Hiroshima Boy

by Naomi Hirahara

  He made his way over wooden bridges and cobblestone surfaces before he reached the gift store and connected snack shop. A table fan circulated, and he brushed away the sweat above his lip. Seeing a handwritten sign advertising shaved ice, he decided to take a brief break to cool down his body.

  At one of the small square tables, Mas ate his green tea snow cone while looking through the images of the photos he had taken. After putting on his reading glasses, he pressed the back arrow button once, twice, and so on until he reached the photos he had taken on the ferry going over to Ino. He had not been paying much attention where he was aiming the lens, and now he saw that he’d accidentally captured some of the other passengers, specifically Sora in his red T-shirt. The image on the screen on the back of the camera was small, smaller than his palm, but holding it at the right distance, he saw that Sora was not alone. He was seated next to one of the boys from the village. The other boy was larger and heavier, wearing a tan shirt. Mas could have sworn that he recognized the same boy among the young bicyclists observing the retrieval of Sora’s body the next morning.

  Sora had not been alone then. And this boy knew him well enough to be seated next to him. Curious. Did the police have this information?

  From his pocket Mas took out the business card for the ramen shop, located in the lively area of Nagarekawa-dori. Maybe if he showed the picture to the mother, she would recognize the boy Sora had been talking to. And maybe, like she said, Sora didn’t die the way the police said he did.

  Chapter Four

  By the time he walked out of Shukkei-en, the sky had turned dark, and warm raindrops wet his head and lashes. It was actually a relief from the unbearable heat, so instead of hailing a cab, Mas opted to walk. He was starting to get his bearings, and even though everything in the new Hiroshima was updated and fancy, he noticed signs with old photographs from the 1940s displayed here and there. They served to jog his memory, breadcrumbs on a trail of the past.

  A green streetcar was waiting at a stop, and without even asking where it was going, Mas got on. The Hiroden system had been around since the 1940s, and Mas thought he even saw some cars from that era still in operation. This particular one was heading south, and that was where he wanted to be.

  Hiroshima had been designed like a grid—his father had once explained that it was that way to accommodate the needs of the daimyo, the feudal lord. In those samurai days, there was a district that made fresh tofu, and a few others that sold fish. Once there was even a section that handled the sale of firearms; the young Mas found that especially interesting.

  In that way, Hiroshima reminded him of downtown Los Angeles: the Flower Market next to the Produce Market next to Toy Town and then Little Tokyo and City Hall. Everything was contained, for the most part, in these municipal blocks. It was pretty easy to know when you’d gone too far.

  The streetcar made a stop at Hatchobori and he noticed passengers, mostly middle-aged women, get up. Hatchobori, Mas remembered that street. And Fukuya, the grand multilevel department store, had been in this area. He and his classmates had once been chased out of that building for pulling the clothes off of a mannequin. After the Bomb, the outside concrete structure miraculously stayed intact, but its beautiful interior with all of the expensive furnishings and merchandise, was scorched away, leaving an empty black hole. In that emptiness, sick people were brought. Only instead of getting better, they got worse. One of Mas’s friends—the ringleader of the mannequin mischief, in fact—was quarantined there and his brother told Mas of the nightmare of blood that came out of the sick when they went to the bathroom. Dysentery, the health experts thought. But they didn’t know anything about the effects of the Bomb and radiation then.

  Following the other passengers’ lead, Mas got off the streetcar. From the platform in the middle of the street, he looked up to see a white multilevel building as grand as the Fukuya before World War II. The rain had now mostly subsided, and the pedestrians were collapsing their umbrellas and shaking water from the backs of their jacket collars.

  In this moment of nostalgic reverie, Mas felt bold. He asked a woman carrying a large bag stamped Fukuya, “Where is Nagarekawa-dori?”

  “Just around the corner,” she said.

  Instead of going straight on the long boulevard of Nagarekawa-dori, Mas wandered. His body, his adolescent core, knew this grid, and he didn’t need to think too much about where he was. And another thing, he was hungry. He refused to swallow another bite of a konbini sandwich, especially with the tasty smells wafting through the street. Further teasing him was the plastic food on display: a replicated bowl of steaming noodles with slices of pink-swirl fishcakes, and oyakodonburi, chicken and egg over a bowl of rice.

