In the summer she and her father would make a trip to a different cemetery, one she imagined was just as small and ancient as this one. It was in the tiny remote village on the northeast coast where he had been born, and they would take her mother’s ashes and bury them in the family grave where his own parents already lay.
“The graveyard is on a hill overlooking the ocean,” her father had said. “She can look out at the sea.”
When Fumi arrived at the temple, she was alone.
“Where’s your sister?” Aya asked.
“She can’t come. It’s really disappointing. She has to go to work.”
Sumiko had promised to take Aya and Fumi cherry-blossom viewing in Ueno Park, but she had recently found a job at a small trading company that was just starting out, and it meant she had to help whenever they needed her, even on Sundays. Today she was called in at the last minute.
“She said we should go without her,” Fumi continued. “I think she’s feeling guilty because she gave me extra spending money. She said we can buy whatever we want.”
“Oh, that’s very nice of her,” Aya said.
“Yes, it’s really good.” Fumi clutched Aya’s upper arm and shook her. “So I have a much better idea. Why don’t we go to Asakusa instead.”
“Asakusa? But I thought we were going to Ueno. I want to see the cherry blossoms.”
“Of course we can go there, too. Everything is in the same direction. You don’t want to spend the entire afternoon looking at a bunch of flowers, do you? It’s just row after row of this.” Fumi pointed to the canopy of blossoms over her head. “That’s all it is. I guess it’s pretty, but Asakusa is more interesting.”
The sakura cast a pink luster on Fumi’s upturned face, and Aya thought she’d never seen her friend look happier or healthier.
“Okay. But what’s so great about Asakusa anyway?”
Fumi beamed. “Omiyage. Souvenirs!”
As they browsed the colorful stalls in Asakusa, Fumi suddenly stopped, plucked an item from a shelf, and quickly paid for it.
“Here, this is a present for you,” she said, handing it to Aya.
It was a man’s head made of papier-mâché. The top, back, and sides of the head had been painted bright red to make him look like he was wearing a Buddhist monk’s hood. His face was very strange—painted with thick exaggerated eyebrows, black whiskers for a beard, and a wide pink face, but where his eyes should have been were two blank white circles. There were many different sizes but Fumi had picked the smallest one because it was the cheapest. It was the size of a crab apple and as light as air. Aya shook it.
“What is it?”
“A Daruma. It’s for good luck. You think about something you want, then you paint in one eye.”
Aya looked at the blank circles on the Daruma’s face. “Why only one eye?”
“Because when you get what you want, you can paint in the other eye.”
“So it’s like a toy? To make a wish on.”
Fumi bristled. “It’s not a toy. It’s serious. You have to set a goal.”
“What’s the difference between a wish and a goal?”
Fumi thought for a moment. “A wish is something you hope will happen. A goal is like a wish, except you have to work hard to make it happen. It’s like a promise to yourself. Does that make sense?”
“Sort of.”
“Daruma was a famous Zen monk. He wants both his eyes, so he’ll help you out. He’s powerful, but he’s also smart. He’s not going to do everything for you. He wants you to work at making your wish come true. That’s why you only paint one eye. Every time you look at him, he reminds you to work harder toward your goal.”
They were standing in front of the souvenir stall and the owner was bemused by the conversation taking place between the two girls. He was also aware how a number of people had stopped to listen, including some curious GIs who were drawn by the crowd.
“Daruma for sale!” the stall owner began shouting. The opportunity was too good to let pass. “Asakusa Daruma, best prices! Good for your business, good for your study. Best prices, guaranteed good luck!”
He motioned for Aya to come closer, took the Daruma she was holding, and handed her a much bigger one, the size of a giant melon. “Please take this one instead. My compliments.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a thick calligraphy brush and a pot of black ink. “And while you’re here, I hope you don’t mind giving everyone a demonstration.”
He called out in his best English. “Oi, GI Joe. Goodo subeniru!”
Aya shot Fumi a look of panic. The crowd of onlookers pressed in closer.
“Get a load of this,” she heard one of the GIs say.
“What is it?”
“I dunno. Some kind of kid’s doll.”
Fumi held the Daruma for her and the stall owner dipped the brush in ink. He wrapped Aya’s fingers around the brush handle.
