Gaijin

by Sarah Z Sleeper

  Through tear-blurred eyes I surveyed my bedroom, with its mismatched assortment of furniture, the faded poster of my childhood hero, Martha Gelhorn, over my bed. She was a female war correspondent during World War I, was married to Ernest Hemingway. Now she stared at me from the wall, daring me to stick with my plan to move to Japan, chiding me not to remain cloistered at home, wallowing. Go and find out why, she seemed to say. Go to Japan.

  Hisashi, the “successful photojournalist,” would bring me the tea set, Mrs. Ota said. Maybe he’d be willing to talk to me about Owen, to help me understand. Maybe he knew where Owen lived and would take me to him. On the other hand, he might think me an interloper, a stranger crashing his family’s private pain.

  I didn’t confide in my mom. It was better not to worry her with my convoluted emotional life. When Rose dropped me at the airport, she said, “Good luck finding Owen,” and I swallowed my tears. My father, who had been silent for a while, whispered, “Go, Lu,” from a distant rush of jet stream.

  Chapter Twelve

  Japan, 2016

  The street protests raged on. There was no violence, but the rhetoric became more threatening; in one news photo, a protestor held a placard, “Death to Americans!” My driver mapped out a route, so we’d pass the crowds from a safe distance. I watched local news on the television in my hotel room, sipping cool white wine to dull my sharp edges. Outside every American base, Okinawan citizens raged, waved signs and chanted calls for Americans to leave their island for good.

  As senior staffers, Amista and Hisashi were assigned to cover the rape story. I’d seen little of Hisashi so far, had no chance to talk to him about Owen.

  “Did you see that sign on the outside wall last week?” I asked Rumiko, the only person in the office when I arrived on my second Monday at Okinawa Week. Her disdainful glances during my first week there had irritated me and emboldened me to be more direct.

  “Hai.” She smiled reassuringly at me. “So sad. Such shame.”

  Had she meant to say, “Such a shame,” meaning that the situation was a shame, or had she actually meant to indicate the shame that she believed Midori must be feeling? Rumiko’s face was polite and blank, unfazed.

  “Wait,” she said. She took the pencil from behind her ear and pointed to the sketch on her big drafting table. “Ah, Lucy. Look. Midori,” she said.

  I leaned in close. Rumiko had replicated in pencil the school portrait of Midori, but had filled Midori’s eyes with tears, and had somehow drawn her adolescent face so the cheeks, eyes, and contours were weighed down. “Ah,” I said, not sure what I meant exactly, just imitating Rumiko. “Ah, I see how sad she looks.”

  “Ah,” Rumiko agreed, turning back to her desk.

  I wanted to ask Rumiko if she thought the protestors were right and American military should leave Okinawa. I wanted to know if she considered me part of the group of Americans responsible for sullying the island. But if she did feel resentment or anger, she wouldn’t tell me or let it show.

  Then, “Stone should be shot.” Her words rang as if fired from a gun.

  I paused, stunned by her bluntness. I didn’t expect such a frank comment from Rumiko. Still, it would be impolite for me to question her. I knew people didn’t have debates or even open discussions at work in Japan. But I couldn’t stop myself. “You’re sure he’s guilty?”

  “Always guilty,” she said, turning her computer screen away from me. “Sorry Lucy, I work. Excuse me.”

  Injured by her abruptness, I went to my desk. So, Rumiko believed Stone did it—the American was de facto guilty. I called over to her. “Well, I hope Stone didn’t do it. And I hope Midori wasn’t raped,” Rumiko pushed her glasses up her nose and picked up her pen, as if I hadn’t said a thing.

  My other colleagues trickled in, but no one spoke. We kept our heads down, avoided each other’s eyes; none of us knew what to say in light of the charged atmosphere. Being an American suddenly felt more conspicuous than usual. I half-heartedly plunked around online and emailed my mom. She emailed back immediately. “Lucy, are you okay? I’ve seen the news. Do you want to come home?”

