“Hai, Lucy,” Amista called out as she entered the office, a friendly imitation of Rumiko. She held two cans of cold green tea. She handed me one of the cans and used the back of her hand to wipe sweat from her cheek. By the end of the day, my research was done, and my interviews were set. Hisashi and I hadn’t spoken more than the words necessary to get the work done.
Chapter Fifteen
At my kitchen table, I considered what Hisashi had asked of me, that I not worry about the threatening sign at work, not tell anyone. No one had seen it but him and me; he’d torn it to smithereens and disposed of it before anyone else had arrived. I had to bite my tongue several times when I almost told Amista. Everyone, including Amista, had told me that protests on Okinawa were usual and not to be afraid of them. I avoided researching them, scared of what I might find, but now I was deeply afraid, my skin always jabbed by stress needles and I needed to know more, understand the context of my new world. I Googled “Okinawa protests.” Up popped a slew of reports on Midori Ishikori and Airman Stone, new photos of the protests, mushrooming bigger and louder each day. “JUSTICE FOR MIDORI!” screamed one placard. “EXECUTE STONE,” said another.
I also found many photos of past protests, including a thirty-thousand-person protest five years earlier when a U.S. Marine Corps helicopter had crashed on the campus of Okinawa International University, killing and injuring local citizens. I found another photo, from just a few years back, of one-hundred-thousand screaming, swarming people protesting the local deployment of new U.S.-owned Osprey aircraft. What surprised me most was protests not only popped up any time a crime was committed by a U.S. service member, but small protests went on all the time, every day of the year, outside U.S. facilities. A few more clicks and I learned that in Okinawa, seventy-four percent of citizens felt the presence of American military amounted to discrimination and that the Japanese government had promised time and again to do something about it but hadn’t. I was floored. I didn’t realize the animosity ran so deep and protests were so prevalent. I tried to recall if I’d read anything about this in school and was sure I hadn’t. One professor had said Japanese officials often hid or slanted negative news.
The last two things I found online before I went to bed were about a hip-hop artist, Kakumakushaka, who had rapped about the deadly helicopter crash, and about a clothing company, Habu Box, which sold jackets that depicted giant Japanese shisas clashing with U.S. Osprey helicopters. In the photos grinning teenagers modeled colorful bomber-style jackets covered with intricate illustrations, a contrast of political upheaval and edgy fashion statement.
Lying in bed, I tried to reconstruct the Japan I’d imagined during my time with Owen. That Japan had been a beautiful whirlwind of family heirloom tea services, cherry blossoms and exotic people, a Tokyo that whizzed with advanced businesses and towering high-rises, all comingled with the allure of my love for Owen. Now the terrifying Suicide Forest was part of the mix and all around me danger and unrest. I had yet to see or experience any of the sparkling Japan I originally imagined. So far, my life consisted of sweat, low-brow journalism, an upskirt assault, and a pressure cooker of hostility, fear and uncertainty. I clicked one more time on the angelic school photo of Midori Ishikori and then on the military headshot of Airman Stone. I sought solace in my music, closed my eyes and concentrated on the familiar low tones and crescendos of Leonard Cohen. It was no use. I awoke the next morning, tired and more discouraged.
* * *
At work, I was surprised to see two police cars in the Okinawa Week parking lot and four officers inside. Ashimine-san was having a quiet conversation with them while everyone else pretended to work. I went to my desk and flipped on my computer. Amista, Kei, Cece and I exchanged glances. Rumiko didn’t look up from her drafting table. Jed blew in the door and asked what was going on, and Amista took him aside. Soon two of the police officers left and the two others appeared to take up posts on the sidewalk outside our front door next to the shisa. Ashimine-san gathered us around.
“Okinawa Week is subject of threat,” he said. “Some crazy person has left a phone message saying he will kill me. He didn’t talk about anybody else. Only me.”
CeCe’s rose-rouged cheeks darkened. She tended to be emotional and now her face was crumpling as though she might bawl. “Do they know who made the threat?” she asked.
