Plum Rains

by Andromeda Romano-Lax

  She pushed Sayoko’s wheelchair for several blocks, in the direction of the Kaminarimon Gate and the neighborhood of Asakusa. They rarely got as far as the gate itself, which was just as well. Angelica enjoyed seeing the colorful statues and round red lanterns, but Sayoko usually objected to the crowds of tourists. Today’s cool wind would keep them from getting very far, Angelica expected.

  “Ready to go back?”

  Sayoko replied, “We haven’t visited the small shops for as long as I can remember.”

  “Which small shops?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. This way.”

  They proceeded down narrow alleyways, past stores stocked with traditional sandals, teapots and dishes. In a printshop, Sayoko asked the shopgirl to open one folded item after another: decorative fabrics printed with flying fish, cranes, red maple leaves and frogs with comical faces. Memory problems, Angelica thought at first when she saw Sayoko ask to see another cloth she’d already seen twice. And that was good. Perhaps Sayoko would forget the conversation they’d had, about the accident. But Sayoko’s ruse in the shop was too methodical. She was up to something. Fish, cranes, leaves, frogs—always in the same order—as if Sayoko was insistent on killing time. Even the charming shopgirl was starting to lose patience.

  “Home for lunch now?” Angelica asked. They’d been out over an hour.

  “My party,” Sayoko said suddenly. “I’ll need a haircut.”

  “I’ll schedule an appointment, from the house.”

  “No,” Sayoko insisted. “We passed a place a few lanes back. We can just walk in.”

  When they arrived home, tired from their walking and shopping and Sayoko’s endless stalling, Angelica smelled soy sauce. Also vinegar: streaky currents in the air, tickling her nose. And welling up beneath that sharp scent, something sweet and soft: coconut, banana or plantain. Below that yellowy-white perfume: dark greens.

  She smelled eggplants. She smelled citrus, garlic, and the unmistakable oiliness of fat frying and stewing. She could picture a table set outside under palm trees, within view of the ocean, groaning with dishes, everything served up all at once, none of the tiny portions or fussy aesthetics she’d almost grown used to in Japan. She remembered her heavyset uncles clamoring for third servings. (Would they have listened to her adult expertise about the dangers of obesity? Never.) Cousins joking, babies reaching out for a bone to chew on or plate of sticky rice to dip chubby fingers into, mothers resting their legs for a moment before returning inside, to the hot kitchen to bring out more dishes, more plates. Everyone, eat. We made too much. Don’t insult me. Have more. Bounty. Family. Everything she had lost.

  Datu, she’d thought at first. Who else could’ve brought such a warm spirit into this cold, formal condo? As if he’d somehow broken free from his contract, found her Japanese address, and entered bearing bags of takeout prepared by an army of Filipina cooks.

  But it wasn’t Datu. She knew that as soon as she silently mouthed his name, because the syllables did not feel right on her tongue, or anywhere here, in this city. Angelica glanced at Sayoko’s face, expecting to see the same confusion, as well as disapproval. Sayoko hated Filipino food. She’d told Angelica never to cook it in the house, even if Angelica prepared the ingredients for herself. Sayoko could be unfair about the smallest things: she once made a fuss after accidentally pouring from a bottle of Angelica’s soy sauce, premixed with vinegar and sweet calamansi juice.

  This time, though, Sayoko was smiling mischievously, as her nose wrinkled in response to the smell in the air: anchovy. Maybe pig’s blood.

  “It’s for you, Anji-chan.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For you,” Sayoko said. “From Hiro—”

  Angelica hurried toward the kitchen, reenacting that moment not so long ago when she had found the floor and counters in complete disarray, dry rice sizzling in the cooker.

