by Marele Day
She moved. Her hand came up and waved. Yugen raised his then brought it down again, feeling foolish. Waving at rocks.
One of the divers peeled off from her companions around the fire and knelt in front of the sea, hands cupped. She threw a stream of rice grains into the water, placed her palms together, bowed, then came back to the group.
One by one, all of the diving women left their fire circles and offered rice to the sea.
A priest appeared in blue robes and a tall black hat. The sea women knelt before him, near a bench upon which lay a profusion of sacred branches. Behind the priest was the crowd of photographers, and reporters taking notes. Yugen could see the soles of the women’s diving shoes. Most were black but one pair was yellow. Another pink. A girl leaned forward and removed something from the cheek of her friend, who turned and smiled. The priest bowed. He began intoning, picked up the branches and waved them over the bent heads.
After the blessing the girls began to ready themselves for the dive. They came down to the water’s edge, rinsed their masks, attached net bags to their weight belts, then put on their fins. Occasionally there was a pink or turquoise pair but most of the fins were orange. The black wetsuit and white sea-woman’s dress combined with the large orange fins gave the impression of a f lock of seabirds, ungainly on land.
From behind the beach came a troupe of dancers dressed in black trousers and red coats with white patterns on them. A yellow band tied around the waist. They carried in each hand a red-and-white-striped stick, with a red tassel on its end. The dancers formed a circle, swaying from side to side, lifting their arms and waving the candy sticks. When they had finished they retired to a pavilion.
An announcement rumbled over the beach. The women waded into the water carrying their wooden tubs.
They began diving and for a minute or two all you could see were the wooden tubs bobbing about on the surface. One by one, heads as sleek as seals reappeared and the women placed abalone and strands of accompanying seaweed into the tubs. Every few dives they tipped out accumulated water then disappeared again.
The most important part of the festival took part in the unseen depths. There was no well-lit annulus of glass through which viewers could observe; Yugen had to imagine himself down there with the sea women as they felt their way into the seaweed, rocky crevices and hard-to-reach places where abalone took up residence. With the thick gloves to protect their hands from cuts and scratches they would lose some of the sensitivity of fingers, not quite know what they might be touching.
A small wave rolled in, lifting the wooden tubs and chasing a cameraman out of the water. He steadied himself, edged back into the water, more mindful now of the ebb and f low.
The loudspeaker boomed again, announcing the diver of the year. The sound filled the beach, seemed to be coming from everywhere.
Yugen waited, assuming the diving would stop, the winner emerging with arms in the air to wave at the crowds, be theSeaBed presented with f lowers, a trophy. No-one came out of the water. The women kept bringing up abalone, putting them into the tubs.
Eventually they returned their gear to the boats and began coming ashore. Which one was diver of the year? Perhaps she was already at the shrine offering her abalone. Yugen joined the onlookers walking up the steps.
A roof had been added—white tarpaulin stretched over thin aluminium tubing. The sacred pebbles were covered with matting. Kneeling on it were the VIPs, now dressed in traditional robes—loose grey pants, loose-sleeved black jacket open to reveal a white shawl tied at the waist. Beneath the ceremonial clothes you could see the men’s wristwatches, thick silvery metal bands and, in one case, black leather.
The priest knelt in front of the altar. Cameramen formed a hedge at the side of the shrine. The doors with the brass locks were open, revealing the sacred space inside. The altar held a veritable feast compared to the rice and adzuki beans of Yugen’s previous visit. On the top tier was a large silvery-grey fish, a bunch of yellow bananas, rice wine, a large bottle of mineral water and two small jugs.
Directly in front of the altar, on a plain wooden board, the grain of the timber as long and even as raked sand, was a pair of abalone.
The only woman sitting with the VIPs was wearing the diver’s dress but no wetsuit underneath. She had a white scarf wrapped around her head, its ends tucked under her chin. On the front of it, which came down almost to the level of her beautifully made-up eyes, was the star and cross-hatching. She was even younger than the sea women at Oceanworld, perhaps still at high school. She appeared to be dry. Had she been in the water at all? Surely this couldn’t be diver of the year.