“No, but they will look at the phone record. Maybe then they’ll know. Point is, you are not in danger. Okay?”
Hisashi wasn’t there. Did Amista tell Ashimine-san about the profane sign on the side of the building, the first one? Should I tell him about the second one, the threatening red sign on the door? In light of this new phone threat, I couldn’t hold my tongue.
“Ashimine-san, yesterday there was a black-and-red sign on the door.” Everyone paused, turned to me. “It said, ‘Go home or die.’” Saying these words gave them a more frightening weight. I’d allowed myself to believe Hisashi’s and Amista’s assurances that mere signs weren’t to be taken seriously, weren’t real threats. But now that I’d spoken the words aloud, they seemed even more ominous than when I’d first seen them. Cece started to cry, leaving wet streaks in her facial powder. Jed let out a big sigh and Kei plopped down in his seat.
“You tell the police,” Ashimine-san said, his wrinkly face tightened with stress.
I went to the officers standing outside and told them about the sign, including that Hisashi had torn it up and thrown it away. Within a minute another police car arrived, and I had to tell the story to two new officers. Amista poked her head out the door and asked if I was okay.
“Miss Tosch won’t need to come to the police station today,” said one of the officers. “But we will need to speak to Hisashi Ota. Is he here?”
“No,” Amista said. “Not yet.”
The officer handed each of us his business card. “Please have Mr. Ota call me.”
When I came back inside Ashimine-san summoned me to his office, motioned for me to sit on an upright wooden chair to the side of his desk. With a gnarled hand he sipped from an unembellished clay teacup.
“Would you like tea?”
“No, thank you.”
His expression was thoughtful, fatherly. “Lucy, I’ll get to the point. Why didn’t you tell me about the sign?”
My gut twisted. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you think I should know when my employees and my business are threatened?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. It was a mistake.” I squirmed and stared over his head at the painting hanging there, two white swans in a pale blue lake full of green lily pads. Anything to avoid the disappointment in his eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I ticked over the facts in my mind. Hisashi’s pleading request. The shock of seeing both the threatening sign and the profane one. And now Ashimine-san’s disappointment in me. But I couldn’t give up Hisashi to my boss. “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I didn’t know what to do. I’m truly sorry.”
“I accept your apology,” he said. “In the future, you come to me. You respect me and tell me. I know things have been difficult for you here. Maybe that affected your judgment.” He dismissed me and I slunk back to my desk.
I sat in my metal office chair and shivered, cold for the first time in weeks, a wash of ice on my skull. I don’t know how long until the shivers stopped, but it was Midori Ishikori who crept into my mind as I absently thumbed through the material for my assigned story. I kept picturing her sweet school photo and I recounted the sordid details of the alleged rape at Manza Beach, ten miles up the coast. Hisashi came in, bypassed me, and went straight back to Ashimine-san’s office.
I struggled to concentrate on my assigned story, about English language classes at University of the Ryukyus. I found myself thinking of how my story could change in light of the rape allegation and protests. Would fewer Okinawans seek English-speaking jobs on base now? How would Okinawans get to work and pass by the protests without drawing the ire of the crowd? Di
d the unrest alter University’s plans to increase its English classes? I searched online for “Okinawan employees, American military,” and stumbled across more stories in which Shinzō Abe had promised to reduce the American military presence on Okinawa. I wasn’t sure my story would work with any angle about the rape case and protests, but I kept notes on all I found.
Hisashi came out of Ashimine-san’s office and towered over my desk. “I told him it was my fault. You don’t need to protect me,” he said in a low tone so no one else could hear. He left the office in a rush. Of course, the interactions with the police and with Ashimine-san were disconcerting for Hisashi, but I couldn’t help feeling that my drunkenness the other night had contributed to his shut down. He was a blank wall to me now.
There was a purple orchid on Rumiko’s table, and I got a waft of its sweet scent as the front door whooshed shut. I thumbed through my story notes, uncertain that Hisashi would come back to take me to the interviews as he promised.
