by John Shors
He cleared his throat. “These are Japanese characters.”
“Characters?”
“Yes. Each character is its own word,” he replied, tracing his work. “I was writing a haiku.”
“Do you mind if I ask what it says?”
Akira looked at his poem, shaking his head with mild frustration. “It is unfinished, as the words are not right. They feel . . . awkward. Unfortunately, it has been three years since I last wrote.”
“So long?”
“Yes. If my mother knew of this, she would be most unhappy.”
“Do you miss her?” Annie asked, still musing over the characters, thinking that they were both foreign and beautiful.
He started to speak and then stopped, unused to being questioned on such personal matters. “I do miss her,” he said. “She is very wise, and taught me so many wonderful things, including haikus. She creates them every day.”
Annie smiled. “Perhaps you can write her the perfect poem. Here on this beach.”
“That would be most agreeable.” An unseen bird squawked behind them, interrupting his next thought. “Might . . . might you think of one?” he asked uncertainly, wondering if this woman who’d so tenderly cared for him was truly interested in poetry or if he’d imagined their earlier conversation. “Might you describe this morning?”
“This moment? Right now?”
“If you would like.”
“But how?”
Akira remembered his students asking similar questions, and the memory warmed him. “Can you take . . . take your feelings and . . . blend them with what you see?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Not me.”
“So sorry, but I am sure that you could do it.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . because you said the morning was beautiful. And you meant what you said, yes?”
She looked at his mouth, which had formed into a half smile. “Blend them, you say?”
“Blending is what poets do, I think. Take what you see and put your emotions into that . . . vision.”
Annie didn’t reply. She knew that she was no poet. And yet it seemed that he wanted her to be one. How did he see her? As a student? A friend? As someone who’d helped him and he felt indebted to? Perhaps more important, was there anything wrong with her talking to him?
Unable to answer her own questions, but conjuring no reason why she shouldn’t try to create a poem, Annie turned toward the sea. The day, for all its beauty, was strangely quiet. Not a single whitecap dotted the water. The palm trees lining the beach stood so still that they seemed devoid of life. The sky was unblemished and infinite. Though the world before her was striking, to Annie it appeared expressionless, more like an old postcard than something warm and wet and wonderful.
Words churned within her as she sought to do what Akira had asked, to mix her emotions with what she looked upon. But how could words, which often seemed so limiting to her, describe what she now saw and felt? As usual, Annie’s emotions were cluttered and confused. She felt both safe and fearful, content and utterly bereft of hope. How could she give life to her feelings when even she did not understand them?
Annie glanced at Akira and was surprised to see that his eyes were closed. He was obviously in no hurry for her to finish. And so she thought. She imagined her place in the world, and through that imagining, words slowly began to unfold. She spoke them to herself, listening to the sounds, the syllables, the deeper meaning that she strove to create.
“I’m not a poet,” Annie finally said. “I can paint—flowers and even faces. But I can’t write.” His half smile returned, and she glanced at the sea. “Still, I do have . . . I’ve thought of something.”
“Might you be so kind as to share it with an old teacher? It would be a gift to these lonely ears.”
Annie started to speak but giggled softly, feeling foolish. “My words aren’t any good. And I do feel like I’m in school. Like I’m twelve again and worried what the boys will say.”
“Is that such a terrible thing? To feel young again?”
She shook her head, nervously running her hands through her short hair. “You won’t laugh?”
“Not unless it is funny.”
“Promise?”
“As you say . . . I will cross my heart and hope to die.”
Annie’s grin lingered. “Well, then, I suppose I have nothing to lose,” she said, unsure what to think of this man. “So here’s my first . . . haiku.”
“Please.”
“Is the wind silent? / Or am I deaf to such sound? / Waves melt on warm sand.”
For a moment, Akira’s face was blank. But then he smiled, bowing deeply to her. He held his bow low and finally rose to face her. “You do honor to yourself,” he said. “And to me. Thank you.”
“You like it? Really?”
“Yes, yes, I do. Very much.”
“Why?”
“Because I think . . . I think you are being true. And most people are afraid of truth.”
She started to reply but stopped, her good mood quickly departing. “No. You don’t understand. I’ve been afraid my whole life.”
“So sorry, but may I ask of what?”
Annie wondered again if she should be speaking to him in such a manner. What would Ted think? “Of the future,” she finally replied. “Of my path. I’ve . . . I’ve been afraid of so many things.”
“And yet, look at you, talking with a prisoner of war. Telling me your poem. How can such a woman be afraid?” She didn’t answer, and he smiled. “Perhaps . . . perhaps your days of being afraid are done.”
Her eyes began to water at his words, for they were welcome thoughts. She was tired of being afraid, so impossibly weary of her own fears that a part of her wanted to sit on the quiet beach forever. If she sat in the sand forever, she wouldn’t have to face the troubles that often seemed to define her life. As a tear descended her cheek, she wiped it away, turning toward the sea.
“Your poem was lovely, Annie,” he said, encouraging her as he so often had his favorite students. “It made me . . .”
His voice trailed off, and she turned back to him. “What? It made you what?”
