The Translation of Love

by Lynne Kutsukake

  “Sorry?”

  “Maybe cigarettes? I can bring some next time. Lucky Strike maybe?”

  “Cigaretto?”

  “Yes, cigaretto.”

  “Ah, from the black market,” the man said, his voice now sly and conspiratorial.

  “No, not the black market.”

  “You are kind. Thank you, sir. You are kind. You are kind.” The man’s voice had started to take on a rote quality, as if he were already weary of the exchange. Matt got the impression that he was being dismissed.

  “I’ll come back again. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, sir.”

  There were many questions Matt wished he could ask but knew he couldn’t. Naturally he wished he could ask what had happened to the man. What awful battle had he and his troops been involved in and how had he incurred such a terrible injury. But Matt suspected that not only were such questions meaningless, the answers would be, too. What difference did it make what battle it was, what useless assault, what stupid skirmish. Some of the islands the Japanese had been defending toward the end of the war were nothing more than clumps of volcanic dirt floating in the South Pacific. Had it been worth it to end up like this? Or worse, to have ended up like the other soldiers in the man’s unit—all dead.

  10

  Once a week Kondo was paired with Miss Ikeda, the grade-two teacher, to supervise the lunchtime recess period. Like Kondo, Miss Ikeda was also new to the school, but unlike him, she had never taught anywhere else. She struck him as very young but at the same time extremely confident, with her bobbed hair and sporty way of walking. As they watched the children play, Kondo noticed that she liked to hum to herself and sometimes to sing aloud. She had a lovely voice, sweet and clear, with an impressive range.

  Right now she was humming “The Apple Song.” After hearing it played so much on the radio, Kondo was beginning to tire of the song’s cheerful optimism, but he had to admit it had a catchy melody. The whole country seemed to love it.

  He thought he might ask Miss Ikeda if she knew any English-language songs and, if not, whether she would be interested in learning any. When she stopped humming, he ventured, “Miss Ikeda?”

  Without turning her head, she put one finger up to her lips. “Shhh.” She pointed at the group of small children a few feet away from them. He could only see the side of her face, but she seemed to be smiling. Her head was cocked, in interest and curiosity.

  “Are those your pupils?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Shhh,” she repeated, nodding her head in the affirmative.

  One of the little girls was swinging her hips back and forth in front of the group. She put her hand on one hip, jiggled her elbow, and said aloud to no one in particular, “Let’s go for a walk, soldier!” The girl had a vivacious smile and quick darting eyes. She seemed to realize that she was prettier than the other girls and that, even as young as she was, being pretty meant she could get what she wanted.

  A boy stepped forward and pretended to give something to the girl. Kondo recognized Masatomi.

  “What’s that, soldier?” she giggled.

  “Chocoretto.”

  “Chocoretto is my favorite!” She made a show of chewing loudly, smacking her lips, and showing her little pink tongue. “Yum, yum. Delicious! I like you, soldier. Here, take my arm.” She pumped her elbow up and down.

  Masatomi hesitantly put his arm through hers.

  “I want more candy!” she cried. “Let’s go to American Alley.”

  “American Alley! Candy Shop Alley!” The children formed a circle and began chanting loudly.

  “Hurry, we have to hurry.” The girl tugged on Masatomi but he dropped his arm from hers and took a step backward.

  “I don’t know what you want me to do,” he mumbled.

  She flung her arms in the air and cried, “Tight! Hold me tight!”

  Two of the boys in the crowd shoved Masatomi into the girl. “She wants you to kiss her.”

  A chorus of giggles erupted, and the circle of children that had formed around Masatomi and the little girl moved in closer.

  “Kiss, kiss!”

  “Democracy kiss!”

  It seemed to Kondo that things had definitely gone too far. He glanced at Miss Ikeda but her mouth was open and she appeared to be laughing. He couldn’t believe it. Was she enjoying this?

  “Miss Ikeda, shouldn’t we do something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is a school. We shouldn’t allow this.”