At noon, I conducted my first interview, a phone call with an analyst on the mainland who researched English-language training across Japan. Just as I hung up, Hisashi came back in. “Let’s go,” he said.
On the walk to the car, Hisashi’s big frame protected me from the sun, but fuzzy heat waves hung in the air, blurring my view of the cracked sidewalk. A car whizzed by and its draft caused me to trip. I clutched his arm for balance. He stopped. “I told you I’d help you. You didn’t believe me.” We were facing each other in the almost-empty parking lot and his eyes were dark, serious.
“Since we both got in trouble with Ashimine-san, I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.” On top of my drunken outburst about Owen and Suicide Forest¸ I thought. Hisashi had essentially ignored me for two days and I didn’t want to upset him again, but I had to ask. “Why didn’t you just let me tell Ashimine-san about the sign?”
Exasperated, he said, “Lucy, there’s a lot you don’t understand about Japan. You’re a junior reporter and it’s not your place to confront the boss with such news.”
I stewed, wanted to retort that not telling him had gotten both of us reprimanded. “Then why didn’t you tell him?”
“I blew it. I thought it would be better to ignore it. And it would have been if he hadn’t been threatened by phone. That’s never happened before.” He stood square and straight, his shoulders blotting out the grove of trees behind him. “But it’s still something for you to learn. In Japan, junior staffers know their place.”
Fuming, I shut up and got in his car. I was partly angry that Hisashi had chastised me, partly chagrined that I didn’t understand Japanese norms. The sky was darkening, and it started to drizzle as we drove to the University.
“Typhoon Fred is coming, a category three,” Hisashi said. “It’s like the island itself is about to explode. Even the sky is angry.”
I’d read about the fearsome typhoons that struck Okinawa with regularity. They usually passed over the island without doing significant damage, but once in a while they were serious, and wrecked buildings and sent people to the hospital. The rain fell hard now and plinked heavily on the windshield and roof.
I broke the glacier of silence between us. “How bad is Typhoon Fred supposed to be?”
“I’m not worried,” Hisashi said.
“You don’t worry about much, do you?” I was impressed by his stoicism.
“It’s my experience that worrying doesn’t make any difference,” he said. “If you worry or if you don’t worry what’s going to happen happens.”
“That’s awfully fatalistic,” I said, not wanting to show how impressed I was by his attitude.
“That’s my experience. Anyway, I choose not to worry,” he said, as if the matter was settled and there was absolutely nothing to be concerned about. Then, “The university used to be on the site of a castle, Shuri Castle. Did you know that?” His rumbling voice carried easily over the sound of the rain and the car. He told me that the U.S. had bombed the university in the Battle of Okinawa and then the U.S. helped Japan rebuild it. “Ironic, isn’t it?” he said. “And similar to the current situation. American bases give Okinawans jobs, but Americans also cause Okinawa pain. American is both bully and friend to Japan.”
I thought about this as we drove along but didn’t reply. Even though he was irritated with me, Hisashi was willing to share insight with me, to help broaden my perspective. I was grateful for that. Owen had been my sensei; now Hisashi was too.
The University of the Ryukyus campus reminded me of city colleges I’d seen back home. It had several large brick buildings and lots of trees and it also had a view all the way to the East China Sea. We raced up the wide entry stairway of the administration building and shook off the rain. Hisashi led me down a long hallway to Dean Aiko’s office, a cozy room with a fireplace, wood furniture and photos of a family on the bookshelves; it could have been a dean’s office at any university. He greeted us with a lopsided smile and a deep bow, handing each of us his business card, which we studied, and then we gave him ours, which he studied. He was trim and small, with perfect posture and thin strands of hair threading his scalp.
“Welcome, Miss Tosch. Pleased to meet you. Thank you for taking an interest in our English-language program.” His English was perfect and unaccented, like Hisashi’s and Owen’s.
