Brazil-Maru

by Karen Tei Yamashita

  Kantaro turned to see Yōgu snickering at the box which contained, of all things, a chamber pot. Inside the chamber pot was an erotic drawing in the style of ukiyo-e of a man and a woman, their larger-than-life genitals exposed between the layered folds of their clothing. What significance this rebellious moment might have held for the innocent and earnest Kantaro I have often wondered.

  In a photograph made of the team before leaving for São Paulo, you can see a kind of purity in the eyes of these serious and determined young men. Was there something I did not see or understand behind those expressions even then? I do not know. You cannot blame the playful and more mature Kasai for this odd moment, in which Kantaro’s vision of the world possibly became tainted and skewed. The wry journalist had a strong political vision, which he felt at liberty to express, but his dreams were no less ideal than Kantaro’s. Shigeshi Kasai was a man who loved to do political battle; he had come to Brazil for that very reason. Suddenly, for Kantaro, the freedom of this New World became quite stretched. Politics and sex: it was more than Kantaro had imagined, different from Yōgu’s rustic rebellion or the power of a mere pistol and certainly different from baseball.

  When Kantaro returned to Esperança, he was full of new ideas. The city had, as he would say again and again, refreshed and redirected his outlook. He was more determined than ever to spread baseball among the young Japanese men of Brazil, to create a strong connection among them which would eventually forge a powerful unity. Kantaro had the idea that someone should return to Japan to get special baseball training, buy badly needed equipment, and return to Brazil.

  The baseball team, its fans, and stragglers all met one evening at the Uno farm. Even I was there with Saburo, despite Saburo’s sullen attitude about anything to do with Kantaro.

  “Even if we make a choice about who will go to Japan,” said Tsuruta, “where will we get the money for passage, not to mention money for the baseball equipment?”

  “Maybe we can convince the co-op to create a baseball fund,” someone laughed.

  “We will hire ourselves out,” said Kantaro. “Okumura needs a crew to open a road into Santa Cruz d’Azedinha. We will offer our services.”

  “Okumura has no money in the co-op to pay for a crew. He expects us to volunteer.”

  “Then we can hire ourselves out to farms all over. The big plantations pay daily wages for clearing land.”

  “I can charge for photographs,” suggested Kantaro. It had been said he’d spent all his money in the city on photographic developer and paper. “People always want photographs of themselves to send to their relatives.”

  “The rice harvest is coming in another few weeks. A lot of people will need help. Working together, we can certainly make enough money.”

  “As for baseball equipment,” said Kantaro, “I’ve been talking to several team captains from other settlements. Everyone is interested in getting equipment. They’ll be happy to send our man with money to buy what they need.”

  After much talk and discussion, the choice of who would return to Japan on the great mission of bringing back expertise and actual equipment had been whittled down to a few team members. “Now we draw straws,” announced Kantaro. “A long straw goes to Japan.” What strange fortune played in this drawing of straws, I do not know, but the winner of the long straw was Hachiro Yōgu.

  By now, it was true, the people in Esperança were all quite used to Yōgu, but this choice did not seem to anyone except the members of the baseball team to be a wise choice. When Kantaro came to collect a donation for the team to send Yōgu to Japan, my father spoke honestly. “I’ve my reservations about this. It’s one thing to praise a man for his talent, but to reward him by sending him to Japan and then to entrust this person with hard-earned money to buy baseball equipment . . . I’d think you might have chosen someone more trustworthy than Yōgu.”

  “I have lived and worked with Yōgu, Terada-san,” Kantaro argued. “He is like a brother to me. No matter what people see or hear, I can vouch for the honesty of this man. I would not endorse this trip if I were not sure.”

  My father shook his head. “If you want to come to work for me, I’ll be more than happy to pay you for your labor. I’ve got a field that needs to be weeded, and I could use some help threshing rice. But until I get some better assurance about the character of the man you will send with my money, I won’t have any part of it.”

  “I’m sorry that’s the way you feel, but I am sure that Yōgu will prove that you and the others are wrong.”

  When Kantaro left, my mother said, “Weren’t you a little hard on him?”

  “His own father wouldn’t tell him any differently, if he has,” my father quipped. “If he has,” he repeated.