“Go on,” he urged.
“Which eye am I supposed to paint?” Aya whispered to Fumi.
“The left, I think.”
Aya raised her brush.
“Wait!” Fumi shouted. “Don’t forget to think of something. Something you really want!”
Aya studied the Daruma’s blank expressionless face. She should have been accustomed to Fumi’s bossiness by now but there were still times when it came as a surprise. A year ago, she couldn’t have thought of anything, but now? It might be like opening a bag that had been sealed shut for too long. What would come out? What did she want? What did she want so much that she would work harder than anything to make it happen?
She wasn’t used to holding such a large brush, and the eye she drew was not a perfect circle. But it would have to do.
In fact, she decided, it would do just fine.
Acknowledgments
While there are many sources of inspiration for my novel, first and foremost was the inspiration I derived from Sodei Rinjirō’s remarkable book, Dear General MacArthur: Letters from the Japanese during the American Occupation (translated by Shizue Matsuda). I was astonished by the sheer volume of letters sent to MacArthur and moved by the scope and nature of their content. I am also deeply indebted to John Dower’s extraordinary study of Japan during this period, Embracing Defeat: Japan in the Wake of World War II, a work that transported me in time and space and from whose vivid pages I borrowed many rich details.
Many other books were of vital importance, including the following: The Enemy That Never Was by Ken Adachi; American Caesar: Douglas MacArthur 1880–1964 by William Manchester; The Least of These: Miki Sawada and Her Children by Elizabeth Anne Hemphill; Uprooted Again: Japanese Canadians Move to Japan After World War II by Tatsuo Kage; The Exiles: An Archival History of the World War II Japanese Road Camps in British Columbia and Ontario by Yon Shimizu; The Politics of Racism by Ann Gomer Sunahara; Unlikely Liberators: The Men of the 100th and 442nd by Masayo Umezawa Duus; and Dear Miye: Letters Home from Japan, 1939–1946 by Mary Kimoto Tomita.
I have been fortunate beyond all expectation in having the tremendous support of so many wonderful people. I begin by thanking my amazing agent, Hilary McMahon, for working so hard on my behalf and for making the impossible come true. My profound gratitude to Louise Dennys and Amanda Betts of Knopf Canada for being the first to have faith and to champion my novel; to Melissa Danaczko of Doubleday U.S. for embracing it with such spirited and unstinting enthusiasm; and to Susanna Wadeson and Lizzy Goudsmit of Transworld Publishers U.K. for joining with equal excitement and dedication. Thank you to all my editors, Amanda, Melissa and Lizzy, for countless insightful suggestions and for your willingness, individually and together, to push and to question. My book is better because of your commitment. Thank you to Suzanne Brandreth for kind support and to Margo Shickmanter for much appreciated assistance.
I owe a great debt of gratitude to Richard Bausch, who has a special place in the firmament of writing mentors and who gave me the courage and confidence to believe that these pages might some
day become a book. My deepest appreciation to Elizabeth Ruth, whose generous act of uncommon kindness opened an important door to the publishing world. Thank you to Tim Bowling for important early advice and to Helen Humphreys and Dennis Bock for wise writerly lessons. To Kerri Sakamoto, thank you for words of encouragement along the long, winding way.
My heartfelt thanks to Momoye Sugiman, Ted Goossen, and Jennifer Hashimoto for reading earlier drafts and offering invaluable comments. Thank you to George Takashima for leading a tour of the Japanese Canadian internment camp sites in the B.C. interior and to Patricia Takayama for a memorable trip to Manzanar. Thank you to Ikuko Komuro-Lee for advice about Japanese phrasing. To Paul Kutsukake, thank you for your special help and support.
I wish to express my gratitude to the Ontario Arts Council for generous financial support received during the writing of my novel.
Finally, kokoro kara no kansha to Michael, for sharing the journey, and for making it all worthwhile.
About the Author
A third-generation Japanese Canadian, Lynne Kutsukake worked for many years as a librarian at the University of Toronto, specializing in Japanese materials. Her short fiction has appeared in The Dalhousie Review, Grain, the Windsor Review, Ricepaper, and Prairie Fire. This is her first novel.
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The Translation of Love Page 31