The Unquiet Heart

by Juliet McCarthy

  “Fox Two Kill. Knock it off,” came the laconic voice from radar control.

  “Knock it off,” acknowledged the major grimly.

  “Having problems with the radar?” Libby queried. She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice but she was annoyed at having been trounced so ignominiously by the colonel and exasperated by the obstinate man in the back seat. She could hear him breathing hard through the earphones, muttering under his breath in Japanese.

  “I, I forgot to raise the antenna.”

  The de-briefing was every bit as uncomfortable as the briefing had been. The four pilots sat at the same table drawing pictures of the intercept, discussing tactics and viewing videotapes of their encounter on a TV monitor. They watched black-and-white images of the lead airplane diving from 50,000 feet and swooping in, like a bird of prey, for the kill. Major Yoshida sat grim-faced as the picture flickered over and over again on the screen, mortified at having made such a stupid mistake.

  In the spirit of diplomacy, Libby tactfully assumed blame for the error — for not being more thorough with her instructions. But that gesture did not mollify the major in the slightest. If anything, it appeared to increase his rancor. His face flushed an angry red and he looked like he’d like to strangle her.

  But when the van arrived to return the two Americans to their squadron on the other side of the airfield, Major Yoshida followed Libby to the door.

  “Excuse me, Captain … ” Libby stopped short and swung around in surprise at finding the Japanese pilot so close on her heels. She thought she had seen the last of the scornful major.

  Major Yoshida glanced down at the name tag on the breast of her flight suit as if he had to confirm her identity before speaking. He cleared his throat and began again. “I, I wish to thank you, for the ride. It was an ambition of mine, to fly the F-16,” he added.

  Libby smiled politely. “It was my pleasure.”

  “I am sorry about the antenna,” he blurted out in a gruff voice.

  “Me too,” she laughed. “I would have loved to have aced Colonel Long.”

  He bowed stiffly, then straightened up and thrust out his hand. His skin felt moist and feverish.

  “Perhaps we’ll have another opportunity to fly together,” she said. “General Sato is very keen.”

  “I would like that.” Libby wasn’t sure she believed him but she appreciated the effort it cost him to apologize. She withdrew her hand, wiped it discreetly on her pants leg, and proceeded out the door to the waiting van. Before climbing aboard, she turned and waved to Major Yoshida and called in Japanese: “Jamatta, Major.” See you again.

  The stunned pilot, too embarrassed to acknowledge her in front of General Sato, turned sharply and retreated down the hall.

  General Sato’s ride in the F-16 had been in the works for several weeks. Colonel Long had issued the invitation. General Sato had accepted. And then all the details had to be worked out by their respective squadrons — the date, the time, the nature of the mission.

  The first ride had to be aborted because of the weather. Sea fog, as dense as smoke, had swept in off the Pacific and settled over Misawa. The runway was closed, flying canceled for the afternoon. A second date had to be scheduled.

  Major Yoshida, who, as the general’s aide, was responsible for making all the arrangements with the Americans, had been looking forward to flying in the F-16. The Mitsubishi F-1 was a respectable fighter, but the F-16 … It was already fixed in the firmament of legendary airplanes and he couldn’t wait to climb in the cockpit and get his hand on the stick.

  And then the Americans had spoiled everything by sending Captain Comerford over with the colonel. Major Yoshida still hadn’t recovered completely from the shock of seeing her walk into the squadron, smiling, loose-limbed, her parachute harness slung effortlessly over her shoulder. The insensitivity of the Americans was appalling. If the major hadn’t known Colonel Long personally, he would have thought he’d brought Libby along as a publicity stunt or to try and raise their consciences.

  He cringed when he thought of the photograph. The short, stocky general next to the tall, enchanting blonde. Even in the loose-fitting flight suit, her physical dimensions were unmistakable — from the width of her shoulders to the size of her feet. Her boots were bigger than his.

  The hair on the nape of her neck had been shaved like a man’s. He could see the gold stubble when he posed beside her for the photograph.

  General Sato was too polite to expose his chagrin but Major Yoshida had not been as successful. But then the general didn’t have to fly with her. He was, frankly, afraid to fly with a female pilot.

  His fear was unwarranted. Captain Comerford had handled the airplane as competently as any male, as much as it pained Major Yoshida to admit it. But her sex was still a distraction and he was convinced he would not have fouled up the radar and made such a mortifying error if a man had been in the front seat. He hadn’t been paying close attention when she instructed him on the use of the radar. It was difficult taking a female fighter pilot seriously.

  General Sato’s annual garden party for local military and civilian dignitaries was held in the autumn. The privileged guests, invitations in hand, were ushered through the gate into a spacious garden surrounding the general’s modest one-story home, where they were lavishly entertained and fed for exactly two hours, at the end of which time, the military band struck up a rousing tune and the guests were ushered out of the garden to the waiting buses and limousines.

  The large American contingent was made up of the various commanders and their wives from a list provided to the Japanese by the base protocol office, which ranked the officers in the strict order of their importance, beginning with the Wing Commander. Therefore, it came as something of a surprise when Captain Libby Comerford received an official invitation to the coveted affair. The protocol officer was as bewildered as Libby. He even went so far as to double check with General Sato’s secretary, to make sure there hadn’t been some mistake. But no. General Sato himself had personally penned in Libby’s name to the roster of American VIPs.

