“Major Yoshida, look at me. You’re right about fighter pilots having to be aggressive in the air. My last assignment was flying in Iraq. But that doesn’t preclude them from being … gentle and loving on the ground.” She smiled. “Or unfeminine. Do you think I’m unfeminine?”
Kojiro swallowed. He didn’t know whether she was flirting with him or wanted an honest answer. Americans were so forthright with their questions. They didn’t like ambivalence or guile.
“No. No,” he stammered. He thought she was the most feminine creature he had ever laid eyes on, the embodiment of womanhood.
He glanced at the bottle of wine and was surprised that it was half empty. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Kojiro rarely drank to excess. He didn’t like losing control, was afraid he would do something imprudent or embarrassing. But the wine steadied his nerves, boosted his confidence, and unshackled his tongue. He never realized how fluent he was in English, how glib.
“I believe it is unnatural for any woman to want to fly in combat in the Air Force. Most women want a home and a husband and children.”
Libby smiled. “I do want those things. But later. Right now, all I want to do is fly. As a woman, I don’t have as many options as a man. If I want to succeed in the Air Force, I can’t let personal considerations interfere with duty. It’s as simple as that.”
“Ah, yes. But what if, when you are through flying, you are too old to get married or to have children?” He asked in a grave voice.
She did not like the turn in the conversation. She would have laughed if she thought he was teasing, but Kojiro was serious. He looked worried or worse yet, sorry for her. Libby wasn’t used to being pitied. Most people were in awe of her accomplishments. If they questioned her choices in life, they had the courtesy to do it behind her back. But she had no intention of giving Kojiro the satisfaction of realizing he had offended her.
“That’s where the real danger lies, isn’t it? Not in flying the F-16 but in being an old maid,” she said lightly.
“Hai, like a Christmas cake that is still on the shelf in the bakery after the twenty-fifth of December.”
Libby forced a smile at the unflattering simile. Is that how he thought of her, as a stale Christmas cake with the sell-by date stamped indelibly on the fancy wrapping?
Libby had had no idea what to expect when she accepted Major Yoshida’s invitation. There was never a question of refusing. She wanted to see him again, but she had not thought of their having dinner together as a conventional date. Perhaps she had been a little naïve in that regard, but she found it impossible to think about Kojiro in the same way she thought about Charlie or the other eligible American men in her life. But she hadn’t expected to be insulted by the prim major or have her femininity impugned. And he had been so circumspect about his own circumstances, she still didn’t know if he had a wife pining away for him in the south.
He wasn’t married. When Libby asked him, he blushed a furious shade of red and informed her coldly, that if he had a wife, he would not have been so rash as to ask her to dinner.
“Like you, I have postponed the pleasures of a family for my career.”
“I should think a wife would be an asset for an ambitious officer,” Libby parried, but her sarcasm was lost on Kojiro. His mastery of English did not extend to subtleties of phrase or nuances in the tone of voice.
“I will take your advice into consideration. Thank you.” From the pained expression on his face, it was apparent Kojiro didn’t like to talk about marriage any more than Libby.
By the time dessert was served, Libby and her host had achieved a more amicable accord. A second bottle of wine had a noticeable effect on Kojiro’s disposition, as well as on his complexion, which was stained a dusky red. He was more talkative, his gestures more expansive. Libby questioned the wisdom of consuming so much wine every time he went to refill her glass, but someone had told her it was considered impolite to refuse a drink in Japan and she didn’t want to offend Kojiro.
“Here we are having dinner together like old friends, and I do not even know where you are from in the United States.” Kojiro beamed happily across the table. Things were going well. Better than he expected. The language problems he had anticipated had all but disappeared. He didn’t have any trouble communicating with Libby. She had a liberating effect on the taciturn major that in conjunction with the alcohol had made him more talkative and less inhibited.
Libby, bemused by the transformation in her starchy host, smiled. “Dayton, Ohio, the home of the Wright Brothers.”
Kojiro laughed. “I think that is the reason you love to fly. It is in your blood.”
“Sort of. Dayton is also home to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. That’s where I saw my first air show. I was hooked after that. I think I was nine or ten years old when I announced to my parents that I was going to fly jets when I grew up. My mother said girls couldn’t do any such thing, which of course was true at the time and Daddy just laughed. But I never wavered in my determination to join the Air Force and fly.”
Kojiro nodded. He too, had had to overcome family objections in order to pursue his career.
“I got accepted into the Air Force Academy out of high school and by then the official policy had changed on women flying combat and I was accepted into pilot training and after that, to gunnery school.
“I’ve been very fortunate. But I’ve worked very hard to prove that I am as capable as any man,” Libby said, “and I think I’ve succeeded. And I love what I do.”
Kojiro thought he detected a hint of uncertainty in her voice, a defensiveness, of which she was probably not even aware.
She was a good pilot, he could attest to that fact. She had handled the F-16 with as much skill and aplomb as any crusty old fighter pilot, but that in no way mitigated his disapproval. But there was no point in reminding her of his objections, when they were getting along so well.
“What about you, Kojiro? How did you end up a pilot?”
