He touched her shoulder with his hand, very formally, politely, to comfort her. He said that bill collectors were the lowest form of human being. What right had they to take advantage of others in need? He wanted to help. He offered to give her some money.
No, she couldn’t accept that, she’d said. But it was no trouble, he was adamant.
“I don’t like to see decent folks suffer,” he’d said, then gestured to his own fine attire. “I’ve got a bit of money now. Those who are fortunate owe it to help those who are not.”
No, she couldn’t possibly accept.
Well, in that case, perhaps she could consider accepting a loan. He would give her a loan to help her family pay off their bills, and she could pay him back by coming to work for him. He was in the entertainment business and was hoping to start a dance club for American guests. Did she know how to dance? No? It didn’t matter. Everyone would get dance lessons. It would be a high-class dance hall, he insisted, not at all like those other cheap places she might have heard about in the Ginza. Very “high collar.” Everyone would have to learn basic English, though. Was she willing to do that? She would receive a special wardrobe and makeup.
Sumiko didn’t accept right away. It wasn’t until Fumi developed beriberi and required special injections their parents couldn’t afford that she brought out the business card he had given her.
That was when she discovered the other part of herself, the part that had been hidden behind the good girl and dutiful daughter. The part of her that thrilled at the chance to taste this new lifestyle. She never told anyone, of course, but secretly she was just a little bit glad she had an excuse. More than a little bit. To work in a dance hall was not something a proper girl should do—it was too shady and risqué—and she was above all a proper girl. She had been raised to be demure and polite, trained to serve tea and offer a guest a cushion to sit on, told to keep her eyes downcast and not speak unless spoken to. A proper girl did what her parents asked her and did not voice her opinion too loudly. She did not get a permanent wave in her hair; she did not wear skirts with a slit up the side or shoes with heels so high they forced her to swing her hips from side to side. So how was it that such a proper girl could want to wear clothing like that? Why would she covet the hairpins and handbags and lipstick? Perhaps it meant she was shallow. Sumiko was willing to accept that. But she knew it might also mean that this was the type of woman she had always been. Someone who wasn’t a proper girl.
In her old life, Sumiko would have been expected to have an arranged marriage and to be happy with her father’s choice for her. Her family had not been wealthy but they were not poor, and her father’s bookstore was considered a very respectable business. She would have been a good wife and a wise mother, just as she’d been trained to be. But even then she must have harbored some rebellion, because hadn’t she hoped there might be a way she could convince her father to choose Takeo Shoyama, the young carpenter who lived a few doors away and who had once repaired the steps in front of the bookstore? Just a laborer, she could hear her father say. Whenever Sumiko bumped into Takeo, they would stop and talk for a few minutes. He made her laugh, and although everything was innocent, she had felt a growing attachment. She didn’t know if that was what they meant by love, but it felt nice and she wanted to know him more. But before anything could happen, Takeo was conscripted and never returned from the front, his death neither confirmed nor denied. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. Whether he was alive somewhere in the Philippines or whether he was already dead, nobody knew. And so, although Sumiko had never been embraced by Takeo, had never even held hands with him, she felt in limbo.
After months of being stricken at the thought of his death and buoyed by the possibility that he was still alive, Sumiko’s emotions turned increasingly black. So many young men did not return. She knew it was irrational but she began to resent, even hate, Takeo for not coming back alive and then she hated him even more for not dying outright in a clear, unambiguous way.
And because she had never told a soul how she’d felt, and because her father and mother would never have suspected that their dutiful daughter might have thought about marrying someone her father hadn’t specifically chosen for her, the fact that Takeo had not come back was not something she felt comfortable openly mourning. It was a secret that had to sit locked inside her heart, a tight knot of sadness and confusion and remembrance that stirred restlessly whenever she found herself in the arms of a GI. In an unexpected way, these feelings protected her. She would not sell her body; she would not sell her heart. No matter what her mother feared, she was not a panpan, and she felt no desire to become anyone’s only. Perhaps another woman would have reacted differently, justifying her actions because of her pain. But Sumiko was different. Whether it was because she was perverse and stubborn, or because her heart was too hard or maybe not hard enough, Sumiko didn’t know.
Whatever the reason, it was the reason. It was the reason she just danced.
She accepted the loan Harada offered. She accepted the job. She felt powerful and wanted and superior. She enjoyed the way men—and women—looked at her, took in her sharp clothes and her wavy hair and her high-heeled shoes. She basked in their stares, relished the envious glances.
In the early days, she was a fool.
It was only later that she fully comprehended what she’d gotten herself into. While Harada was very generous at first, she hadn’t realized that the loan incurred interest at a steep rate, and eventually it became clear that, after deductions, the job didn’t pay nearly as much as she thought it would. She had to pay rent for her part of the crowded dorm room; she was even charged for the blanket and the futon. She was in well over her head, dropping deeper and deeper into a bottomless hole.
20
Fumi announced they would deliver the letter in person.
“How?” Aya asked dubiously.
“We’ll go to MacArthur-san’s headquarters,” Fumi said. “I know where it is. I’ve seen pictures in the newspaper. All kinds of people wait in front of his building to say hello.”
