Snakeskin Shamisen

by Naomi Hirahara

  As he went down the first row, he was surprised to see Gushi-mama there in a wheelchair, her pigeon-faced roommate beside her. And then, next to her, another familiar face. The professor, Genessee Howard.

  “This seat’s open, Mas.” She gestured to an empty seat beside her.

  Mas hesitated and remained standing. “I dunno youzu gonna be here,” he said.

  “I always come to the concerts. I’m an adviser for the association.”

  “You knowsu Gushi-mama?”

  “Oh, we’re great friends. After my husband died, Gushi-mama was the one who brought maze-gohan to my house every week. That’s when she was living on her own.”

  Gushi-mama’s dried-out mane was tamed inside a knit hat, and her mouth was filled with a set of perfect teeth. She was looking good. “My maze-gohan the best, you know,” she said, peering at his plate to see if he had any of the rice-mixed-with-red-bean dish. “None of this stuff any good.”

  Mas didn’t know how to respond. If he agreed, he would be insulting the hands that had made the ogochiso, the feast before them. If he disagreed, he would be denigrating Gushi-mama’s culinary expertise. He must have had a funny expression, because Gushi-mama then commented to Genessee, “This man, omoshiroi.”

  Omoshiroi. The word could mean “interesting.” But also “peculiar.” She then clarified, “He looks like nobody special, but he has a head for things. Smarter than he looks.”

  If Gushi-mama hadn’t been recovering from a lack of food and fluids in her body, Mas would have had some choice words to throw her way. But he refrained.

  “Yes,” Genessee said. “I figured that out the first time I saw him.”

  “So,” agreed Gushi-mama’s roommate.

  Embarrassed by his all-female fan club, Mas almost dropped his plate of bitter melon onto the floor.

  “Sit, sit.” Genessee pulled at the sleeve of the Hawaiian shirt. Mas finally acquiesced and claimed the folding chair next to her.

  An emcee in a suit and tie spoke into the microphone. “More food left, everyone.” He then added, “No enryo,” before introducing the next performers.

  Enryo was the standard Japanese response to any social situation, large or small. Mas and Chizuko would tell Mari not to beg for soft drinks at a friend’s house and, in fact, to refuse it when it was first offered. (It could, however, be accepted upon the second offer, and a definite yes by the third.) And of course, no one took the last bit of anything on a plate at a Chinese restaurant. It didn’t make sense, really, for that final piece of sweet-and-sour pork or chicken chow mein to end up in the trash rather than someone’s stomach, but that’s how things were done. Most hakujin wouldn’t be able to survive living this way; they would probably scream and monku until the system was changed. But then that’s how the Japanese American had survived this long under bad circumstances. You pushed aside your own wants for the larger good, which in most cases meant some type of unity. Of course, sometimes fights would break out, and people would go off on their own—only to start up another new group. And so the process went on and on. No wonder there were thousands of groups within the Japanese American community.

  Mas began eating as a new group positioned themselves on the platform. As he ate and listened, he kept one eye on the door. He hadn’t seen Kinjo, Alan, or Halbertson yet—not to mention either G. I. or Juanita.

  The emcee returned to the microphone. “Next is Kinjo and Son Band,” he said. The audience clapped.

  From the kitchen entrance came Kinjo, Alan, Halbertson, the woman with the skunk stripe in her hair, and the young man with the tortured push-lawn-mower hair.

  The music was more of the same, but it was good nonetheless. Mas had to disagree with Gushi-mama on this—Kinjo was a good sanshin player. Maybe not quite good enough for him to have his nose in the air, but enjoyable nonetheless.

  In the middle of the third song, two new guests entered the hall. One was Detective Alo, whose immense size attracted half of the crowd’s attention. The other half seemed more interested in his companion, a squat, balding Japanese man wearing a dark, expensive suit revealing his high position.

  Genessee whispered in Mas’s ear, “Why is Detective Alo with the representative from Okinawa?”

  Mas almost cracked a smile. G. I. was to be commended. He had worked his persuasive magic in getting the men to a concert on a Saturday afternoon. Genessee was not a woman who wasted any time. She rose and made her way toward the two men. Whatthehell, thought Mas. Isn’t this why I took the trouble to come here in the first place? He got up and joined Genessee by the door.

