The Translation of Love

by Lynne Kutsukake

  Once she danced with a GI who had a cluster of red pimples scattered across the bottom of his chin. He seemed nervous and held her at a formal distance, as if he had never danced with a woman before. She’d smiled at him, mistaking his nervousness for innocence and inexperience, until he suddenly pulled her flat against him and shoved her hand along the front of his pants, against the hard lump in his crotch. The buckle of his belt scraped the skin on her forearm when she pulled her hand back.

  He’d laughed then. An openmouthed guffaw, as if it was the funniest thing in the world. The pimples on his chin danced in front of her eyes, bouncing red spots.

  She didn’t scream or even speak. She didn’t dare, for fear of how the manager would discipline her afterward. All she could do was stand motionless in the middle of the floor, her head cast down. She wondered if anyone had seen what had happened, but the music played on and the other couples continued dancing, occasionally backing into her.

  “Hey, we gotta finish our dance.” The man reached forward to put an arm around her waist. “Don’t be sore. It was a joke.”

  She wasn’t sure what he had said, but she heard “dance” and she understood they had to finish. He’d paid for a ticket. He’d want his money back, or more.

  “Smile for Christ’s sake. I said I was sorry.”

  Yoko had told her the way to survive was to keep smiling. If you didn’t understand what a man said, just smile. Americans liked Japanese women who smiled.

  It wasn’t easy to size up each situation. The cues were all different. No meant yes, yes meant no, or sometimes it didn’t matter if you said no or yes, because everything meant yes, yes, yes. Give in and don’t make any trouble. Give in and do what you’re told. Smile, because no one wants to dance with a grump. Before he opened the doors each evening, the manager ordered them to stand in a line and practice smiling. Put your hand over your mouth to show modesty. Smile, laugh, even when you had no idea what the man was saying. They used words like “honey” and “baby” and “swell” and “shit,” and she soon picked up a new vocabulary, which was not at all like the English lessons she had listened to on the radio after the war ended. And what she didn’t understand didn’t matter. She just smiled and pretended, pretended and smiled.

  After the incident with the pimply man, Harada began acting strangely toward Sumiko. When she handed over her ticket stubs at the end of that evening, he didn’t count them as he usually did. Instead he reached forward and took her hand.

  “Suzie”—he called everyone by their dance-hall names—“how are you doing?”

  “Fine.” She stared at the dirty ticket stubs she’d placed on the table where he sat. She preferred his businesslike manner, licking his thumb as he counted the money twice before handing it over. She didn’t like this sudden friendliness.

  “Suzie, Suzie.”

  He pulled her hand closer and made a show of examining her forearm. The GI’s belt buckle had made a long scratch on her skin.

  “Does it hurt?” he said with oily concern.

  “No, not at all.” She tried to pull her hand free, but he had tightened his grip around her wrist.

  “You know, everything in life is a lot harder when you resist. I was watching earlier this evening. I think that young man simply wanted you to keep him company.”

  “Please, it’s late.”

  “You know, when a person has a debt to pay off, she should consider the possibility of making some supplemental income. If you like, I can help you. I can make arrangements.”

  She tugged on her arm again, but he wouldn’t release her.

  “Nobody likes a stubborn woman. It’s not an attractive feature. Sooner or later, you’ll see how important it is to be flexible. That’s the kind of girl we like.” He fixed his eyes on her meaningfully. “Don’t get any bright ideas about going into business for yourself. I always get my cut, don’t forget that.” He jerked her wrist hard to let her know he could snap it if he wanted to. Then he flung her hand away.

  “Please, I’m tired. Could you please pay me for tonight’s work.” She stared at her pile of ticket stubs.

  But Harada made no move to reach into his cash drawer. He pretended to busy himself with writing figures in his ledger.

  Keep smiling and pretending. That was what Yoko always said.

  Don’t resist. That was another rule.

  Things happened fast on the dance floor or in the dark alleys. You had to develop a sense for danger, had to smell it coming before anything happened, before it exploded into something ugly, before it turned violent and hard. The safest way to react was not to react. To give in, to be passive. To fall limp, to make yourself small, to curl into yourself and not be a threat.

