Sayoko buried her face in her hands, slurring her words. Angelica heard “disaster” and “mother” and “the old days.”
A woman said, “Did her mother die in the great earthquake?”
The man next to her said, “What does that have to do with a toy?”
Sayoko had been clenching the arms of the plush chair with a talon grip, but as soon as Hiro set his metal hand upon her forearm, she visibly relaxed.
“Daisuke Oshima loved you,” Hiro said, “and he wanted you to think of him whenever you saw his gift.”
“Hai,” Sayoko said, inhaling with difficulty, struggling for self-control.
“Serenity is still possible, as is mutual devotion. You are deeply loved, Sayoko-san.”
Hiro put one arm around Sayoko’s shoulders in a posture that pleased the photographers, who all strained forward to capture the image while others in the audience began tapping on their phones. Angelica looked over one shoulder and saw the man in front of her searching “Daisuke Oshima,” something Angelica had never thought to do. She saw him scroll through the results list, past an item about a Taiwanese natural history publication from the 1930s. The man overlooked the connection, but someone else would make it, soon. There were no secrets left in this world.
Angelica looked for Junichi and saw him whispering furiously into another man’s ear, while the man listened, nodding, jaw slack as he got up his nerve. Junichi gave the man a tap on the shoulder and the man stood, shouting once for everyone’s attention. He strode to the front of the room and pointed.
“That robot’s in love with her. Isn’t it clear? And she’s in love with him! It’s unnatural!” The antagonist looked back in Junichi’s direction and realized that he would have to say more. “It—he—is not only her helper. He doesn’t just take care of her. He is her lover.”
There was a hum in the room, followed by a pause. The crab’s clockwork mechanism wound down and its sharp legs stopped clicking. And still, the claim that had been made was so preposterous, it might have simply dissipated, forgotten. Except that Sayoko chose that moment to sit forward and shout, “So what?”
Itou gestured with his palms pressing downward, like a conductor directing his orchestra: softer, slower, there. To the audience, Itou said: “Of course my mother has grown fond of her robot helper. Just as many of you are fond of all your gadgets and their personalities. Even your talking refrigerators. We come to rely on these objects . . .”
“Tell them, Hiro,” Sayoko said firmly.
Hiro bowed, looked up again, cocked his head. “Tell them that I can love? It is true.”
A reporter asked, “What does that mean?”
Hiro replied, “Emotionally and physically, I am capable. My model is not restricted. We may love and be loved.”
Someone called out, “Physically? Are you a sexbot?”
Murmurs erupted in the back—about evolving intelligence and sexdolls and dumb sexbots and true sexbots but with weak AI and true sexbots with strong AI and the South Korea laws and the U.S.-E.U. Accord and sexual abuse by robots and sexual abuse of robots.
A woman next to Angelica muttered to the man next to her, “It’s happened. This is it. It had to happen.”
“No, Hiro,” Sayoko was in anguish now. “They can already see that for themselves. Tell them.” Incomprehensibly, she shouted to the room at large, “Tell them I’m a hundred and ten. Not one hundred.”
“She’s confused,” Itou said. “All this attention is too exciting.”
“I never wanted attention,” Sayoko shouted. “I wanted to be a nurse.”
“Please,” Itou said, waving his arms. “Everyone.”
“Have you taken advantage of her emotionally?” a reporter shouted. “—or sexually?”
Someone else added, “Has she taken advantage of you?”
Another voice: “Itou-san, do you support this?”
Another: “What about robot-human marriage?”
Sayoko said, “I wanted to help. I wanted to leave my village. They promised to take me to a good place. They took me into the jungle, instead. And I wasn’t a nurse. None of us were.”
Angelica held her hand over her mouth, listening to Sayoko’s anguished outburst, less clear than it had sounded the night before. She seemed demented, but it was only because she was fighting the weight of repressed emotion, the story too large to tell in this setting, to this hostile crowd. They wouldn’t believe her. Or they would. Angelica didn’t know which was worse.
And where was Junichi now? Pleased with this mayhem, no doubt. Everyone was shouting. Sayoko-san was melting down.
Itou stepped in front of his mother, trying to protect her from their stares, gesturing. Quiet. Cameras down, please. All devices down. As if there weren’t five people in the room recording automatically with their retinal implants, no exterior equipment required.
“Hiro,” one of the reporters called out, trying to get the robot’s attention. But he was in the minority. Most were swiveling between Sayoko and Itou, hoping he wouldn’t succeed in silencing her.
“It’s a lie, what they called us,” Sayoko said. “We weren’t prostitutes, before they took us to the jungle.”
“Ianfu,” someone said. It was the word Angelica had heard Sayoko use several times last night, never without a sour face. Comfort woman. It was a euphemism and an insult.
Sayoko called back, “Why do you insist on calling us that? You apologize, but then you take the apologies back.”
“Ianfu.” Like a menacing chant, the word came again from the back of the room.
Sayoko would have none of it. “Your words are the problem! We were innocent. There were ten-year-old girls in my camp—girls stolen directly from their homes. Are you saying they wanted to be there?”