  This time, though, everything was in order. There were no fishtails hanging over the rim of the sink and no pyramids of fruit on the floor. The floor was clean. The sink was empty of dishes. Hiro stood in the corner, behind the kitchen table, every inch of which was occupied by fully cooked dishes. A coconut broth with small floating medallions of white-fleshed eggplant. A brown beef and cabbage stew. A pancit dish: mounds of thin noodles, shrimp and chorizo and eggs. A raw fish dish called kinilaw. Garlicky, fragrant rice. The smells weakened her knees, making her want to cry out for what she could not have.

  “What’s missing, Anji-san?”

  It was stuck in her throat. He could sense her disapproval.

  Hiro asked, “What did I do wrong?”

  But she couldn’t express it: the unfairness of this. The abomination.

  “Everything,” Angelica said.

  “At least taste it,” Sayoko pleaded as Angelica hurried out of the kitchen, intent on hiding in her bedroom until she could regain her composure. Sayoko called after her. “Let him know you appreciate the effort. He’s been at this all day!”

  Minutes passed. Her blood cooled. Reason—unkind reason—returned.

  Take a breath. Take three. For Datu. For the very same reason that she abhorred the falseness of this she would endure it, she would outlast it. She would defeat it. The next time she saw and smelled her past, it would not be a mere simulation.

  Until then: pretend. Defeat a simulation by being a simulation. Go along. And do not let a rival see you cry.

  Angelica returned to the kitchen where Sayoko and Hiro still waited, attentive to her every syllable and gesture.

  “Hello, Hiro. I see you cooked all day.”

  Angelica didn’t hear his response. She sat down and accepted a dish and tried a little of this, a little of that.

  “Thank you,” she said after a few minutes of silent eating. “We were out a long time. I was hungry.” Her delivery was robotic, but how could a robot object to that?

  Sayoko had pulled up to the table in her wheelchair and was free of prejudice now, learning to savor the flavors of the Philippines—salty next to sweet next to sour. “Anji-chan, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Angelica ate half of the small servings on her plate, still keenly observed by Sayoko and Hiro. She left the rest. “It isn’t quite right, but that’s to be expected.”

  Hiro said, “I did my best.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “I followed the instructions.”

  “I’m not surprised. Still, it’s not the same. How could it be?”

  And yet, later that night, after Itou got home from work—no discussion of Hiro’s cooking spree, even when Itou praised the plate of food set aside for him—and after everyone had gone to bed, when the condo was silent and the only light in the room came from a heavy moon shining through the kitchen window, Angelica snuck in to sample the leftovers.

  She picked slowly at first, then started spooning into her mouth, bent down in the light spilling from the refrigerator door, with her nightgown covering her toes as she crouched. A few cubes of marinated fish. The tender beef stew. The coconut broth with a few pieces of eggplant left, the dark purple skins squeaking between her teeth; the soup-soaked flesh gone softer now, even better, even cold. She licked the spoon. She licked her fingers and her wrist, where the coconut broth had dripped.

  The noodles had gone slightly sticky and the shrimp, with its bright pink segments and white flesh, rubbery. But that only made it taste more like she remembered. The hours had allowed the spices to mix and the flavors to deepen. At the same time, Angelica let her tears run down her cheeks without wiping them away. Extra salt mixed with the flavors, which only made them match her memories more closely, as if the salty air of the ocean had found its way into every dish.

  It had been delicious the first time, and even better now. She had lied to Hiro. This food was indistinguishable from the food of her memories, from her lon
ging. And where did that leave the real thing? Where did that leave the living?

  It must have been the late-night eating that affected her stomach, and with it, her dreams. First came the tiresome firefly dream. She woke in the middle of it, with that same sense of frustration she always had, and ran through her customary routine for blotting out the feeling of being trapped in the rain and the dark, with the repetitive flashing-light imagery. She forced her brain to do work: visualizing kanji, adding numbers, anything. When she started thinking about her day again, she let her mind go there. It was better than the alternative.

  But that was no liberation either, for as she drifted off, her brain turned to other nightmares.

  At first it felt like a reprieve. She could always tell a bad dream by how it started: always with night-black or typhoon-gray skies, and a feeling of heaviness. But this one was different. The sun was shining.

