The Translation of Love

by Lynne Kutsukake

  The cart owner refused to let Shimamura ride with Kondo. Two of them would be too heavy, he said. How could he pedal such a weight? So Shimamura had to half walk, half trot alongside the bicycle all the way home. Along the route he couldn’t help thinking about Ozawa. He recalled the day he had made a delivery to the market and found Ozawa surrounded on one side by a pile of opened containers and vials and on the other by a neat stack of sealed boxes. When Shimamura came upon him, Ozawa was in the midst of re-taping a box shut.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, Shimamura. Look at this. Good as new, don’t you think? No one can tell. As long as the U.S. label is intact, that’s all they care about.”

  “But what are you doing?”

  “Conserving and recycling, Shimamura. Don’t want to waste anything.”

  “But it’s medicine.”

  “Oh, don’t look so shocked. This is not a time to quibble about dosages and expiry dates. There’s a shortage of everything. What’s important is being able to supply enough to meet the demand. That’s commerce.”

  Two days later Shimamura quit his job.

  Not knowing where Kondo lived, Shimamura paid the cart owner extra to help carry him into his own apartment at the tenement house. By the time he unrolled the futon and put Kondo to bed, he was exhausted. Shimamura looked at the sleeping figure with a certain satisfaction that he had managed to bring him home, but he also felt a mounting sense of resentment.

  Why hadn’t Kondo Sensei said he was sick beforehand? He shouldn’t have come to the market in his condition. If not for his collapse, Shimamura could still be there searching for Aya. Now he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Was he expected to stay here and tend to a sick man he barely knew when his own daughter was missing? It was growing dark, and every minute he spent with Kondo was time lost looking for Aya. He would go out and search for her on his own, he resolved, but the question was: Where on earth was she? How could she have run away? How could she have become so disobedient without his noticing? Faced with what seemed to be her assertion of independence, he was bewildered. Who had she become? The thought that she had not run away on her own, that rather she had been abducted or kidnapped, was too terrible to even contemplate.

  He started to cry again, just as he had cried in front of Kondo in the school hallway. And this was the most confusing of all because he never cried. His generation had been raised to control their emotions, to hold their feelings in. To do otherwise was weak; it was womanly. He was a man, and a man did not cry. If ever he felt pain or hurt, he turned it inward. He let the sadness well up inside him, and then, through sheer force of will, he swallowed his sorrow. Nothing ever showed. Even when his wife had died, he did not show his emotion.

  A man held things in. Hadn’t he perfected this art?

  On the tatami beside him, Kondo tossed restlessly on the futon. He groaned and began coughing again. Although he’d been semi-comatose during the ride in the cart, the coughing now returned in waves, so violent at times it sounded as if he could cough up his insides. When the last fit subsided, the quiet and stillness were worse. Shimamura could hear a rattling sound, faint but quite distinct. His gut instinct told him that wasn’t good. Not good at all. When he touched Kondo’s forehead, it was fiery hot.

  Shimamura slipped out of the room and once on the street, he raced to find a neighborhood doctor.

  “Everybody calls me when it’s too late,” the doctor grumbled, sitting back on his haunches. “Pneumonia.”

  “Pneumonia! What can you do for him?” Shimamura asked.

  “Not much, I’m afraid. At this stage. Sometimes patients pull through…I really can’t say. My advice is to make him as comfortable as you can.”

  “But there must be something…”

  “Sulfa drugs might have helped much earlier. I don’t know. Anyway there’s a shortage of everything.” The doctor’s voice was hard and resigned. He began packing up his black bag.

  “Wait, please. Don’t go.” Shimamura motioned for the doctor to stay seated where he was. He brought out his wife’s old suitcase from the back of the storage cupboard.

  “Maybe there’s something you can use.” He opened the lid and pushed the suitcase forward.

  The doctor narrowed his eyes. “What’s this?”

  “Please.”

  “How did you get your hands on these?”

  “Please. Take whatever you need.” Shimamura felt his face flush but he had to press on. “There must be something in here that you can use.”

  The doctor picked up a small white box and examined it skeptically. The suitcase was full of boxes, all stamped PROPERTY OF THE U.S. ARMY.

  “What are you doing with this? How can I be sure it’s real? That it’s not some watered-down serum you’re trying to pass off?”

  “It’s genuine, I promise.”

  “I see. Well, I know all about the likes of you, hoarding this to keep your panpan women clean. Clearing up their VD so they can go back to servicing the GIs. You make a nice profit, don’t you, while good honest people are dying.”

  “It’s not like that. Please. If there is something you can use for him…”

  The doctor’s expression was thoughtful for a moment, then businesslike. He tore open the box labeled penicillin.

  “This better be the real thing. I don’t know how you managed to get hold of a supply like this when no doctor I know can, but this might save him.”

  He snapped the glass tip of the ampoule, filled his syringe, and gave Kondo his first shot, straight into his buttocks.

  “He’ll need more,” the doctor said, standing up and checking his watch. “I’ll be back in twelve hours to give him another injection.”

