“I believe it is possible,” he said at last. “Not likely, but possible. Depending on the man and the woman,” he added. “How tolerant they are and how brave.”
“But not on how much they care for one another?”
“That too, I suppose.” It was obvious that Nakane-san did not believe love alone would bridge the gulf separating the two cultures.
“In Japan when a person makes an important decision, he must first think about how it will affect others, especially his family. Sometimes that means he has to do things he does not want to do or accept things, that if he were free … ” He paused. “The Japanese have a word, gaman. It has to do with accepting one’s fate and making the best of what has been willed by the gods.
“That is a difficult concept for Westerners to understand,” he continued. “Americans in particular, believe anything is possible.”
“I believe it,” Libby said. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be a fighter pilot.”
“Ah, then you mustn’t let some old fossil like me, who is much too set in his ways, try and discourage you,” he laughed. “Anyway, I did not say it was impossible. If it were, I wouldn’t be here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mama, hand me the album on the tansu and I will show Libby a picture of my grandfather.” Mrs. Nakane scrambled to her feet and fetched a worn leather-bound picture album crammed with family photographs. On the first page was sepia portrait of a middle-aged couple, surrounded by numerous children, all staring solemnly into the camera. The Japanese woman in a formal kimono was holding a baby in a white lace dress on her lap. The man, a tall, stern-looking Caucasian, had a mane of curly white hair — not unlike Nakane-san’s — and a long, neatly trimmed beard.
The sensei pointed to a young girl with dark ringlets, in the back row. “My mother, Akiko.”
Libby stared intently at the photograph. “She’s beautiful,” she said.
“She was very tall for a Japanese woman. Taller than my father. And she had that curly hair.” The old man smiled. “It was not admired as much in her day as it is now. I remember she was always trying to straighten it. Papa didn’t approve of curls.”
“Where was your grandfather from?” Libby asked excitedly. “How did they meet?”
“He was from England. He came to Japan to teach in one of the missionary schools. I don’t know the circumstances surrounding their courtship and marriage. But he seems to have eventually been accepted by her family.” The sensei shrugged. “He never returned to England. They must have had something in common, to have had all those children,” he laughed. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Oh, yes!” Libby wanted to throw her arms around Nakane-san and kiss him, she was so thrilled by his revelation.
It didn’t take long for word to get around the squadron that Libby was dating a Japanese officer. As long as one’s personal life didn’t interfere with the mission or disregard military regulations, it shouldn’t have mattered one way or another. Libby went out of her way to refrain from judging her fellow pilots’ extracurricular activities. She didn’t gossip behind their backs about who removed his wedding ring when he went TDY or let on that she knew one of the pilots was sleeping with a sergeant’s wife but apparently the men were not as scrupulous when it came to her.
To be fair, not all of them were that interested. They had more important things to think about than Libby Comerford. But the ones that were — mostly friends of Charlie’s — made sure she knew they disapproved.
If one of the men had been dating a Japanese woman, no one would have given it a second thought. But they took it as a personal affront that Libby was seeing a Japanese man.
The idea of a Western man having sex with an Asian woman was exotic. Diminutive, shy, deferential, Asian woman were the embodiment of a mysterious eroticism. But Asian men … even one as accomplished and attractive as Major Yoshida … . What was Libby thinking?
Colonel Long liked Libby. He did not have a strong opinion one way or the other about females flying in combat. When Congress authorized the integration of women into fighter squadrons, he didn’t waste any time lamenting the demise of the traditional, all-male brotherhood. But there was no question that Libby’s presence in his squadron had created some problems which the colonel was reluctant to address because they smacked of paternalism, or sexism, or even racism, depending on one’s point of reference.
Paternalism, because as a man (there was no getting away from the fact that Libby was young and attractive) and a father of two teenage daughters, he felt protective toward Libby. He didn’t want to see her get hurt or derail an otherwise stellar career.
Sexist, because if Libby had been a man, the problem would never have arisen in the first place. There were rivalries in a squadron full of ambitious, ego-driven men competing against one another for bomb scores and air-to-air “kills.” But the rivalries were up front and uncomplicated. The environment changed with the assignment of a female — edicts from Washington notwithstanding. Libby was a beautiful woman and the men responded accordingly.
Finally, there was the issue of racism. Colonel Long was not a racist. He liked the Japanese people, admired their intelligence and industry. He didn’t know Major Yoshida well, but his dealings with the man had always been cordial. Yoshida was impeccably groomed, nice looking. His command of English was commendable. But … he was Japanese. It was, well, unnatural for a red-blooded American woman, an Air Force officer, to date an Asian man.
Captain Devane’s wife was Korean but that was different. The sexual dynamics of their relationship were easier to understand and to accept. Sue was a delightful girl, devoted wife, conscientious mother. No one thought less of Captain Devane or gave him a hard time because his wife was a different race.