  She was sitting on the porch, with the sea breeze blowing against her young face. She had forgotten the feeling of salty air, the tacky quality that made it easier to style her long black hair that reached down to her waist when she was young; the way even her eyelashes felt fuller, her vision slightly glazed by the unremitting sun and heat. The smell of a sampaguita flower she’d tucked behind one ear; the feel of its velvet-smooth petals against her skin. That smell of home, and the meaning behind the name of the flower, traditionally exchanged by lovers: “I promise you.”

  Lola was serving her a plate of food, saying, “Put some meat on those bones.” Lola watched her as she ate, smiling. There was no need to be fair or skinny, no need to dress in a way that hid everything. Here, there was life in the air and in the food and in the way a hip filled up a dress, that delicious curve. She was young, still. She was skinny—niwang—like most girls her age. But Lola said that one day her curves would fill out and that would make her even more beautiful, even if she was dark-skinned. No, because of that. A long line of dark island beauties, as Lola herself had been.

  Angelica was just finishing the food when she looked at Lola again, and in that strange dream space, knew something wasn’t right.

  “Did you like it?” Lola asked.

  The real Lola never had to ask. Everyone said Lola’s cooking was the best.

  “I did my best,” Lola said. “What did I do wrong?”

  Lola turned in her chair, and under her arm, that spot where her bra usually squeezed tight, making lumps and folds that were inevitable for women of a certain age, there was now only a slim, cruel, boxy line. Her back and torso were too straight. In the dream, Angelica looked again, and there, through the worn sundress, she could see the outline of a panel, fitted with tiny screws.

  Angelica was petrified. This Lola—or whatever she was—had turned back, settling in her chair. She was not looking at Angelica, but she was still speaking, her voice wrong, low and stuttering, damaged and accusing.

  “My darling girl, didn’t you like it?”

  15 Sayoko

  “She was unhappy with us,” Hiro said in the middle of the night, sitting at the edge of Sayoko’s bed, voice low. He had heard Angelica get up and go to the kitchen; Sayoko had heard the noises, too. Neither of them could sleep. “I don’t know why your plan didn’t work. I thought the reminders of home would make her happy.”

  Sayoko didn’t reply. Hiro was right, and it mattered, because Angelica was the most important ally they had. But Sayoko did not want to worry him.

  And yet, she should’ve known better. She had failed to perceive something about Anji-chan. The girl’s relationship to the Philippines was not simple. Perhaps even her present situation was not as problem-free as Sayoko had assumed. There was more beneath Angelica’s stoic, patient smile.

  Of course, the past was not always a comfort. Sayoko knew that as well as anyone. There was a reason she had ended her own story where she had, with young Laqi and Daisuke running away together, in enemy territory, yes, but alone and in love. Some things aren’t pleasant to revisit.

  “Open the blinds, will you?” she asked Hiro.

  When he did, the moon shone in, casting stripes on the floor and across the foot of the futon.

  “That’s better,” she said. “Even a little light is better than the darkness.”

  After a moment, Hiro said, “Do you need something to help you sleep?”

  “No, I’ve slept enough. I spent a good part of my fifties practically catatonic. Wasted time. I thought I was old then. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

  “I imagine this was when Itou-san was a young boy.”

  Sayoko started to nod, then paused. “You’re very clever, Hiro. Most people would not have guessed that.”

  “I can add,” he said, with a note of humor in his voice.

  “Most people can add. What they can’t do is see, or think.”

  This time, Hiro remained discreetly silent.

  “But you’re right. I had Ryo when I was an older woman. Not in my mid-thirties, as people assume, as even my own son assumes, but when I was forty-five. Yes, I was surprised to conceive so late. But it was not something I wanted—certainly not in the way my husband wanted it—so it simply seemed like another absurdity.”

  From behind the wall came the quick sound of a startled voice, like someone waking from a nightmare. Then there were soft footsteps, water running in the bathroom, a door closing again. Angelica.