  Most likely Naotaro had said something to Kantaro, but Kantaro was not the sort of son to listen. I had heard that Naotaro Uno had often complained that Kantaro contributed less and less around the family farm, leaving most of the work to his younger brother Jiro. I had also heard Naotaro accept people’s praise of his oldest son, saying that perhaps it was true, after all, Kantaro belonged not to the Unos but to Esperança.

  This sounded generous, this giving up of one’s son to the greater cause, but on the other hand, I also remember the day Naotaro ran after Kantaro with a shotgun. The rice harvest had been in full swing in Esperança, and it would prove to be our largest. Everywhere the golden grain ripened in the tropical sun. The new settlers had planted it in all available soil, between the charred stumps of fallen trees, right up to their houses and skirting the roads like a great waving carpet. After it was cut, my brothers and I pounded the small bundles of rice to thresh out the grains until our arms ached. Kantaro’s team had gone everywhere to hire out for the harvest, but they still needed a great deal more money to send Yōgu to Japan. One day, the team pulled up at the Uno farm with a large truck and began to fill it with the drying bales of rice. Jiro came from the field in surprise. “Where are you taking the rice?”

  “I’ve found a buyer!” exclaimed Kantaro.

  “But this rice is not for sale. We are going to store it for the year for ourselves,” contested Jiro. “I’ve been working on the silo for several days now. Father has decided—”

  “But this price is unbeatable,” Kantaro interrupted. “And it will put us over the top in our campaign.”

  “Campaign?”

  “Yes. Now we’ll have the money to send Yōgu to Japan.”

  At this moment, Naotaro came running from the house. “What’s happening?” he demanded.

  Jiro ran up to his father trying to explain. While Kantaro loaded the truck, I could see Naotaro run back into the house and emerge again with a long shotgun. The rice was now loaded into the truck; Kantaro jumped onto the back as it pulled away. Naotaro, still a spry man in his fifties, ran down the road after the truck, shooting angrily at the tires, but the truck sped off, coughing up a cloud of red dust. Naotaro slammed the shotgun into the dirt in frustration, his chest heaving angrily. He looked across his fields, empty of rice, a dry patchwork of earth and stubble. “Where is he taking our rice?”

  Jiro ran up from behind, his words spilling out in short gasps. “Esperança, Esperança,” Jiro wheezed. “Kantaro said it wasn’t our rice. He said it belonged to Esperança.”

  A few weeks later, Yōgu left Esperança with several carefully worded letters of introduction, some very detailed instructions, and a large amount of money to buy baseball equipment.

  And Kantaro asked Haru, for perhaps the third and final time, if she would marry him. Once again, Haru refused.

  CHAPTER 5:

  Kimi

  After Yōgu had left for Japan, a kind of sigh seemed to pass through Esperança, the subject of all our gossip and disagreements having slipped from our very lips. Those who had contributed money to Kantaro’s campaign to send Yōgu to Japan faced off against those who had not. Those who had supported Kantaro’s idea suggested that those who had not were people who lacked imagination and vision, peop
le who lacked the stuff that Esperança was founded upon: dreams. And those who had refused Kantaro’s request wondered at the sanity and good reason of those who entrusted hard-earned money to a ruffian like Hachiro Yōgu.

  And now with Yōgu gone and the money gone as well, even among the believers there was a sudden sense of misgiving and doubt. Some wondered sheepishly if they would ever see their money again, in the form of baseball equipment or in any other form for that matter. And those who had held on to their money wondered if they had misjudged Yōgu and therefore lost a chance to buy into a dream. Little did we realize that the judgments which divided us in this matter would harden into more serious disagreements in later years. For the moment, however, all of us felt a mixture of relief and nostalgia in Yōgu’s absence.

  I could tell that my friend Saburo, although he would never admit it, was especially depressed by Yōgu’s absence. I think that Saburo had found in Yōgu a man to challenge Kantaro. There was something in Saburo that would never accept his brother. Yōgu had taken a liking to Saburo, who was, like Yōgu, a sort of loner. It was Yōgu who had taught Saburo to ride Kantaro’s horse, something of which I was extremely jealous. I felt that Kantaro’s horse was something attached to Kantaro both personally and physically; that Saburo should have the opportunity to ride this magnificent beast was more than I could bear. For many days I would not speak to my friend, believing foolishly that he had betrayed a special trust. My hurt feelings were suddenly banished one day when Saburo and Yōgu chose to surprise me in the most unforgettable way.