I dove into my list of questions, wanting this day to be over so I could go back to my apartment, drink wine, and wait out the typhoon. Why did you start the program? How many people are enrolled? What’s the average age of students? Do they have similar jobs, or do they come from different backgrounds? How many teachers are there and are any from the U.S.? Then I asked him if the protests thwarted enrollment or caused people to drop out.
“Miss Tosch, University of the Ryukyus considers itself to be a friend to Americans. That’s why we offer English classes, to enhance our relationship with our American neighbors on the military bases. Certainly, the protestors deserve to be heard, but the majority of our students are more interested in furthering their careers than in political squabbles.”
I went off script and asked, “But isn’t this more than a political squabble? Rape is a serious allegation.”
The dean’s face held patronizing sincerity. “Americans commit crimes. Japanese commit crimes. At the heart of it, the protests are political. Some people want Americans gone, but not everyone. As a descendent of Ryukyus, Mr. Ota knows that we are simple people with a desire for happiness, not conflict. Right Mr. Ota?”
I glanced at Hisashi, who, as typical for the last few days, was silent. He was smiling at the dean. “Yes, you’re right. I’m here to find simple happiness myself.”
“That’s what I thought. The famous Ota family is gone from Okinawa, but one of their sons has returned to his homeland.” Dean Aiko paused, and his face softened. “I know I am very late in saying so, but please accept my concern about Owen.” My recorder was still on and I clicked it off, respectful of the private conversation.
Hisashi stood to shake the dean’s hand so I stood too. “Owen hasn’t made it to Okinawa, but he would love it the way I do,” he said, bowing to the dean, who bowed back. The interview over, Dean Aiko took us on a quick tour of the classrooms, standard college rooms with rows of desks, blackboards and projector screens. Hisashi snapped photos of him standing with some students.
“Miss Tosch,” the dean said, extending his hand, “I hope you got what you came for?”
“Yes. Domo arigato gozaimasu,” I ventured, for the first time speaking in my limited Japanese to a Japanese person.
“Domo arigato gozaimasu,” said the dean.
We got soaked as we ran to the car and the wind flung my door wide as soon as I unlatched it. We sat in the car panting, shaking off the rain. I glanced at Hisashi and he smiled. “Well done in there, Lucy. You did a great job with that interview.”
Surprised by the compliment, I thanked him, happy for the renewal of warmth between us. Here was another opening and this time I would lea
p into it. My heart started to thump. “Do you mind if I ask you why your family doesn’t want you to be here on Okinawa?”
Hisashi paused, shook the water out of his hair, then told me that his family was successful, integrated into Tokyo society, with rich friends, dinner parties, country clubs and so on. His father felt that their Okinawan heritage was an embarrassment, or maybe that if his colleagues knew, they wouldn’t hold him in as high regard. “This has to do with class and skin color.” Hisashi said. “In the past, Okinawans were poor fisherman and farmers. My mother, she’s from a long line of high-society Edo people. Anyway, my father didn’t disown me or anything, but I don’t talk to him much.”
Up until that precise moment, I hadn’t registered that Hisashi’s skin was on the dark side, could be called brown. Most Okinawan people I’d met were around the same color or a bit darker than Hisashi, except for the chamber director. He was pale, like Midori Ishikori. “Your father hides the fact that he’s Okinawan?”
Hisashi exhaled heavily. “Hides isn’t the right word. He just pretends his past doesn’t exist, never mentions it at all. The family has been in Tokyo for generations now, so no one thinks anything of it.” He turned toward me in his seat. “And anyway, don’t all cultures discriminate against the darker-skinned members of their society, and against those who they perceive as ‘other?’” I nodded. “But not all Japanese are like that,” he said. “It’s mainly an affliction of the rich.”
“I wouldn’t know about afflictions of the rich,” I said. Raindrops exploded on the windshield and a little droplet hung inside the corner of the window. I plunged ahead. “I was in love with Owen.” Hisashi sighed and said nothing, gathered himself up and started the car. “Wait,” I said. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.”
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