Gaijin

by Sarah Z Sleeper

  I told him Owen and I wrote a haiku together. He gave a little smile and nodded. “But I’ve never seen the one he published,” I added.

  “Ah, well, I will show you. It’s quite beautiful. Captures the contradiction of Ota family history.”

  I thought of my sheltered suburban Illinois upbringing. My parents rarely mentioned our Dutch ancestry. What little I knew of it I’d researched myself. In Oakville, I’d grown up unaffected by the type of pressure that Hisashi and Owen had to deal with. I hadn’t been raised to be proud of my heritage, but I hadn’t been forced to conform to it either. We finished lunch and my curiosity nudged me. With a deeper understanding of Owen now, and an even deeper respect for him, I felt drawn toward information that might provide closure, a final untethering of my heart

  * * *

  After lunch we drove up to Manza Beach Resort, the scene of the alleged rape, another place I’d developed intense curiosity about. Especially since my own assault, I wanted to see the place poor Midori Ishikori had been during the alleged attack, to fully grasp, somehow, that whether walking down a public street or lounging on an upscale tourist beach, women were at risk. We turned into the palm-shrouded driveway and the ocean was on the left, the tall hotel straight ahead. There was no police tape marking a spot, nor any upended chairs or misplaced trash, nothing to indicate a crime had taken place. It was open to the public and we paid a small fee to park and have beach access. The sand was pristine and white, and the shallow water sparkled turquoise. Fit boys monitored the beach, setting up sun umbrellas and sitting atop lifeguard stands. The hotel towered at one end of the beach.

  “This is where the Ishikori family stayed?” I asked.

  “Looks innocuous, doesn’t it?” Hisashi said.

  The building was white, a shade lighter than the sand, with a cheerful blue ocean wave logo adorning the side. The lifeguards spread a large blanket for us under an umbrella and offered us plastic cups of wine.

  “When I dreamed of coming to Japan, this kind of tropical scene never entered my mind.”

  “What did you expect, a metropolis like a scene from a Gwen Stefani video?” he said, and I laughed for the first time in weeks, admitted he was right.

  “It’s embarrassing,” I said. And I told him my image of Japan was some combination of busy downtown Tokyo, a music video, and beautiful women like his mother. “She was so kind and lovely.”

  “That’s how she is still, kind and lovely. No idea how she puts up with my father.”

  In the changing cabanas we put on our suits, then waded into the warm water and stood waist deep. Hisashi was muscular and a little plump, his tummy a rounded mound. I did a mental comparison to Owen who was almost as tall but lean as a street post. Hisashi ran his hand across the water creating a turquoise ripple. “I hated my dad. I blamed him.”

  “And now?”

  “I feel sorry for him.”

  “Are all Japanese fathers so harsh?” I wasn’t sure if that was the right word, but didn’t want to say bigoted, which is the word that first came to mind.

  “Some are, some aren’t. Just like fathers everywhere.” Hisashi stared out into the distance, thinking. “Maybe you’ll meet him.” Standing in the cooling ripples of the East China Sea I could envision a trip to Tokyo with Hisashi. “We’ll see,” he said, concluding a thought he didn’t share.

  The soft lapping of the waves was interrupted by loud voices at the hotel. Security guards were pushing a group of people out of a side door. The people held cameras close to their chests and didn’t push back. “Reporters,” Hisashi said. I was transfixed, watching the commotion between the media and the hotel staff, an argument crescendoed and then stopped as the hotel doors shut. The photographers migrated to a spot by a small pond near the back corner of the hotel, snapping shots of the ground. That had to be the spot where Midori Ishikori said she’d been lured to and attacked. I wrapped a towel around my waist and went for a closer look. Coarse dirt, dry leaves, sticks on the edge of a swampy pool, nothing soft. Her skin must have been bruised and scratched, I realized, her wounds visible and palpable. My own assault had left nothing to see on my body, only a wound to my spirit, and yet I understood that I shared something with this tiny Japanese teenager, something no two women would want to have in common.

  Hisashi retrieved his camera from the car, went over, took a few shots, talked with a few photographers. I asked him why the photographers were there today, and he said it was the first day that barriers were gone, a coincidence of timing with our day trip. My stomach churned and I was queasy. I told him we needed to go.