It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. Colonel Long’s first obligation was to the mission. Anything that jeopardized its success would not be tolerated.
Libby knew what was coming the minute the Commander invited her into his office and closed the door behind him. His pleasant smile did nothing to allay her nervousness or relax the knot of resentment and anger in the pit of her stomach.
“Sit down, make yourself comfortable,” he said, indicating a lonely armchair opposite his spacious desk. Libby took the proffered chair but the colonel’s air of informality only served to increase her apprehension. She crossed her legs, thought better of it, uncrossed them and planted her feet firmly on the floor in front of her.
“Misawa is a challenging assignment,” he said. “You’ve adapted very well, Libby. I know it hasn’t always been smooth sailing for you here in the squadron. Being the only woman among a bunch of thick-headed fighter pilots — that’s a challenge in itself, which I might add, you have handled with extraordinary tact and humor.
“I would have run interference if I thought you weren’t up to it, but I was confident you could take care of yourself.”
Libby nodded.
“Misawa is a long way from home. You were stationed in Iraq. You know what it’s like to live halfway around the world, in a distinctly foreign culture. One’s perspective changes … . Sometimes people are inclined to do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do. That can be a good thing. Don’t get me wrong. Trying new things, learning about another culture … . It broadens your horizons. I’m always telling my daughters that when they complain about living overseas. But there are dangers too. Novelty is seductive, Libby. A person can forget where she’s coming from or where she’s headed.
“When you leave here … if all goes well,” he added ominously, “you can choose your next assignment. I want you to succeed. Right now you have everything going for you but if you screw up … .
“I don’t need to tell you there are people who would be pleased if you faltered. I’m not one of them.”
“I know that, sir.”
“But I won’t stand
by and let you disrupt the harmony of this squadron. If there is dissention among the men, the mission suffers.”
Libby squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. The colonel had paused and was waiting for a response. She laced her hands together in her lap. “I would never do anything to imperil the mission, Colonel Long. And I have never done anything intentionally to cause dissention among the pilots.”
“Perhaps not intentionally,” he conceded.
“I know some of the men resent all the publicity I receive. I don’t blame them. But surely … ”
“It’s your private life they resent, Libby. Your, your association with Major Yoshida from the Samurai Squadron.”
Association. She almost smiled. Association. The word made their relationship sound very clinical.
“I don’t think my private life is any of their business.”
“It isn’t. Unless it impinges on the squadron’s morale. There are all kinds of rumors going around about you and Yoshida, that you went off to Sapporo with him for the weekend … ”
“I did go. He invited me to the Ice Festival. Major Yoshida is … ” Libby paused to deliberate over the choice of words. “A friend.”
“Major Yoshida is an officer in the Japanese Air Self-Defense Force. He is General Sato’s aide. From all accounts, he has a very promising future ahead of him. I’m sure you wouldn’t want gossip to compromise his brilliant career any more than he would want it to compromise yours.”
Libby kept her eyes focused on a photograph of the colonel’s family on the bookcase — a trio of smiling blondes with perfect teeth. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to defy her commanding officer but she had no intention of sacrificing her relationship with Kojiro because he disapproved.
“Japan is a very sophisticated country. It is easy to be seduced into believing that the Japanese are just like Americans because of their high-rises and nice cars and clever gadgets. They don’t think like us, Libby. They have different priorities. Even the ones who speak flawless English. Even your Major Yoshida.” Colonel Long stood up and glanced out the window as two Mitsubishi F-1 fighters accelerated down the runway. The throb of the jet engines reverberated off the walls of his office and then, the sharp retort of the afterburners as the airplanes climbed into the sky.
“I don’t want to see you get into something over your head. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.” Libby rose, stood at attention and saluted the colonel. “Thank you, sir.”
TONIGHT on Sumi-no-ye beach
The waves alone draw near;
And, as we wander by the cliffs,
No prying eyes shall peer,
No one shall dream we’re here.
Fujiwara No Toshiyuki Ason
Chapter Eight
“Libby?”
“I knew it was you, Kojiro. Do you believe in sixth sense?”
“What are you talking about?”
“About knowing something before it happens. When the telephone rang, I just had this feeling it was you. I could almost feel your presence.”
He laughed. “Well, I am not too far away. I arrived back to Misawa last night.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“It was late,” he lied. He hadn’t called because he couldn’t bear to speak to her and pretend everything was fine when he had spent the previous evening going over last-minute plans for the wedding with Motoko. “How was your week?”
“Busy. We’re playing catch-up at the squadron. Flying two or three times a day. I’ve been given the onerous task of chemical warfare defense officer.” She refrained from adding that she was sure Major Petrowski had assigned her additional duty because of her unconventional social life. There was no sense confiding her fears to Kojiro. He might use it as an excuse to quit seeing her out of misplaced concern for her career.
