Hiro appeared in the doorway, standing at loose attention with knees and elbows bent, fingers flexing. He’d been shut down, but the shouting had triggered his override response to any perceived threat.
Hiro asked, “Are you injured?”
Itou shouted back, “Of course not!” Then he turned back to Angelica. “There will be controversy now, because of Hiro. But people are intrigued. They’ll want a robot that can be programmed to love and forced to be a lifelong companion—”
“He isn’t programmed, and he wasn’t forced,” Angelica interrupted. “He and Sayoko-san need each other—”
“But no one wants to hear about comfort women. That chapter is closed.”
Itou jabbed a finger at Hiro and gestured toward the living room. Hiro retreated out of view.
“It isn’t closed,” Angelica said. “Your mother is still alive.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Help her live with what she’s admitting now. People will shame her. They’ll deny her story. She’ll need at least one person who doesn’t.”
“Am I supposed to apologize for what she went through? Are all the politicians who weren’t alive back then supposed to apologize?” Itou put a hand to his forehead, massaging his wrinkled brow with eyes closed. “That’s all been said and done.”
But it wasn’t said and done. Not at all.
That afternoon, after the last reporter had left, she had leaned against the door and searched that word she’d heard muttered over and over: Ianfu. What appeared to be official apologies were often accompanied by reversals: politicians continuing to claim that the women had been prostitutes prior to their enslavement, that they were never actually forced, that this was only normal business rather than a grave human rights violation. Women’s rights activists and the last remaining survivors were still censured.
And it wasn’t just an issue confined to one country, or two. The victims had come from across Asia and beyond, an estimated 400,000 women, mostly from China and South Korea, but from all of the Japanese-occupied territories, even the Philippines. Many were enslaved when they were thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years old. Some were told they would work in restaurants or factories. Others were told nothing and simply grabbed off the field or street. In every nation, there had been attempts to break the silence and tell the story: fifty years after the war, seventy-five years after, always with the idea that it would get easier. But it was never easy. As the very last survivors celebrated their centennial birthdays and beyond, activists urged the public to listen to the firsthand accounts before it was too late. But just as many commentators urged the public to forget.
Angelica wanted to understand more, but the linguistic nuances were beyond her—beyond even many Japanese, who debated the words used in apologies, which kind of words expressed weighty remorse and which were insubstantial brush-offs. She had spent every day for the last five years grappling with a language that might keep her employed, might keep her safe. The least the politicians and bureaucrats could do was grapple with this same language and find the culturally appropriate way to make these survivors feel less shamed. Itou-san had it in his power to at least do that.
“I suppose,” Angelica said, “now that people know your connection to the issue, you will be asked publicly about your position. I suppose it will be hard to know exactly what to say.”
He lifted his chin defiantly. “Just so. Which is why, as of tonight, I am no longer employed by the ministry.”
“They fired you?”
“I resigned.”
“How could you?”
He gave her the look she’d seen from annoyed strangers in her first weeks in Tokyo, when she’d paused a second too long at the door of the subway car, afraid of the crush of bodies, or when she’d walked into a noodle shop, baffled by the vending machine, unable to understand why she couldn’t just order at the counter and pay the waitress directly. The look said: If you’re going to live here, get with the program.
“It’s what we do,” he said. “It’s a form of taking responsibility.”
“Is it? Really?”
Hiro reappeared in the kitchen doorway. “Itou-san,” he interrupted. “Guests are at the door again. The security view shows two uniformed officers. Shall I let them in?”
“I’ll deal with it,” Itou said angrily.
“Should I power down?”
“Yes,” Itou said. “No. I don’t know. Just stay out of my way.”
With deep bows and abject apologies, the Immigration officers had come to reverse their error. With all respect for Itou-san’s position, they could not wait until morning to bring a flight-risk foreigner into custody. Also, they had called their superiors, who had alerted them to the fact that Itou-san merited no special deference in this matter. Even prior to this evening, even before the official announcement in a broadcast twenty minutes ago, he would not have merited special deference.
“Hai, hai,” Itou-san said to the police before turning to Angelica. “Get your things. We must wake my mother. She can’t be left at home without supervision. I’ll call my car service.”
Angelica went to Sayoko’s bedroom. The old woman had curled up on her side, brow furrowed as she slept, breath shallow. Angelica stood for a moment, hesitant to wake her. When Itou came to the doorway, he too stopped and paused, watching his mother.
“The car service won’t accept my request,” he said quietly. “My work account has already been cancelled.”
Angelica was so used to her own roadblocks—message systems hacked into, accounts frozen. She did not realize a man of Itou’s reputation could so quickly become separated from his resources and routines as well.
“It can be sorted out,” he said. “But I don’t know which will be quicker, starting my own account, or trying to get a regular cab here. How do you get around?”
He was helpless.
“On foot, usually.”
“And a regular cab, will it fit my mother’s wheelchair?”
