by Alan Russell
“It’s okay,” said Am. “She just doesn’t like traveling away from the coast. Makes her cranky.” Then, louder, to Annette more than Hiroshi, “But we’re going to be driving to a building that’s not very far from San Diego Bay, and we might even cruise back along the harbor.”
Annette’s ride steadied. Her behavior seemed to intrigue Hiroshi all the more. “Have you,” he inquired gently, “considered selling this vehicle?”
As far as the Japanese are concerned, everything in America is for sale. It’s an opinion that Americans themselves are responsible for, having chosen to withhold virtually nothing from the auction block.
How many times had Am threatened to give Annette away? To have her towed to a junkyard? By no stretch of the imagination was she reliable transportation. But for whatever misplaced reasons, he still hadn’t gotten rid of her. “She’s not for sale,” Am said.
The Fat Innkeeper nodded, as if that was the answer he expected, as if that was the only appropriate response, and went back to enjoying the drive. He swiveled his head frequently, taking in the sights along the freeway. Am didn’t think most of the route was particularly scenic, but then he wasn’t Japanese. A friend of his had once driven crosscountry with a student from Japan and said that what had impressed the foreigner most were the open stretches of land.
“I hear Dr. Kingsbury was poisoned,” said Hiroshi.
Am nodded, then told him what he knew, which made the Fat Innkeeper look unhappy. “Being poisoned is not a good way to die,” Hiroshi said with some vehemence. “There was one occasion when I feared I was dying from poisoning. It was not pleasant.”
The Fat Innkeeper smiled at Am’s startled look. “I dined on a pufferfish,” he said. “In Japan when pufferfish is prepared it is called fugu. As tasty as pufferfish are, the fish must be carefully prepared. I am told the tiger pufferfish—the preferred fish for fugu—is the second-most poisonous vertebrate on the planet. In those fish there is enough toxin to kill thirty adults. Restaurants that serve fugu must have a license. Chefs are carefully trained to remove the skin and organs. The fugu is served as sashimi. I remember eating it and thinking how delicious it was. That’s when I felt the numbness in my lips and tongue. While that lasted, I was afraid that I had been poisoned.”
“Did you feel you were going to die?” asked Am.
The Fat Innkeeper nodded. “Yes,” he said, “but only for a minute or two. Then the numbness went away and I only felt foolish.”
Hiroshi smiled now at the memory, or maybe it was just his enjoyment of being Annette’s passenger. He stuck his head out the window, and for a minute or two looked as happy as a dog catching a breeze. When he brought his head back inside the car, he smoothed his hair and said, “Mr. Takei came and visited me today.”
Without overtly condemning or probing, with saying very little, he still managed to say a lot. Am responded in the same minimalist format. “He won’t be troubled again,” he said confidently. “That’s a samurai promise.”
Hiroshi raised an eyebrow, then nodded, accepting the good news without question. “A samurai used to have the right of kirisute,” he said, “to use his sword on those who did not show him the proper respect. He could legally kill, with no questions asked.”
“In this instance, there wasn’t that need,” said Am, “but I would like to reserve that right for the future.”
The Fat Innkeeper gave him a questioning look, then realized Am was joking, and with a little smile of his own went back to looking out the window. Mission Bay, and all of its colors, seemed to fascinate him. There were tanned bodies running around in Day-Glo shorts, a sky full of rainbow kites, and a bay crowded with windsurfers racing along blue water.
“Do you surf?” asked Hiroshi.
Before I became a serf, thought Am. “Yes.”
“I would like to learn.”
Am wasn’t about to volunteer that “maybe later” he’d take him out. Helping an obese Japanese man navigate the rigors of a surfboard wasn’t something he wanted to do. How could you translate “my wave” with the right emphasis into Japanese? Banzai? Kamikaze pilots could learn a thing or two about single-mindedness from a surfer claiming a wave.
“Excuse my foolish talk,” said Hiroshi. “This land offers too many diversions. This is my time to prove myself as an ii hito, a good person. My family thinks I have been wagamama far too long.” He remembered Am wasn’t Japanese, offered the one word translation: “selfish.”
