At dinner Amista and Lester served delicious grilled shrimp with fragrant curry sauce, fresh corn on the cob, and sweet melon for dessert. Lester kept filling up our glasses with white wine and we were all warm and drunk by the time the melon was devoured.
“I hear you’ve had a bit of a rough go,” Lester said to me, as we moved from the dining room to the living room.
“I guess so,” I said, not sure which rough thing he was referring to.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He sat back into the couch and his belly was up high and round, his hand rested on Amista’s thigh. “The upskirt guy, well that’s just awful. And no way to treat a newcomer.”
“I don’t think he picked me because I’m a newcomer. He probably picked me because I’m oblivious. Had no idea it even happened until the police told me.”
“It could happen to anyone,” Hisashi said.
“True,” said Amista. “Lester, tell Lucy what happened right after we moved here.”
Lester leaned back in his chair and told me that back in 2000, when he and Amista had first arrived, Okinawa was in the midst of protests then too. A guy from Lester’s squadron was accused of beating to death a bartender at a local nightclub. It was the headline news every day and all anyone could talk about. Lester and Amista lived on Camp Foster at the time and one night as they rode bikes home from dinner, a kid on the sidewalk kicked Lester so hard it knocked him off his bike onto the pavement.
“I’ll never forget that big black boot coming toward me,” Lester said. “The fall didn’t hurt much, but I was in shock about what the boy said.” Lester paused here with a grimace. “He said, ‘Fuck you, gaijin.’ A kid! He couldn’t have been more than fifteen.” Hearing the term gaijin again was like a punch in the ribs.
“Someone said that to Lucy in court yesterday,” Hisashi said. “Gaijin.”
I cringed and Lester continued. “Well, I knew there was something wrong in that kid’s heart, not that there was something wrong with Okinawa. I never took it personally.” He touched my arm. “And, I hope you won’t either.” Lester spoke with sincerity and kindness.
“What happened to the guy from your squadron?” I asked.
“He was guilty,” Amista said. “Sent to Okinawan prison for a long time.”
The word gaijin had been sitting in my mind for a few days. I’d been called a gaijin and of course, Owen had felt he was one too, both in the U.S. and in his own family. It was a poignancy I wished we didn’t share.
The conversation around the table shifted to the big news, the rape allegation and protests, and I was glad to have the focus off me. Lester wanted to know if Amista had turned up anything new in her reporting.
“Both sides say the other is lying. Nothing new about that. But I did find out that Stone has a temper problem. Been arrested in the past for public fighting. I’m going to write that part of the story tomorrow.”
We sat and discussed the case. Hisashi was certain Stone was guilty. Amista said it wasn’t yet clear. Lester agreed with Hisashi. I wasn’t sure about anything on Okinawa and certainly didn’t know the answer to this painful question. We all agreed that whether a rape happened or not, both parties’ lives could be ruined as a result of this court case. Airman Stone’s reputation could be permanently damaged. Midori Ishikori could be scarred for life. Japan itself could be changed if the protests succeeded in getting military bases shut down.
Lester stood and put both hands on Amista’s shoulders, rubbed them. “Anyone care for another sip of wine?” We moved out onto the back porch where glowing paper lanterns hung from a white wooden trellis overhead. The moonlight was muted by silver clouds. Lester gave a goodnight toast. “To new friends, Lucy and Hisashi, who we thank for coming to dinner.” Did Lester think Hisashi and I were a new couple?
“He knows you’re colleagues, not dating,” Amista whispered. She poked me in the ribs with a teasing finger.
* * *
Hisashi drove me home and walked me up to my apartment. Creepy Date-san peered at us over a newspaper as we passed. Upstairs, we sat on my small futon couch and he leaned closer to me and put his arm around my shoulder. He smelled musky and I leaned against his warm bulk. Our discussion about Owen had created an ease, an understanding between us. He hadn’t laughed at my naivete, about my belief that Owen and I had been in love, and I had a glimpse into the difficulties he was living with, the complexity of the Ota family. Sitting with Hisashi I recognized in him the same tender heart I’d seen in Owen and it softened and opened my own heart just a crack. When he left, he kissed me on the top of the head, like a brother would do.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was the first decent night’s sleep I’d had in weeks. I got to work early and wrapped up my university story. It was dry and full of data, “University Enhances English Language Curriculum.” Amista handed me a copy of her next story on the rape case, telling me to read it when I had time.