“No. You don’t have to come with me. Please, stay with Sayoko-san—”
“You need an advocate.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She suppressed the hundred things she would have to tell him, even if she planned to be gone no longer than an evening: how to reset his phone to accept more of the alerts; which blood sugar alarms to ignore and which to pay attention to, depending on what Sayoko had last eaten; that he should check if she were wearing her wrist monitor or if she’d somehow gotten it off again, or devise an alternate plan now that her reaction to the device was better understood; her prescription schedule; what she absolutely must eat and drink in the morning, or risk upsetting her bowels, though she would not want to talk about them, of course, and he would have to learn her euphemisms. There wasn’t time to explain. At least he had Hiro to explain things, and to improvise.
“And if they put you directly on a plane?” Itou asked. “But no, they can’t do that, either. I have no idea what they’ll do.” He paused. “Angelica, who is the father?”
“I can’t tell you,” she said, dropping her head, wishing she could just run away, but where? She felt so terribly heavy: from staying up all night, from the stress of everything that had happened, from the shift in her hormones, which were trying to force her to rest, nest and protect the small living thing inside of her. She only wanted to sleep.
But then she remembered. This might be her last chance. He knew things. He knew people. “Itou-san, have you ever heard of anyone coming back from the Alaska BZ—”
“America?” He looked annoyed at the change of subject.
“If a sick worker ever wanted to leave but needed assistance, is there any chance Japan would accept them? I know Japan has excellent care for many kinds of contaminated workers . . .”
“Unlikely. Is this a Japanese person?”
“No.”
“Call it impossible.”
They both heard the voice of the male Immigration officer, taking a call in the hallway, reporting his location.
Itou dropped his voice to a stern whisper. “Angelica, tell me who the father is.”
She held her breath a moment, hoping her confession would seem like obedience, and soften him in some way. “Your colleague,” she said. “Junichi.”
She changed the subject again as fast as her tongue could manage. It was her last chance to ask anyone with power, even if that power was disappearing fast. She’d waited too long. She hadn’t asked for help soon enough, all those times she’d needed it. Why had she never asked?
“Please, Itou-san. You’re positive there is nothing that can be done to help a BZ worker?”
But he had already closed his eyes at the sound of Junichi’s name. His hands were folded at hip level in a posture of feigned calm.
“This is something you should take up with your government, perhaps,” he said, eyes still closed. “Not the government of Japan.”
She couldn’t give up so easily. “It’s my brother. Our government isn’t concerned about one more overseas worker in a bad situation.”
“I’m sorry. I have nothing more to say about this. You should finish gathering your things.”
She had expected as much, and yet the disappointment was like a physical weight too heavy to hold. If she didn’t fight the urge with all her might, she would drop to the floor.
Through their conversation, Sayoko still slept. Angelica withdrew from Itou’s presence and went to see her for a moment, kneeling beside her bed. She couldn’t bear to wake her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry for everything.” Sumimasen. One of the first words she’d ever learned, because the Japanese apologize all the time, and even a simple thank you seemed to include a sense of regret for bothering someone. But everyday regret wasn’t what she was feeling, and reticence was not her true style. She had to switch to her own language to say it right.
“My dear friend, I am so thankful to have known you. I love you.”
Hiro followed them to the doorway.
“I am going with Anji-sensei. That way Itou-san can stay with his mother, and Anji won’t be alone, without witness or representation.”
The male officer looked to his female companion and they both looked to Itou.
Hiro added, “I will return when I can no longer be of assistance. Is this acceptable, Itou-san?”
When Itou hesitated, Hiro added, “It is the least we can do.”
Itou looked at the officers, who still seemed to be embarrassed about having returned to collect Angelica. This time, a call was made in advance and permission was granted.
Outside the building, Angelica turned to Hiro. “Are you sure you should have left Sayoko-san? She’s used to at least one of us being there.”
“I did not make the decision lightly,” he replied, dropping his voice lower to add, “and above all I considered Itou-san’s need for time alone with his mother. Only in authentic moments of cooperation will they find a way to discuss what has recently come to light.”
Halfway down the block, striding head-down just behind the police officers, Angelica realized there was no government car. “Budget cuts,” the male officer said, when he saw her puzzling at their approach to the subway station. His fellow officer glared at him over her shoulder. He added, “Better for the environment.”
The subway was nearly full, but when the car partly emptied at the next stop, the male officer pointed to a vacant seat, gesturing for Angelica to take it.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Please.”
He looked relieved when she sat, as if she were some delicate foreign import he was in charge of protecting from harm. She could only imagine the treatment she would get when her belly was three times as large and her A-cup breasts vastly more prominent, like some fertility goddess in a culture seeking an end to barrenness. But perhaps there would be no public scrutiny at all, if they kept her in a jail cell.
Now that he had one less worry, the man introduced himself as Officer Yoshida, his partner as Officer Mori.
“And you’re Hiro,” Yoshida said to the robot. “Since about five o’clock I can’t go anywhere or do anything without seeing news images of you.”