  On this particular day, Yōgu had come to us after school with two mounts, Kantaro’s horse and another I did not recognize. “Come on, Emiru,” Yōgu had invited gruffly. “You ride this one.”

  I was much too proud to accept his invitation. I did not even look to see Saburo mount the horse, set his cap, tug the reins and press the animal proudly into a gallop down the road. Now I feel ashamed to have ignored my friend’s happiness, knowing how elusive Saburo found that happiness to be. As I walked home alone filled with anger, I thought that I could never again be reconciled to our old friendship. I walked slowly, knowing that every step brought me closer to a series of chores I would be expected to do when I arrived. My steps were heavy with the thought of this drudgery. From our house, I could hear the clatter of pots and pans and the stirring of voices within. I felt mute with my own anger and ran toward the house, hoping that no one would notice my recent tears. As I stepped over the threshold I was caught unaware by the smell of fresh manure and the high surprised whinny of a horse. There, squeezed into the space of our kitchen, were Yōgu and Saburo, still astride their mounts, pacing about with all the aloofness of being in a stable. The horses had dipped their snouts into a large basket of vegetables and bananas, and Yōgu neatly speared a large piece of cake with his knife.

  “Emiru!” announced Saburo, tugging his cap to its traditional angle.

  “We thought we’d surprise you,” said Yōgu, leaning over and spearing another piece of cake as the horse reared, upsetting a pot of beans stewing on the stove.

  “This was the only place we could find to hide,” suggested Saburo happily.

  I looked around the kitchen. There were broken dishes and toppled tins and a mess of vegetables and horse droppings all over my mother’s kitchen floor. I felt a sense of panic and delight.

  “Come on,” said Yōgu. “Now you ride. You ride out of here before you get in trouble.” Yōgu hoisted me up behind him. “Hang on!” he ordered. The horses slipped daintily through the doorway and set off in a delicious gallop. We spent the rest of that day riding through distant countryside I had for so long only imagined. We wandered into the neighboring town of Santa Cruz, down the cobblestoned main street, along the rows of shops and across the plaza in front of the church. We skirted the Baiano’s enormous holdings, acreage enough to pasture maybe five hundred head of cattle. In a matter of years, he had planted several acres of coffee trees; this year for the first time, laborers were picking and sorting the beans on the mature trees. Then there were the smaller holdings planted with corn and beans, little plots of vegetables, pigs and chickens, children and dogs running through the simple houses.

  After Yōgu left, I asked Saburo if he knew in fact if Yōgu would return from Japan.

  “Emiru,” Saburo said, knowingly, “he told me that he would not promise anything. He’s not the sort of man to promise, he said, but he did say I could trust him.”

  “That’s the same thing,” I insisted. “Trusting and promising.”

  “I don’t know, Emiru. I don’t know.” Saburo was sad, and I was confused. We wondered what Yōgu meant. We wondered if he would return.

  Someone else who must have wondered whether Yōgu would return was Haru. Had there been any sort of understanding between Yōgu and Haru? Perhaps it was the same sort of understanding that Saburo and Yōgu had, this not promising but trusting. I do not know. Certainly an understanding of this nature could not be very clear. An entire year had passed, and there was no sign of Hachiro Yōgu. There were no letters either, but I wonder that anyone might have expected Yōgu to actually write a letter. The passing of time seemed to convince us that, indeed, people like my father who opposed Kantaro’s campaign from the very beginning had been correct in their suspicions. Kantaro seemed to hide his disappointment behind his usual confidence. At first he suggested, as others did, that we could not expect Yōgu to return in three months or even six; Japan was, after all, on the other side of the world. Discussions among the team members went around in circles, and Saburo and I searched for some clue.

  “It is quite possible that he became ill,” suggested Tsuruta. “For all we know, he may be stuck in a hospital somewhere.”

  “Yōgu, sick? What nonsense.”