A couple of times she glanced nervously at the white-clad attendant beside her, and asked him a question. He had a strong steady face beneath grey hair, a demeanour of grace and gravitas.
The priest finished chanting then sat back in line with the VIPs. A second attendant handed out branches of sacred leaves. One by one the dignitaries came forward, bowed before the shrine and offered back the branches with their prayers.
When it was her turn, the girl placed her branch with the others, all trace of nervousness gone.
By the time Yugen came back to the beach, the rain had eased and the sky had brightened. As the consumption of beer increased so did the noise levels. It was as if the warm air of human voices, the laughter and shouting, was keeping the rain from falling. Everything was loose and relaxed. People ate squid on sticks, fried pastries. Children in the water jumped up as the waves came to get them. Others ran around on the sand blowing whistles. Adults played with the small children, teenage boys lifted teenage girls and threw them squealing into the water.
A diving woman called out to a little girl playing on the sand, trying to coax her into the water. The woman’s costume clung to her body. A grain of water dropped from her chin.
She called again, her voice playful. The little girl looked up to the woman standing behind her who encouraged her to go. Off she went, trundling across the uneven sand. The sea woman threw a pebble into the shallow water and the little girl attempted to dive for it, ducking her head under, legs in the air, going through the motions of swimming. When she couldn’t reach the pebble, the woman retrieved it and placed it in her hand. The little girl proudly held it up for the woman on the shore to see.
The festival was coming to a close. Yugen bought a beer before the food stall packed up. The can was icy cold, smooth and wet. He pulled the ring on the top and it opened with a satisfying fizz.
A few of the young people lingered in their horseplay, pushing each other into the water, but most of the visitors started making their way back to the harbour to catch the ferry.
By late afternoon, the beach had been cleaned and tidied, everything removed. Apart from the overlap of footprints, it was as if nothing had ever taken place here.
28
The return of Urashima Taro
Chicken had promised herself never to hope again but here she was, her heart large with it. ‘See you there,’ she called as Ry and the others headed back to the harbour. Chicken started making her way to the shack. They were all meeting up at the noodle shop later, including the boy from the aquarium. Hiro. They had stood on the beach together and eaten squid sticks, he grinning at her from under his spiky hair. It wasn’t only Hiro who made Chicken’s heart swell. There was Pearlie.
She had come to the festival. Not down on the beach with everyone else but sitting underneath the dragon tree. She had even waved.
When Chicken got to the shack she was feeling so buoyant that she decided not to bother negotiating the rickety old planks but leap straight over the stream. Instead of landing on the other side she slipped on the reedy bank and slid back into the water. She knocked her knee. Another bruise, another grey imperfection she would have to try and hide from Oceanworld. She didn’t care. She retrieved her thong before it sailed out of reach.
The shack was neat and tidy, welcoming. All the patty pans had been swept up, the cups and saucers put
away. There was even a tablecloth on the table. It wouldn’t be like the other times when Chicken sat in the solitude and waited. This time Pearlie would appear. It had not been a general windscreen wiper wave, but a come-here one, her hand beckoning.
The kettle was warm. A good sign. In the centre of the table Chicken noticed a picture in an old wooden frame. She picked it up, a similar photo to one on the family tree. Chicken recognised the cheerful young faces of Cedar and Pearlie. How shiny and new they were. Each had an arm draped casually around the shoulder of the other. Scarves tied their hair back. Their breasts were bare. On the lower half of their bodies they wore a triangle of folded cloth with cord knotted to the corners of it to form a g-string.
A shadow passed over the photo.
‘Is he here yet?’
It was Pearlie. Chicken hardly dared believe it. She turned around. There was her grandmother. Dressed in pyjamas. In the daytime. They weren’t the old f lannel ones which had been the cause of dispute when she left the house but a pair of red silk ones. They looked brand-new, still had folds in them as if they’d come straight out of their packaging.