  Before he knew it, he was in front of Okonomiyaki-mura, an actual village of his favorite Hiroshima soul food, the savory pancake: a layer of pan-fried pork slices over noodles, held together with a crepe-like dough and topped with green onion and seaweed, smothered with mayonnaise and a special okonomiyaki sauce. Mas had to moisten his lips so that the saliva didn’t drip down his chin. He went up the stairs and was met with stand after stand offering slight variations, including additions of mochi, cheese, and oysters (presumably the kind that would not kill him). He sat in the first available seat in front of a flat grill. People from Hiroshima said that the dirtier the okonomiyaki establishment, the better, and based on the bits of food still remaining in the corners of the grill, this one would be a candidate for the best. As it turned out, the food was good enough, and good enough was perfect for Mas.

  Grabbing a toothpick on his way out, he felt reenergized, ready to hang out, be bura-bura, aimless, on the streets of Hiroshima. When his feet met the pavement, he knew exactly where he was going.

  When he finally entered Nagarekawa-dori, he couldn’t quite figure out whether he was in the center of a red-light district. There were plenty of bars, pachinko halls, and men in cheap, shiny suits passing out postcards featuring head shots of young women. Yet in between those establishments were flower shops, pasta houses, and shoe repair services. Unemployed yogore strutted down the street next to elegant older women in high heels carrying expensive shopping bags. It was such a strange confluence of people and businesses. What a place to raise a child.

  Referring to Rei’s business card, Mas was finally able to find the ramen shop at the end of the street as it intersected with Heiwa-dori. The eatery was nothing special, a greasy spoon for bachelors. He didn’t go in, but stood a few feet from the doorway, observing what he could through the long, rectangular slats of the hanging cloth called noren. He saw a simple metal counter lined with bar chairs. Definitely a place that drunkards frequented either before or after a night of raucous drinking.

  The ramen shop was on the bottom of a dilapidated building. Tiles were literally falling off its sides, exposing gigantic cracks in the concrete. An open glass door revealed rows of mailboxes. Surely this would be the entrance to the Tani apartment.

  An elevator that could barely hold more than two people took Mas to the fourth floor. He saw a bicycle in the hallway next to 403. Was it the boy’s? This being Japan, the bike was not locked or secured to anything.

  He knocked on the door, a clang of metal. If Rei was home, she would have heard. Mas checked his watch and calculated the difference in time. It was almost six o’clock. Perhaps she had gone out to dinner or shopping.

  “Are you with the moving company?” A man about sixty years of age stood behind him. His oily hair was jet black, but Mas figured that it was dyed. He wore a thick gold bracelet around his wrist, and his face was beet red. He reeked of sake, too.

  Mas shook his head. “I’m looking for Tani-san.”

  “Everybody is looking for her. I heard police was here yesterday. She’s a piece of work.”

  It was obvious that this man, probably the apartment manager, had no idea what had happened to Sora.

  Just then a door to one of the apartments opened. It was a young woman with a swollen belly. “Ah,
Uchida-san, there you are. Our air-con isn’t working properly, and with the baby on the way, this is a big problem.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, I know. I just got back in town this morning. I’m dealing with Tani-san’s situation right now. She was supposed to move out by the first of the month. This is a real pain.”

  The man turned his attention back to Mas. “Are you related to her in some way?”

  “No.”

  “Not a boyfriend, right?”

  Mas scowled. “Of course not. I’m just an acquaintance.”

  “Good. I’d think she’d sunk to a new low.”

  “Well, none of that has anything to do with me,” the pregnant woman interjected. “All I know is this needs to be fixed as soon as possible. I wouldn’t want to call the owner.” With that, she slammed the door.

  The manager mouthed something silently at the door, and based on his ugly expression, it was nothing good. “See what I have to put up with? Tani-san is really quite a burden. I told her she had to pay me the 200,000 yen she owes or get out. Her son never leaves the apartment. I shudder to think what it looks like in there. I can’t even get in because she added a deadbolt. Without my permission.” He looked like he was going to fall down, but he balanced himself with one hand on the hallway wall. “You’ve never been inside, have you?”