On the white board Ashimine-san had assigned me a new story about the activities of Okinawan and American Women’s Clubs. Apparently, there were groups in which Okinawan women and American military wives socialized and did charity work together. I was disappointed and wished he’d assigned the piece to Cece, after all, she was a military officer’s wife. Nonetheless, I researched the piece for the afternoon, reading up on joint hospital fundraisers and ikebana classes, where together, Okinawan and American women learned flower arranging. Aside from an event called, “Blogs to Build Unity,” the courses could have been offered in nineteen-sixty. Frustrated after being cooped up all day, I needed out of the office.
I turned off my computer, grabbed Amista’s story, got in the car and headed west. When I arrived at Okinawa City Beach at the northernmost end of the Sunabe Seawall, I parked and walked on the sand. It felt soft on my toes and the water sparkled in the afternoon sun. There were only a few people around, a family tossing a Frisbee and a soldier jumping in the waves. Nathan was nowhere to be seen. I plopped down on the sand and let my eyes adjust to the reflections and bursts of light reflecting off the water. As if I hadn’t seen it before, I took in the dark and light shades of blue all around me, the water that melted from aqua to navy, the turquoise sky and the shifting line where sky collided with sea. The air smelled pleasantly of salt and fish.
Amista’s story was titled, “Okinawa Erupts as Airman Denies Guilt.” The deckhead was, “Stone history of violence, Ishikori silent.” I was about to read it when my phone rang. It was Rose. We spent the next thirty minutes chatting. She asked about Hisashi and I assured her I wasn’t dating him. We both agreed that dating Owen’s brother was probably a bad idea. During our conversation my text alert kept beeping, but I ignored it and called my mom after I hung up with Rose. I didn’t tell her anything more than that I was fine, that work was going well and that I loved her.
After a few more minutes staring into the East China Sea I scrolled through my texts. “I’m in Ginowan Hospital.” It was Hisashi. I jumped to my feet and landed on a sharp seashell. I pressed the hem of my dress on my foot to staunch the bleeding and called him. He told me he had been attacked in the parking lot at the office, early, before anyone else arrived. A group of boys or men, he wasn’t sure, roughed him up. He drove himself to the hospital and they would release him soon. A shudder rippled down my spine, the peace I’d started to feel, seeped out of my skin. “What can I do?”
He asked me to meet him at his apartment. I GPSed it and drove fast, gripping the steering wheel hard, worrying.
Hisashi’s place was swanky, in Ginowan, right on the ocean. The building was a gleaming high-rise, modern and glassy. I continued to marvel at how Okinawa went from ramshackle to sleek in the space of a few miles.
When he answered his door, I hugged him. He was hot and damp. His forehead and cheek were bandaged as was his hand. The apartment was three times as big as my own and decorated with modern furniture and a crystal chandelier. I inhaled vanilla, a set of three candles on his coffee table. I stood back to take
it all in, including his injuries. His face was the purple and red hues of a professional boxer after a fight.
“I wish I could say the other guys look worse,” he said, smiling, though he must have been in pain. He told me there were three of them with bandanas wrapped around their faces. “I didn’t get a good look, but they were young, I could tell from their eyes.” We sat down on his black leather couch.
“Please tell me you spoke to the police.”
“The hospital made me report it, but I wouldn’t have otherwise.” Such stubborn pride, I thought. “The officer said it was probably a random attack on anyone who works at Okinawa Week, the police don’t think I was targeted specifically.”
Fear choked my throat. It could have been me, Amista or anyone who had been attacked. “Did you tell Ashimine-san?”
“No. He will feel responsible.”
I exhaled, incredulous that he’d make that mistake again. “How can you possibly hide it from him after what happened with the signs? He’s going to see your face.”