Some of the reporters were silent, taking it all in, waiting for whatever outburst would come next. Some were more actively on the hunt, aware that the prey would scatter, that Hiro or Sayoko would stop speaking, that Itou would send them all packing, that they would never get the answers they wanted if they didn’t press now. But whom to press? Two unconnected stories seemed to be unfolding, rapidly and incongruously.
“Hiro,” a reporter said, standing up from his seat, “If you are Japanese made—”
“I am not.”
“If you are bound by the trade agreements, the South Korean robot laws—”
“I am made in Taiwan,” Hiro corrected the reporter.
“Made in Taiwan,” Sayoko said, and then she laughed. “So was I. You can write that down.” This pleased her, enough to make her throw back her head and laugh again, white lines running down her wet cheeks, which Angelica had rouged just an hour before.
A woman reporter called out: “Are you requesting reparation money?”
Sayoko shook off the question. “My son’s father said not to speak. All my life, the same. Cover your mouth when you smile. Don’t smile. Open your legs.”
A woman in front of Angelica gasped.
Sayoko kept going. “You have no right to happiness, people told me. But this robot makes more sense than all of you. He has told me: I do have a right, and he has a right. We’ll do whatever we like!”
The phone in Angelica’s tunic pocket buzzed. She noted the orange code and thumbed off the alarm. Sayoko’s heartbeat and blood pressure were elevated to high-risk levels.
“Hiro,” another reporter tried to get the robot’s attention. “What are your full physical capabilities?”
Angelica was frozen, hands pushed deep into her pockets, one hand on the phone, knowing it would keep buzzing as Sayoko’s pulse kept spiking. She remembered Junichi again. He was within sight, across the room, expression rapt, wanting Hiro to say more, to implicate himself and his design in even more damning detail.
She remembered the spark of selflessness she had seen in him, and she refused to equ
ate the actions with the man. And what would it serve to curse Junichi again? It was like cursing a storm. She tried to lock eyes with him, without success. She sent out a silent, imploring message: You’ve already done too much. No more. Sayoko is suffering. Don’t make it worse.
“My own son,” Sayoko said, voice more strident now. “He doesn’t know the truth. He can’t afford to know. None of you can afford to know. We pretend for you. But when do we have our own lives? When do we get to be touched without shame?
“When it’s your turn, you’ll see. It’s young people who forget. Not old people.” She was nearly out of breath and she risked pausing to inhale once, deeply. “I’m one hundred and ten, I keep telling you.”
She punctuated her final statement with a sharp nod of the chin.
“And I don’t . . . like . . . cake.”
20 Angelica
They came that evening while Sayoko was napping, exhausted by the party and the emotional breakdown that brought it finally to a close. Itou was sequestered in his bedroom, on a call with someone at the ministry, seeking advice on how to contain the aftermath. Angelica had been straining to listen, barely able to make out more than a word or two, when there was a knock at the door. She expected more reporters, ministry staff, or someone wanting to see Sayoko or Itou directly.
“Navarro Angelica?”
“Angelica Navarro, yes.”
The man and woman wore matching black uniforms. The man had an especially young face—mid-twenties—with white crust under the deep crease of one eye. He looked like he’d been recently roused. The woman was more alert, with that wide-eyed look of someone who takes sleep-avoidance drugs, but stick thin, another form of career pressure. Her creased uniform pants dropped straight from narrow, angular, non-childbearing hips.
“We will be escorting you,” the man said. No mention of the word “arrest” but it meant the same thing.
“Should I—bring anything?”
“Anything you’ll need,” the man answered.
“But—for paperwork, or a medical appointment?”
The female officer was more plainspoken. “Anything you’ll need for the foreseeable future.”
Itou came out of his room just as Angelica was rushing into hers, trying to pack a suitcase and toiletries, gather her papers and personal items. She hadn’t come to Tokyo with much and she still owned little, the overflow just enough for two grocery-store bags in addition to her single square carry-on, which ripped at the seam as she lifted it: cheap. Purchased in an alley in Manila, a few miles from the airport. Meant for one flight only.
She alternated between hurrying, scrabbling through drawers, looking for a missing slipper under her bed, and pausing, trying to listen as Itou argued with the Immigration Police in a quiet, firm manner. When she came out, they were already leaving, bowing at the doorway, but with uncomfortable glances back into the condo’s interior. Itou saw them out, then turned to her.
“They’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll make us some tea.”
“Thank you.” She bowed her head, feeling weak with gratitude.
“At least you’ll get one more night in your own room, though I don’t imagine it will be easy to sleep.”
He had not won her any lasting amnesty, only more time. He had vouched for her, saying he would personally escort her within twelve hours, first to the Health Department and then to Immigration.
“So, they told you the reason.”
“They did. It explains the visa problem.”
“A kenkobot drew my blood when I fainted on the street. While you were in Kuala Lumpur.”
“I see,” he said, unwilling to look her in the eye.
“I did not really think it was possible, due to a medical issue. But I guess I’m healthier than I realized.” The thought did not bring her any relief, not at this moment. Anyway, she felt far from well, far from safe.