A deep breath, and then another explanation: “On several occasions I have not agreed to a seiryaku kekkon, a strategic marriage. As the choonan, the eldest son, this kind of obedience was expected of me. What made my selfishness worse is that I’m a shachoo-no-musuko-san, the son of a company president. My family expected me to be the atotori, the successor, but I never proved reliable. I have always been diverted by useless studies, and travels, and thoughts, and distractions.
“Like wanting to take up surfing,” he admitted. “I am considered the fukoo mono of the family, the unfilial child.”
The admission was personal, and unexpected. Am had been told that the Japanese rarely revealed themselves to their own countrymen, let alone gaijin.
“My sister Reiko had to bring in a muko-yooshi,” he said. “She took a husband so that the family could have an appropriate successor. He gave up his name and took ours. There is an expression for what my sister had to do. It is called kazoku no giseisha, and it means Reiko sacrificed for the household. I should have been able to do that on many occasions, but never did.”
Sharon had told Am about how the Hotel California was a proving ground of sorts for Hiroshi. The Hotel had been likened as the beachhead for Yamada Enterprises. The company was now in the process of building maquiladoras, industrial plants along the border of the United States and Mexico, and had purchased other commercial real estate for a variety of enterprises. Hiroshi was supposed to be the company standard-bearer in this part of the new world.
“I came here to change,” said Hiroshi. “I keep reminding myself about the tale of Rosetsu, and that gives me inspiration.”
Am looked interested. There was a story here. Maybe even a folktale. “Who is Rosetsu?” he asked.
“A painter,” said the Fat Innkeeper. “He lived over two hundred years ago, was an apprentice under the great master Okyo—Maruyama Okyo in Kyoto.
“It is said that Rosetsu was Okyo’s worst student. For three years he tried hard, but he did not get better. All the other students quickly advanced, but not Rosetsu. Okyo could offer him little encouragement, and Rosetsu became more and more distraught.
“He left Okyo’s school one cold winter evening, walked away from being a painter. Rosetsu wasn’t sure whether his journey was to kill himself, or to try and make it all the way home to his distant village. He only knew that he was giving up on art, and life itself.
“He walked all night, and then all day, and then into the night again. He had no food, and no sleep. A few hours before dawn he collapsed under some pines, fell down into a pile of snow. Rosetsu thought he was lying down to die, but his final rest was denied him. He kept hearing this noise of splashing water, and he had to see what was making the sound.
“Rosetsu crawled forward and saw a large carp jumping out of the water. It was trying to reach some food lying on the ice. For three hours Rosetsu watched the fish struggle. Time after time the fish jumped, bruising and bloodying itself on the ice. It tried all ways to get the food. The fish pushed at the ice from underneath, and jumped on top of it. Finally, the carp’s persistence paid off. Its valiant leaps broke down enough ice for it to reach the food. Bloodied, with broken scales, it gained the hard-fought prize.
“This was Rosetsu’s inspiration. He resolved that he would be like the carp, and give his all. He would, if necessary, die trying.
“Rosetsu returned to Kyoto. He told Okyo the story of the carp, and said that he would be as determined as the fish to succeed. He was as good as his word. In time, Rosetsu became o
ne of Japan’s greatest painters. On his paintings you can always see the Rosetsu trademark, the crest of a leaping carp.”
Every nation has its stories of perseverance. Am was going to tell Hiroshi about Bruce of Scotland, who had drawn inspiration from the persistence of a spider, and eventually won his throne, but Hiroshi was not yet through with his musing.
“I think Rosetsu’s symbol of the leaping carp was a wonderful reminder to him,” said Hiroshi. “In his every painting he reaffirmed that turning point in his life.”
He looked at Am. “I understand I have you to thank for my new badge, my emblem.”
“What do you mean?” asked Am, confused.
“You have provided me with my leaping-carp crest, my bond with nature.”
Am still didn’t understand.
“I am considering having it placed on all my stationery. It would probably be too presumptuous, though, to have a signet made of it.”
No, Am thought, not that. Not now, not ever.