  I assured her I was fine and that it wasn’t as scary here as the news made it seem. The protests were peaceful, I told her, nothing violent. I didn’t know if the non-violent protests would stay that way, but I didn’t want to alarm her.

  Rumiko’s drawing of Midori had touched me and now I couldn’t stop picturing tiny Midori, how terrified she must have been, how a beautiful beach resort had become a horror spot (if her allegations were true). I resolved to go to Manza Beach when I got the chance, to see the place for myself.

  It was time to start my first assignment, a story about a retired Marine and his Okinawan wife, who’d launched a controversial new dating website, MarryAmerican.com, devoted to hooking up local women and American men. I’d read that some Okinawan women wanted to marry soldiers or sailors and move to the United States, and some servicemen wanted shy and subservient Japanese wives. I found these notions repugnant, but they also piqued my curiosity. Would I be able to find men willing to go on the record about this? Would Okinawan women be willing to be interviewed? Wasn’t this akin to American sites like Sugarbaby.com or MarryaMillionaire.com, where daters chose each other for money or sex? And in light of the unrest on the island, was it okay to highlight American-Japanese couples who met this way? I texted Amista with my worries. She said Okinawa Week covered all kinds of stories, not just the biggest news, and I should consider myself lucky to have a fluff piece amidst all the strife.

  During my research I came across a reference to “Bride Schools,” a set of classes put on by the American Red Cross for Japanese women marrying American men after World War II. In the nineteen-fifties, forty-thousand Japanese married G.I.s during the post-war occupation, and in the most patronizing, belittling way imaginable, the Red Cross took it upon themselves to offer to train the Japanese women on how to use washing machines, cook pot roast, host social events and so on, the way American housewives of that era did. It was sanctioned, gender-based brainwashing. That was more than a half-century ago, but to my surprise, in addition to MarryAmerican.com, I also found present-day social groups and nightclubs that existed specifically to connect American men with potential local spouses.

  With that new information, the knowledge that as in the fifties, American-Japanese hook ups were a “thing,” I wasn’t surprised that it took only one day for me to find men and women to interview. I contacted the PR man from the website, and he gave me names. The first two couples I contacted were more than happy to be interviewed for my story. Since I didn’t have a car yet, Ashimine-san hired the hotel driver to take me to the appointments.

  * * *

  The first interview was at a modest concrete apartment on a residential street with a tatami mat at the front door for shoes. The mat jolted my memory to the mat where Owen and I placed our shoes in his fort during a makeshift tea ceremony. At the time, I hadn’t realized it was a traditional straw tatami. I was becoming expert at ignoring my nagging questions and memories while I was at work. When I was off work, I was a mess, drinking, worrying. Owen invaded my thoughts and I was itchy to see Hisashi again.

  The door opened and I was greeted by the jowly, retired Marine who’d launched MarryAmerican.com, along with his pretty Okinawan wife. He wore faded jeans and shook my hand too tightly. We sat on a tattered couch and before I could ask a question, he said, “I suppose you want to know why we launched this site.” I didn’t have a chance to respond before he continued. “I’m so happy with Kimiko here, I figured other couples could be happy too. She’s the best cook and look at how clean our house is.” Kimiko nodded and stared at the floor and the Marine patted her knee. “She never leaves my side and only talks if I ask her to.”

  I held my face in expressionless sincerity, tightening my lips to hide my disgust. “May I ask her a few questions?” I said, trying to look indifferent. He agreed to translate.

  I asked if she’d always
wanted to marry an American and she said yes because they were “nicer” than Japanese men. I wanted to know if she’d dated Japanese men before and she said no, only Americans. I asked if that was a common choice and she said she didn’t know because she doesn’t have friends.

  The Marine jumped in. “She doesn’t need outside friends. We’re happy with each other.”

  I asked the Marine if MarryAmerican.com was successful and he said there’d been more than thirty dates set up in the first few weeks. “I’m not in it for the money,” he said. “Just to help guys like me find gals like this.” He again patted his wife’s knee and kissed her on the top of the head. She shot me a serious look I couldn’t read.