  Don’t resist, don’t be a fool. Don’t resist if your life is in danger.

  23

  “Why the heck would you want to go there?” Eddie said when Matt finally took the plunge and suggested going to the Midnight Club. “If you’re looking for that dame, forget it. You’re not going to find her.”

  “Didn’t you say you saw her there?”

  “I corrected myself, didn’t I? I said her type. There are a lot of women working in a lot of bars.”

  “You have to admit someone who looks like that would stick out. That’s why you remembered her, surely.”

  “I told you, I don’t remember her. I’m sorry I mentioned it. I was just kidding.”

  Matt hated to beg but he didn’t want to go alone. Everyone knew the Midnight Club was special, more like a high-class nightclub than a regular dance hall. Rumors were that it was very expensive, and that they served potent cocktails that could set your head spinning. More than three of those would knock the average man flat on his back. The place looked intimidating from the outside as well. It was set in a dark alley, and the walls and roof had been painted black. There were no windows. It reminded Matt of a squat black tank, a place you crawled into and hoped you’d come out of in one piece.

  “Look, you’re always haranguing me about not going out enough. Now I’m saying I want to go to this place. I’ll pay for both of us. Are you going to come with me or not?”

  Eddie raised his arms in the air to indicate surrender. “Okay, okay. Don’t get so worked up.”

  “This coming Saturday?”

  “Yeah, yeah. But she probably won’t be there, you know. You’re barking up the wrong tree.” Eddie was uncharacteristically negative.

  “That’s fine, but can’t we just check it out?”

  Eddie shrugged nonchalantly but his brow was furrowed.

  On Friday Sab leaned toward Matt and said loudly, “Hey, I heard you and Eddie are gonna paint the town red tomorrow.”

  Matt looked around nervously to see if anyone had heard. Was there no such thing as privacy around here? Eddie really had a big mouth.

  Sab immediately dropped his voice. “Look, it’s none of my business, but you don’t drink much, do you?”

  “Me? No, I’m not a drinker.”

  “I didn’t think so. Well, just a bit of advice to stick to beer and stay away from the hard stuff. You’ll get a terrible hangover.”

  “Like kasutori?”

  “Oh, that’s just ordinary rotgut. I’m talking about the real bootleg.” Sab lowered his voice even more. “Did you know they sometimes spike drinks with lubrication fluid?”

  “What!”

  “Yeah, the alcohol used in airplane engines. Add a bit of sweetener, and you’ve got something with quite a kick. They call it the bakudan—the bomb. After the war ended all the stockpiles went underground. There’s a huge surplus of the stuff.”

  “How do you know all this, Sab?”

  “Me? I’ve just been around. You’d be surprised at what goes on. People will do anything to make a profit.”

  Although Matt had never been to a place like the Midnight Club, he’d been to any number of cheap dance halls before, the kind frequented by ordinary servicemen. Some were innocent places where you bought a strip of tickets for an even
ing of dancing, one ticket per dance. You got the chance to briefly rest your hand on a pretty woman’s hip and press your cheek close to hers. On those occasions Matt hadn’t had a bad time, although initially it had been depressing to see the long line of women standing against the wall waiting to be picked. There were attractive ones, true, but the majority were quite ordinary-looking, some even downright plain, not glamorous in the least despite their standard-issue red lipstick. Once, Matt had danced with a woman who was so tired she nearly fell asleep in his arms. “My baby,” she apologized sheepishly. “Cries all the time, I can’t get any sleep.” He wondered how many of the other women he danced with were war widows.

  But other places were out-and-out brothels and made no attempt to hide their real purpose. He’d entered one of those by mistake once and walked straight out, it was so appalling. Cheap plywood booths without doors lined the walls. The only concession to privacy was thin curtains that didn’t even reach the floor. The GIs stood in line, each waiting his turn. Matt prayed that Sumiko was not involved in a place like that.