  Mas shook his head.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. All of her gentlemen callers have to stay outside. Even the kid’s only friend, this weirdo kid with the bug eyes—I think his father owns that manga and video game store on Hondori—doesn’t even get in. They have to talk through the door.”

  He stumbled toward the back of hallway. “I come home to this, can you believe it,” he murmured to himself. “My work is never done.”

  Disgusted, Mas opted for the stairs instead of the elevator. With this kind of manager, it was a safer bet. Once on the first floor, he tried to figure out where to go next. Through the glass panel, he saw a set of vending machines across the street. He was thirsty. While on his way to get something cold to drink, he was surprised to see Toshi Ikeda of Senbazuru emerging from the ramen shop. He was accompanied by a taller and thinner man about his same age. This companion had a long, expressionless face that almost looked like a mask. Even when he was talking, his lips barely parted, and the top of his face remained motionless.

  Mas wondered what Toshi was doing here, at the exact spot where the boy, Sora Tani, lived. Toshi hadn’t mentioned that he’d known the victim, at least not when the body was first discovered.

  As they stood outside the ramen shop, the tall man took out a cigarette from his shirt pocket. As he held it in his lips, he was saying something to Toshi. Toshi nodded and the man offered him a crushed pack from the same pocket.

  Their cigarettes lit, they sauntered up Nagarekawa-dori, underneath neon lights that were just flickering on. Mas, curious, followed. They finally walked downstairs into one of the bars.

  Outside was a sandwich board displaying head shots of eight women, all adorned with brightly colored flowers in their hair. They all looked middle-aged and more Filipino than Japanese. He had attended one or two hostess bars in Los Angeles—all visits tied to his amateur investigations—and he didn’t relish descending into that world today. Again, shikataganai. If he wanted to know what these two men were up to, what alternative did he have? As soon as he went down the stairs into the bar, he regretted it. It was a dark, sad space, with red and green bulbs placed in light fixtures, a weak attempt to add an air of festivity. Instead it seemed like Christmas in hell.

  He wasn’t sure where the two men had disappeared to. There were only a couple of others at the bar and he joined them, ordering a beer from a middle-aged hostess wearing not only a silk flower in her hair but a necklace of mini conch shells.

  Immediately after his beer arrived, he felt someone’s presence behind him. “Arai-san, I didn’t know you were a drinking man.”

  Toshi didn’t seem surprised to see Mas in this hostess bar in the Nagarekawa district. He was indeed the master of the poker face. There was no coincidence here, and they both knew it.

  “Come, please join us.” Toshi motioned to a dark corner away from the lights. They sat at a round glass table on bulgy seats with no backs. The thin man smashed his cigarette into an ashtray and promptly took out a new cigarette.

  “Hideki-kun, this is Arai from America. He was the one who found Sora.”

  Toshi’s straightforward introduction would sound innocuous to anyone who didn’t know. Hideki was the name the mother had mentioned back at the pier in Ino. This must be Sora’s father.

  Hideki, on the other hand, was going through his own realization. He closed his eyes tighter and tighter until tears squeezed out onto his cheeks. He left the still-smoldering cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and slid off his seat. Standing in front of Mas, he bowed stiffly, his hands at his side. “I’m so sorry to cause you such inconvenience. I am indebted to you.”

  He kept his head lowered, and Mas couldn’t take it anymore. What did he do after all? He saw something bright red bobbing in the ocean and called for help. Sora had been dead for some time, at least hours.

  “It wasn’t anything,” Mas finally said, hoping this would cause the man to stand upright. “Anyone would have done the same.”

  Now in addition to tears, clear snot was running down Hideki’s face. He was a mess, and Mas couldn’t blame him. Toshi handed him a gauze handkerchief and Hideki bobbed his head again. After he wiped his face, Mas realized that what he’d thought to be a face without emotion was actually one swollen with grief.

  “I shouldn’t have gone to that party. I should have stayed with him,” Hideki said to his friend. “If I was with him—”

  “Stop. No more. You can’t be blaming yourself. Where was she that night? If she was home, she’d know that he’d gone missing.”