“It pleased me very much. And I was . . . most proud.”
“Proud? Why on earth were you proud?”
Akira glanced at the sea, thinking of the wonderful young minds he had encountered, thinking of his former life. “Because your poem . . . it reminded me of another time. A far better time.”
As much as she enjoyed his words, Annie was reluctant to continue the conversation. And so she nodded and stood. The sun felt comforting against her face, as if she’d been awaiting its caress. She thanked him and then began to slowly walk down the beach. She wanted to believe him—believe that her days of being afraid were done. And she wanted to believe that he was proud of her. When was the last time, she asked herself, that anyone outside her family was proud of her?
As she continued to walk, Annie couldn’t help but wonder how Akira seemed to know her. Was it because of that night, the night he saved her? Had that night somehow bound him to her? Does that happen when you almost die to save someone else? When a stranger’s heart beats against you as you feel yourself slipping away? When your blood and tears wash over her? Annie had spent three days with Akira and a thousand days with Ted. And yet this stranger, this Japanese soldier, seemed to understand her more deeply than did her fiancé.
“He liked my poem,” she whispered, as if she wished to share a secret with the sea.
Though the sea stayed silent, Annie didn’t mind. And though she was alone, she didn’t feel alone. She knew that his eyes were upon her, and strangely, this knowledge warmed her as much as the sun.
SITTING ON A FALLEN TREE, Isabelle and Joshua took turns sipping from an army canteen. The water they’d taken from a nearby stream possessed a slightly metallic taste but otherwise seemed clear and fresh. Above them soared the jungle’s canopy, which was so thick that they might as well have been living within some sort of inf
inite greenhouse or cave. The usual noises—hoots and screeches and chirps—seemed to echo off this canopy, strengthening the sounds.
“Wouldn’t some fresh-ground coffee taste good right now?” Isabelle asked, wiping sweat from her brow.
Joshua unconsciously licked his lips. “Even stale coffee would be good,” he somewhat absently replied. “Stale, two-day-old coffee with cigarette ashes in it.”
“Let’s not get too carried away. We haven’t been here that long.”
“True enough.”
Isabelle moved closer to her husband, putting her hand on his leg. She looked into his eyes, and he almost immediately glanced at the trees above. She knew that he avoided her stare when something troubled him—almost as if he feared that she’d peer into his eyes, see his pain, ask him about it, and demand answers that he didn’t have. This habit of his had always annoyed her. After all, she didn’t want him to interpret her questions and concerns as things to avoid.
Joshua’s obvious misery prompted Isabelle to consider sharing her secret. For days she’d been tempted to tell him, tempted to tell Annie. But she’d told no one. The time had never felt quite right, and besides, Isabelle was someone who liked to deal in certainties, and when it came to her secret she was certain of very little. Moreover, though she longed to share her thoughts with Joshua, she didn’t want to raise his hopes and then later dash them. And she didn’t want him to feel that she was manipulating the situation to make him happier.
“What’s on your mind?” she finally asked, once they’d started to walk again.
“Oh, nothing really.”
“Joshua, don’t say that when I know it’s not true.”
He pushed a flowering vine aside and held it at bay so she could pass. “You know what’s bothering me, Isabelle. So why do you ask? I lost my ship. Almost my entire crew is dead. What the hell do you think is on my mind?”
“That tone isn’t necessary. Don’t take it with me again.”
He swatted at a mosquito, and when the jungle cleared slightly he moved beside her. “I’m trying,” he said, his voice softening. “I’m trying, God help me, to lead, to do what needs to be done. But it’s not easy. It’s awful, in fact. I’m a fraud. And I don’t want to lead anyone. I don’t deserve to. I’m only trying to because of you. Because of Annie.”
“You’re not a fraud. Not by—”
“You, more than anyone else, should understand where I’m coming from.”
“I do understand.”
“Then why are you asking me about it? Can’t you see that I want to be left alone?”
“Why? Because maybe I can help. Because this island isn’t a ship, and you don’t have to lead alone. You’re not standing on the bridge with men looking to you for orders.”
“I don’t know—”
“I want to help. That’s all. To help you. Is that so wrong?”
He unbuttoned his sweat-drenched shirt almost to his belly. “No, it’s not,” he admitted, slowing his pace. “And I’m sorry . . . for snapping at you. For pushing you away. I don’t mean to. And you don’t deserve it. But I am used to being on my own, to standing on my bridge. Remember that for most of this war I haven’t had you around.”
“I’m here, Josh. Right next to you. Right where I’m supposed to be.”
They came to a fallen sandalwood tree and he helped her over it. Nearby a green and yellow parrot suddenly took flight, leaves dropping in its wake. “I don’t know,” he said, “if I’ll ever get over what happened to Benevolence. I paid more attention to my crew than I did to my own life, to you. And now they’re gone forever.”
“They didn’t die in vain.”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure about that. But . . .”
“But what?”
“But I’m sure that I’ll try . . . I’ll really try to let you in.”
“I want to be in.”
“I just . . . I think about everything I could have done differently. Checking the cargo. Having another lookout. Running more emergency drills. If I’d done things differently, so many good people wouldn’t have died.” He closed his eyes. “But I was a fool.”