Hiroshi pulled out a folded piece of paper from a coat pocket, spread the paper out for Am to see. It wasn’t exactly the fearsome lion crest of Richard the Lion-Hearted. It wasn’t even a carp, for God’s sake. It was a sea worm, Urechis caupo to be exact.
The Fat Innkeeper.
“I have heard,” said Hiroshi, “that I bear an amazing resemblance to this.”
There was a long silence, and a long worm, between them. Am thought of a lot of explanations. He looked at the drawing, then looked at Hiroshi. What would Ikkyusan have done?
“It is a damn good-looking worm,” Am said.
Chapter Forty-Five
The San Diego Police Department headquarters wasn’t exactly on the Bay, as Am had alluded to Annette, was in fact over a mile inland from the water. Downtown redevelopment hadn’t spread as far as its 1401 Broadway location. The in-vogue restaurants, luxury hotels, and upscale stores weren’t part of its neighborhood, but then neither were the tattoo parlors and adult movie dens. It was situated in a neighborhood in transition, but one that looked undecided as to which way it was heading.
“To Protect and Serve,” read Hiroshi. The caption was printed on all SDPD black-and-whites. “Perhaps I need a slogan along with my crest. What do you think?”
“Mozukashii ne,” said Am. That had been one of the first phrases Sharon had taught him. She said that as a round-eye, he would be frequently hearing those words. The translation was “a difficult question,” and usually resulted in the avoidance of an answer. Am and Hiroshi seemed to be reversing roles.
Nothing else had been said about Urechis caupo for the rest of their ride, and Am had been content to let a sleeping worm lie. He couldn’t tell whether Hiroshi was teasing him, truly angry, or for some reason actually taken with the idea of a worm logo. The Japanese had their own reasons, and aesthetics, for everything. Where else but in Japan would a dove be considered a messenger of war?
To his own way of thinking, Am believed a fat worm was not likely to draw the walk-in crowd. It wasn’t cuddly like a sleepy bear, or inviting like an apple. Am considered all the hotel logos used by the various chains, and then decided a fat sea worm wasn’t such a bad thing after all, but he didn’t tell Hiroshi that.
They were twenty minutes late even before having to take on the police bureaucracy. Their way forward was blocked by an officer sitting at a desk. After dutifully making a few calls, the sentry informed them that Detective McHugh had not left word for them to be admitted, and that they couldn’t get by without a pass. McHugh wasn’t in, and there was no word when, or even if, he would be back. The officer pointed to a waiting area, said that they were welcome to wait for Detective McHugh, or that they could leave a message for him.
There were several messages Am was tempted to leave, but chose instead to wait. Am suspected a delaying action on McHugh’s part, or a power play, or both. As time passed, Am fumed all the more. Hiroshi was content to watch the cast of characters come and go. He engaged, even initiated, a few conversations with passers-by. Am was surprised by his conviviality. The rest of the Japanese management at the Hotel acted reserved, and seemed to do their best to limit their interactions with foreigners.
“I have to go feed the meter,” Am said. He had anted up for an hour, not expecting their visit to take longer than that, and there was still no word from McHugh. Hiroshi nodded, and Am went out to feed some quarters. The way of the world, he thought. You pay the city to talk with their so-called public servants.
He didn’t come back empty-handed, which made him feel better for having something to do besides just waiting. Am brought along the copies he had made at the library, and to his surprise found the reading interesting. One of Kingsbury’s books documented the distribution of human blood groups around the world. “‘Strange is it,’” Kingsbury quoted from Shakespeare, “‘that our bloods, of color, weight and heat, pour’d all together, would quite confound distinction, yet stands off in differences so mighty.’” In the Bard’s day, no one knew about the four blood types, A, O, AB, and B. Kingsbury’s book scientifically documented the “differences so mighty.”
Am read how anthropologists had traced migration routes through the genetics of blood-group inheritance. The “trail of blood” could be followed along the Bering Strait and other migration routes, the gene markers identified by types and factors in blood. It wasn’t light reading, with passages dwelling on phenotypes, gene frequencies, graphs, genetic shorthand, and mathematical formulas, but Am wasn’t willing to be deterred. He was on his own trail of blood.
