by Arne Bue
"Unfortunate? Shit, Kenso...Jeffrey."
"This should not have happened," Mr. Nakano said.
"I don't much like the replacement."
"There is no replacement."
"The hell there isn't. I mean, he's not doing any business that I can tell. More like he's waiting."
"How do you know of this?" Mr. Nakano asked.
"Hey, anyone new show up in any of these communities out here, the grapevine kicks in. Troopers know he's there, I'd bet on it. I even went there, took a look. Where the hell you get him? He looks like he'd eat his own kids for lunch."
"He is a soldier," Mr. Nakano said. He became as quiet as mist that blots out the beauty of day. Mr. Nakano looked at the ship, the wet dock, the lights reflecting off the harbor water. "This is the end," he said.
Redbeard's bushy eyebrows folded over his eyes.
"Hey, hey," Redbeard said. He draped his sizable arm around Mr. Nakano. "The end? As in a shut-down? This deal goes to hell, I can't build up the database in Mexico. My birds, my Brant, they all need me, man."
"My people believe I have betrayed them," Mr. Nakano said.
"Hey, hey. What's this betrayal shit?" Redbeard said.
"I need money, so I have acquired and sold my own inventory to pay for my wife's operation. And pay for my son's college tuition."
"What the hell kind of people you work for? Why don't they pay for her operation?"
"I am of low rank," Mr. Nakano said.
"Hey, Kenso, you made this route."
"You do not understand. My oyabun considers me merely a man who delivers products. Living expenses for my journeys are closely watched. Travelers such as me are not paid handsomely. And my son, Kano. The organization wants to recruit him. I am against that. My son will be honorable. My family name will once again be pure."
"Well just tell them to fuck off," Redbeard said.
"I will not see you again," Mr. Nakano said.
"This isn't right."
"There is more that is not right, my friend," Mr. Nakano said.
"Don't be so hard on yourself," Redbeard said.
"You have stolen from me. One thousand American dollars. You shorted me one thousand American dollars in Chignik. That is money for my wife's operation and for my son's education."
"Hey, hey, man. That's so...temporary. I mean, you know I'll be good for it. You count the money I just gave you, you'll see it's all there."
Mr. Nakano looked out and about. No one. He had time. He took out all the money and counted. He was short again, another thousand.
"You have taken another thousand American dollars away from me. Are you trying to harm my family?"
"Hey, hey. Listen, your problems aren't really with me, are they? They're with them. I told you I'd be good for it, didn't I?"
Mr. Nakano looked over at the phone booth. He did not realize he had his long knife in his hand. Perhaps he'd used the knife to slice through the bands around the currency. He looked at the blade and noticed Redbeard follow his gaze.
"Hey, hey. You going to do a ninja thing? On me? I'm good for the money, man. Listen, listen. I'll be in Sand Point, meet you there. I'll have things in control then, right? You'll meet me there, and I'll fix everything and we'll be even. OK? Even?"
"How do you mean? You'll have the money?" The palm of Mr. Nakano's hand had grown damp, and the handle of the knife slipped about as though the ivory grip had become a bar of yellow soap. Redbeard was looking at the knife, at the blade. Mr. Nakano calmed himself. He wished his hand to stop shaking.
"Yeah, man. You know what I mean. I'll fix everything and we'll be even."
"Two thousand short," Mr. Nakano said. "My family may perish because of you."
"No, no. I'll make it right. You and me, we can continue with this and everything will be just like it was. I just needed to get supplies for Mexico and a good deal come up and I couldn't pass on it. I figured you wouldn't mind and you know damn well I'll pay you back. Shit, man, I m going to fix this for you in Sand Point, ain't I? OK?"
Mr. Nakano had spent too much time speaking with Redbeard. He opened the door and hurried with his duffel to the wharf and passed a dog on the dock, one that looked like the one Jeffrey Johnson had owned. The dog wagged its tail and looked up at Mr. Nakano as though asking where its master had gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Mr. Nakano checked his watch: 11:05 a.m., October 1. He looked over his list of things to do, reminders to help him focus. Akutan, the next stop. He recalled there were voyages he'd taken when the Snake of Akutan did not meet him in False Pass as promised. He'd showed up in Akutan, instead. There was a good chance, Mr. Nakano estimated, the Snake of Akutan had not made the journey to False Pass at all. The weather could well have kept him stuck in the small Aleut community.
