search her memory a moment before she placed him. When she did, her stomach dove like a swallow after a moth.
Lieutenant Oda—or at least he was a lieutenant in his Navy days. One of Papa-san’s drinking buddies from the academy. Oh, it could not be any worse.
Oda-san moved toward them, his cane clacking along the floor. That was new since she’d seen him last, but he crossed the room with the same vigor she remembered. Sergeant Shimizu stood and bowed as he approached. She did the same.
“Matsuura-san? You? Here?” His voice seemed to fill the room.
Calm yourself. She bowed lower to veil her dismay. “Oda-san, how good to see you.” She took a deep breath. “It’s been some years.”
One corner of Sergeant Shimizu’s mouth rose in a derisive curl. “Ahh. Matsuura, is it?”
“Hai,” Oda said. “Daughter of Captain Matsuura, who commanded the cruiser Aoba. Clearly there’s been some, ah”—his eyes narrowed slightly—“mistake.” He turned to her. “Now, Matsuura-san, if you’ll come with me, please.”
She followed him across the floor, head high, determined to project a self-assured veneer. But beneath it, she squirmed with shame. Everyone in the room was staring at her, she was sure. Once the protected daughter of a noble family, now just another baishunfu—a woman who sold her spring. A whore.
According to the plaque on his door, Oda-san was a police captain now. He ushered her into his office and offered her a chair.
“Where’ve you been hiding, ah? I looked for months for your family after the war, but you’d vanished. I gave you up for dead. Finding you here
...” His mouth curved in a slight smile, but his eyes drilled into her face. “Quite surprising, yes?”
Perhaps she imagined an extra emphasis on the word quite. Perhaps. She returned his gaze with the most composed expression she could paste on. “I assure you I’m every bit as surprised.”
“You must be overwhelmed. Tea, perhaps?”
“That would be wonderful. Domo arigato.”
He pivoted, leaning on his cane. “Everyone’s consumed with this infernal raid. I’ll have to prepare it myself. I’ll be a minute.”
“Domo arigato.”
He clomped his way out of the room and closed the door behind him.
She perched on the chair, a torrent of emotions washing over her. How disarming it was, the way he was treating her. Like the young lady he’d known a few years ago. A few short years, but a different lifetime. A different Japan. A Japan where she’d had value, beyond the fifty yen a man paid for a “short service.” A Japan that no longer existed.
She chewed her lip. Could she turn this to her favor? If she could convince Captain Oda she was an innocent victim of the raid, if she could get him to vouch for her, she could go free—perhaps even tonight.
He returned, followed by a policeman carrying a tray with a basic tea service for two. The man’s eyes went wide with surprise at seeing her, but he bowed and said nothing. He left the tray.
Captain Oda sat across from her. “I’m intrigued to know how you managed to get caught up in this raid. You’re the last young woman I’d expect to find here.”
She lifted her cup and mustered an innocent pout. “I’m afraid it’s all a terrible mistake. I only stopped off there to visit with a friend.”
“Well, if that’s the case we’ll clear it up soon enough.”
“I would certainly appreciate it.” She gave him her sweetest smile. “I didn’t know you were with the police here in Osaka.”
“My blasted leg took me out of the Navy some years ago.” He rubbed one hand absently over his knee. “What’s it been since I’ve seen you? Five years, perhaps?”
“Wasn’t it the day Papa-san and my brother shipped out?” She’d never forget that day—the last time she saw Akira-san.
“Hai, so it was. And what a day.” Oda’s eyes lit at the memory. “Quite an accomplishment for your brother, to command a vessel at his age. A credit to your family.”
“Hai, but—”
“I know, child.” His eyes took on a fervent glow. “Akira-kun has joined the honored dead. Your brother’s warrior spirit will soon dwell in honor on Kudan Hill, ah?”
She bowed her ascent to this patriotic sentiment. Akira-san was the fortunate one. Wasn’t he better off residing in glory with the ancestors than living here in defeat?
“And I extend my congratulations on your honored father’s glorious death.”
His death? Hope mounted. If he believed Papa-san was dead, he wouldn’t look him up. “Hai.” Perhaps she responded a little too eagerly.
“So many brave Navy men. So many glorious deaths in battle.”
She answered with the expected formula. “I’m sure they wished it above all else.”
“And their families in a desperate state. Widows and orphans. No pensions. Getting by any way they can, yes?”
Any way they can. He’d heard how she was living. Already made up his mind about her guilt. All this courtesy was a ploy to relax her guard.
She was a hare in the hawk’s shadow.
Monday 20 April 1942
Jiangxi Province, China
Dave and his Chinese honor guard hiked a couple of miles in the subtropical sun. He was a walking bundle of misery. Searing pain in his torso and feet. An aching pit in his gut. Muscles screaming, mind cottoned with exhaustion. Head pounding. Each step required a fresh act of will.
How much farther? He caught Chen’s attention. “Need to rest a minute.” He settled on a boulder beside the path.
The men grouped around him and exchanged a few comments. Pete turned his back to him, crouched a little, and hitched his arms.
Chen made an odd waggling motion with his fingers that seemed to mean come here. “He take you, Dev.”
What kind of pansy do they think I am? Good thing he was too drained to roar out loud. The biggest of these kids didn’t come up to his nostrils. He took a swig from someone’s canteen and stood. “Very nice. But no thank you.” He made a pushing gesture along the path.