She didn’t elaborate on the details of her plan. She’d been dreaming about it for so long, she didn’t want to spoil anything by putting it into words. The very idea of what she was about to do was so bold, so audacious, it gave her chills. She saw exactly what would happen. She and Aya would stand in front of GHQ. General MacArthur’s car would pull up and he would get out, rising tall as he unfolded his lean fit figure. He would wave his pipe to the crowd, he would give them all a crisp salute. And then he would see Fumi and beckon her to come forward. This was real democracy! Even a twelve-year-old could greet the general. She would follow him up the broad white steps of General Headquarters, and just before he entered the building, he would turn to her. Young lady, don’t you have something for me? He would hold out his upturned palm. She would give him the letter.
Please find my sister, she would say.
Don’t worry, he would reply. I am the Supreme Commander. I can do anything!
Each time she imagined this scene, she couldn’t decide whether MacArthur would be speaking Japanese to her or whether she would be speaking English. It was a small but nettlesome point.
“We should go as soon as we can,” Fumi said. “Maybe this Friday afternoon. My mother will be out.”
It was the end of August and the summer holidays were coming to a close. There was hardly any time.
It took much longer than Fumi expected to get to General Headquarters. She knew the location and the direction in which they should walk, but many of the streets were crowded and narrow. To make matters worse, it was a very hot day. Aya could not walk as fast as Fumi, and because of the heat she kept wanting to stop and rest in the shade. Fumi tried not to be impatient, but she felt a mounting urgency. It took more than an hour and a half to reach the vicinity of GHQ.
When they arrived, it was impossible to get anywhere near the Dai-Ichi Building. There were far too many people. Fumi and Aya were for
ced to look for a place along the roadside, but it was crowded here, too. The only spot they could find meant standing behind several other people. They couldn’t even see the road.
“The car is in sight. He’s coming!”
The animated voice of a bystander caused the people around them to stir, and Fumi thrust her arm through Aya’s, pulling her tight against her body. “Push!” she ordered Aya, although Fumi was the one who had to do all the pushing. It was worse than forcing her way through the crowd of schoolgirls at lunchtime or pushing herself onto a packed streetcar. “Sumimasen, excuse me, sumimasen. Please let us through.” And then, miraculously, they broke through to the front row and there was nothing between them and the empty road. Fumi pulled out the letter and unfolded it. The English words swam before her eyes. She couldn’t read it, but she was heartened by the sight of Aya’s handwriting. Somewhere in here were the words: Please find my sister. Please help. That was all she needed to know.
The car was coming closer, driving up the wide dusty boulevard. It had a lonely feel to it—she couldn’t have explained why. Perhaps because there were no other cars or bicycles or rickshaws. Only the American car, moving so slowly it was like a shiny black ship, advancing with a prideful, majestic certainty. There was nowhere else for it to go except right past Fumi.
It was close enough that the old woman beside her had started to bow, and next to her a young man in wire-rim glasses began waving the paper flags—one Japanese and one American—that he held in each hand.
“He’s coming, he’s coming.” The murmurs around her swelled into a single voice that roared in her ears. This was Fumi’s chance—her only chance. And then everything fell silent, as if she had tumbled into a separate universe with only the car and herself.
She hadn’t planned it. Later she would swear over and over to Aya that it had just happened spontaneously. She had lifted one foot and as soon as it came down slightly ahead of the other, as soon as the weight of her body had shifted so that its balance was altered and her hip pitched forward, it was inevitable. Unstoppable. She pushed off from the side of the road and began sprinting, drawn like a moth toward lamplight, like a bird toward the sun. Headlong toward the car that seemed to be waiting only for her. She clutched the letter in her hand. It was unfolded and flapping in the air, and she wished she had folded it before moving, but it was too late. She had to deliver it. She had to reach the car. Although she was aware of the rapid pumping of her heart, she also felt as if everything was happening in slow motion. She was moving toward the car, and the car was moving toward her. They would meet in the middle.
The afternoon sun was bright, casting the interior of the car into darkness. She could make out the silhouette of a driver in the front seat, a featureless shape wearing a cap, but where was MacArthur? The backseat was all blackness and shadow. Until suddenly, she saw a face. An American boy’s pale face was pressed against the window in the backseat and he was staring straight at her. He was clearly as startled as she was, and for a moment their eyes were locked in surprise and bewilderment. Then her foot stumbled.
The noise of the world shot back into her ears.
“Got you!”
Someone grabbed the seat of her pants and then the collar of her blouse, and she felt herself yanked back. The letter flew out of her hand.
“Let me go!”
“What do you think you’re doing!” The policeman dragged her back to the side of the road. A crowd immediately formed around them.
“What’s your name?”
“Please let me go.”
“We can’t have behavior like this, young lady. Where do you live?”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Where are your parents?” He cast an inquiring look at the faces in the crowd. “Are they here?”
“I came by myself.”
“Even worse! Your parents are responsible for you. What kind of parents would let a young girl run around by herself?”
“It’s not their fault. I didn’t tell them.”