‘Let’s sit at the table and wait for him,’ Pearlie suggested.
Pearlie had been hiding from Chicken for weeks and now she breezed in as if everything was normal. No apology, not even a proper greeting. Chicken wasn’t even sure if Pearlie realised who she was. The hope in Chicken’s heart started leaking out. Everything tidy, new tablecloth—this wasn’t for Chicken. Pearlie was expecting someone else. The grandmothers? But she’d said ‘him’.
‘Grandmother . . .’ Chicken began, trying to get her attention.
Pearlie’s hands disappeared into her pyjama pockets and pulled out cherry tomatoes. ‘It’s surprising what you find in the garden if you dig around,’ she commented, spilling them onto the table. ‘He’ll like these.’
Pearlie began the process of sitting, leaning her weight on the table and gradually easing herself down to the cushion. She sat there for a moment, recovering, then leaned forward and arranged the plump little red fruit, some still on the stem, around the photograph.
‘Who?’ asked Chicken, breaking away from the movement of her grandmother’s hands.
‘Urashima Taro.’
Chicken let the name settle on her.
‘He has returned.’
Clearly Pearlie’s mind was roaming free. It may not have wandered arbitrarily into the folk tale, but been triggered by a tourist, a festival guest.
Perhaps if Chicken entered the story she could lead Pearlie out of it. ‘I’m sure he will be here soon. What about if I make a cup of tea for the three of us?’
Chicken found matches. They were damp but eventually one held the f lame long enough for her to light the gas burner under the kettle. When she came back to the table, Pearlie had picked up the photo. ‘He had the magic box with him,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Chicken. ‘He was taking it up to the house.’ Chicken thought of adding, ‘He’s waiting for you there,’ but the lie refused to come out of her mouth.
‘No. He was standing at the end of the rock shelf, ready to drop it into the sea. It was the same spot, where we stood that day.’ She smiled fondly at the photo. ‘Me and my sister,’ she said. ‘Our costumes were blue and white spots. All the girls were wearing spots that year.’
Chicken could see steam coming out of the kettle but she didn’t want to interrupt by getting up and turning it off. At least now Pearlie was back in her own life, even if it was the past.
‘The photo was taken on festival day. One photographer came that first time, plus . . .’ Pearlie noticed the kettle, heaved herself up and turned it off. ‘They came from far away and sought permission from the head grandfather to stay for a few weeks. They brought gifts. A portable wireless for the head grandfather, the blue and white spots for us.
‘When we knew he had come to photograph us we dressed up in our Sunday best but he wanted us with clothes off, ready for work. The head grandfather offered him the most expert divers, but the photographer preferred the young pretty ones.’ Pearlie made a sound as if sucking her teeth, emphasising the absurdity of it. ‘He photographed us putting on our goggles, tying on the weight belts. We had to stop midway and be very still while he did it. When Cedar and I got sick of posing, other girls took our place.
‘The most comical was underwater photography. The camera was in a big metal box with a clear window.’ Pearlie paused, as if somewhere in her mind she was waiting for the next image to appear.
Chicken wished she could go into the photo, a portal back to the glory days, to the world when Pearlie was young.
‘Everything had to be just right—f lat sea, no clouds. The sun shining directly into the water. We had to do the same thing over and over, diving in the same way, in exactly the same position. Then, when we finally did it right, he would run out of breath and have to go up top!’ Pearlie cackled, bending so far over that her nose almost touched the table.
‘Breasts.’ Pearlie spoke so abruptly Chicken wondered if she was cursing. ‘That photographer took photos of all us divers—in the sea, on the rocks, on the boat, in front of our houses, but you know what’s in all of them? Breasts. Breasts, breasts, breasts. They stare back at you as if those nipples are eyes.’ Pearlie started chortling again. ‘Had he never seen breasts before? Sometimes I thought that camera was just an excuse to stare at them.’ Pearlie paused. ‘I’m ready for tea now.’