  On the evening he went out with Eddie, he showered and put on freshly ironed olive drabs. He combed his wet hair and made a neat part on the right side, and then combed it again and made a new part a little closer to the center. On the walk over, he was so anxious and preoccupied that he didn’t notice how quiet Eddie was.

  Two Japanese men in ill-fitting suit jackets stood at the entrance to the Midnight Club, and when Matt and Eddie approached, they shifted their weight slightly so their shoulders almost touched. They weren’t tall but they gave an impression of heft.

  “Good evening.” Eddie lowered his head in a short bow and addressed them in polite Japanese. “Is there any chance we might get in tonight?”

  Neither of the suits replied, but one smirked faintly.

  Eddie tried again. “We understand there’s an entrance fee. We can pay in yen, army scrip, or real dollars, whichever you prefer.”

  The smirker continued smirking. His partner did nothing.

  “How much is it?” Eddie said brightly. He turned to Matt and muttered, “We might have to go a little high, okay?”

  Matt nodded and reached for his wallet. The two door guards were as impassive as ever. Neither spoke or moved.

  Behind them the door swung open, and the man with the smirk quickly turned to grab the handle and hold the door. He now wore a serious expression.

  A couple emerged. The woman was Japanese, and her escort was a thin white officer with narrow, rounded shoulders. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but the woman looked like she was at least ten years older than the man on her arm. She swung her hips in a studied side-to-side movement.

  She briefly glanced at Matt and Eddie, giving them a cursory assessment. Then she tugged on her escort’s arm. It was like signaling a horse to move forward. “Come on, honey,” she said in English.

  As soon as the couple had left, Eddie tried again. “Well, I guess there’s room inside for us now.”

  The silent guard finally spoke. “Amerikajin dake. Americans only.”

  Eddie swore and began stabbing his chest with his thumb. “We’re Americans! Look, GI uniform. Nikkeijin. Amerikajin.” He reached into his pocket and Matt thought he was going to show his ID. Instead, he pulled out a ten-dollar bill.

  The two doormen did nothing.

  “I thought you said you’d been here before,” Matt muttered.

  Eddie waved the money in the air. “Come on, guys, let us in. Please! Onegai dakara.”

  “Forget it.” Matt began walking away as fast as he could.

  “Let us in,” Eddie said one last time. He turned and hurried to catch up.

  When they reached the end of the lane, Eddie cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “Assholes! Bakayaro!” That clearly made him feel better, for he looked at Matt and grinned. “That’s a shithole anyway. Come on, I’ll take you to a much better place.”

  Pale lanterns were hung here and there along the lane, illuminating a series of tiny bars and outdoor noodle stalls. Some had signs written in English. WELCOME GI JOE. DRINKS, BEERS, HAPPY. AMERIKAJIN, O-KAY. They’d passed the first sign sometime ago: OFF-LIMITS TO ALL MILITARY PERSONNEL.

  “You want a drink?” Eddie asked. “You got yen on you, right? I don’t want to waste my greenbacks here.”

  Matt rarely went to off-limits bars; in fact he didn’t even like to drink. But tonight he felt depressed and reckless at the same time. He also wanted to get the evening over with fast, and he sensed that Eddie would be willing to head back to the barracks as soon as he had a drink or two. They ducked their heads under the curtain that hung over the doorway of one of the bars.

  “Irasshaimase! Welcome!” the bartender shouted out his standard greeting. He stood behind a makeshift counter built of scrap lumber and some boxes. Seating consisted of five rattan stools, all of different heights.

  “What are you up for?” Eddie asked Matt when they sat down. “They make some pretty strong stuff out of barley. Want to try?”

  Matt declined, and they ordered two glasses of beer.