He shifted his grip to her shoulders and began shaking her back and forth, as if he could shake some sense into her. “Okay, once again. What’s your name? Where do you live? Don’t waste my time.”
“Officer, she’s just a kid. Leave her alone,” someone in the crowd yelled.
He addressed the circle of onlookers who had gathered around them. “The city is overrun with lawless children like this one. Lawless parents, too. I have to report her. It’s my duty.”
“What about democracy?” someone else said. “Aren’t we supposed to be free to do what we want?”
The policeman blushed and looked stunned as if this line of reasoning had never occurred to him. At this distraction, Fumi felt his grip loosen and she used the opportunity to slide out of his grasp.
“Hey, come back here!” the policeman shouted after her.
But she had already slipped through a gap in the circle of people and was running as far from the street as possible in the direction of nearby Hibiya Park. She ran until her lungs hurt too much and she had to stop. She hid behind the thick trunk of a large oak tree, hoping that the policeman wouldn’t catch her. When she looked back, he was nowhere to be seen.
To be on the safe side she waited in hiding for as long as she could. By the time she circled back to look for Aya, the crowds were gone. Aya was sitting by herself on the roadside almost exactly where they had originally been standing.
Aya raised her head as Fumi approached, and jumped up. “Thank goodness you came back. I was scared. I didn’t know where you were so I just waited here.” She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “I got the letter. After everyone left I ran out onto the road and picked it up.”
At the sight of the letter’s condition, Fumi felt her heart sink. What a stupid fool she’d been, making such a terrible mess of things. Now her letter was not fit to give to anyone, never mind the most important person in Japan. She felt tears burn in her eyes.
“Aren’t you happy?” Aya said. “I got the letter for you.”
“Give that to me. It’s a stupid letter.” She made a move to snatch the letter, but Aya pulled it back out of reach.
“It’s okay.” Aya smoothed the paper with the palm of her hand and brushed off the surface dirt. “Look, it’s as good as new. If you want, I can write out another copy for you. But, please, first let’s go home.”
For some reason, Aya’s words made Fumi feel worse and she squatted on the ground and began wailing like an infant. She knew she was making a scene, her face covered with tears and snot, but she didn’t care.
She felt Aya’s hands on her back, rubbing and patting ineffectually. “Please stop. Get up. Please get up.” Then she felt Aya reach under her armpit and tug like she was trying to pull up a tree root. But Fumi was stronger, and she pushed her weight down into her haunches and willed her body to stay on the ground. She yanked her arm out of Aya’s grip, twisted around to face her, and instinctively pushed with all her might. Aya teetered briefly, then fell backward onto her rump. She let out a funny “oomph” sound when her body hit the ground.
“Baka! Stupid!” Fumi spat out the word. It was not directed at Aya but at herself. She had been so close and yet she’d failed. In her mind she saw the shiny black surface of the car, saw the window, saw the American boy’s face, saw those eyes filled with a special kind of loneliness. He’d stared at her as if he understood something deep inside her, as if he knew all the yearning in her heart.
21
Everyone in the office except Matt had left shortly after lunch. It was the last Friday in August and hot as hell, but that was not why they had been given time off. All the officers in the section had been called over to GHQ, and as a result the enlisted men were also told to knock off early. The staff was on high alert because MacArthur’s son was making a special visit to General Headquarters today.
“The rumor is the Old Man’s getting ready to seek the Republican nomination next year,” Sab announc
ed.
“How do you know that?” Matt said.
“Come on. Showing off your wife and son and what a perfect family you have? I heard extra photographers from Life and Look were flown in from the States to be sure the photos come out just right. Everyone knows he wants to run for president.”
Matt shrugged.
“I’m going to take my camera and see if I can get any good shots,” Sab said.
“What a hypocrite you are. I didn’t think you were such a big fan.”
“I’m not. But maybe somebody’ll want to buy one of my pictures. Come on with me.”
“I’m going to finish up here. I’ll see you later.”
Matt thought it would only take him ten minutes to complete what he was doing, but his efforts had not gone smoothly. He was still struggling with what turned out to be a very difficult translation when he heard loud shouts. All the windows in the office had been left open in an attempt to let in any stray breeze.
When he looked outside he saw that the crowds were impressive, many more people than even a couple of hours ago. There was extra security, too, in the form of Japanese policemen. One of them had just apprehended someone, and a circle of onlookers was forming in the middle of the road.
Matt watched as a young girl was being scolded by the policeman. He heard the phrase “Where are your parents?,” but after that, with so many people yelling at the same time, it was hard to catch anything else.
He went back to his desk and finished his work. By the time he was ready to leave, all the sounds outside had subsided, and he assumed the crowds had dispersed. It was very quiet. Looking out the window, he saw that indeed the crowds had gone, but on the roadside by themselves were two girls. One was the girl who had been scolded by the policeman earlier. As Matt watched, she suddenly squatted on the ground and brought her hands up to her face. She was crying. The other girl crouched beside her and began rubbing her back. Then this girl stood up and tugged on the crying girl’s arm.
The Translation of Love Page 12