  * * *

  Our next stop was Hiji Falls, a hiking trail another twenty minutes up the road, across from a military campground called Okuma. The parking lot was almost empty, and we parked close to the mouth of the trail. We hiked up a well-maintained path with thick trees that formed a canopy overhead and blocked the sun. I pointed to a black-and-green turtle lounging on a rock and Hisashi told me was a native Ryukyu turtle. A few olive-brown birds skittered around on the ground calling in a high-pitched off-key shout, unlike the melodic robins and sparrows in Illinois. “Yanbaru kuina,” he said. “They are endangered and don’t fly well. Seeing them is a good omen.”

  A sudden yearning came over me, to tell my father that I’d seen a rare Japanese bird. That’s how my grief had changed over time. Early on, I couldn’t think clear thoughts in a mind cratered by loss. Now, my moments of grief came in bolts of wonderment followed by the dull realization that he was gone, the same pattern repeated and repeated. It had been a similar pattern after Owen left me, but with sprinkles of hope that I’d see him again.

  At one point in the trail Hisashi and I came to a suspension bridge several stories above a cavernous ravine. As usual he kept his hand on my back to guide me, pushing me at a steady pace over the river swirling far below. “Do you know what the hiji means in Hiji Falls?” He was trying to distract me so I wouldn’t be scared. “Elbow. So, we are on the way to the Elbow Falls. I don’t think it looks at all like an elbow. You’ll see.”

  At the top of the trail we arrived at the falls, an imposing cascade of water running about seventy-five feet down a sheer rock wall, nothing at all like a bent elbow. My skin was slippery from the mist wafting off the falls and I held on to Hisashi’s sleeve to steady myself. Signs warned against swimming, but several teenagers floated just in front of the waterfall, weaving toward it and then away before being hit by the crashing water. I had the urge to jump in, swim under the falling torrent and take my chances. Did I hear my father’s laughter in the rushing water? A soft feeling of contentment crept over me as we headed back down the trail. The waning afternoon sun shadow danced through the trees and a flightless yanbaru kuina sprinted on a dead run in front of us and then took off. We paused to watch him soar up and take hold of a high branch where he perched like a king.

  * * *

  Hisashi and I were quiet on the drive back and when we got to my apartment, we sat on my little couch downing glasses of cold water and taking sips of beer. He told me that next time we had an outing he would take me to Katsuren Castle, the ruins of it anyway. It was the castle of Lord Amawari, one of Okinawa’s most popular rulers before Japan took over, he said. We also talked about Shuri Castle, which I’d read about, how it had been reconstructed after the war by Americans and Okinawans together. “Something good that our two countries did together,” he said. My phone rang.

  “Upskirt!? Lucy! You should’ve told me,” my mother sounded frantic. “I called Rose and she told me.”

  “I know, I know. I had to appear in a courtroom where they showed my legs and underwear on a big screen in front of a bunch of people.” Mom reacted as I knew she would, sympathetic and also worried about my wellbeing, pleading with me to return to Illinois. She asked again about the rape case and the protests that she’d been seeing in the news. “It’s too soon to tell how the case will end up, but my friend at work is reporting on the case. And no, I haven’t been sca
red,” I said, figuring it was a white lie to save her some worry. “I have Amista and another friend here who are helping me navigate everything.” When I hung up, I again told her I loved her. It felt good to say it and I knew it was what she needed.

  I handed Hisashi another beer. His skin was ruddy after our day outside and he had taken the bandages off his cheek to reveal a slender scab and deep black bruising. He said, “Am I your other friend?” and we both chuckled. We’d come a long way in a few weeks, from strangers with secrets and misapprehensions, to colleagues working on stories together, to friends who’d shared tough times and warm moments. Seeing his battered face beneath the bandages filled me with sympathy. All day together and he’d never even mentioned the attack. I touched his cheek gently and asked if it hurt.

  “My pride more than anything else,” he said.

  “Are you sure it’s best not to tell Ashimine-san?” His eyes went soft and he told me that he understood why it was hard for me to get it, why certain things were best left unsaid at Okinawa Week. The police would probably let Ashimine-san know what had happened, he said, but he wasn’t going to bring it up if Ashimine-san didn’t ask.