The Tustumena traveled the Bering Sea for over an hour and moved past an island sitting in the mist to the starboard.
A defiant, magnanimous land, this Akutan Island, Mr. Nakano wrote in his journal. He took a photograph of a tired, red trawler working the shore. Ahead in glittering electric mist, Mr. Nakano made out the entrance. The ship passed an outcropping reminding of a sea lion asleep. He sketched with rapid strokes, the charcoal images strong with power and spirit. He photographed hills further in, quiet, confident browns, tarnished, subdued yellows. Sanguine gullies, scored green slopes. The land darkened, re-shaped and loomed to a mountainous brow resembling a portentous, eyeless face drooping straight and gray. An effervescent verdant arm reached for a lonely cliff, past emerald green shawls of hills.
His contact, the Snake of Akutan, had said the embankments were home to ptarmigan. New homes grew from the land. Boats waited at anchor. A stream slipped along a slope, past calm brown buildings. White tail feathers of another stream fluttered from beneath a patient white house. The Russian Orthodox church appeared from the solarium to rise out of the middle of the community. The structure stood holy and apart, circled by gravestones and a white picket fence. The building was white, green roofed, the grass groomed even this late in the year. A walkway, silvery in the gleaming light and moist air, lead past the church, along a chain link fence.
The ship drew to dock. Cargo containers lined the shore, not far from canneries. Red buoys sat ashore near a satellite dish. Commercial fishing gear, oil drums, a backhoe, lumber and building frames lay about, each in a position that to an artist's way of seeing seemed correct in composition. He photographed boats beached near rail runways leading to the water. Fenced fuel tanks stood off in an area separate from the community.
A yellow dog walked about, mingling with the other, darker dogs. A boy in a gray sweatshirt looked up longingly at the ship's superstructure. A woman clambered past a protesting seaman, up the gangway. She hugged a passenger she knew, the elder-woman from Kodiak who disliked him, the same woman who'd delivered a message to him in his stateroom. And after this hug, the woman from Akutan hurriedly returned to the dock.
Processing ships from Japan lay at anchor in the harbor. Two were blue-hulled, one green. The green one took the interest of the old woman, the elder from Kodiak.
"They bombed Dutch Harbor," the elder-woman said. She looked darkly at Mr. Nakano.
Mr. Nakano was not surprised to see the Snake of Akutan waiting on the dock below. The man walked in a staggering way up the gangway, clutching a ragged rifle case against a bad hip. There was a stalking, purposeful intent in the man's limp. His was a deeply seamed, brown face with arresting, hawk-like features, three-quarters Aleut, one-quarter Russian. He stared at Mr. Nakano with a combination of suspicion, defiance and a sort of reserve Mr. Nakano could not place. He did not speak as he brushed past and headed toward the Chief Purser. The hunting rifle disappeared into Anna's care, and Mr. Nakano watched as the man limped toward ship's stern and disappeared into the small bar.
The Snake was a tight-knot man who never gave his real name. He'd said to always call him the Snake of Akutan. And he laughed when said that, because it had always been
said there were no snakes in Alaska, he said. But even though he laughed at his own nickname, he didn't seem to believe that trust was a bright and logical approach to business with Mr. Nakano; he was too cautious to be a friend. The ship undocked. Soon Mr. Nakano looked out at the outcropping of land that reminded of a sea-lion, dull, green and asleep on the water.
Later, half past one that afternoon, Mr. Nakano moved to the side lounge near the bar and waited. To him, time seemed like air that traveled quietly and slowly along the ship s corridors. He saw a weepy dark cloud move over the water and depress the air. A movement behind him brought his head around.
Snake was leaving the bar, carrying a beer, the man's bad hip teetering his walk, but apparently of no matter. When he sat, Mr. Nakano realized how carefully the man evaluated him. Mr. Nakano was not the first to speak.