“It has been so long since I’ve flown I’m required to fly with an instructor pilot before they’ll let me near an airplane,” he said. “It seems all I do is attend meetings these days. I’m not complaining about being General Sato’s aide, I just wish he spent more time in Misawa.”
“I wish he did too,” Libby said. “When am I going to get to see you?”
“It is going to be difficult … .”
“But why? You can come here. You’ve never seen my apartment. Everyone knows about us, Kojiro. Sergeant Vogel told Charlie. Even Colonel Long knows,” she added.
“I don’t think that would be possible.” He sounded horrified by her suggestion. Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned Colonel Long. Kojiro took everything so seriously; he was bound to think her commander had the power to put an end to their relationship.
“I just thought … ” She didn’t finish. She had been going to say, she thought it would give them a chance to be alone. Assuming that was what he wanted. But her pride held her in check.
“I would like to see where you live. I wish I was there with you now.” His voice sounded tired and strained. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Sure.”
“Libby?” He could hear the disappointment in her voice. “Have you any plans for next Saturday?”
“No.”
“Would you like to go away overnight? There are some wonderful old hot springs up in the mountains.”
“Someone might see us together,” she said bitterly.
“Libby, please say you will come.” There was a long pause. “I need you.” It was the closest Kojiro had ever come to admitting that he cared for her. He had never made any bones about wanting her. But wanting her and needing her was not the same. Need implied dependence, conviction, affirmation. Trust.
“Libby?
“Will you pick me up here?”
“Hai.”
“Then I’ll come.”
At 10:00 Saturday morning, Kojiro knocked on Libby’s door. She had been watching out the window as he pulled up in the parking lot, got out of his car and strode briskly into the BOQ. No one would have guessed from looking at him how uneasy he was about going into the American billeting, climbing the stairs, and knocking on her door. Calling for Libby in person, going out in public with her on the base, was a test that he was determined not to fail, even if it put his future in jeopardy. There would be no question of their seeing one another after this weekend and he wanted everything to be perfect for her.
“Major Yoshida, you are most welcome,” she said with a warm smile. Libby could hardly contain her excitement at seeing Kojiro again. She wanted to throw her arms around him but she was constrained by sudden shyness.
“You are looking well,” he said. He held out his hand in greeting but withdrew it before she had a chance to touch him, and bowed instead.
“Make yourself at home, while I finish packing,” she said as she disappeared into the bedroom. “The coffee’s still warm, if you want a cup … ”
“There isn’t time,” he said. Kojiro didn’t want to spend any more time than he had to, in her apartment. Observing her things scattered around the room, books, woodblock prints, family photos, made him feel like a voyeur as thrilled by the sight of her intimate surroundings as he was by her body.
There was a photograph of Libby on the desk, in the classic fighter pilot pose, standing in front of an F-16. She looked relaxed, happy, proud, one hand braced loosely on her hip, the other hugged around her helmet. Kojiro swallowed and looked away. It was much safer to avoid getting too personal, he reminded himself sternly. Their relationship was based on mutual sexual attraction. Nothing more. And in time, that would pass. Once he was married to Motoko … .
“I’m ready.” Libby emerged from the bedroom carrying the overnight bag she had taken to Sapporo.
“I just noticed your picture.” Kojiro pointed to the photograph on the desk.
“It was us
ed for a recruitment poster. I think it said: The sky’s the limit, or something corny like that. The Air Force wants everyone to know it’s an equal opportunity employer.”
“Well if I had seen it, I would have joined the American Air Force instead of the Japanese Air Self-Defense Force,” Kojiro said. He always addressed her in such measured, formal English, his awkward attempt at levity made her smile.
“I have an extra photo. Would you like it?”
Kojiro hesitated. There was no sense accepting something he would have to hide from Motoko. “Not now. Another time,” he said. “We have to get going.”
It struck Libby as odd that he wasn’t anxious to have the photograph, the Japanese were so fond of taking pictures and exchanging them with one another. They never went anywhere without a camera slung over a shoulder. The only picture she had of Kojiro was one somebody had snapped of the two of them at General Sato’s garden party. But perhaps he just didn’t want to be reminded of her profession, although he had long since stopped giving her a hard time about flying fighters.
“Well we can’t go until you translate something for me. I just bought a scroll from the antique dealer in Misawa I told you about, Mr. Nanaka. I was going to take it to my sensei to translate but now that I have you on hand … .” Libby went and opened the drawer and retrieved the scroll out of a very old and, to Kojiro’s eye, disreputable-looking Japanese chest — another bargain from the enterprising junk man. Obviously pleased with her purchase, she unrolled it reverently on the carpet. Kojiro scanned it briefly and shook his head. It was a morbid poem in bold, black characters, by the poet Hitomaro which he had no intention of translating.
“So, what does it say?”
“It is difficult for me to read and to translate into English. It would take too much time.”
Heart to Heart Page 82