  She turned her face toward him; it was a slow movement, graceful like a swan. Imperious, too. For the first time he noticed how long and white her neck was.

  “They’re children, Mr. Kondo. They’re just playing. Aren’t we supposed to encourage imaginative play?” He wasn’t sure if she was trying to taunt him, but when she turned her head away, he heard a distinct sigh of exasperation.

  She clapped her hands. “Children, time to go back to the classroom.” Her voice was her regular bright teacher voice, friendly but no-nonsense. He’d heard that she was exceedingly popular with her young charges and very up-to-date in her teaching methods. She’d organized the seating plan in her classroom so that boys and girls sat in alternating seats: boy, girl, boy, girl. She ran toward the door and stood beside it, swinging her arm to encourage the children to run. As soon as the very last child had slipped inside, she pivoted on the balls of her feet like a dancer and turned toward Kondo. Her wooden geta had churned up a small cloud of dust around her bare legs.

  “Better hurry, Mr. Kondo. Your pupils are waiting.”

  With that, she went into the school. He heard the clatter of her putting her geta on one of the open shelves just inside the doorway and then a light pounding sound as she ran down the corridor.

  As he made his way toward his own classroom, he couldn’t help thinking about the parting look she’d given him. He hadn’t imagined it. She’d had a horrible smirk on her face, so unbecoming in a woman, even such a young, pretty woman. You’re out of touch, was what the smirk said. It was an expression full of pity and disdain.

  11

  It was the third week in July, just before the start of summer holidays.

  “I have something to show you.” Fumi had leaned across their shared desk and whispered this to Aya four times already but refused to elaborate. “You have to wait. I can’t show you here.”

  After class ended, Fumi indicated that they should remain in their seats until everyone had left. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and finally Fumi abruptly stood up.

  “Okay, it should be safe now. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Just follow me.”

  Trailing half a step behind, Aya let Fumi lead her away from the school and the neighborhood where they lived. They turned down the first street to the left and kept walking and turning, walking and turning, down narrow lanes lined with tiny dark houses. Pots and boxes and plants and hanging laundry spilled into the lane, so there was barely enough room for a person to pass. The houses were made of cheap plywood and the walls had gaps through which Aya could see light shining and sometimes parts of the person who lived inside—a nose, a hand, a bare shoulder.

  It wasn’t until they reached the end of the last lane that Fumi turned around and said simply, “Here.” She pointed at the temple—SHOTOKU TEMPLE the sign said—and gestured that they should enter the grounds.

  The temple did not look inviting in the least. The main building, the part that faced the street, was in serious disrepair: The entire structure looked as if it were being pushed into the soil by the heavy clay tiles on its roof. The wood was dark and weatherworn, and the doors to the worship hall were fastened shut. There was no sign of anyone. Except for the fact that the dirt path leading up to the temple had been freshly swept—the thin even lines of a broom were etched into the hard soil—one would think that it had been abandoned. Had the Buddhist priest or the attendant already left? Did anyone take care of this place?

  Something a
bout the dilapidation of the temple made a cold shiver run down Aya’s back.

  “Come on,” Fumi urged when she saw her hesitating. “Let’s go.”

  They walked up the dirt path and skirted around the broad veranda, crouching low to pass under the gnarled branch of an ancient pine tree. They followed the path beside the building, and it eventually opened onto a shady grove of trees and bushes. The grounds were deep, and at the very back Aya could make out some low shapes—monuments or headstones—in a small cemetery. Despite the heat of the day, it was cool here, as if the rays of the sun never touched this part. On the hard-packed earth, moss grew like patches of thick green fur. Mosquitoes began buzzing at her ears.

  And it smelled! Aya’s nostrils filled with the sharp vinegary stink of urine. She could make out a piece of white cloth tossed in a far corner that looked like someone’s underpants. Her father had told her that homeless people will sleep anywhere, even on temple grounds. Stay clear of places like that, he’d told her.

  Fumi seemed oblivious. She whirled around and, with her face inches from Aya’s, said, “I want to show you something.” Aya felt the heat of her breath.