  I was curious how this rough man had managed to woo this lovely woman, but no way I could ask that. “Your site didn’t exist when you and Kimiko got married,” I said, “where did you meet each other?”

  “She was a stripper. I liked the bar where she worked, and I liked her better.” As if she understood what he said, Kimiko looked away, ill at ease.

  I left the suffocating house and took a gulp of air. I collected myself and headed to the second interview in a similar small beat-up home. There, a young Okinawan newlywed with bright blue eyeshadow told me, “Ray is sweet. He lets me go out for coffee with friends when he’s at work.” I cringed at her use of the word “lets.” I knew some Japanese still adhered to traditional gender roles, but it was hard to fathom the type of patriarchy I’d encountered at the two homes. My own parents had been strictly egalitarian, and I wasn’t prepared for such stereotypes as these.

  Back at work, I slogged through the writing process, trying not to sprinkle the piece with my cynicism. My story was published two days later along with photos of the happy couples that I’d taken myself. “How to Marry an American,” earned me a set of disgusted emails. “Since when is it news that Japanese women try to steal our men?” said one email, from a woman who called herself “Flyboy Wife.” I showed this email to Amista.

  “Obviously that’s a woman whose husband is an Air Force pilot,” she’d said. It hadn’t been obvious to me. Across the room, Cece typed with her French-manicured fingers. Could the email have been written by her or someone she knew?

  I also received an email from Nathan, the man I’d met at the seawall. “Nice story. You really nailed an important cultural subject. HA! How about lunch?” I didn’t answer and flagged it, so I’d remember to respond at some point.

  * * *

  During my first weeks, Ashimine-san promised that I’d get a chance to cover bigger stories, but that I had to be patient. “Chotto matte kudasai,” he’d said, a phrase he often repeated: “Please wait a moment.” It was a bit of Japanese that could fit any number of circumstances: a delay in earning the attention of a waiter, a too-long hold on the phone when trying to schedule an interview. In Okinawa people said the phrase constantly, chotto matte kudasai, and Ashimine-san said it most of all.

  “May I cover Prime Minister Abe’s visit?” I’d asked, after reading that Japan’s leader would be coming to Okinawa to address the protestors’ demands.

  “Chotto matte kudasai,” he’d said. “It’s not yet your turn. You will earn your way to cover top stories.” He smiled with such kindness that if I hadn’t heard him, I would have believed he’d said hai. He asked why I didn’t have Hisashi take photos for my MarryAmerican.com story. “You can call Hisashi any time,” he said, but I hadn’t been sure I was supposed to.

  I wanted to talk to Hisashi, to see him again, but I didn’t want to bother him. Amista had told me she’d been with him lately, covering press conferences related to the rape allegation. The trial date hadn’t been set yet, but reporters from the mainland and from the U.S. were swarming the island and there were media events scheduled every day, different members of Midori’s camp and of Stone’s, making their cases to the journalists. Amista asked me if I’d like to tag along with her for those events when I was free. It would be a good experience, she said, for me to participate in such a major story. I wanted to go with her, but I was uneasy, not sure I could handle the anti-American hostility on top of the sadness I felt for the alleged victim.

  * * *

  Amista took on the role of my local guide and I was grateful. She was a friendly respite from the drama all over the island. She drove me around until we found a small, tidy apartment I could afford. “Typhoon-proof,” read the rental sign out front. “Low price.” We surprised the apartment manager when we turned up at the rental office. He was watching a TV game show with the volume up loud. He introduced himself as “Dahtay-san,” that’s how I heard it, on the papers it was written as “Date.” He took us up to see the apartment and, in the elevator, said, “New walls,” and pointed to the gleaming mirrors on each side. I caught him studying my reflection, his expression a disconcerting mix of condescension and lasciviousness. I avoided him after I signed the lease.

  Once I was in my new place, I spent evenings at my kitchen table with a fan pointed at my face, watching news with the volume off since I couldn’t understand what was being said anyway, basically killing time until I could see Hisashi again. Tipsy on local saké, I composed texts to him then deleted them. Amista took me to cheap hole-in-the-wall restaurants and helped me buy a car, an old white Nissan with ivory interior. “Never buy a black car when you live in a subtropical climate,” she’d said. “Burn your ass off.”