  Five minutes after the doctor left, Shimamura heard the sound of the door again and wondered if the doctor had forgotten something. But it was Aya. She looked cold and tired.

  “Where were you!” he yelled, and then without thinking, he raised his arm. It was as if the strain of his earlier anxiety now sought some release through his body. Didn’t she know how much she had frightened him? She should not have run away; she should not have scared him so. His arm hovered in the air and he saw that although he had never hit her before, she seemed to be expecting this punishment, for she did not flinch. Instead she lifted her jaw ever so slightly as if steadying herself for the inevitable blow.

  “Where were you?” he repeated.

  “I’m sorry. I know you’re angry but I had to stay with my friend Fumi.”

  “Stay with your friend! Look at your teacher. He got sick when we went searching for you and your friend. See the trouble you two have caused?”

  “I’m sorry.” She hung her head and started to cry.

  Shimamura suddenly felt all the strength drain from his muscles, as if some essence of himself were emptying out. He let his arm flop to his side. “Anything could have happened to you, don’t you know that?”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Anything at all. I keep trying to tell you the world is a dangerous place. It’s a cold, mean, unfair place.”

  “I know.”

  “But you’re safe now.”

  “I know.” She was trying to hold in her sobs, almost choking with the effort of not making too much noise.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and gripped them tightly, uncertain how to comfort her. You’re safe, he thought to himself. You’re safe.

  “You came back. That’s all that matters,” he said softly. “Go wash your hands and face now. You have to help me take care of Kondo Sensei.”

  45

  Matt’s headache lasted the entire week.

  It had started the moment he sat down at his desk on Monday morning, the day after he and Nancy had gone to the Ginza, and no matter how many aspirins he took, the headache refused to go away.

  The days leading up to Christmas were unbearable. Sab drove him crazy: either he was tapping his teeth with his pencil or drumming his fingers on his desk or whistling a
medley of Christmas carols. He had to be the world’s worst whistler. As if that weren’t bad enough, even the ordinary noises of the office seemed amplified, especially the sounds from the typing pool where the keys clacked loudly in an uncoordinated rhythm, everyone typing at a different speed. Normally Nancy’s typewriter would have contributed to the clacking, but she had not come in to work at all this week. Matt told himself he didn’t care if she ever came back, but he kept glancing in the direction of the typing pool with a mixture of irritation and concern. Nancy had a perfect attendance record. She never took any time off.

  “Getting into the spirit of things? Are you going to the Christmas Eve show at the Ernie Pyle Theater? Did you get all your presents from home? Have you opened them yet?”

  To each of Sab’s questions, Matt had simply grunted in reply.

  Sab was undeterred. “I’m really looking forward to that big turkey dinner with all the trimmings, aren’t you? They’re putting up decorations in the mess hall later.”

  “I can’t stand turkey,” Matt muttered. He had then reached for an envelope and slit it open. When he pulled out the contents, he saw that he had sliced the letter in half. Setting the two parts side by side, he read.

  Dear most honorable and courageous General MacArthur.

  The handwriting was spindly, the style old-fashioned. Naturally it began with several convoluted sentences about the weather.

  …the winter cold will soon pass. May you and all your troops look forward to an especially pleasing and beautiful spring. Japan is renowned for its exquisite cherry blossoms…

  What the hell did the writer want? Just get to the point! They always wanted something. Ah, here it was.

  …with misfortune…my fishing boat…extra costs incurred…could SCAP consider reimbursement…collision in which…thirty baskets of clams…

  On the morning of the twenty-fourth, Sab dropped a crumpled square of coarse toilet paper on Matt’s desk. “I don’t know what’s eating you, buddy, but let me give you a Christmas present. Take only one at a time. It’ll help you stay awake. Might improve your mood, too.”

  There were four small white pills inside. Matt didn’t hesitate or even bother to ask what they were. He put one in his mouth and swallowed it dry. Damn that little girl Fumi, he thought, rubbing his aching forehead. Damn her wayward sister. And most of all, damn that Nancy. How ludicrous he and Nancy must have looked traipsing around in the Ginza on that wild-goose chase. Even more idiotic than his outing with Eddie. Who had he been trying to kid, setting off on such a quest? A knight in shining armor? Ha! Did he really think he was the type of man who could rescue a damsel in distress? He wasn’t the hero type. Not even close. Anyway, one hero in the family was enough.

  On Christmas day Matt took the remaining three pills from Sab all at once. His headache miraculously disappeared. He spent the day in a bubble of serenity, and at Christmas dinner he felt like he was floating at least six feet above his plate of turkey and gravy. By evening, though, he had crashed back down. That night he dreamed about Henry.

  He and Henry were in a black forest, crawling on their stomachs. They used their elbows to pull themselves forward through the cold wet sludge. It was so foggy all Matt could see of Henry were the soles of his boots, just inches in front of his nose. Wait for me, he wanted to shout, but he knew he had to be quiet. The enemy was behind the tree trunks. The enemy was in the fog. And then somehow he had caught up with Henry and they were lying side by side in the mud. Henry smiled and reached inside his chest. “Here, take this and give it to Mom,” he said as he pushed something hot and beating into Matt’s hand.

