They walked down the slope and got back into the jeep in the same configuration as before, Jake and Yoko in front, Danny and Sumiko in back. Jake threw his arm around Yoko and pulled her close to him in the driver’s seat. He made a big show of handling the steering wheel with one hand, making the car zigzag drunkenly back and forth across the road. There were no other cars, not even a bicycle or cart. Yoko squealed each time the jeep swerved, but it sounded feigned as if she were pretending to be excited.
“Hey, what’s that?” Jake suddenly pulled the jeep over to the side of the road where there was a small Jizo statue wearing a red bib. “He looks like a baby Buddha.”
“He is Jizo,” said Yoko.
“And there’s something back there. Down this path. I think I can see more statues. Yeah, looks like a bunch of baby Buddhas back there. Let’s go take a look.”
“Why?” Yoko asked. Her voice had become petulant. “I want go back Tokyo.”
Jake gave her waist a squeeze. “Soon enough, baby. Let’s just take a quick look. It might be something interesting.” He took her hand and led the way, pushing back the overhanging vegetation with his free arm. “You two come along,” he shouted over his shoulder. “And bring the camera, would you?”
They came to a clearing in the middle of which stood a simple wooden structure, a poor cousin of the other temple they had seen. Facing them were dozens of small stone statues arranged in terraced rows, four or five deep and about twenty across. The Jizo statues wore faded red bibs and caps. Toy pinwheels, the kind a child would play with, had been placed in front of some of them. Every so often one of the pinwheels would turn lazily in the hot air.
“Wow, that’s pretty weird. Quite a sight.” Jake seemed genuinely impressed. “Say, Danny, take a picture of us, would you, standing in front of these statues. They’re too much.”
Danny raised the camera to his face and began adjusting the focus.
“No.” Yoko pulled her hand out of Jake’s.
“What’s wrong, babydoll? Just another picture of our trip. Besides, everyone has a picture of the Big Buddha, but nobody will have a picture like this.”
“Bad luck.”
“These are cute. What can be unlucky about taking a picture of them?”
“No good.”
“Okay, suit yourself.” Jake shrugged his shoulders carelessly. “I’ll get my picture taken by myself. Danny, go ahead. Get as many of the statues in as you can fit. This is a great shot. Wait till the other guys see it. They’re gonna be green with envy. Maybe we can send this in to Life magazine or Saturday Evening Post.”
Yoko scowled and motioned to Sumiko to walk back to the jeep with her.
“Honey, don’t be like that.” As soon as Danny had clicked the shutter, Jake ran after Yoko. He caught up to her in three long strides and pulled her into his arms. “Don’t be mad. I can’t stand it when you get mad at me.”
Yoko squirmed briefly but almost immediately gave in to his embrace.
“Okay, that’s better. See, you don’t have to be mad, do you. Well, I guess we better start driving back.”
Once again the four of them climbed into the jeep. During the long ride back to Tokyo, Yoko rested her head on Jake’s shoulder as he drove. Sumiko stared at the passing landscape to avoid looking at Danny or at the couple in front. Sumiko wondered if Yoko would explain to Jake the special meaning of the temple they had seen. “You people make the cutest little Buddhas!” Would she explain that this temple was for women to honor the dead babies they had miscarried or aborted? She suspected Yoko would not try. She knew that she herself would not. She didn’t think the Americans would want to know.
It was a relief when they arrived at the barracks in downtown Tokyo.
“Danny, I’ll be taking care of Yoko here. Maybe you wouldn’t mind escorting her lovely friend back home?”
“Yes, sir.”
Yoko mouthed “Thank you” over her shoulder to Sumiko as she and Jake walked away.
Danny turned to Sumiko. “Okay, ma’am, looks like I’m supposed to take you home. Where do you live?”
“I’m okay.”
“I have to make sure you get home safely. Where do you live?”
Sumiko shrugged. “In Ginza. Near dance hall.”
“I will take you there.”