  Alo was in a deep conversation with the suited Japanese man, bending down to his height and periodically pointing to Halbertson and then Kinjo. The singing duo were in trouble and they knew it. Kinjo’s voice went flat, while his hakujin sidekick looked like he had caught a bad case of the stomach flu. They stopped performing after the third song, prompting hard looks from Alan and the other members of the band. Both Kinjo and Halbertson bowed and quickly left the stage, looking for an alternate door besides the one in the kitchen. There wasn’t any.

  “Going somewhere?” Detective Alo blocked the exit.

  Kinjo hugged his sanshin to his chest, while Halbertson’s once-perky white mustache dipped down.

  “You know that musical instrument that you claim is yours, Mr. Kinjo? Well, we’ve discovered that it was stolen from the prefecture of Okinawa. And the musical score hidden inside—it happens to be a national treasure, missing since World War Two.” Alo gestured toward his balding companion. “This is Mr. Oyadomori, a representative from the Okinawan government. He’d like to discuss how exactly you got your hands on those two items.”

  By this time, the audience was no longer following the next musical act but the more interesting sideshow that Alo was providing.

  “Soto, soto.” Kinjo wanted to take his private business outside, away from the curious looks of the Okinawa Association members. “Go outside.”

  Leaving behind Alan and Halbertson, Kinjo deftly darted behind Alo and headed toward the wide openness of the parking lot. Only he didn’t stop once he was outside. He was moving toward the street.

  A black car swung into the lot, preventing his escape. The driver’s door opened and Agent Lee, impeccably dressed and groomed as usual, slowly emerged from the car.

  “Hello, Mr. Kinjo,” he said. It was obvious that the two had met before.

  Kinjo blinked furiously—a mouse caught by two, no, three cats. His legs must have been shaking, because his kimono-covered body bobbed back and forth.

  Alan, seeing his father in trouble, ran to his defense. “What’s going on here?” he said, standing beside Kinjo. “Nothing is going to happen without our lawyer present.”

  “No, no. Too takai, expensive. Pay too much already.” Kinjo hung his head. He was giving up.

  Mas saw Detective Alo approach Agent Lee. They were also clearly familiar with each other, because they were soon having their own argument about who should be questioning Kinjo first, and where.

  “This is a murder case; I think this takes precedence over something that happened fifty years ago,” Alo said in his breathless voice, but a little louder than usual.

  “But this is murder, too, with larger ramifications. I think that I should have first crack at him.”

  Finally, Genessee interrupted them, waving a set of keys. “You can meet next door in our office building.” Alan continued to try to deter his father from cooperating, with little success. Mas was going to stay behind, but Genessee took hold of his arm. She led them to the modern, mirrored building. They passed the spiral staircase and went down a hall to the first door, which Genessee unlocked with one of her keys.

  They all took seats around four tables arranged together in the center of the room. Kinjo, Alan, and Halbertson sat on one side; Oyadomori, Lee, and Alo on the other. Mas stood awkwardly by the door. He felt odd without Juanita and G. I. there. Had G. I.’s business with Jiro taken all day? Genessee, meanwhil
e, walked back and forth, her arms crossed as if she were a schoolteacher ready to reprimand her students.

  Kinjo pointed to Halbertson and blurted to Mr. Oyadomori in Japanese, “This man is the one who stole the sanshin and kunkunshi from Shuri Castle in Okinawa during World War Two.”

  Oyadomori’s heavy eyebrows went up, and Alo and Lee were eager to know what had been said. Alan looked shocked—it was obvious that he had been unaware of his father’s past association with Halbertson and the stolen shamisen.

  The Okinawan official was apparently fluent in both languages. “He said his friend took the sanshin and kunkunshi from a very important landmark in Okinawa, which was totally destroyed after the war.” Oyadomori spoke slowly and deliberately, with only the slightest of accents. He then scolded Halbertson. “Do you know how valuable the kunkunshi is? This is like the Bible for sanshin players.”

  “I didn’t know anything about the kunkunshi. Yes, I took the sanshin as a souvenir. At that time, I didn’t know what I had. In fact, I saved it, you could say. If I had left it in the castle, it would have burned, for sure. The neck was loose—in fact, it completely came off—and that’s how I found that scroll. When I was working at Jerome, I showed it to Kinjo.” Halbertson gestured toward Kinjo. “He said that it was just some scribbling, nothing important. He paid me fifty dollars for it. A lousy fifty dollars. And now you are telling me the score is priceless?”