“Lucy, there are things you don’t understand about our culture,” he began.
He was right, I didn’t understand most things, but I couldn’t hold my tongue. “If you won’t tell him for yourself, at least consider that it could have been Amista, or Cece or me who was attacked, or could be attacked later.”
Hisashi closed his eyes, pressed them shut. Then he said, “Okay. I will warn our coworkers. But not Ashimine-san. He’s old fashioned.”
“My God,” I said, exasperated. I couldn’t put myself into the mindset of someone who wanted to avoid embarrassment for his boss more than he wanted safety, or justice for that matter, to see the culprits thrown in jail. I bit my tongue. I commented on the luxury of his place, with its lively red silk throw pillows on the couch and a real dining room off to the side of the living room. Nothing like my spartan apartment.
“I like living on the water,” he said, rubbing his bandaged hand. “Come look.” Two sliding glass doors opened to the West, and the view was all twinkling aqua water and light blue sky. “Lucy, I want to talk to you, to put a few things out in the open.” I nodded, wary about what would come next. “It must be strange for you to get to know me after knowing Owen. We are not at all the same.”
“I realize that.”
“And I can’t say I understand what your relationship with him was.” I didn’t answer, kept my promise to myself not to deepen Hisashi’s grief by talking about my unrequited infatuation. “I have our grandmother’s tea set. My mom told me it’s for you, from Owen.” He brought me into his dining room and on a long, black lacquer buffet, there it was, the pretty red and pink tea set Owen had promised me. It was even lovelier than I remembered, with delicate pink cherry blossoms etched over paper-thin crimson porcelain. A ripple through my chest, its beauty stunning, my memory overflowing. It’s infused with love, Owen had said, and impossible for tea served in it to be bitter.
I told Hisashi that it was too special, should remain in the Ota family, but he said no, Owen’s wishes should be honored. He gingerly lifted it and placed it in my hands and another string fell away from the binding of my heart. This gift from Owen was a symbol, a sign that our relationship had been real, had life and weight. At one point, I’d hoped the tea set had been smashed to bits, and now I was grateful that it shone in my hands, as if Owen himself reached out to me, offered amends for hurting me.
Hisashi was tired and needed rest after his ordeal, so I got ready to leave. By the door, he stopped me and said, “I could really use some R&R. How about we take a drive around the island tomorrow. Go to a tea house, see some landmarks?”
“I absolutely want to do that,” I said, and he gave me a ginger hug. I wrapped the tea set in towels from my trunk, to make sure each item was safely tucked into a soft spot. I drove back to the Sunabe Seawall and sat on the concrete barrier, until the only illumination was the reflection of the moon on the water.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next morning, Hisashi and I headed north up Okinawa’s West Coast Highway 58, the flat, bustling main road that ran the length of the island. We passed miles of metal fences on our right, surrounding the military bases. The runways, parking lots, fields and clusters of organized buildings looked bland and misplaced across the street from colorful local trinket shops and busy pachinko parlors. Hisashi turned into a small strip mall and parked in front of a store with blacked-out windows. The sun reflected hotly off the store front and I squinted.
Inside we were greeted by a tiny old woman wearing a vivid green kimono. Her hair was black in defiance of the years etched into her brown skin and it was twisted into an elaborate bun held secure by polished wooden chopsticks. The room was small and dim, with tatami mats on the floor and a cinnamon scent in the air. “We’re participating in a traditional tea ceremony,” Hisashi whispered. “Usually they don’t let untrained Americans take tea, but Honda-san makes exceptions.”
We removed our shoes and Honda-san led us to a black granite basin in the corner. Hisashi rinsed his hands in the basin and took a swig of water from a small decanter, so I did the same. Then Honda-san indicated where we should sit on one side of the low table. She then left the room through an almost invisible back door that was flush with the wall.
“She will use matcha, powdered green tea,” he whispered. “She skips all the courses of food that go with traditional tea ceremonies. It’s like tea ceremony ‘light,’ for Americans and their short attention spans. She’ll perform it in twenty minutes, versus several hours.” His description made me smile.