  Libby’s quandary over whether or not to attend was solved by Colonel Long who, against his better judgment, insisted she go. “I’m sure it’s General Sato’s way of thanking you for participating in that exercise we flew together,” he said to reassure her, when in fact, he was afraid the general had invited Libby to show her off to all the middle-aged men who would be attending the party. The Japanese were not as sensitive to gender issues as Americans, and they had a weakness for blondes. Every girlie magazine in Japan had pages of Nordic beauties to attest to their enduring enchantment.

  But once they got to the party it was apparent that the General, although he seemed genuinely pleased to see Libby again, had no ulterior motive for inviting her. So left to her own devices, she spent the afternoon answering the inevitable questions from curious bystanders: ‘Where are you from in the United States? Do you like Japan? Are you really a pilot? What airplane do you fly?’ And sampling the various delicacies being served at strategic locations in the garden.

  There was a table offering tempura, a table of sushi arranged artfully on lacquer trays, a table with bowls of steaming soup, one for skewers of spicy chicken, one for tempting pastries. Waiters in crisp, white uniforms scurried among the guests with trays of drinks.

  Libby spent an agonizing twenty minutes trying to carry on a conversation with General Sato’s wife, a shy, diminutive woman, dressed in an elegant silk kimono. The two women, one as doll-like and petite as the other was tall and regal, stood nodding and smiling at one another in an attempt to bridge the formidable language barrier. Libby had given up hope of ever being rescued from the ordeal, when she looked up and caught the eye of Major Yoshida.

  He was standing by himself, just a few feet away, on the periphery of the crowd. He bowed smartly and then looked away, as if emba
rrassed at seeing her again. Libby tried to concentrate on whatever it was that Mrs. Sato was trying to say, but her attention kept wandering back to the major, whose gaze rested indifferently on the genial assembly. His height set him apart from the other Japanese men and his proud, aloof bearing from the Americans. She had to admit, in his dress uniform, he cut rather an impressive figure.

  “Major Yoshida!” The major snapped to attention when he heard the summons. General Sato barreled through the crowd toward his aide, grabbed him by the arm, and led him over to where Libby was standing with Mrs. Sato.

  “You remember Major Yoshida,” he said. “Captain … Captain … ”

  “Comerford,” Libby said smoothly. “Of course. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Major Yoshida.”

  The major bowed in her direction. Not once, but three times. “General Sato is so happy you could attend his party,” he said. “Mrs. Sato wanted to meet you. Especially,” he added. Major Yoshida spoke slowly, pronouncing each word with precision, as if he had rehearsed the lines several times and was trying to recall them. His fluency in English was a surprise.

  “She is very charming. I have been admiring her lovely kimono.”

  Major Yoshida translated the compliment for the general’s wife, who blushed in embarrassment.

  “She thinks you are very brave to fly the F-16,” he said.

  Libby glanced over at Major Yoshida, who looked as unapproachable as he had at the briefing. “Tell her I’m not brave, as much as I am fortunate,” she said. “Fighter pilots have the best job in the world. Wouldn’t you agree, Major?”

  “Hai, the best job in the world. For a man.”

  General Sato laughed. “Now, now, you must excuse Major Yoshida. He is old-fashioned Japanese man. Not modern, like me!” He said, thumping his broad chest. “I would like to fly every day with the American captain!”

  General Sato shifted his attention to a group of important-looking men in dark business suits who were approaching the foursome. “We have so many guests … but Major Yoshida will be happy to pay attention to you.” The general paused. Although he liked Americans, he found it exhausting trying to talk to them for any length of time and he had been at it for over an hour.

  “Major Yoshida, he will be most happy to enjoy you.”

  Libby smiled indulgently at the general and his wife as they moved away. It wasn’t easy keeping her composure standing beside the flustered major but it would be impolitic as well as impolite to laugh at General Sato or further embarrass the shamefaced Yoshida.

  “You must excuse the general,” he said stiffly. “His English. He tries very hard, but it is a difficult language. I think as difficult as Japanese.”

  “He uses the language very creatively.”

  A smile transformed the major’s face. He didn’t look nearly as arrogant or intimidating, which came as something of a relief, for Libby wasn’t sure she could endure spending the rest of the afternoon making small talk with the surly pilot.

  “Of course I am glad to look after you.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “And I am very pleased you were able to attend our little party.”

  “Well, it’s quite an honor to have received an invitation. A lowly captain doesn’t usually get to rub shoulders with so many dignitaries.”

  “Rub shoulders?” He sounded incredulous.

  “Oh, it’s just an expression that means to be in close company with someone.”

  “Like we are now?” The major asked. “Standing close together? We are rubbing shoulders?”

  Libby laughed. “Figuratively, not literally. Yes.”

  “I see.” He nodded gravely.

  Libby shifted from one foot to the other. Her feet, crammed into new black leather pumps, were killing her. “New shoes,” she confided to the puzzled major.