  Fumi reached into her blouse pocket and pulled out a piece of yellowish tissue paper. She gingerly opened the four corners to reveal the contents and held it out with both hands as if offering a delicate blossom. It was a small black-and-white photograph. Aya leaned forward to get a closer look but instinctively felt that she should not touch it.

  An attractive Japanese woman stood next to a tall American GI. He had a big toothy grin on his face, but it was hard to tell what he looked like because the camera had caught him with his eyes shut. The woman was not smiling at all. She wore a jacket with wide padded shoulders, and her permed hair was swept off to one side, held up by a pin that caught the light and glittered like a small diamond. She stared straight at the camera and her dark eyes burned with such a strange intensity that Aya couldn’t help feeling the woman was actually looking through the camera, directly at her. It was hard to turn away from such a gaze.

  “Who is she?” she asked.

  “My sister, of course.” Fumi sounded impatient. She thrust the photograph into Aya’s hands. “Here, have a good look.”

  Aya dutifully studied the photo. She could hardly see, it was so dark and gloomy behind the temple. If Fumi wanted her to look at her precious sister, why did they have to do it here? Anyway, she didn’t think there was much resemblance at all. Were they really sisters? The GI clutched the woman’s shoulder tightly, and because he towered over her, he made Aya think of a big bear, even though he was not a heavyset man. His close-cropped hair hugged his head except for one bit that stuck up at the very top like a tiny feather. She decided there was something hard and fake about his too-wide smile. As for the woman, Fumi’s sister, well, she had to concede that maybe there was a very slight resemblance in their eyes. Yes, that was it. When Fumi became animated, sometimes she got the same kind of intense look. The photograph had been cut unevenly along the man’s right side. In the background, Aya could make out the shape of a gigantic statue of Buddha.

  “What’s her name?” she asked more out of politeness than real interest.

  “Sumiko.”

  “She looks a lot older than you.”

  “There’s ten years’ difference.”

  “That’s a big gap, isn’t it.”

  “No, it’s not! Sumiko and I are the closest sisters in the world.”

  Aya was taken aback by the passion in Fumi’s voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Fumi ignored her. “My sister is very pretty, don’t you think?”

  Aya nodded. Yes, very pretty. More than pretty. She was beautiful. Partly it was the stylish Western clothes she wore, such a contrast to the baggy pants and tops many women were still forced to wear out of necessity, and her fashionable haircut. But there was something else, and Aya wasn’t quite sure what it was. An air of dignity, perhaps, but a sadness, too. It was a little like the sadness that her mother had always carried with her.

  “My sister gave me this picture to keep. But it’s a secret, okay? Don’t tell anyone.”

  Fumi took the picture from Aya and turned it over. A large careless scrawl ran sideways across the back. To my favorite babydoll. The next line started with the letter J, but the rest was cut off.

  “What does it say?”

  How could Aya answer a question like that? Babydoll was not a word she was accustomed to hearing. That was a word used by adults—white men, the kind who wore big suit jackets and greased their hair. She had no idea what an equivalent expression in Japanese would be.

  “What does it say?” Fumi repeated. “I thought you knew English. Can’t you read it?”

  Aya bit her lip. “Let’s see. This word, favorite, means—”

  “Not that part.” Fumi sounded cross. “I know that. What about this?” She stabbed her finger under the word “babydoll.”

  Aya looked at the ground, at the clumps of moss, at the dirty band across the top of her sandal.

  “Babydoll…umm.”

  “What does it mean!”

  “Babydoll means…” Aya took a deep breath. “It means something like you are cute as a baby and pretty as a doll.”

  “Oh.” Fumi hesitated. “Oh, that’s nice. That sounds really nice, doesn’t it?”

  “Umm, I suppose so.”

  A slow smile was spreading across Fumi’s face. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure. It’s really nice, isn’t it. I thought it might be something nice.”

  Aya nodded uncomfortably.