Preoccupation always draws attention. Hiroshi started reading the pages that Am had finished with. Though he never inquired directly as to Am’s interest, his curious glances were finally rewarded.
“It’s probably nothing,” said Am, putting his last page of reading aside and answering Hiroshi’s looks, “but I’m wondering if Kingsbury didn’t announce his murderer when he died.”
Am sighed, wishing he had something more dramatic to announce. It seemed a tenuous supposition even to him, but it was his only potential lead. “Dr. Kingsbury’s last words were ‘Be positive.’ We’ve all operated on that assumption. But were those really his last words? Kingsbury was a hematologist, a blood doctor. Among his peers his last words might have been interpreted very differently. A fellow hematologist might have assumed he was saying, ‘B positive,’ as in a blood type.”
“Be positive,” said Hiroshi. Or was he repeating, “B positive”?
“Part of this investigation has been to get to know Dr. Kingsbury,” said Am, “to try and understand how he thought and acted. What was he thinking as he lay dying? Did his medical background come to the fore? Facing his own mortality, I imagine he was scared and confused. Gasping for breath, paralyzed, he might have been at a loss to even remember his murderer’s name. That’s where his training might have taken over. Kingsbury the research scientist might have identified his killer in a way that made perfect sense to him.”
Am didn’t sound like Perry Mason making a point. Spoken aloud, he thought his theory sounded thin. In this instance, he wasn’t even sure if blood was thicker than water.
“How would Dr. Kingsbury have known the blood type of his murderer?” asked Hiroshi.
“My guess is through his medical questionnaires,” said Am. “I was able to obtain one. It’s extensive, goes so far as to ask for the blood group, and has a box to check positive or negative.”
“What medical questionnaires are you referring to?”
Am explained how the UNDER conventioneers had filled out medical questionnaires for Kingsbury prior to their gathering, and how Kingsbury had selected sixty of them to interview during the conference.
“B positive,” said Hiroshi. “Is this blood type that uncommon?”
“Not in your country,” said Am. “Japan has twice as many B genes as in America. In Japan, seventeen percent of the population has type B blood.”
Am thought about Hiroshi’s interest in the case, and for a moment felt
a little paranoid. He had to ask the question: “Do you know your blood group?”
“O,” said Hiroshi, “although I couldn’t tell you whether it’s positive or negative.”
“Probably positive,” said Am, then glumly added, “It would have been a much better clue if Kingsbury had said, ‘B negative.’”
“Not necessarily,” said Hiroshi. “Everyone might have just assumed he was being fatalistic at his end. From what you have said, it was his optimistic final words which surprised everyone, and drew attention.”
There might be something to that, thought Am, but he still wished the doctor had done a better job of identifying his murderer. While a B positive blood type was relatively uncommon in San Diego, a B negative would have been much rarer. He had learned how all blood types are either Rh positive or Rh negative. The determination of Rh factor was done through red-blood-cell tests (they were originally done on rhesus monkeys—thus the Rh) whereby if the cells clumped, the blood was identified as Rh positive, and if they didn’t, the blood was Rh negative. The designation was particularly important in pregnancies. If mother and fetus have different Rh blood factors, complications can result. In the United States, Am had learned, only 15 percent of the population has Rh negative blood.
“Caulfield,” announced Detective McHugh. “Sorry to have kept you.”
The detective managed to say those words with a straight face, even if there was some giveaway in his eyes. McHugh would have preferred finding Caulfield red in the face and stomping around, but having made him cool his heels for ninety minutes was almost good enough.
Hiroshi was already standing and bowing. “This is Hiroshi Yamada,” said Am, “of the Hotel California.”
The Fat Innkeeper presented McHugh with his hand, and then his business card. The detective halfheartedly shook hands, but didn’t offer his own business card, merely pocketed Hiroshi’s card and looked unimpressed. He knew the Jap was the big Hotel cheese, but that didn’t excite him. As far as McHugh was concerned, the sooner the Hotel fell into the ocean, the better.