  Matt woke up with a start, his whole body drenched in sweat.

  Much of what they had learned about Henry’s death came from the citation for bravery that accompanied the Purple Heart. As Matt’s family was not free to travel, the army officers had to come to their camp to present the medal.

  Henry Hiro Matsumoto made the ultimate sacrifice for his country, they intoned, reading from the official letter. He fought for democracy and freedom. America is proud of him.

  Matt knew his mother had bowed her head to the ground because she didn’t want to cry in front of the officers. The winds were blowing especially strong that day, and the desert grit was flying into everyone’s eyes. The flag in front of one of the guard towers snapped back and forth like a whip.

  We have to prove our loyalty. Show them which side we’re on. That’s what Henry always said.

  Whose side were you on?

  Were you a no-no boy or a yes-yes boy?

  Were you loyal? Were you brave?

  Whose side were you on, anyway?

  What about the dead side.

  His father was right, Matt thought. Forget the heart. Forget all the hearts.

  46

  Sumiko came back to the translator’s stall every night. The other letter writers grew curious, and they teased and flirted with her and attempted to persuade her to hire one of them. But after it became apparent that she had serious business with Kondo, they turned protective. Someone named Yamaguchi took to giving her a hot roasted sweet potato as soon as she arrived, and from others she received bits of food they’d clearly saved for her—a rice cracker, a dried persimmon, a handful of chestnuts. Nobody had any idea where Kondo was or why he was absent. Some were even more worried about him than they were about her.

  “It’s so unlike him,” Yamaguchi said. “I can’t imagine what’s happened.”

  She had gone to Love Letter Alley because she remembered what Yoko had told her, Yoko who went there often in the days of Jake and others before him. “The best letter writers aren’t the ones with their stalls out front,” she’d said. “There’s a man who sits at the back all by himself. He wears thick glasses and he doesn’t look very friendly, but I think he’s the best.” It wasn’t far from the station, somewhere in an alley, somewhere up a slope. It was a well-known spot, someone would direct her.

  When Sumiko met with the translator, though, she was certain she’d come across as a nervous fool. Now he had the newspaper in his possession. How could she have handed it over just like that? Was it wise to have trusted a total stranger? Yet she knew she’d had no choice. Every time she stared at those incomprehensible English words, she had felt increasingly overwrought. What did they say? What came after those words—Bar Lucky?

  Night after night she returned, but he didn’t show up.

  On New Year’s Eve, she arrived at Love Letter Alley as usual, but no one was there, neither the translators nor their customers. She was about to give up and return to the shelter she’d found in a nearby park when Yamaguchi arrived.

  “I was worried you might be here. I thought I should check up on you. We’re closing for the New Year’s holiday, shutting down for five days.”

  She had never expected that a place like this would be affected by such a traditional holiday.

  “Oh, of course. The holidays.”

  “Yes, we close down just like everyone else. Anyway there’s hardly any business—everyone’s gone home.”

  “I see.”

  “Funny, isn’t it,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “Funny we still use that phrase. Going home.” He cast his gaze to the ground as if embarrassed at raising the topic. “When so many don’t really have a home to go to. It’s tradition, though. We have to close at New Year’s.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you have a home? Any family?” he asked gently.

  She nodded.

  “Then you’re very lucky, miss. That’s where you should go. There’s no point in waiting here.” Yamaguchi reverted to his normal brisk tone. “We’ll be open for business again on January fifth. We look forward to your patronage.”

  Go home? Just like that? Could it have been that easy all along?

  Sumiko realized she was tired. Tired of hiding, tired of running away, tired of thinking, tired of worrying. Just plain tired.

  By the time she arr
ived home, it would be the middle of the night.

  Her parents had never locked the front door. She hoped that they still didn’t.

  47

  When Fumi opened her eyes in the morning and saw a sleeping figure next to her in bed, she should have been shocked or at least slightly startled, but she wasn’t at all. Because she knew in an instant. The figure had her back to her, but Fumi recognized those narrow sloping shoulders, the soft curving spine. She breathed in the rich scent of the coarse black hair that brushed lightly against her nose. It was her sister. Her sister had come home.

  Fumi pressed the palm of her hand flat against the hollow part in the middle of Sumiko’s back, wanting to wake her and not wanting to. She felt the heat of her sister’s body, sensed the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. When Sumiko finally stirred and rolled over, it felt so natural, as if this were just another morning in the long series of mornings they’d always had.

  Sumiko smiled. “I didn’t wake you when I came in last night, did I?”

  Fumi shook her head.

  “That’s good. Because it was very late. I tried to be really quiet.”

  “Nechan, you came back,” Fumi whispered. She wasn’t sure why she was whispering except some part of her thought she might be dreaming, and the only way to keep the dream going was to speak softly. She raised her hand toward Sumiko’s face and touched her cheek. The skin was warm, the cheekbone solid.

  “You came back,” she repeated.