  Sayoko said, “You understand why I can’t tell people, don’t you? If they know my real age, the math changes. People start asking questions. That’s what my husband always said. I could pass as ten years younger than my true age, even fifteen years, and so he insisted: you were a child during the war. Children are innocent. That was part of our bargain.”

  Hiro said, “I am guessing that you, too, were innocent.”

  “Oh, Hiro,” she sighed. “Yes and no. Yes and no . . .”

  “I’ve noticed,” he said tentatively, “that people who feel guilt are the ones who need not carry such a burden, and people who feel no guilt at all have often committed the greatest crimes against humanity.”

  “Possibly.” But it did not comfort her.

  A moment passed.

  “Anji is still up,” Hiro said, listening.

  “Yes. We’re not the only restless ones. But at least I have you.” She had started to become more aware of her good, if temporary, fortune. “My son is alone. Anji is alone.”

  “Anji has her brother. They communicate frequently.”

  “That’s good. He lives in the Philippines?”

  “Alaska.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Rare earths mining in a contaminated area called the Burned Zone.”

  “Oh dear,” Sayoko said. “Why do they need to do that?”

  “Because China dominates the world market and this threatens geopolitical stability. Japan began deep-sea mining in the last decade but there are questions about local contamination, and it isn’t popular.”

  “The infertility crisis . . .” Sayoko mused.

  “Perhaps. There are many classes of contaminants involved with infertility.”

  “But why do we need that stuff at all?”

  Even in the low light, Sayoko could see Hiro tip his chin down and pat his torso.

  “Don’t tell Anji-chan that.”

  “The minerals aren’t just used to make robots,” he clarified. “Rare earths are essential for defense, electric cars, consumer electronics, solar cells and cell phones—for many popular items developed in the last forty years.”

  “Cell phones,” she mused. “And they’re dangerous.”

  “Environmentally and politically, yes.”

  “Well, we should give up some of these gadgets, then.”

  “Certainly,” Hiro said. “Where would you like to start?”

  He’d made his point.

  Sayoko asked, “We can�
��t go back, can we?”

  “I fear not.”

  “Just . . .” Sayoko paused. “Just don’t mention to Anji-chan that her brother’s work is dangerous because we need more robots—”

  “And phones—”

  “Yes, and phones. She loves her phone. Don’t mention any of it.”

  A cloud covered the moon and the stripes on the floor faded. But Sayoko’s eyes had adjusted. Insomnia had dug its claws into her. If not for fear of waking the entire household, she’d simply get up and start the day. Instead, she felt trapped, waiting for dawn to come.

  We can’t go back.

  The past was a forbidding country, but the future was as well.

  Hiro whispered, “Sayoko-san, please tell me. What happened to Daisuke and Laqi, after the night at the top of the guard tower?”

  “They lived happily ever after,” she said. “As all lovers should.”

  He asked again, “What happened?”

  She patted his smooth silver leg.

  In a flat voice he asked, “Will you and I live happily ever after?”

  She knew he already had his answer, but that wasn’t enough. Only the story behind the answer, the lessons that only history could provide, the patterns that most closely resembled universal truth, could help him at this point. And it was her responsibility to help him. She was sure of that, at least.

  “All right,” she said. “But come closer. My throat is tired.”

  She eased back, head on her pillow. He leaned his head closer to her lips.

  “You want to know if she managed to keep Daisuke safe. You want to know if the hunters did away with him. They didn’t do him any harm, and of course Laqi didn’t either. So you must know: people who are just like us can be our enemies, too. Look into the mirror to know whom you should fear.”

  At first, they knew only happiness. Laqi had told Daisuke she was not ready to go back to her people—that they would see the change in her, that she needed time to think. He was worried about her welfare; he was not sure how staying away would help. But he had his own reasons for throwing off caution. They were ever closer to his quarry and he had, at last, a trusted guide. Wandering the most remote highlands of Formosa had been his aspiration since leaving Japan.