"When I was a boy," the Snake said suddenly, "the military moved me and my family from Akutan because of World War II. I couldn't take my dog. They killed it. The military people moved everyone to Ketchikan. We lived in a place called Wacker City, north of the city. They gave me a new dog. After a long time, the war ended. And when they moved all of us back to Akutan after the war, they made me kill my new dog."
"That is a sad story," Mr. Nakano said. "They were most cruel and unfeeling." He thought of his oyabun, Shige Nishimoto, equally cold, not taking care of him, his wife, his son. An unenlightened man. But he forced himself off such a storm of the mind and returned to the business he must accomplish with the Snake of Akutan. Mr. Nakano had little inventory left, but enough for the people on the fish processing ships this time of year. The Snake was leaning forward, and looking at Mr. Nakano.
"Feel my hand on your knee?" Snake of Akutan asked. His eyes were black and hard. Mr. Nakano sat back.
"My knee is quite sore," Mr. Nakano said. He cleared his throat and tried to appear calm and not in pain. The hand moved away.
"I don't care. But reach. I'll hand you something," the Snake said.
Mr. Nakano reached. He felt a wrapped stack of bills. He slipped the bundle into the wide, deep pocket of his dark coat.
"You go get," Snake said. He moved his head slightly to an imagined cache. The Snake wanted Mr. Nakano to retrieve the shabu and give it to him in plain sight of crew and passengers. This, Mr. Nakano would not think of doing.
"Locker number five," Mr. Nakano said. He poked the end of an orange-knobbed key into Snake's leg. A quick hand moved, and the key was gone.
"How do they look?" the Snake asked.
"One package, wrapped in newspaper."
"Oh yes, yes. A package," Snake said. "Like Christmas."
This was not something about which to be mirthful in Mr. Nakano's estimation. But he had finished. The entire inventory had been delivered. In a way he celebrated in his own mind, allowing himself a temporary feeling of relief. The Snake was not moving. His hard eyes remained fixed on Mr. Nakano.
"I heard there was a bad thing happened," Snake said. Mr. Nakano's pores opened. Heat left his body, and he closed his arms and hunched into himself.
"Where?" Mr. Nakano asked, as though innocent and totally removed from anything that had happened at Sand Point.
"You know where."
"That is over, not a thing to worry about," Mr. Nakano said.
"This your last trip this year?" Snake's mouth lifted in a controlled way.
"I won't be coming back," Mr. Nakano said.
"Shutting down, huh?" Something came up behind his eyes, perhaps a hurricane.
"Someone else will replace me." Mr. Nakano did not wish this conversation to continue in this manner. He would ask a question that at this moment bothered him.
"Whose yellow dog was that on the dock?"
"I don't know," Snake said. "Could be anybody's."
Louie and Donna were two booths forward, playing cards. They were pale, but sober, not so glassy-eyed.
"I'm going hunting," Snake said.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Gary Quinsen headed for the sun deck, walked the inside passageway and stepped out through the aft exit. He stood at the rail and looked over the stern at the wake and the sea. Louie and Donna Nelson joined him.
"That was good stuff, man," Louie said.
"Shut up, Louie," Donna hissed.
"You finish that whole bag already?" Gary asked.
Donna said, "We hardly got started on it, Gary. But we'll take your whole stash. Pay you going rate."
"We almost got busted," Quinsen said.
"No way," Louie said.
"Shut up, Louie," Donna said. "It was close, but anyway, let us have what you got left. We've got cash, OK?"
"No," Quinsen said.
"No? How come?" Louie said.
"Shut up, Louie," Donna said. "Hey, Gary, what you do, find religion? The Holy Ghost get you?"
"You two, get off it, OK? Rest of the trip. Right? No more," Quinsen said.
"Don't get snotty," Donna said.
"He's not being snotty," Louie said.
"Shut up, Louie," Donna said.
"You shut up. I'm getting tired of being told to shut up all the time. That's all I ever hear from you since you started smoking that shit and drinking all the time."
"Oh, look who's talking," Donna said. "You've been wiped out since the wedding, Louie. You can't even get it up half the time."
"Shut up, Donna," Louie said.
"You shut up."