  When the bartender heard their English, he gave them a funny look. Matt had seen it before, that look of confusion that turned into a kind of unreadable blankness. It happened all the time, and he hated it. People didn’t know what to make of him, a Nisei in an American uniform. A Nisei in any clothing. How could you be Japanese and American at the same time, was the unspoken question. If you’re supposed to be American, how come you look Japanese? If you’re supposed to be Japanese, how come you don’t talk like us? Or, if your Japanese was good and you did talk like them, the question became, How come you don’t think like us? There was always one more hurdle placed in front of you, another barrier to acceptance. Of course it was not as bad as back home in America. No one here had told him “We don’t sell to Japs” or thrown a stone through his family’s front window. Still, it was complicated. There was envy, and who could blame the Japanese? Anyone who worked for the Occupation forces ate well, dressed well, and generally seemed without a worry in the world. But mingled with that envy was distrust. Who were you really? Whose side were you on?

  Matt had a cousin in Tokyo, and had once tried to explain to him what it had been like in the camps. The cousin was his own age but a stranger; they had never met until Matt arrived with the Occupation forces. Not surprisingly the cousin didn’t know anything about what had happened to his relatives in America during the war. “They shipped us to the middle of the desert,” Matt said. “There was nothing around us, nowhere to go, but they built barbed-wire fences and kept armed guards on all the watchtowers.” He was surprised at his own passion, for he hardly ever spoke about the experience. None of the other Nisei in his barracks liked to talk about it too much, either. But the only part of his story that made an impression on the cousin was that they’d been forced to eat in a big mess hall, rather than privately with their own families. “What’d you eat?” the cousin kept asking. “What was the food like?”

  Eddie chugged his beer and looked at Matt’s still-full glass. “Drink up, man. The evening is young.”

  “I’m okay. I’m nursing this.”

  “Sure, but you don’t mind if I have another, do you?” He lifted his empty glass at the bartender as a signal for a refill. “I need to reward myself. I’ve had a pretty shitty week, if you must know.”

  Matt groaned inwardly. He could picture himself stuck for hours with Eddie, a man he really didn’t like that much. They were just too different. But it was his own fault for trying to use him, he supposed. He should have guessed that Eddie had never been to that nightclub before, that he had no special connections. The guy was always bragging—bullshitting was more like it. Even the way he looked was unappealing. He had a barrel chest, a thick neck, and a round face with a strong jaw. When he pushed his lower incisors out, he looked just like a bulldog.

  “Hey, Matt, ever get those assignments where you want to punch the guy’s face into a bloody pulp?”r />
  Matt turned his head to look at Eddie. He was staring at his beer glass.

  “I don’t know why they picked me but I had to escort some stupid officer—Dexter Johnson, what a stupid name, huh—had to take him shopping. Bigwigs always have stupid names, don’t they. Anyway, shopping for souvenirs in Asakusa. He should have gone shopping for his own stinking souvenirs by himself the way everybody else does, but no, I have to take him and translate for him because he thinks he’ll get a better price that way. First thing he wants is a Jappie doll. That’s what he calls it. ‘A Jappie doll, a real cute one for my fiancée back home.’ Then he says, ‘I’m so glad to be getting out of here, going back Stateside. I suppose for you it’s different. You’re from here.’ I say, ‘No, sir, I’m not from here.’ He gives me this real queer look, so I explain that I never set foot on Japanese soil till I joined the military. ‘Well, I’ll be darned,’ he says. ‘But you came from here, right? Originally.’

  “Anyway, that’s not the part that drove me crazy. The guy confesses that he initially thought his Japanese girlfriend would help him with his shopping, but when she found out he had a girlfriend back home—a fiancée, no less—all hell broke loose. He stopped in the middle of the street and rolled up his sleeve. ‘See this?’ he says. ‘The bitch bit me. That’s a permanent scar. I was lucky I’d already had my tetanus shot. You know, I don’t know what the hell got into her to act like such an animal. We had a good time, and then she had to spoil it all. They’re not civilized here. They’re not. Some of these women are crazy. She thought I was going to marry her and take her back with me to the States. I never promised anything of the kind.’

  “The guy was such a prick, I really wanted to sock him right then and there. I wish I had. It would have been worth it. I would have felt better.” Eddie seemed unaware that he had clenched his fists so tightly the knuckles had turned shiny white. “Can’t you just see me at my court-martial?”