Chen still wore a frown. “You hurt. Maybe bad.”
“Yes. Let’s go.”
Chen shook his head, but they all hiked on.
Keep walking. One more step. One more step...
The ground tipped up and his knees found the dirt.
Dave came to with a start this time, and a cry of pain. He found himself flat on his back. An elderly Oriental man knelt beside him, probing along his shoulder blade.
Torture. I knew it. He jerked to a sit, sending a lightning bolt of white-hot agony blazing across his shoulder.
Wait—don’t they question you first?
“Okay, Dev.” Chen stood at his elbow. “This Doctor Liu.”
The doctor gave him a curt nod. “Please. You lie down.”
Dave took in the room. They had him on a ragged mat on the floor. Just Chen and the doctor—and a few ramshackle shelves, sparsely populated. A single low table with a pair of makeshift benches by way of furniture. A lot of peeling paint. And a nauseating odor of rotting fish.
No immediate threats.
He did as he was told, gritting his teeth. After a long moment the pain returned to a level he could handle.
He must have been out cold. They’d managed to get his shoes off without bringing him around. He noted with relief that his jacket and pistol lay in a neat pile on a shelf. His stout leather shoes stood by the door, anchoring a line of wooden clogs and sandals ordered by size.
Jacket. Pockets. Panic surged. “Where’s my whiskey?” He started to sit up again.
“This?” Chen held up one of the bottles. He had a canteen in his other hand, which he thrust at Dave. “Drink.”
Dave pushed the canteen aside and groped for the rye. Chen lifted it out of his reach. “Water, Dev.”
“All right, all right.” He accepted the canteen lying down and took awkward slurps that made him cough and dribble water across his chin.
Doctor Liu, a thick-jowled man with salt-and-pepper hair and a mournful slant to his eyes, watched Dave work at the canteen. The man’s yellowed teeth displayed a prominent gap where at least two had gone AWOL.
If that’s the doctor, he should meet the dentist.
His new reality seemed too strange to take in. The dingy room boasted a solid-looking roof and walls, which made it a palace compared to the broken-down cottage where he’d met Chen. A few pallets, like the one under his back, lay stacked against one wall—apparently they spread them out on the crude wooden floorboards to sleep. A burlap sack stamped with faded red Chinese characters fluttered in front of the sole window, which had stout bars where glass should have been. Something that might have been a brazier stood in one corner.
Chen followed his gaze around the room. “My father’s house,” he said with a slight incline of his head.
The door opened a crack from outside. Chen stepped to the door, blocking Dave’s view. He directed a few low-voiced comments at the person outside, then turned back into the room.
“My sister.” Chen glanced over his shoulder at the door. “If Japs find you, very bad.” He drew a finger across his neck.
The implication sunk in.
Chen’s sister. Pete. Doctor Liu. Several other soldiers, and two little boys. And whoever the soldiers reported to, or whoever else any of them might have told. How many people already knew about him?
It got hard to swallow.
Doctor Liu spoke to Chen, who nodded and took the canteen. He handed Dave the rye. “Now drink.” He snickered a little. “Doctor says drink much.”
Those were doctor’s orders he was mor
e than happy to follow. Especially since none of this inspired confidence. He raised the bottle to his lips with eager fingers. He got several swigs down his gullet and splashed more than a little of the precious amber liquid on his chin before Chen retrieved the bottle. Chen helped him unbutton his shirt.
The doctor produced a glass bottle with a hand-lettered label from his bag. He dribbled some brown liquid along Dave’s shoulder blade. It smelled like Old Spice mixed with turpentine and week-old lawn clippings. The doctor placed his hand on Dave’s shoulder and started to stroke the amber-colored tincture over his skin.
Despite all his efforts to be tough, he hollered out loud.
Chen gave an emphatic hiss and put a finger to his lips. “Shh! This good.”
Surprisingly, it helped. The light oil produced a fleeting surface chill, then a deep, enduring warmth. Coupled with the effects of the whiskey, the tension ebbed from his muscles.
The doctor sent a stream of Chinese mumbo-jumbo Chen’s way.
Chen made a face, then attempted a translation. “Doctor says no.” He lined up his fists then made an abrupt gesture like he was breaking an invisible stick.
“Not broken?” Dave said.
“Yes.”
Doctor Liu made a fist with his right hand then cupped his left around it. He pivoted the fist away from its resting place in the other hand.
“Oh. Dislocated.” Dave nodded to show he understood.
Doctor Liu got to work in earnest. He pulled up his flowing midnight-blue sleeve, leaned forward, and pressed his elbow into the center of Dave’s sore shoulder. The doctor actually used the point of his elbow to manipulate Dave’s muscles and tendons.
Holy Moses, that hurts! He clenched his teeth hard and screwed his eyes shut. He found himself introduced to a new understanding of pain.
The half-hour that followed was the most unusual massage he’d ever received or heard about. The old gentleman pressed, rubbed, squeezed, and even slapped the back of his hand on Dave’s skin with a steady rhythm that set half his body quivering. At one point, the doctor had him sit, circled his arms around Dave’s shoulders with Dave’s left arm draped on top of his, and rocked Dave’s entire torso. Somewhere toward the end of that action, the doctor applied gentle pressure to the ball of his shoulder joint while he manipulated his clavicle. The ball snugged into its socket. The sensation was exquisitely strange.
The Plum Blooms in Winter Page 10