  Hideki asked to borrow Toshi’s phone. He had mislaid his somewhere.

  Toshi sighed and handed a cell phone to him. “Don’t lose that. I told you not to spend so much money on such an expensive one.”

  “Excuse me,” Hideki said, making his way outside, where there was presumably better reception.

  As soon as Sora’s father was out of earshot, Toshi’s demeanor completely flip-flopped. “What the hell are you trying to prove, old man?” he said, his mouth twisted in a sneer. “I know you didn’t appear out of nowhere. Have you been following me? Who sent you here?”

  To watch Toshi’s transformation in a matter of seconds stunned Mas, and he found it difficult to recover. “The mother,” he finally said. “Rei. She told me that she and the boy lived in this neighborhood. But I thought she was divorced.”

  “How do you know Rei?”

  “She was at the island this morning. She was suffering, too.”

  “Don’t let her fool you. She is the master of manipulation. A master actor.”

  You are pretty good yourself, Mas thought.

  “She’s happy Sora is dead. He was a burden to her. He’s hikikomori, you know?”

  Mas furrowed his brow.

  “Hikikomori, it’s all over Japan. Even with some of my boys at Senbazuru. They are shut-ins. Can’t deal with the outside world. Can only relate through the internet and video games.”

  Rei had not used this term, but she and the manager had said something about him rarely leaving his room. Mas hadn’t realized that this was some kind of medical condition.

  “She held him close to her because she could hurt Hideki that way. He worshipped his son; even made sure that he lived nearby after the divorce. Look at him now. I was worried that Hideki might kill himself, too. He’s such a mess that he’s lost his phone, so I had to come all the way over here to make sure he’s okay.”

  “The mother doesn’t think he did it.”

  “Is that what she said?” Toshi let out a string of expletives. “She was a negligent mother who wants people to feel sorry for her. And you are her latest chump.”

  Mas wasn’t g
oing to take this insult lying down. “You the one who tell a lie. You said nothing about knowing the boy.”

  Toshi became still, as if he were contemplating his next move. His face softened a bit as he moistened his lips. “Listen, I’m trying to cheer him up. It’s better if you leave.” Hideki was making his way back to where they were sitting. “I’ll see you back at Ino. We can talk more then.”

  Mas didn’t even grunt goodbye. He was being pushed aside, and he was more than willing to comply. He went around the room to exit. It was rude not to say anything to the grieving father, but he figured that Toshi could come up with a good story. He seemed skilled in telling lies.

  The sky had darkened, and he glanced at his watch and calculated. It was past eight. There would be no ferries that would take him back to Ino. Why hadn’t Toshi warned him, Mas first thought, and then came to the conclusion that the Senbazuru administrator really didn’t care about him.

  Neon signs were on full blast, an effort to make the street look happy. A couple of red-faced men in suits—early starters, obviously—stumbled through the intersection, avoiding slow-moving cars. Mas would have to find some kind of hotel to spend the night. Luckily, he’d seen some side streets with garish signs advertising “capsule hotel” for about fifty dollars a night.

  “Top or bottom?” The hotel clerk asked, and when Mas failed to answer, he repeated himself, only louder.

  It turned out the capsules were coffin-like accommodations, literally stacked one atop another. He was given a towel for the shared bathroom and shower and a key for a locker. Since he didn’t have any bags or luggage, there was no need for that.

  Mas was happy that he said, “Bottom,” as it was not as difficult to climb into his capsule. The space was actually high enough for him to sit up, and it even came with cheap cotton pajamas to change into. And the capsule was air-conditioned.

  Closing the curtains to his compartment, he turned off the light. Lying in such tight quarters, Mas felt like he’d been launched into space, untethered and disconnected. Haruo was dead. So were Mas’s parents and brothers and sisters. Nothing was left for him in Japan, other than nephews and nieces who were barely aware of his existence. Old friends like Akemi Haneda were gone, and her relative, a journalist, was now working in a newspaper bureau in Australia. Hiroshima had once been his stomping grounds, but everything had been stripped away, leaving him utterly alone.