  “You did not tell me you stole,” Kinjo shot back.

  “You knew where I had taken it from.”

  Like a married couple on the brink of divorce, the two men continued to shoot accusations at each other.

  Alo finally raised his hands. “Is there another room we can use?”

  Genessee lifted her set of keys and gestured toward the room across the way.

  “Mr. Oyadomori, perhaps it would be better if you interview Mr. Halbertson privately for a little while,” Alo said. “I have another investigation to handle here.”

  “Don’t forget mine,” asserted Agent Lee.

  There was a flicker of annoyance reflected on Alo’s face. “And you.” He spoke to Alan. “We’ll need you to leave the room too.”

  Alan tried to argue with the detective again, but Kinjo shook his head. “Orai, yo,” he said. “I’m orai.”

  Alan did not want to leave his father’s side. His handsome face was tight with worry, and Mas realized the son, all this time, had feared that his father had somehow been involved in the death of Randy Yamashiro.

  Alo then got on his phone as the Okinawan representative and Halbertson made their way into another room. Alan also reluctantly rose from the table.

  “I’ve asked for a Japanese interpreter to come, so we can wait until she arrives,” Alo announced after his phone conversation.

  “No.” Kinjo’s eyes flashed, their intensity matching his brilliant white hair. “I talk now.”

  Alan tried to talk sense to Kinjo, but he wouldn’t budge. The police detective then asked Alan, this time more forcefully, to leave the room. Mas turned toward the hallway, eager to comply. “No, not you, Mr. Arai,” said Alo. “I need you here.”

  It was as Mas feared: Alo was going to use him as a makeshift interpreter. The detective told Mas to sit beside him, across from Kinjo, while Agent Lee reluctantly moved to a side chair. Removing a small tape recorder from his jacket pocket, Alo then addressed Kinjo. “May I?”

  “Hai,” affirmed Kinjo, his eyes blinking furiously, pachi-pachi.

  Alo then asked Kinjo perfunctory questions. Name, date of birth, place of birth. Kinjo seemed antsy to jump from the realm of the mundane into the meat of the matter. “I did not do it. I did not kill him,” he blurted out in English. “Randy Yamashiro is the one.”

  Alo exchanged looks with Lee. “What are you saying?”

  “I do not kill Yamashiro; he try to kill me.”

  The statement was heavy, and it sunk into the silence of the room for a few seconds.

  “So what you’re saying is that Randy Yamashiro tried to kill you?” Alo repeated.

  Kinjo nodded. “With katana this size.” He raised his hands about a foot apart. He knew that he would need to provide the police with a detailed description of what happened, so he turned to Mas and explained in Japanese, “After the performance, Randy told me to meet him outside so he could pay me. He said that he had to leave right away, so I left Alan to pack up, and I went to the parking lot. I couldn’t find him at first; then, there he was behind a van, carrying the sanshin. I was so excited to see the sanshin; it was like being reunited with an old friend. I thought that Randy was returning the sanshin to me, so I rushed over to him.

  “ ‘You recognize this?’ he asked, and before I can answer, he breaks the neck from the body, right before my eyes.”

  Kinjo’s cheeks were shiny with tears. Mas took the opportunity to retell as much of Kinjo’s story as he could to Alo and Lee.

  “Go on,” Alo gently prodded Kinjo.

  “I yelled out, ‘What are you doing?’ and then he brought out a huge knife—more than a foot long. ‘This is for my father,’ he said. ‘Isokichi Sanjo.’ He plunged the knife toward my chest. I jumped back, and the layers of my kimono were cut and torn. I tried to yell again, but nothing came out of my throat. And suddenly, before Yamashiro could try again, somebody took a hold of his arm.”

  Mas knew what was coming next. “It was a short Sansei man with the freckles. Randy’s friend. Jiro.

  “They are trained fighters, I could see. They were on the ground, wrestling, and finally Jiro was on top, struggling to get the knife out of Randy’s hand and then—” Kinjo swallowed. “And then the knife was in Randy’s neck. Blood was pouring out. His legs and arms were still moving, as if he were being suffocated. And then his body stopped moving. Still. Jiro and I were in shock, and then he barked at me, ‘Get out of here. And say nothing. I saved your life. You owe me.’ ”

  Mas licked his dry lips. Again, osewaninatta. It was a curse. Kinjo took a deep breath, and it seemed that he was done talking for a while. Mas did his best to give a summary of Kinjo’s testimony.