“But you get lost.”
The streets of downtown Tokyo had always been narrow and mazelike, but since the war, it was much worse and even Tokyoites often got confused. The fire bombings had destroyed so many of the old landmarks.
An anxious look crossed Danny’s brow.
“You get lost,” she repeated. “I’m okay. By self.”
“Well, ma’am, if you’re sure.”
“Yes.”
Sumiko never thought she would see Danny again, but about two months later he showed up at her dance hall. He seemed like a changed man, more confident, even taller and fuller, not as scrawny as she remembered him. At first she assumed he didn’t recognize her, but after a few minutes he broke into a grin and began wagging his index finger in the air as he walked toward her.
“I don’t believe it. It’s you, isn’t it. We went to Kamakura together.” His finger was only inches from her face. “Where’s your friend? Is she here tonight?” He swiveled his head to take in the rest of the dance floor. “I’ve been carrying around this picture I was supposed to give to her. This is good luck. I didn’t know what to do with the damn thing.”
Danny pulled a small photograph from his wallet and handed it to her. It was the picture taken in front of the Great Buddha.
“She not here,” Sumiko said.
“Well, it doesn’t matter. Give it to her, would you? It’s a souvenir. Or maybe you want it for yourself. You’re in the picture, too.”
Sumiko thought about Yoko. All those nights waiting to hear from Jake, sobbing into her pillow.
“Mr. Jake? Is he coming?”
Danny pursed his thin lips, so they formed a crooked red line across the bottom of his long, unattractive face. “Forget it. He’s gone.
“Gone?”
“Long gone.”
“Where?”
Danny looked down at his shoes. “I’m sorry. I’m really not familiar with any of the details.”
When she gave Yoko the picture that evening in the dormitory, Yoko took one look and threw the picture on the tatami mat. She stamped on it with her bare foot. “Stupid man. Dai kirai. I hate him. He knew all along he would leave me.”
Sumiko wasn’t sure why she picked up the photograph and put it in her purse. Perhaps she was drawn to something the camera had seen. The man had his eyes tightly closed and his grin was hard and wolfish. He looked exactly like what he was. But Yoko’s expression was complex, fractured. Her bright sunny smile did not match the look of desperation in her eyes, as if the top and bottom halves of her face had been pieced together haphazardly. Sumiko couldn’t help wondering if she looked like that, too.
When Yoko left the dance hall a few weeks later, she told no one, not even Sumiko. Sumiko returned to the dorm room one day to find another girl going through the clothes Yoko had left behind, trying to decide what would fit.
18
Aya worked on Fumi’s letter at home. It took her several days, and each time she sat down to struggle with her composition, she found herself thinking again of Miss Carmichael, the last teacher she’d had in Vancouver. Miss Carmichael, who loved the King’s English and who had a broad chest and big hands and thick curly hair the color of a carrot.
It was in Miss Carmichael’s class that Aya had begun to yearn for a coat like the other pupils were wearing. Jane Taylor wore a baby blue one, Katie Shirras had a green tartan plaid, and Alice Mead’s was bright red.
Aya’s mother had frowned. “Red is not a good color. Navy or dark brown are better.”
But she must have seen the disappointment on Aya’s face because a few days later she announced they would go shopping. “Mrs. Horikawa’s daughter told me to go to the big d
epartment store downtown. They’re having a special sale the last week of November. Everything half price.”
They stood in the middle of the girls’ section, and her mother held her hand. Aya had never seen so many coats in one spot, racks and racks of different colors and fabrics. She grew dizzy watching the uniformed saleswomen swish past carrying armloads of coats, and her feet sank deeper and deeper into the thick plush carpet, giving her an unsteady sensation, as if she were standing on sponges. But it didn’t take long for her to notice how customers who came later were being served ahead of them and how the saleswomen refused to make eye contact. Suddenly she didn’t want a new coat. She only wanted to go home, but her mother’s grip on her hand had progressively tightened until it was like an iron vise. It hurt so much, Aya began to feel afraid. There was no question of leaving. They’d come too far to retreat. Her mother was staring straight ahead, as if summoning some force deep inside herself.