  “It’s the Japanese way, to avoid inflaming conflict, to keep a strong and positive face to the world,” he said. As a Midwesterner, I understood the desire to avoid conflict, probably took that concept too far myself. Rose had always told me I’d apologize for falling if a stranger intentionally tripped me.

  “But what if they come after someone else at work?”

  “This isn’t the first time. Both times they called me by name, told me I was a traitor for working with Americans. So, you see….” And I did see. Hisashi was trying to protect all of us from unnecessary stress, from worrying about him on top of worrying about everything else.

  Soon he told me he was tired, needed to rest, the lingering effects of the beating and our long day of touring had taken their toll. On the way out, he floated the idea of us taking a weekend trip to Tokyo. A butterfly of hope fluttered in my head. I still wanted to see Tokyo and other parts of Japan; still felt the draw of the exotic country I’d dreamed of. I asked if we’d see his parents and he said maybe. “What about Owen?”

  “He won’t tell us where he is. He’s basically hiding from the family. He calls, but rarely. I don’t think we’ll be able to find him. Sorry.”

  “I’m sure he’s got bigger worries than a visit from me,” I said, sad because it was certainly true.

  I imagined meeting Mrs. Ota again. Would she be uncomfortable because I knew Owen’s secret? Would sadness have taken a toll on her beauty, etching her beautiful face with lines? And Mr. Ota, I couldn’t quite picture what such a harsh, judgmental father might look like. Would his face be sandpaper and his hands calloused, in keeping with his spirit? Would he speak to me kindly or would he judge me, as he’d done to his son?

  If and when Hisashi and I made it to the mainland I’d approach him again with the idea of going to Suicide Forest. I couldn’t shake the notion that a visit there, the chance to see what it was, would give us both a sense of finality, to pen an end to my story with Owen. I was appalled that such a place could exist, but like a curious reporter, I believed I needed full knowledge, all possible information. It was another conundrum about Japan I longed to understand. A culture so beautiful that taking tea was a memorable occasion and yet so dark it contained a forest devoted to suicide.

  Hisashi bear-hugged me without pressing his sore face onto my head. I had the urge to reach up and give him a kiss on the cheek but thought better of it.

  When I was alone in my apartment, I kept thinking of Manza Beach and the trauma Midori Ishikori had probably experienced there. Before bed, I wrote a poem for her.

  Manza Beach

  Below the calm-rolling surface, its blue bluer than the never-ending sky,

  invisible or unseen from the shelter of her shady umbrella where she digs

  her toes into powder-soft sand and sips her soda with a straw,

  sharp red plumes jab and flail, slice and slash, precious, dangerous coral.

  She’s fearless or maybe stupid, bubble-gum-pink happy, until the cut comes,

  and her broken skin seeps blood and accepts salt,

  and she’s both empty and knowing.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Compared to the quiet comfort of touring with Hisashi, the quiet in the office was somber, uncomfortable. Ashimine-san was out most of the day and we knew he was working with police to help determine the origin of the phone call and graffiti threats. Hisashi hadn’t come to work at all, presumably to hide his wounds and avoid further alarming Ashimine-san. Rumiko ignored everyone, kept her nose in her drafting table. My other colleagues were quiet too, even Cece the chatterbox had fallen silent. It was as if we were all waiting for a bomb to go off or the door to burst open to reveal black-masked terrorists.

  I slogged through my research about American and Okinawan women’s groups, clocking time. I researched the history of cultural sharing efforts between Okinawans and Americans, which turned out to be thin. There were Japanese feminist groups and groups dedicated to helping Japanese women assimilate in the U.S. But I only found one women’s group, on Kadena Air Base, with the specific purpose of collaborating with Okinawans. I scheduled interviews with three women, two Americans and one Okinawan. I attempted to ignite my interest in the subject by searching for a unique angle. I wondered if the women became real friends or just polite colleagues. I wondered if they ever discussed politics or the rape allegation or protests or if they focused on their charities and cultural goals and avoided touchy subjects. Discouraged, I went to Ashimine-san and begged for an assignment related to the rape allegation.

  “Chotto matte kudasai,” he said. “Soon you’ll have bigger stories.”