He gave a self-depreciating shrug. “My grandfather was a Navy pilot. In the Second World War.” He glanced over at her, to see her reaction to that bit of family history but she did not look shocked or offended as he had feared, just interested. “He lost his life in the Marianas. It was very sad for my grandmother, with two small boys to raise and no husband. But Japanese women are strong and loyal and she always venerated my grandfather and taught her sons to honor his memory.
“His picture in his Naval uniform is on our family altar. I thought he was a great war hero and I wanted to be just like him. Unfortunately my father had other ideas. He wanted me to be a banker. The military is not popular in Japan with my parents’ generation, after what their families suffered in the war. So I went to university in Kyoto and studied economics. I have an older brother. In Japan, the younger son has it easier than the eldest, so after graduation, when my father realized I still wanted to fly, he gave his permission for me to join the Self-Defense Force. My brother is the banker.”
“You had to have your father’s permission to join the Air Force?” Libby couldn’t reconcile a grown man, let alone one of Kojiro’s stature and intelligence, having to ask his father if he could have a career in the military.
“I would not have … ” he hesitated. He was embarrassed talking about himself. And the sobering effects of the black coffee he had been drinking the last half hour, had made him suddenly more aware of his linguistic shortcomings. “I would not have … defied — I believe that is the English word I want — my father. Of course I would have been disappointed but … ”
Libby shook her head in wonder. “But … you would have obeyed.”
Resigned to riding home in a taxi, Libby was pleasantly surprised when Kojiro indicated he would take her back to Misawa. The effects of the wine had worn off and he had become quiet and edgy. Unlike the Americans, who tended to drive used cars in Japan recycled by enterpris
ing businessmen and sold to recent arrivals from the States, Kojiro had a brand new Nissan Fairlady. Like the taxi that had delivered her to the restaurant, the leather seats were slip-covered in spotless white and the air scented with an overpowering fragrance from the air freshener on the dashboard. Libby cracked the window and tried not to inhale but between the wine and the perfume, her head began to pound.
The temperature was mild but a dense fog shrouded the coastline, obscuring the farms and the occasional shuttered village through which they passed on the narrow, winding road. Kojiro drove cautiously, his eyes fastened on the beam of yellow light slicing through the fog. The easy rapport they had shared earlier in the evening was gone. He appeared to be so absorbed trying to avoid running off the road into the drainage ditch, Libby thought he’d forgotten all about her.
But appearances can be deceptive, particularly in Japan and it was not the fog that was worrying Kojiro, as aggravating as it was, but the tall gaijin sitting next to him. All evening long he had been waiting expectantly for some sort of acknowledgement or sign from Libby that would determine his next course of action. She did not strike him as someone who would wait passively for him to make the first move but other than admire his car she had not given any indication she was aware of his intentions. It would not have been so problematic with a Japanese woman. She would have discerned his objective and let him know, by a subtle gesture or coy smile, that she was agreeable. Libby was a mystery.
He glanced in her direction, hoping to catch her eye, but she was peering out the car window at the colored lights pulsing faintly in the distance. Situated brazenly on the lonely stretch of road, a love hotel, illuminated with strings of glowing lights and flashing red neon hearts, loomed out of the mist like a mirage.
Kojiro eased his foot off the accelerator as they approached the entrance. The “hotel” filtered through the charitable lens of the fog looked like a whimsical Disney castle uprooted from the Florida swamp and transplanted to the wilds of northern Japan. Libby leaned forward for a better look.
She knew all about love hotels. Charlie had gleefully filled her in on the prurient details. They were like little theme parks — for adults only — where couples could go for an hour or more of uninterrupted pleasure.
The proprietor never showed his face. Rates were posted on the door and payment was deposited in a small box that could be accessed from the inside and out. Guests parked their cars under the portico adjoining each room and their license plates, after being carefully recorded in the manager’s ledger book, were screened from passers-by.
Americans looked upon the love hotels with amusement or dismay. But to the Japanese they were a practical solution to the problems of privacy and space that vexed their lives.
“You wouldn’t think they’d get much business way out here,” Libby said. “It’s miles from Hachinohe.”
On closer inspection, the “castle,” which from a distance had looked so captivating, was a disappointment — the medieval façade like a cardboard cutout, tawdry and insubstantial.
Kojiro grunted, yeah or nay, she wasn’t sure which. He’d been so quiet the last half-hour, Libby had given up trying to talk to him and let him concentrate on his driving. For all that it had been an enjoyable evening, she was relieved it was almost over.
She wondered if he would ask to see her again. She hoped not. She didn’t want to be put in the position of having to make a decision one way or the other.
Libby needn’t have worried. A second date was out of the question. By the time they reached Misawa they were no longer speaking to one another.
At the entrance to the hotel, illuminated by an archway of florid lights, Kojiro braked sharply, turned in and parked the car in the first available stall. It happened so swiftly it took Libby a few moments to grasp what exactly the major had in mind. Surprise, shock, rage at his presumption left her speechless. She couldn’t believe it. The diffident officer had metamorphosed into a lecher in the time it took to cross the “moat” and turn off the engine. He couldn’t even wait to get into the building to get his hands on her but had her pinioned in the seat smothering her face with wet, sloppy kisses.