  “Hi Hisashi! Any chance you could help me with my next story?” I wrote but didn’t send the text. I texted Amista instead. “Are you working with Hisashi soon?” She replied that yes, she was, and did I need him to help me? “No. That’s okay.” I wanted to see Hisashi when it was organic, not forced.

  Ashimine-san hadn’t yet assigned me a second story and Amista told me he was giving me time to settle in. During my free time I kept tabs on the rape case and avoided clicking on Suicide Forest again. I did look up news about the Ota family and found photos of Mr. and Mrs. Ota in tuxes and gowns at charity balls. Aside from the article I’d found before I’d come to Japan, the one that announced Owen’s suicide attempt, it was as if he hadn’t existed. Mr. and Mrs. Ota carried on, it seemed, with a busy social schedule. When I’d met Hisashi the previous week, I’d seen no hint of anger or pain in his friendly eyes. Did Owen’s whole family, including Hisashi, believed he brought “shame” to the family? The word gaijin kept popping into my mind. Owen had called himself a gaijin both in the U.S. and in his own family. Maybe I understood now, a little, because of feeling like such an alien in Okinawa. So much was going on around me, so much conflict and drama, but I was on the outside of it all, an observer more than an active participant. Little by little, since my father died, and more since Owen left, I had sprouted a hard snail shell, a barrier to more pain.

  * * *

  At the office, Ashimine-san spent much of each workday in the basement with Higa-san, the grizzled, ink-stained pressman who ran the enormous, antiquated printing machines. They were the only people in the building whose first names were never uttered by the staff. It was always the surname with san, the equivalent of “Mister,” Ashimine-san and Higa-san. All afternoon the presses growled and spun spools of paper at skin-ripping speeds and spit out newspaper pages, which Higa-san and Ashimine-san loaded into a separate enormous machine for collating. I figured Ashimine-san opted for such low-tech printing equipment because it was cheaper, but Amista corrected me. “He doesn’t discard things that have value. Those machines may not be like the Sun Times’, but they work.”

  Every day at two p.m., Rumiko got up from her drafting table, rustled around in the kitchenette and served hot green tea to Ashimine-san and Higa-san. She placed two unembellished brown clay cups and saucers on a faded grey lacquer trey and padded downstairs to Higa-san’s basement machine room. And for that half-hour teatime, those machines clicked off and the office went still. No one spoke or made unnecessary clatter. After serving the men, Rumiko made a third cup of tea for herself and stared out the front window as she sipp
ed it, turning her back to the rest of us.

  Some days Amista and I walked up the street to a little bento stand to get our own tea, iced instead of hot. “Don’t be offended by the office tea service,” she said one day as we walked. “Routine and rituals are the Japanese way.”

  I considered mentioning the sexist nature of the ritual, at least as it happened at Okinawa Week, and she must have read my face. “You’ll go to a traditional tea ceremony sometime. They are quite beautiful. The Japanese culture is elegant,” she said, and I recalled the same words from Owen’s mother. The memory of the tea I’d shared with Owen percolated in my memory. “You okay, Lu?” she said, interrupting my reminiscence.

  “You’re only the third person who’s ever called me Lu,” I said.

  “Who are the other two?”

  “My father used to call me that, and Owen did.”

  “You knew him,” she said, a statement, not a question. She’d seen my first interaction with Hisashi, so she knew. So, I told her we had been friends, more than friends, in Illinois. “You must be so sad,” she said, motherly, kind. “When it happened, Hisashi was devastated, but he hid it and still does. Never mentions it at all.”

  “I think he’s avoiding me,” I said, hoping she’d offer insight. But we kept walking and she didn’t say anything else about it. Her phone buzzed and she said she had to go to another press conference, so we hurried, and I worked up a sweat that soaked my snazzy pink silk blouse.

  When we got to the office Amista pointed to the lone shisa stationed at the door and said, “Rub her head, for good luck.” I ran my fingertips across her stone mane.