Yoshida nodded and Angelica could see the officer’s eyes flicking back and forth. Every few seconds, they rolled back in his head. Retinal users sometimes looked like drug addicts or like someone having trouble with a contact lens. They thought they were getting away with constantly checking their personal streams and feeds—probably no more acceptable for an Immigration officer than for most desk workers—but it was obvious they weren’t paying full attention.
Yoshida continued, “You’re sure you won’t take this chance to run away from the old woman? A lot of younger ladies would love to own your model.”
“I have no desire to be with a younger woman,” Hiro said. “For as long as she needs me, I am dedicated to Sayoko-san.”
“And when she no longer needs you?”
“I haven’t considered that, and I don’t need to.”
“See?” Yoshida said to his partner. “I told you. You know, my grandmother likes to put these silly hats on her maidbot.”
Hiro affected a bored look, adjusting his scarf. “I’m sure she does.”
The Tokyo subway system was byzantine and any long trip required multiple changes, often onto different lines owned by different companies. Their trip was neither simple nor short, and Angelica found herself clenching her knees together.
“Can we make a bathroom stop?” she asked Officer Mori as they ascended an elevator between lines. “I promise to be quick.”
Mori didn’t answer, face drawn into a worried frown.
“Please?” Angelica asked again, aiming her imploring glance at the male officer, Yoshida.
Hurrying off at the next landing, they stepped to one side, away from the tidal surge of pedestrians hurrying to make a connection. Yoshida looked up at the ceiling, leaving the decision to his partner.
Hiro faced away from them, his gaze fixed on a gigantic zoo poster. Zoos had become no less popular with the decline of children, and the birth of a new panda drew larger crowds than ever. Noting his intense stare, Angelica remembered Hiro’s reaction to Sayoko’s story about the slaughter of the Ueno Park animals. She had briefly questioned Sayoko’s memory of the event, but now she trusted it was true. Nothing about the war—any war—would surprise her anymore.
Mori finally gave in to Angelica’s request. “Okay, but please hurry.”
The officers and Hiro stood just outside the public women’s restroom, forming such an impressive congregation that several women hesitated near the doorway and then chose not to enter.
In the stall, Angelica sat down with relief, eyes briefly closed. When she opened them and looked down, she saw a telltale, rust-brown stain.
Dressed again, she stood near the open doorway and called to Hiro, who stepped inside.
“It’s only spotting,” he said. “Even with a healthy pregnancy, that can be normal.”
She knew that, too. She just wanted another nurse to say it.
Angelica called past Hiro to the female officer, who likewise took a few steps inside the bathroom. “Do you have any sanitary pads?”
Mori shook her head. As Angelica guessed: probably too thin to menstruate anyway. Not the primary cause of infertility here, but not a help, either.
“I saw a 7-Eleven, just out by the escalators,” Angelica suggested meekly. “Would you mind?”
Officer Mori gave her a tight, stressed smile and barely inclined her head.
Angelica could hear the voices of the officers outside the bathroom conferring over who should pay for the sanitary pads, and whether the office would reimbur
se them. Yoshida had a prepaid office card but no idea what to purchase. Mori wasn’t confused about what to buy, but she wasn’t sure if the card reader would accept her thumbprint.
“I won’t be able to do it alone,” Mori insisted.
“I won’t either,” Yoshida said.
“We’ll be right back,” Mori finally announced in a singsong voice, trying to sound like they hadn’t been arguing. “Stay there please and don’t move, thank you very much.”
A commuter hurried in, used the facilities, stared at Angelica and at Hiro, washed her hands, and left.
After an awkward minute in the restroom, Hiro spoke. It took Angelica a second to realize: he was speaking Cebuano, for the first time—and for good reason, given what he was suggesting. “This is when we would escape, if we desired to escape.”
“But you promised to behave and cooperate. And to come back home soon.”
“I promised only to return when I could no longer be of assistance. Anji-sensei, this is the time you need my assistance.”
Angelica had not had a moment to fill Hiro in on all the details she’d kept to herself. With a robot, it didn’t take long. Unlike humans, who had to process, react and divert the conversation to their own interests, fears, and hurt feelings, Hiro simply wanted the facts.
“I keep thinking about Datu,” Angelica began. “I can’t let him die all alone in Alaska.”
“Anji-sensei, you have your own emergency at this moment. If I may suggest: you should not let others’ problems distract you from logically solving your own.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “If you leave Japan and go to the Philippines, Bagasao will discover he has two things close at hand: a woman who has eluded him, and a baby that is worth, on the black market, all that you and your brother owe. He will take the child from you. And still, he may give you no peace. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” she said under her breath.
Hiro bowed his head, preparing to offer a sensitive suggestion. “If you do not intend to keep it, Junichi is the one who will want this baby. He’ll pay good money for it.”
She twisted up her face, upset at the idea, not at Hiro. “That’s wrong.”
Plum Rains Page 34