“Ribby,” he crooned, oblivious to her consternation.
“Stop it. Stop it now.” She shoved him off her and started shouting. Kojiro shifted a little lower in his seat, mortified at his mistake.
“Just what do you think you’re doing, bringing me to a, a … ” She waved her hand in his face. “A sleazy place like this! Of all the nerve. I think you’re one of the most despicable men I’ve ever met.”
Kojiro wasn’t sure what despicable meant, but he had a good idea.
“What kind of a woman do you think I am? Some slut who goes to bed with any man who buys her dinner?” When he didn’t answer, she continued. “Oh, I get it now. Blonde hair, big boobs. I bet she knows the score. Am I right?”
“Please, Ribby … ” Kojiro wanted to apologize but he was so intimidated by her anger and his own shame, he couldn’t remember the English words.
“And to think that I was actually enjoying myself … ” Her voice caught, and he thought she was going to cry. He was mistaken. Libby adjusted her seat belt, folded her hands in her lap and in the frosty, resolute voice of an Air Force officer advised him to take her home, immediately.
Once Libby had recovered from her indignation, she was able to look upon the incident with a degree of amusement — a “cultural experience” along the lines of learning to use chopsticks, or eating raw fish, or mastering the distinctive plumbing. She had certainly never felt threatened by Major Yoshida. His amorous attention had been more comical than it was alarming. But he must have assumed she would sleep with him or misinterpreted something she said or did, as implying consent. Otherwise she did not believe he would have taken her to the love hotel.
That was one of the pitfalls of dating someone from a different culture. Men and women got their signals crossed. What was acceptable in one place was verboten in another. Heck, sometimes it even happened with Charlie. She was always on her guard around him, because he made assumptions about their friendship that simply weren’t true.
She was tempted to confide in Charlie about the incident. Libby thought that if she could laugh about it with someone, it would be easier to forget, but he would have gotten on his high-horse and accused her of “asking” for it. What did she expect? After all, he had warned her about Japanese males. Doubting that Darlene would be any more sympathetic, in the end, she didn’t tell anyone about her eventful evening with the major.
Kojiro’s serious nature did not allow him the luxury of dismissing the unfortunate incident quite as easily as Libby had. He was tormented by shame, and regret, and the bitter knowledge that he had no one to blame but himself. The major, who prided himself on his judgment and tact, had abandoned both in a blatant and clumsy attempt to seduce the American pilot. He felt responsible, for not only insulting her personally, but as an official representative of the United States and a fellow military officer.
Kojiro had never forced himself on an unwilling partner or taken any woman to a love hotel without her tacit agreement. What demon had possessed him to imagine for one moment that Libby would be interested in a liaison with a foreigner when she was surrounded by fellow Americans? It was unthinkable.
That was one of the problems with foreigners. They weren’t on the same wave-length as the Japanese. Incapable of interpreting the subtle, unspoken language in which he and his countrymen often communicated, they committed offenses of which they were not even aware. Kojiro’s male antennae told him that Libby was attracted to him. He could feel something alive, arcing between them when they were together and assumed that she felt it too. That was his first mistake.
The second and most unforgivable one was relying on hearsay about Western women and their insatiable sexual appetites and easy availability. Kojiro would never hav
e had the nerve to take her to the love hotel if he hadn’t believed the myths perpetuated in men’s magazines and manga comics. Libby was perfectly justified in accusing him of thinking she was easy because she had blonde hair and big “boobs.”
“Boobs” was not in his English dictionary, but “despicable” was and when Kojiro read its definition, he felt like weeping. Instead, he went out and got very drunk in one of the intimate little hostess bars that proliferated on the maze of narrow back streets in Misawa-shi. It was comforting to sit in a booth and be flattered and consoled by the cheerful, middle-aged hostess. She was not much to look at. Both heredity and age had conspired against her. But to Kojiro she embodied what was most endearing about Japanese women, no matter their station in life, and that was their sympathy and cunning in ministering to the Japanese male. Raised from infancy to defer to the men in their lives — fathers, brothers, husbands, sons — they were modest, industrious, and above all, dutiful. Virtues that Kojiro was convinced he had underestimated in his imprudent pursuit of Captain Comerford. From now on, he would stick with his own kind.
ALL through the long and dreary night
I lie awake and moan;
How desolate my chamber feels,
How weary I have grown
Of being left alone!
Udaisho Michitsuna no haha
Chapter Four
Winter in northern Japan was a force to be reckoned with. Snow started falling in December, frosting the pine forests and the peaks of the mountains with white. By January the passes were closed and the lakes frozen.
The magnificent whooper swans from Siberia, the Hakucho, which recouped on the shores of Lake Ogawara before continuing on to a more hospitable environment, had come and gone. The lake, covered with a thick shield of ice, was dotted with the huts of ice fishermen and criss-crossed with the tracks of snowmobiles and small trucks. A phalanx of snow plows — three abreast — tried to keep the runways clear but flying was frequently curtailed, as one snow squall after another howled in off the Sea of Japan from the northwest.
The Unquiet Heart Page 5