  Jed laughed from his desk. “Soon, to Ashimine-san, is not very soon,” he said. Like Kei, Jed didn’t say much. But unlike Kei, he had an easy smile and was quick with jokes. I’d seen very little of Kei, which Amista said was just his way, to work and be alone. Rumiko was always present, always watchful. I didn’t feel hostility from her, but I still couldn’t read her. During my exchange with Ashimine-san, she’d paused, hands over her sketch pad, then turned back to her drawings.

  Amista had taken on an even more maternal role with me, especially since my upskirt court appearance. She inquired about my wellbeing. She brought me plastic containers of homemade shrimp and beef.

  One afternoon she took me shopping on Kadena Air Base to buy inexpensive toilet paper and other necessities. It was my first time in the base Exchange, and it reminded me of J.C. Penney. It was clean and generic, with inexpensive cosmetic brands and rows of low-end appliances, rubber shoes and children’s clothing. The shoppers were mainly youngish American women with kids in tow. The workers were both American and Okinawan. I was glad we didn’t run into Takayuki-san, the man who’d told me he hated me during our interview.

  Hisashi and I didn’t schedule a trip to Tokyo and didn’t do another driving tour of the island. We maintained an unspoken time out, when we didn’t talk about Owen, or bad news, or anything other than work. When he came back from his time off, his bruises were almost gone and no one said anything about the attack, so I assumed they didn’t know.

  * * *

  It rained the day we were to attend the first part of Airman Stone’s trial. I was eager to see the Japanese justice system work from the vantage point of a reporter, versus a victim. At the same time, I feared encountering more anti-American hostility. Japan’s status as a country “friendly” to the United States meant that Stone’s trial would be in an Okinawan court, not in a protected on-base American military court.

  Hisashi and I met Amista at the courthouse, the same building where I’d had to confront my upskirt attacker. The nine-a.m. heat created shimmering steam that floated above the entry stairs. The wet air smelled of sulfur and sweat as a throng of reporters and spectators cued to get in. It was first-come, first-served, and luckily
for us, Amista had staked out a spot before dawn, so we waited at the front of the line, under the portico.

  “Doors should open in a few minutes. They are pretty prompt,” Amista said. Hisashi and I nodded. Then, two policemen opened the building doors, checked our IDs and directed us through the metal detector. Amista led us down the hall and toward the courtroom. Like the other professional buildings, I’d been in on Okinawa, this one smelled clean, like lemon and bleach. When we reached the courtroom, we found seats in the front of the section designated for the media. The room was sparse with wooden chairs in the spectating area and no jury box; Japanese criminal courts are presided over by a single judge.

  Like the courtroom for my upskirt hearing, this room had the witness stand in the center of the room facing the judge, not angled toward the audience as it would have been in a U.S. courtroom. Japan’s judicial system was strict, and this requirement, that witness face the judge, amplified that point. The witnesses were not there so the audience could watch them squirm or assess their appearance or ponder their veracity. Witnesses sat below and up close to a single black-robed decision maker, both judge and jury for the fate of the accused.

  The tables for the lawyers of the accused and the accusers were on opposite sides of the room, facing the center, like boxers about to spar. When we took our seats in the gallery, the judge was already sitting behind his bench thumbing through papers, and police officers stood on each side of him and by all the doors. Two women at small desks, a court reporter and a translator, flanked the judge. The room filled with people who held muted conversations so as not to ignite the voltage in the air.

  Airman Stone, a hulking man with coal-black skin contrasted against pale blue prison garb, entered the courtroom through a side door. Handcuffs and leg-irons forced him to walk in a heavy shuffle. Guards sat him at the table and took up posts nearby. Colonel Abdir was already seated there and spoke to Stone, touched his arm and patted him on the back. I’d read somewhere that lawyers often touch guilty clients to fool people into thinking the client could be trusted. Another military man and woman, presumably lawyers, came in from the back, commiserated with Abdir and Stone, then took their places at the table. I stole side glances at Stone’s face and could see a bulging vein down his temple. He looked powerful and hopeless at the same time, surrounded by guards and suited lawyers. Were they there to protect him or to protect others from him? Stone, already like a convicted felon, separated from other citizens by a blockade of people.