  Major Yoshida looked down at her feet. He had forgotten their enormous size.

  “Is there someplace where we could sit down? Before I’m tempted to take them off? The grass looks so cool and inviting.”

  He looked offended by her request, but as he had been entrusted by the general to look after her, he complied dutifully. “I believe there is a bench on the other side of the garden,” he said.

  The bench was in a small enclosure, secluded behind a clump of bamboo. There was a stone lantern in one corner, a pot of chrysanthemums with shaggy yellow flowers in another. A stone Buddha gazed pensively at the two intruders.

  “What a lovely little garden,” Libby exclaimed as she sank gratefully down on the bench. The band, gearing up for the grand finale, was playing a lively American tune. She indicated the empty place beside her on the bench. “There’s plenty of room.”

  The major sat down at the far end, on the edge of the seat, as tense as a wind-up toy poised to spring into action at the slightest provocation.

  “I asked General Sato to invite you to the party,” he blurted out suddenly. “I apologize if it has caused you any embarrassment.”

  “You?” Libby was as surprised as she was touched by the major’s confession. He was the last person in the world she would have suspected.

  “I, I wanted to see you again.” He addressed his remarks to the statue of Buddha. “To thank you for the ride in the F-16,” he added quickly. “It was an, an unforgettable experience.”

  “It’s a phenomenal airplane, I know.”

  Major Yoshida clasped his hands on his knees as if to steady himself and sucked in his breath. “And I, I … ” He stared at the ground, at the pattern his shoes had made in the gravel. “And?” Libby prompted.

  Major Yoshida jumped up and started pacing back and forth in front of the Buddha. “Of course, I know it is impossible. Ridiculous,” he said dismissively.

  His behavior was bewildering. The reserved presence had completely deserted him. His forehead glowed with a sheen of perspiration and his face was flushed the color of claret.

  “Major Yoshida, what is so impossible?”

  Just as the major was working up the courage to reply, the tempo of the music changed, indicating the conclusion of the garden party. Major Yoshida checked his watch to confirm the correct time. “You will have to excuse me,” he said in relief. “The general … ”

  “What is so impossible?” she repeated, intrigued by his obvious consternation.

  He glanced anxiously at the crowd converging toward the gate and then back at Libby. It was unlikely that he would cross paths with the American captain in the future. It was a fluke that they had flown together and by rights, she had no business attending the general’s party. Once she walked through that gate and boarded the bus she would be walking out of his life for good. Major Yoshida was not prepared to let that happen. Even if it meant being rebuffed and embarrassed.

  He cleared his throat. “I thought … ” He had to start over again. “We could meet. If you are not too busy,” he added as a disclaimer. He tried to sound casual, but his nerves betrayed him.

  Libby stood up. The invitation was as much of a surprise as the major’s admission that he had contrived to invite her to the party. He had given no indication that he had the slightest interest in her. Quite the contrary. He obviously disapproved of female fighter pilots and did not appear to have any particular regard for Westerners in general and Americans in particular. Nevertheless, Libby could not recall when she had been as pleased by an invitation.

  “It is not impossible, Major Yoshida. Nor ridiculous. I’m flattered you’ve asked me out. The only Japanese man I know very well is my sensei and he is eighty years old.”

  “Japanese people are very long lived. The longest in the world, I believe.”

  “Major Yoshida, did you hear me? I would like to see you again.” Libby held out her hand, but he acknowledged the gesture with a formal bow.

  “Arigato Gozaimasu, Captain Com-o-ford,”
he said.

  “If we’re going to be friends, you must call me Libby.”

  “Ribby. Hai. Ribby. Ribby,” he repeated. Her first name was as difficult to articulate as her surname and he was embarrassed by his pronunciation.

  The music ended; the crowd was thinning out. General Sato would be wondering what had become of his aide. “My parents call me Kojiro. It means small second son.” He smiled sheepishly. “I weighed less than two kilos when I was born. And I am the second son, but I am not so small, anymore,” he said, a hint of male pride in his otherwise obsequious demeanor.

  “Kojiro,” Libby said slowly. Japanese was easy to pronounce; every letter was articulated and each syllable given equal emphasis. Kojiro Yoshida, the name sounded so alien when she said it aloud, so exotic. “Kojiro Yoshida.”

  He started backing away from her and bowing at the same time, a feat he managed with both dignity and charm. “Good afternoon. Jamatta, Ribby. See you soon.”

  “If you don’t have a change of heart,” she added mischievously.

  “A change of heart?” He stopped and looked up, baffled by the phrase and her impish smile.

  “Another expression. Like rubbing shoulders.”

  “Ah, English is very … very complicated.”

  HOW desolate my former life,

  Those dismal years, ere yet

  I chanced to see thee face to face

  ‘Twere better to forget

  Those days before we met.

  Chunagon Yatsutada

  Chapter Three

  Her situation in the squadron was noticeably improved. Libby had finally become “mission ready” so no one could question her credentials. She was a full-fledged member of the squadron, qualified to fly any mission on the schedule or go to war, if the Commander-in-Chief issued the order. She pulled equal weight with the men performing the myriad tasks required every day to keep things running smoothly.