  “Then there’s the possibility that he’s having difficulty gathering so much equipment. Perhaps there’s a shortage of materials.”

  “That’s it! He’s gone to America to buy everything. Of course.”

  “He couldn’t get into America. They’ve got a no-Japanese policy.”

  “Yōgu would find a way.”

  “If it were me who had the chance to go back to Japan, I would go back to my hometown, see my mother, see my old friends. I think I would take my time, enjoy it a little.”

  “You know what Yōgu said. He said he left Japan because he hated it. He’s not like you. You can’t judge Yōgu by what you’d do.”

  “Yes, but think of it. If any of us had the opportunity to return, what would we do? There’s no telling whether we would or wouldn’t return to Brazil.”

  “If I could go home, I’d get myself a wife.”

  “Perhaps Yōgu is trying to get himself a wife!”

  “That would take forever!”

  There was much laughter over this possibility, a possibility which Haru must not have found comforting. As time went on, even Kantaro, who had long defended his wild friend, began to doubt that Yōgu would ever return. He began to turn his thoughts and energies to other projects, hoping to renew the old confidence lost to Yōgu’s disappearance. It was at this time that Kantaro met a young man new to Esperança, a graduate from a farming college in Japan, an agronomist named Seijiro Befu. It was also during this time that Kantaro began a new series of nightly visits, hoping to capture the imagination and love of another woman, the woman with the sweet voice and the piano.

  Kimi Kawagoe, as I had mentioned, was slightly older and far better educated than Haru. Although older by only two or three years, Kimi had the advantage of a certain maturity. She had graduated from a Japanese girls’ finishing school before coming to Brazil, and she had been used to a very refined company of friends. Her father’s abrupt but impassioned decision to move to Brazil was a rude awakening for both Kimi and her mother. Kinu Kawagoe rarely ventured outside her home and was said to be a very frail woman. The tropical climate did not agree with her, and she was often said to be ill. It fell upon Kimi to care for her family’s needs within the ho
usehold; these things she accomplished without complaint, caring for her sick mother, cooking and washing and sewing for her brother Heizo and her father and their hired help. Shinkichi Kawagoe, on the other hand, thrived in the tropical heat. He was soon tanned a deep brown from working in the fields, and his banker’s hands had grown rough and grimy as any other farmer’s. Despite Kawagoe’s enthusiasm for rural living, there were certain amenities of his old life in Japan that he continued to maintain, most of which surrounded his love of music. This was, of course, the reason why he had, at great expense, bought and shipped the piano from São Paulo. Kawagoe also had a gramophone and a large collection of classical records, which he enjoyed playing every evening for his attentive young guest, Kantaro Uno.

  Kantaro began once again to write letters daily, this time to Kimi. Now it was the case that Kimi could read and understand Kantaro’s long philosophical digressions, and it was said that Kantaro began to receive from Kimi some letters in response. That Kimi responded to Kantaro’s letters was certainly a sign of some kind. Kimi had had several admirers, all of whom had drifted away, unable to make any impression upon Kimi or her father. It was especially important that the suitor make an impression on Shinkichi Kawagoe, who seemed genial enough to anyone attentive to his interest in music but who was quite protective of his daughter. Kantaro knew very little about music, but he was, after all, Kantaro Uno. Kantaro had a way of talking about life and the future which made people feel at once expansive and fulfilled and full of hope. He spoke of projects, both great and small, with fervor and optimism, as if the tasks we took on in our daily lives, no matter how trivial, were part of a larger more important scheme. He spoke of Esperança as if it were the seed of a great dream, a special experiment which would change the world.

  Kawagoe, who had left a harried although comfortable world for a rustic and simple one, was more than pleased with Kantaro’s verbal expression and philosophical expansion of his own ideals. Years later, Shinkichi Kawagoe admitted to me his enthusiasm. “Yes, yes!” he had exclaimed to Kantaro. “This is exactly why I have come to Esperança! Every day I am outside in the natural world, planting, hoeing, digging, turning God’s earth. Look at my hands. These used to be the hands of a man who counted money. Some will say that these hands are dirty, but I know that these hands are only now becoming clean. How many years will it take to cleanse these hands, Kantaro?”