  Fumi carefully wrapped the photograph in the yellowed tissue paper and tucked it back in her blouse pocket. She looked at Aya. “You know, I, uh…I was thinking…”

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was…I mean, well, it’s really nice, isn’t it.”

  Then she suddenly slapped hard at her neck. “Hey, let’s get out of here. There are too many mosquitoes. I’m getting bitten all over, aren’t you?”

  On the walk home from the temple, Fumi was extremely quiet and subdued, and Aya wondered if she was embarrassed by the picture of her sister with a GI. It was hard to tell, but Aya didn’t dwell on it for long because she was soon lost in her own thoughts triggered by the picture. The look of sadness in the eyes of Fumi’s sister had unexpectedly set off a series of memories. It had made her think of her own mother, but even more, it made her think of Etsuko, the young woman on the repatriation ship who had helped her. Without Etsuko, Aya didn’t know what she would have done.

  Even before their ship had docked, something unexpected had happened to Aya. Midway between Canada and Japan, as their vessel plied its relentless way through the vastness of the Pacific, a strange feeling began to occur deep inside her. At first she’d thought it must be seasickness, which everyone including her own father suffered from to varying degrees. Everyone, that is, except Aya. The Ishikawa family, who shared the same set of bunks with Aya and her father, seemed to be plagued by it constantly. Each family member took turns being sick, throwing up into a small bucket they kept in the corner on their side of the hold. They gagged and vomited, but all that came out were thin threads of greenish-yellow spit. With each lurch and sway of the ship, they moaned and clung to each other.

  “You have a stomach of iron. What a fortunate girl you are.” Mrs. Ishikawa had repeated this comment so often and with such a bitter edge to her voice that Aya had felt ashamed of her inability to share in their misery.

  “She’s got a strong stomach, Shimamura-san,” Mr. Ishikawa joined in, addressing not Aya directly but her father. “She’s strong. She can survive anything.”

  So when she started to feel a funny sensation in the pit of her abdomen, she was almost relieved. She was certain it must be the same seasickness that everyone else was experiencing, but although she waited with patient resignation for the inevitable urge to throw up, it did not come. Instead, she became aware of a mild cramping, as if something was gnawing at her in
sides in the part deep between her legs. It was pinching her, scraping at her mound. When she stood up, her groin felt sticky. The line for the toilet stalls was long but she waited for her turn. Inside the smelly cubicle, she pulled down her underpants and saw on the crotch a small rust-colored stain, as ugly as the squashed guts of a worm. She touched the spot. It was wet and warm and a bit gummy. She didn’t know what else to do, so she pulled her underpants back up and returned to her cabin.

  When she went back to the toilet later, the stain was bigger and very wet. It was a brighter, angrier shade of red. She sat on her bunk with her legs pressed tightly together and wondered if she was going to die. If it hadn’t been for Etsuko, the oldest daughter in the Ishikawa family, she didn’t know what she would have done. Etsuko took one of her own flannel pajama tops, cut it into strips, and showed Aya how to fashion padding to put in her underpants that would absorb the blood.

  The day before their ship was due to reach port, Aya came across Etsuko behind a tall pile of wooden cartons in an unlit corner of the ship’s hold. She was curled on the floor, her arms hugging her shoulders, blubbering like a baby into her sleeves. As soon as she realized Aya was there, she wiped her tear-streaked face with the palms of her hands and quickly stood up.

  “Don’t tell my family you saw me like this. I don’t want to go to Japan. I’m scared,” she said. And then she had looked at Aya with eyes filled with sorrow.

  The next time Aya saw Etsuko she was back to her smiling self. She told Aya not to worry, that it was natural to bleed. “Your body is changing, and that’s a good thing.” But Aya knew differently. She knew enough to be suspicious of change, of this betrayal of her body.

  Blood was never good, nor was change.

  Over time, she got used to having her period and knew almost to the day when it would arrive. For some reason it reminded her of her mother’s absence in a way that nothing else did. Along with the blood that poured out of her each month, Aya felt a part of her mother was also leaking from her body, a slow ravaged seepage that she was helpless to stop.