"No, you," Louie said. "You know what, Donna? We've been missing this trip, you know that? I've always wanted to go on this one, since my dad told me about it. He used to take me birding, all over the United States when I was a kid. That was before he got elected and before he and mom got the divorce. He always said this was a good trip for birding. But to do it right, got to have a clear head. Need a clear head to make a clear identification.
"Birds," Donna said, looking over the rail. "Birds."
"Yeah, Donna," Louie said, "birds."
"You know, Louie, you sound just like my mom. We've got to be good, or we'll get busted. Stuff like that, Louie. You hear him, Gary? Sounds like a mom or something?"
Quinsen said nothing. He left them by the aft rail, thinking to head for his quarters. He could still hear them in his mind as he reached the quarterdeck.
He took out the pictures and looked at her some more. He'd swear she'd gotten bigger in the pictures since the last time he looked.
Man, she's actually going through with it, he thought. Why the hell she just not have it? What's the big deal?
The stuff he'd thrown overboard had been Guam grown. He'd paid a lot for it, and he'd taken a big chance smuggling it back to Alaska. He'd gotten the shit the last night with her in Guam. She didn't know he'd started again. He'd promised her he'd quit, but he hadn't.
Man, oh man, he said. Look at her.
CHAPTER FIFTY
"What will you hunt?" Mr. Nakano asked, looking across to the Snake.
"Brant. At the lagoon. Near Cold Bay. Stopping here at False Pass first, then fly over to Cold Bay. Got to fill my belly." Snake rubbed his stomach. He looked out at the water, preoccupied with matters of the land.
"You know that rookery out there you saw, coming in here?" he asked.
"I've heard of it," Mr. Nakano said, not knowing for sure where the rookery lay.
"Sea lion is one of our foods. But they aren't doing so well. In the winter, the sea lion will float when you shoot him, if he's healthy. That's because he has plenty of fat. But no more. If I shoot one, he'll sink like a rock. They're sick and disappearing. Maybe all the foreigners are overfishing, killing off the food of the sea lion."
The Snake of Akutan drank from his beer. The zesty smell of malt hung about the table. Drinking was not allowed in the side lounge, but the Snake did not care.
"I am sorry to hear of the sea lion," Mr. Nakano said, thinking of a sketch he'd made, and the photos he'd taken.
"The world is going bad. We've got to keep care." Snake was almost done with the beer, and he wa
s studying the can, looking into the hole."
"In my community we had a vote," Snake said. "Should we allow hard liquor? Wine? Or beer only? I voted beer-only. We have a small beer bar in Akutan. But that's all. If I drink anything stronger than beer, I have problems, and my insides start to hurt pretty bad. We've got to take care, don't we?" Snake was looking out at the sea.
Mr. Nakano's insides had gone tight, and his heart and chest hurt. He thought how his father had complained of his stomach hurting before he passed away, and how he'd held his chest.
He left the Snake alone in the side lounge. What the Snake of Akutan had said made Mr. Nakano's innards loosen. Mr. Nakano faced what he feared most. He'd lost control, and his life and his dreams were shameless ashes.
We've got to take care, don't we? the Snake had said.
All of his contacts knew. They were all afraid. The route was ruined. He could only leave his wife and son a part of himself. He could leave the sketches. He would leave the money, but he could no longer share his life with them. That had ended, as the route had ended.
Mr. Nakano stumbled through the passageways to the public toilet on the sun deck, and sought intestinal comfort on the commode. His mind floated uneasily, his body dampened, his heart fleeing. He must seek peace. He must think and plan. He would examine his works.
In 208, Mr. Nakano once again opened the binders, and spread his sketches about the bunk and across the turning stateroom deck.
The porpoise, the whale, the orca, the sea lion, the harbor seal. The undulating jellyfish. The birds. The drawings would serve to remind son Kano that in his heart, Kenso Nakano indeed lived honorably. A dishonorable man would not leave a legacy of art he himself had created to loved ones, would he?
But an empty heart, pains in the stomach and a throbbing head held to him. He would never talk to them again, he would never share how the rock that rests like a sleeping sea lion made a part of him explode with joy, how the light that electrified the mists possessed him. Would they understand? That this was really his true identity?