Chicken got up, put some leaves in the pot and poured in the water. She brought the teapot to the table. Two cups or three? Chicken decided on three. She served her grandmother then poured tea for herself. If Pearlie noticed that the third cup remained empty she did not say anything.
Pearlie turned the photograph towards Chicken. ‘You can’t see Urashima Taro, can you?’ Chicken stared at the photo, thinking that there might be a trick, an optical illusion, something in the background perhaps. A cloud shaped like a face. ‘But he was there that day. The photo blocks out everything around it.’
Outside the shack the light was changing. Some of it had entered the doorway, long golden strands of afternoon.
‘He was the young assistant, standing behind the photographer. He used to pull funny faces, to make us laugh. The photographer didn’t even know it was Urashima Taro’s doing but he liked our smiles. “Yes, girls, that’s it,” he said.’ Pearlie looked into the golden haze with such a beaming smile that Chicken turned to see whether anyone was there.
‘He was Cedar’s first love. I had a teenage crush on him too, but he loved only Cedar. We called him Urashima Taro so that we could talk about him without anyone knowing who we meant.’ Pearlie touched the photo, stroked her sister’s face. ‘He wanted to marry her but our father wouldn’t permit it. He said Cedar had to marry an island boy, that Urashima Taro had no skills that would be useful here.’
Everything shifted for Chicken. Cedar had a first love. In the photo on the family tree her smile was for him, standing there just beyond the frame. How much more lay quietly sleeping in the vast reservoir that Pearlie had opened up?
Surely Pearlie had got the part about Great-grandfather wrong. The young husband who had made a cedar chest for his wife, lain with her in the moonlight, couldn’t have become such a stern father.
‘Norbu said that?’
Pearlie nodded slowly. Chicken saw the red silk pyjamas shining in the light, Pearlie’s hair in short grey tufts around her face.
‘They had waited so long for her to come along. Perhaps he feared losing her.’ Pearlie sighed. ‘Cedar is dead now and I’ve grown old.’
Chicken got up off her cushion, came around to the other side of the table and put her arms around her grandmother, tentatively at first, then closer and closer till she sank into the embrace, into Pearlie’s broad shoulders, her salty skin. Pearlie smelled of the sea, of everything that lived in it.
Pearlie patted Chicken’s back then took a deep breath, the expansion of her chest gently pushing Chicken away.
‘He came back. About five years later. I saw him at the port. He had travelled the world, gone to the pearl-diving places, learned to be a tender. He had saved enough money to buy a fishing boat. But Cedar was married. She had just given birth to the baby.’
‘Mitsi.’ Chicken spoke the name softly, aware of the great silence that surrounded it.
‘Yes.’ Pearlie picked up the unused cup, stared into its emptiness.
‘Does anyone else know about Urashima Taro? Does Violet?’
Pearlie shook her head. ‘Even Cedar didn’t know that he came back. She was so taken up with the new baby it didn’t seem right to tell her, and then . . . somehow, the right time never came.’ Pearlie slowly put the cup down again, straightened the tablecloth around it.
Chicken watched a thread of spider’s web detach itself from a rafter and drift into the mellow afternoon. How sad and beautiful the story was.
‘What became of him?’ she asked her grandmother.
Pearlie paused for a moment. ‘I don’t know. I can’t even remember his real name. For us he was always Urashima Taro.’
Did Cedar’s first love eventually marry and have a family, carry a photo of Cedar in a secret place of his heart? There was so much Chicken wanted to know. Did Pearlie have a secret love also? Did Violet?
Chicken sat there waiting for more but Pearlie had gone quiet. Chicken gazed at her grandmother, took in every small detail—the curve of her earlobes, the two tiny brushes of eyebrows, the mole on her cheek, dark creases of her neck, the veins in her hands resting placidly on the table. Chicken had the impression that Pearlie was tired now, as if bringing the story out had unravelled her. But Chicken stayed, reluctant to move. Should she give Pearlie a story in exchange, tell her she’d met a boy, that he had smooth brown skin with the sea baked into it, that when he stood next to her she tingled and melted both at the same time? It was all still too young, just beginning.