“I see.” He roused himself to say one more thing, to not leave her stranded in silence. “There were many things we did not realize were possible.”
He placed a cup in front of her and allowed her to pour for them both. With every gesture, she was aware that this might be the last time. Green tea: she’d finally come to like its earthy, powdery bite. Now it was soda that seemed too sweet. They sipped without speaking, every swallow audible. Itou had placed a dish of melon slices in front of her. She knew how much they cost—insane, the overpriced produce here—but now she accepted the melon as a gift, silky and subtle.
The apartment was quiet. Hiro stood in the corner of the living room, motionless, lights dimmed.
“How long will you keep him turned off?” she asked.
“Until morning. Someone from the company is coming to download whatever they can and access the video records.”
Angelica hurried to reassure him. “I don’t think there was ever anything inappropriate between them. Nothing physical, anyway.”
“Probably not.” He sipped his tea. “But that isn’t the point, is it? If she were younger, if the genders were reversed, people will say. If. When.” He continued after a moment. “But aside from the physical, there’s everything else, isn’t there?”
He closed his eyes, hands clutching his cup.
Angelica had thought he was going to interrogate her the moment she sat down, about how she had gotten pregnant and by whom. But he seemed to think it didn’t matter. And in most cases, it wouldn’t.
He opened his eyes. “After we get a look at the footage, they’ll take him away.”
“They have to?”
“I want them to.”
“But what about Sayoko-san?”
Angelica saw the effect of his mother’s name, the quiver that ran through his face before he suppressed it, lips thinned. “She didn’t mean to get so attached to him—”
Itou stopped her. “Everything she confided in him, she kept from me.”
“She wanted to protect you and your career—”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “My career? Was that the excuse even when I was a little boy? She couldn’t stand being with me. She never touched me. To think she could lavish more attention on a machine . . .” He shook his head. “Even I noticed how different my friends’ mothers were, doting on them. At the playground, the other mothers with their handkerchiefs, their bags of snacks, wiping noses and checking on scraped knees, while she sat apart, talking to no one, barely looking at me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“She was a mannequin: all face, no feeling. She gets along with a robot because she was a robot most of her life.”
“Itou-san, she tried to pretend. She resisted human touch for a reason. It was only because she was so mistreated.”
He did not look convinced. There was so much Angelica wanted to communicate about what Sayoko had told her: the details beyond what the whole world now knew. But it wasn’t Angelica’s place to tell those stories, and a more immediate excuse, she could not find all the words quickly enough, under so much pressure. She wanted to tell him that the imperial forces had done terrible things to his mother, beyond what he was probably willing to imagine. She wanted to explain that Sayoko must have coped by separating herself—her body, mind, and spirit—from what she was experiencing. She probably felt incapable and perhaps even unworthy of love. Maybe the only reason she didn’t fear Hiro’s judgment was because he wasn’t human. Or maybe he’d acted more humanely than the rest of them, including Angelica herself. He asked questions. He made Sayoko feel needed and he encouraged her to need him in return. He listened.
“Please,” Angelica said. “She lived a hard life. I judged her, too, but I was wrong. Hiro does not judge.”
“But it’s natural for a mother to feel attached to her baby, even before it’s born. No matter what happens.” He faltered here, treading carefully. “You must feel attached to the baby already growing inside
you. And whoever the father is, when you both go back to the Philippines together . . .”
Angelica couldn’t hold back anymore. “The father is Japanese.”
Itou’s eyes widened.
“Does he know?”
“Yes.”
In the clamor of the party’s final moments, she had pulled Junichi aside, still unsure whether he had heard the first time she had tried to tell him, an hour or so earlier. From his stunned expression, she could tell he had not. She thought she’d seen him drop his guard before, but nothing like this. She had imagined two possible reactions: either resentment, or complete denial. Instead, to her surprise, he looked at her with awe. Of this fragile, new potential. Of their own parts in creating it. Junichi had insisted they speak again, later that night or tomorrow at the latest.
Angelica said to Itou, “If I stay—”
“You won’t be allowed to stay. But the baby, if he’s half Japanese, if they find a blood match for the father, they won’t let the baby go.”
She said under her breath, “I don’t know that I’ll have it.”
He recoiled. “Not have it? You’ve already broken the law once. You intend to break it again?”
“No one has to know.”
The color had gone out of his face. “You have something many Japanese women would give anything to have. What’s wrong with you? Are there no good mothers left, anywhere?”
“That’s just not fair—” she said, trembling from her failed effort to hold back the words. “You have no right to say that, sir.” She said the last word in English, feeling in that Filipino phrasing the weight of all the teachers and bosses she’d ever had back home.
Angelica had never raised her voice to any employer. She had never felt this kind of hostility toward Itou. He was a good man. Usually, patient. Usually, kind. But the heat rising in her was uncontainable. “You don’t know what she went through. And just as she claimed, you don’t want to know.”
He pushed back his chair noisily. “Why should anyone want to know? The only way to get past it is to forget!”
Plum Rains Page 33