Honda-san reentered the room, and cleansed her hands at the granite basin, moving methodically. Then she sat on the other side of the low table and placed both hands on the semi-circular handle of a jade green and ivory pot in front of her. The pot sat on an ivory lacquer tray along with three matching bowls, a smaller stone bowl filled with the matcha, and a small whisk and a scoop. An ivory cloth was draped over the side of the tray. With slow gentle movements Honda-san scooped the powder into one of the bowls, poured in the hot water and whisked the tea as steam rose in a wisp. She presented the bowl to Hisashi who sipped it and said something in Japanese to Honda-san. Then he picked up the ivory cloth, wiped the edge of the tea bowl, turned it around and passed it to me. I imitated him, sipping, thanking Honda-san in English because I couldn’t think to say arigato or any Japanese words. I wiped the bowl and handed it back to Honda-san, who stood, bowed, slid open the sliding panel that served as both wall and door, left the room.
“That sliding door is called a fusuma,” Hisashi said, and I nodded. My mind flashed back to the intimate tea ceremony that Owen and I had shared so long ago, and I smiled again. Seeing my smile, Hisashi smiled too.
“Don’t move, she will give us more tea,” he said. I sat as still as I could, ignoring the urge to unbend my legs. Honda-san returned and prepared tea in each of the two remaining bowls, filling them almost to the top. She gave them to us, and we again thanked her. This time I gave a little bow too. Hisashi took his time in drinking the tea and Honda-san sat like a Buddha meditating. When our bowls were empty, Honda-san picked up the ivory towel and cleaned off the whisk and scoop, and handed the implements to Hisashi, who said, “These are beautiful objects.”
To my surprise Honda-san replied in English. “Thank you. They were first used by my great-grandmother who commissioned them from Naoto Kadekaru, a brilliant artisan. My great-grandmother passed them down to my grandmother and so on. They aren’t as fancy as some, but to my family, they are precious.” She turned to me, obviously expecting me to speak.
“They are precious,” I said, feeling a little silly for repeating what she had said. Honda-san stood and bowed. Hisashi and I did the same.
“This was not elaborate, but I am honored that you joined me,” Honda-san said. Hisashi tried to hand her a few bills, but she shook them off. “It is my gift. Nothing should mar the beauty of matcha shared with friends.” Then she turned to me. “Tosch-san, please a
ccept the apology of my ancestors that you were treated with such disregard.”
Hisashi avoided my eyes. Honda-san bowed a final time and left through the secret door in the back. Outside I squinted again. “You told Honda-san about the upskirt incident?”
“I didn’t tell her. When I called to make the appointment, she told me she knew about it. Small island. Things get around.” He told me that the tradition of the tea ceremony is one of peace and generosity and that any tea host would be mortified to know that a guest had been treated shabbily by a local person. That’s part of the graciousness of Japan, he said. “At heart, the Japanese wish never to offend.” The simple eloquence of his statement brought a lump to my throat. He had planned this day for me, to show me something of the culture that I hadn’t yet seen because of the chaos since I’d arrived. In the dark sanctity of Honda-san’s tearoom, I got a glimpse of the elegant country I’d expected from the start.
We stopped at a curry shop for lunch and shared a plate of chicken and potatoes ladled with spicy yellow sauce, the best meal I’d had since I arrived. I thanked Hisashi for taking me to the tea ceremony. “I had tea with Owen once,” I said, feeling more comfortable in confiding in Hisashi. I explained how Owen had performed a makeshift ceremony for me there in his fort with his grandmother’s beautiful tea set.
“Owen is sweet like that,” Hisashi said, “an old soul. He loves Japanese traditions. He values our culture and history. He knows how to conduct a tea ceremony, he writes haiku, he takes time to honor our ancestors.” Hisashi’s voice rippled with love. It was a revelation. Owen was the traditional one, returning to Tokyo when called by his father. Hisashi, I suddenly understood, was the disobedient son who fled to Okinawa and stayed.
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