That was when, through the forest of coats, Miss Carmichael appeared. She was walking straight toward them.
“Hello, Irene,” she said in her clear classroom voice. “Fancy meeting you here. Is this your mother?”
Aya’s mother bowed her head.
Please don’t bow, Aya prayed silently. You’re not supposed to do that.
Miss Carmichael smiled. “It’s so nice to meet you. Irene is one of our best pupils. You must be proud of her.”
Please don’t bow. But her mother kept on bowing and smiling, bowing and smiling. She didn’t try to speak, nor did Aya, who found herself completely tongue-tied. Miss Carmichael didn’t seem to notice at all. She was a teacher, used to filling the silences in her classroom with her own voice.
“Are you shopping for a coat? This store has the best in the city. Any coat you get here will be a very good buy.”
“Miss Carmichael?” A tall saleswoman with tight blond curls and a large nose appeared. She smiled broadly, her lips shiny with bright coral lipstick. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Here’s the coat for your niece.” She handed Miss Carmichael a gift-wrapped box.
“Excellent! And while you are here, I hope you can assist my pupil and her mother.” Before leaving, Miss Carmichael gave Aya’s arm a tight squeeze. “I am so glad to have met your mother.”
“And what exactly are we looking for?” The saleswoman’s voice was polite but cold.
Aya hesitated. She knew she was expected to speak for her mother in English as always, but she didn’t know what to say. That was when her mother shocked her.
“Kouto,” she said in English. She pointed at Aya.
The woman smirked. “Coat-o? Well, yes. That’s what we sell.”
“For daughter, kouto.”
“Well, I really don’t know if we would have any coats suitable for someone like—”
“Puriizu.” Aya’s mother had raised her voice and a few customers had turned their heads. It was mortifying. “For daughter.”
The saleswoman was silent for a moment. She shifted her gaze to Aya and said sharply, “What size are you?”
“I—I don’t know.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right. Give me a minute.”
They waited for what seemed like an eternity. Aya didn’t really expect the saleswoman to return. When she came back, she had only one coat over her arm, something mustard yellow with large black buttons. Aya tried it on. The sleeves flopped over her hands and the shoulders sagged. The hem fell to the floor. It was clearly several sizes too big. Aya looked helplessly at her mother, feeling her eyes well up with hot tears.
The saleswoman’s smile had returned, only bigger and wider, with a thick oily smear of coral lipstick on her teeth. “Oh, isn’t that a shame. I’m afraid this is the only coat we have in stock, for people like you. Well, I guess it doesn’t fit.”
They went to Mrs. Yoshimoto, who took Aya’s measurements and promised to make a good sturdy coat. It would be dark brown, so as not to show the dirt, with wide seams and a deep hem that could be let out to accommodate a young girl’s growth.
“And I have some nice buttons left over from a previous order,” Mrs. Yoshimoto said, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a handful of shiny silver buttons. “These will look nice.”
But after Pearl Harbor, Mrs. Yoshimoto was overwhelmed with work because everyone was afraid to go downtown. Aya’s mother said not to bother with their order, but Mrs. Yoshimoto insisted. When Aya and her mother were finally told that her coat was ready, they discovered Mrs. Yoshimoto had mixed up the orders and made the coat much too big. It was almost as large as the coat they’d been shown in the department store.
When she realized her mistake, Mrs. Yoshimoto started to cry. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Too much happening. Too much worry.” The rumors of forced expulsion that had been circulating ever since the start of the war were now turning to fact. Soon all of them would have to leave the west coast.
Aya’s mother tried to assure her it was fine. “I can sew. I can fix. A big coat is good.”