  Alo straightened out a paper clip that had been on the table. “So you said nothing about what you saw.”

  Kinjo shook his head. “I say nothing. Not even to my son. I drive away, and Jiro runs away, too, but someone see him.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone I don’t see long, long time. But I know. Isokichi’s brother, Anmen.”

  So Anmen had witnessed Jiro fleeing the scene? He had said nothing about this to Mas and G. I.

  “He didn’t see me, but I recognized him. The same body. The same way of walking.”

  Mas tried to remember what Anmen had said at Haruo’s. That he was going to get the man who did it.

  Kinjo’s voice was getting hoarse, as raspy as Jiro’s even. “Mizu,” he finally said.

  “He want water,” Mas explained.

  Alo went to a water cooler in the corner, and Agent Lee followed. They conferred for a minute and returned. Alo, handing both Kinjo and Mas Dixie cups of water, took Lee’s seat, while Lee took Alo’s place across from Kinjo. The questioning was turning, Mas realized, from the present back to the past.

  “So the son knew about you informing on his father in 1953?”

  Mas roughly translated the question, and Kinjo affirmed, “Hai. He blamed me for killing his father. I didn’t do it. But I know who did.”

  Mas shivered as if cold water had been poured down his back. He provided a rough translation, and Lee nodded for Kinjo to continue.

  “It was fifty years ago in Los Angeles. I couldn’t sleep the night of Sanjo’s arrest,” Kinjo explained. “I could hear the smallest noise. The ticking of the clock. Sirens in the distance. A car backfiring down the street. A part of me despised Sanjo, and yes, that probably all came from jealousy. He was a musical genius. He had a talent that I could never attain. I don’t know why I wanted to bring him down rather than be happy to be in his presence. I consoled myself wi
th the fact that I had a royal sanshin. And the kunkunshi. It gave me special powers, an edge, I thought. When it was stolen one night after a performance, I knew that one of the Sanjo brothers had done it. I had gotten in a terrible fight with Isokichi. He told me that I needed to return the sanshin and the kunkunshi to the Okinawan government. I told him to mind his own business. The band was breaking up, never to be reunited again.”

  Kinjo seemed to be in a trance, and Mas didn’t want to interrupt him. Besides, how could he translate all this komakai, detailed information? He glanced at Agent Lee, who somehow knew what Kinjo was saying from the tone of his voice. Pointing at the tape recorder, he mouthed, “It’s okay,” to Mas, and then motioned for him to keep Kinjo talking.

  “So I had gone to this Agent Metcalf, and we’d struck a deal. He had been nosing around, making empty threats that he would deport any Okinawans connected with the Communist Party. He was coming up empty, but I was going to give him the biggest fish possible. The beloved Isokichi Sanjo. For my testimony, I would receive immunity from deportation myself, since I had gone to a few aka meetings. I was just curious. I didn’t really know what they were talking about. I wasn’t a political man. Not like Isokichi.

  “Anyway, the night they took Isokichi away, I had insomnia, and I felt a demon was dancing in my insides. I had done wrong, I knew it, but I didn’t know how to undo it. So I left my wife in the bed and drove down to the INS building. I don’t know what I was thinking. They weren’t going to let me in. But like a wolf howling at the moon, I was drawn to the place where Sanjo was caged.

  “I passed the parking lot and then I saw it: two men carrying another man on their shoulders. Yopparrateru, drunk, I thought. Until one of the men turned and stared at me. He was a hundred yards away, but I knew who it was. The INS agent, Metcalf.

  “Suddenly I knew that the third man wasn’t drunk. He was dead. And that he was most likely Sanjo. I felt like a starting gun had gone off in my stomach, and I began to run as fast as I could. Back to Little Tokyo. Back to the true drunks in the nomiya. But I heard a car’s engine rev and follow right behind me, driving on sidewalks and finally following me down an alley. Shimmata. A dead end. I thought my fate would be the same as Sanjo’s. We would both be gone. Metcalf came out first, and then the other man. Metcalf took out a knife and pressed it against my throat. ‘I can make trouble for you, Kinjo,’ he said. ‘I know that you were at those meetings too. I can get you deported. I can send you back to your own country.’