Isabelle knew that nothing she could ever say about his handling of Benevolence would ease his guilt. And so she replied, “Just remember that we’re at war. And things like this happen in war. That’s why millions are dead already.”
He nodded but said nothing, continuing to trudge through the jungle. Though they used to take many walks together, she’d never seen him move so—with his shoulders slouched and his eyes oblivious to the world around him. Despite his just having angered her, it hurt her to sense the depth of his sorrow, to know that while he was doing his best to lead, he was nearly a broken man. And though she didn’t want to manipulate the moment by sharing her news, she eased closer to his side and prepared to tell him her secret.
“We should be nearing the eastern beaches,” he said. “There can’t be much more of this jungle. I just don’t—”
“Josh?”
He turned to her. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. But I do have something . . . something to share with you.”
“What is it?”
Isabelle stopped walking and brushed her long, damp hair from her face. “I think . . . I’m fairly confident that I’m pregnant.” Joshua didn’t say anything, but almost immediately dropped his gaze to her belly. “It’s too early for me to show,” she added. “But all the signs are there.”
“When . . . when are you due?” he said slowly, as if awaking from a dream.
“Probably in just under seven months.”
“So you’ve known for a month? And said nothing?”
She moved closer to him, tilting her head back so that she could look into his eyes. “I wanted to wait until we were ashore. Until we could go out and do something fun. To surprise you that way.”
“And why not here? On the hill?”
“Because you needed to mourn the dead. And I didn’t want to cheat you, or them, of that.”
“And Annie? Does she know?”
“No, no. Not yet. I wanted to tell you first.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, concern suddenly softening his face. “How are you feeling, Izzy?”
“Just fine. Good, in fact.”
“Here I am . . . feeling sorry for myself, snapping at you. And you’re—”
“It’s alright.”
“Are you sleeping well? Are you getting enough food?”
“Oh, with all the fresh fish and fruit here, I’m eating better than I would back home. And there’s plenty of time to sleep. So don’t worry yourself. Just think about being a father by springtime.”
Joshua shook his head in wonder and smiled. Without warning, he dropped to his knees and placed his right hand against her belly. When her oversized shirt got in the way, he eased his hand under the fabric, so that his palm rested against her flesh. He held his hand against her, moving it slowly around her belly as if searching for something he’d lost in the darkness. “Are you sure you don’t show? You feel . . . different. Your sides seem thicker.”
“I don’t know for sure that I’m pregnant. And my sides aren’t thicker.”
“You’re a woman and a nurse. You know.” Joshua wrapped his arms around her and leaned his face against her belly. “We’ve tried for so long,” he said, his voice suddenly stronger and happier than she recalled it having been for quite some time. “I wonder why now?”
“That’s a good question. But somehow . . . being here, with you, it seems right.”
He stroked her skin with his thumb. He started to speak but then stopped, instead pausing to thank God for this gift. Finally, he said, “I love you, Isabelle. I don’t say it nearly enough, I know. But I’d be lost without you.”
“You’ve never been lost, Josh.”
“Neither have you.”
She smiled. “We haven’t had time for it.”
“You’ll be a wonderful mother. You’ll teach
our child so much.”
Isabelle ran her hands through his hair. He hadn’t held her like this in many months, and she was in no hurry for the moment to end. She felt him press his ear against her belly, and smiled. “You won’t hear a heartbeat yet. But soon.”
“I used to be a submariner, you know. I have a good ear.”
“Well, submariner, what do you hear?”
“The two of you,” he replied, grinning. “I definitely hear something. And it must be the two of you.”
“What does it sound like?”
“Water.”
“Water?”
“Doesn’t all life come from water?”
Isabelle smiled, dropping to her knees so that she faced him. “I love you too,” she said, kissing him. “And I don’t say it enough either. I think we’re the same in that way. We kind of close ourselves up.”
“War does that.”
“I know. But we don’t have to let it.”
“You’re right,” he said, and then kissed her gently. His hand once again fell to her belly, his thumb stroking her flesh.
“Are you going to walk around camp with your hand under my shirt?”
“Maybe. I don’t have a bridge, but I’m still in charge.” He kissed her forehead, happily offering another quick prayer of gratitude. “I’d . . . almost lost hope about being a father. I wanted it so much, but . . . but I’d lost hope.”
“You deserve this,” she replied, finding his eyes. “No one deserves it more.”
Joshua didn’t avoid her gaze, and Isabelle saw the joy in his face—a joy that had been lacking since long before Benevolence sank. She hadn’t been certain how he’d react to her news, and now as she looked at him, she felt as close to him as she ever had. He was a good man, and he loved her. And though she was strong and sure of the steps before her, she would be stronger and surer and happier with him at her side.
MUCH LATER IN THE DAY, when the sun had just dropped from the sky, Ratu made his way to Nathan. As he hurried over the cooling sand, Ratu kicked a sea sponge in front of him. Pretending that he was a famous soccer player, he kicked the sponge until he neared the jungle. He then launched it forward, cheering after it struck the middle of the banyan tree.