Mrs. Yoshimoto continued to cry. “Thank you, Mrs. Shimamura, thank you. No, no. No need to pay. I will make a new coat, a proper coat, sometime when we come back. I promise.”
19
“Please don’t come when Fumi is here,” Sumiko’s mother had begged her. “It’s better this way.” And though it had been hurtful, Sumiko did as her mother asked, timing her visits home for the hours when Fumi was in school. But Fumi must have been let out of school early that day when Sumiko found her in the entranceway playing with her shoes and purse. The chance encounter had surprised Sumiko, but it had also provoked a crushing awareness that her mother was right to be worried. Fumi was much too curious a child, much too interested in new things. And she would soon no longer be a child. It was terrible to realize that one of the people she most wanted to help was someone she needed to push away, but Sumiko saw clearly how she would influence Fumi without meaning to.
As for herself, Sumiko still strove—at least in her heart—to be a dutiful daughter, a good individual, a kind sister. She hoped that her family recognized that. But she wasn’t the same person who had left home and moved to the Ginza. The life she’d taken up had meant that certain things about her previously sheltered existence had changed entirely.
What was the real price of a can of peaches or a bag of sugar? Not even a chocolate bar was really free. She told her mother that she just danced but kept the details as vague as she could. She didn’t explain, for instance, that the cookies and chocolate she brought home were things she received in exchange for letting a man stroke her hair or nuzzle his face against her neck. She never explained that a peck on the cheek might yield a jar of peanut butter but getting Spam and a small box of salt might require a long embrace. Letting an arm rest around her shoulder might be good enough to get her a bag of soft white bread, while resting her head on the man’s shoulder would definitely allow her to ask for the special kind of sugar-coated biscuits her sister loved so much. What she did wasn’t bad, she reminded herself. What she did was essential to survive.
Initially it was thrilling to feel so powerful and in control. She was making money; she was supporting her family. She came home every weekend loaded down with gifts of food she’d received, some of them things she didn’t even know you could eat. Meat in a can, caramel popcorn, fluffy white things called marshmallows, so sweet they made her teeth ache. The presents delighted her sister and put color back into her mother’s cheeks. If the neighbors cast disapproving looks in her direction, if the words they whispered—“disgusting” and “brazen”—were just loud enough for her to hear, she did her best to ignore them. She knew she wasn’t the only woman doing exactly what she was doing, or worse.
Yet there were times when she wished she could visit in her old clothes and plain hair and sensible shoes, not only for her mother’s sake or to avoid the stares of the neighbors. She wished she could just be her former self, but she couldn’t. Somewhere along the way, she had become the clothes that she
wore. It was as simple as that.
The manager of the dance hall, Mr. Harada, had approached Sumiko when she was standing in one of the ration lines in the fall of 1946. Although the war had ended more than a year earlier, the food shortages were worse, not better, in peacetime. She couldn’t imagine how she must have appeared then. Thin, tired. Shapeless in the same faded blue top and baggy monpe that she’d worn throughout the war. They were all exhausted then, malnourished not just in body but in spirit. That there would be even less food available than during wartime was something no one had anticipated. During the war, they had been told to sacrifice for country, for emperor, for their brave soldiers on the front lines. But after the war, they didn’t have anything left to sacrifice. They just wanted to eat. There was no longer a purpose to hunger, and sheer starvation had reduced them to animals.
Harada stood out among the others in the line. He was better dressed than anyone else and gave off an air of prosperity. They fell into conversation. He was friendly and had a way of making her want to open up. Was she married? Did she have a fiancé? No? How was that possible, a pretty girl like her? Did she live at home? How old was she? Did she know any English? How was her family? She hadn’t thought it odd at the time. She was eager to talk. She realized that no one had expressed any interest in who she was or what she was doing in a very long time. Everyone was too preoccupied with trying to survive. She told him about some bills they owed and how when the bill collectors started coming to the house, they had to hide inside and pretend they were out. That was when she couldn’t help it and the tears fell.
The Translation of Love Page 11