East Wind, Rain

by Caroline Paul

  -There’s something that doesn’t make sense with you. If your people are coming, why do you need to destroy your plane and papers? You keep pestering me about that, but it’s not adding up.

  Nishikaichi looked at him solemnly.

  -Meiyo, Harada-san. Honor.

  -You mean if the American army lands here instead of the Japanese Imperial Navy.

  -I mean that…

  He stopped and frowned. He didn’t really have a good answer for this. He had just convinced Harada-san that his troops were coming, and this meant that his plane would not need to be destroyed. He bit his lip and hoped his insincerity would not show through.

  -To tell you the truth, Harada-san, my commander’s a son of a dog. He’d disapprove if he saw my plane intact. Once it’s been crash-landed, it’s my job to destroy it, even though we both know it won’t ever fall into enemy hands. He’s a stickler for things like that. I would be shamed, and so would my unit, even my family.

  Shame. Haji. Yoshio shrugged, as if the word meant little to him, but he felt the skin on his face grow hot. His hands flew together and began to clench. He thought he heard a man’s whisper. Yellow sissy, it said, twice. But no, he was here on Niihau, next to a young Japanese pilot, and no one was speaking, especially not English. He looked down at his writhing hands with disgust. Quit it, he admonished himself.

  Nishikaichi glanced at Yoshio’s grasping hands, then up at his face.

  There was silence for a while. Howard was headed back to shore. Nishikaichi pointed.

  -He’s like a fish in the water. He must be someone who stands on the waves too.

  Yoshio did not understand at first, but then the young man spread his arms out and bent his knees. Yoshio nodded.

  -You mean surfing.

  -We saw so many pictures. Men on wood, like flocks of strange birds! When we flew into Pearl Harbor, I thought I’d see hundreds like that. But perhaps I’ll see some here.

  Yoshio turned away. The mention of Pearl Harbor made his stomach curl up.

  -Do you walk on water, Harada-san?

  Yoshio exhaled and then glared.

  -We have nothing to talk about any longer, Airman Nishikaichi. You and your compatriots have bombed my country, and I do not forget that.

  -Harada-san, perhaps you don’t understand. With all due respect to your age and experience, how can I explain? He frowned. Last year, he said, on leave from my duties, I went to Mount Aso, our beautiful national park. Have you been there?

  Yoshio had never been to Japan. Not like Irene, who had gone and always talked about it as if it held something special.

  -My squadron and I went for a hike. While on the mountain we saw a fox and he saw us. He watched us for a while but ran when we tried to get close. He was smart. He knew who should run and who should not, that his mountain had changed now that we were on it.

  Howard was closer now. They could see the sun flash on his face when he lifted his head to breathe.

  -Perhaps you are the small fox here, Yoshio finally said. His voice was quiet, heavy. We are the army. If all of us on Niihau get together against you, you will run.

  -Perhaps. But there is a reason you haven’t told your neighbors about Pearl Harbor and that they haven’t lined up against me. Look, Harada-san, you don’t want to be a second-class citizen again.

  -Again?

  -America is not kind, Harada-san. We know this in Japan. In the newspapers we read of respected citizens who come here to work, to find only slave labor and misery.

  -Your newspapers profit from exaggeration, pal.

  -Perhaps. But here no one knows their place. In Japan we do.

  -Fix your plane and leave, Yoshio responded quietly. I won’t stop you.

  -If only it was that simple. Nishikaichi laughed. It’s not as if I can flap the wings like a bird and leave the earth with a worm in my mouth. The plane is dead, and now I must dispose of its body properly. I won’t leave before it is completely destroyed.

  Yoshio tried to imagine Nishikaichi lifting a hammer to the ruined plane, its long, already broken body coming off in chunks under his blows. He couldn’t see it, something so powerful giving in so easily. Even in pieces as it was, it was so clearly a plane. What could he do to alter it? He would need to grind it so far down, he supposed, that whoever finally took the island would see only a pile of black dust.

  -We know you’re not allowed in the same movie theaters as Americans, Harada-san.

  -I keep telling you, I am American. For goodness’ sake. He frowned. Anyway, it’s whites. We’re separated from them. Not the whole theater. Just the sections. We sit in different sections.

  -Like the Africans.

  Yoshio shrugged.

  -Why do you accept that? Do you think that’s your rightful place?

  -Who said I accepted it? Yoshio’s voice was suddenly tight. He heard a sound to his right that could have been the shore break, or was it in his head? His fists jammed together. He felt the back of his neck prickle as if with cold, but the day was still blazingly hot. Then it was too late: he was back in a theater in California. A young man, on a date, and he had mistakenly sat in the reserved section. The next thing he knew he was being pulled at by large, exuberant ushers. The girl he was with screamed as the men came at him with open hands and leering grins, enjoying the break in their usual tedious work. Their square hats had tilted with the effort of the extrication, though he had not fought at all. All he could remember was the rhythmic sway of their yellow usher epaulets as they dragged him, stunned and unmoving, from the theater. The silly uniform gave a certain military authority to the situation; even Yoshio felt the hollow thud of shame in his stomach, as if he had truly done something terribly wrong. The girl’s scream (what was her name; he could not remember) had disappeared abruptly when the theater’s doors to the street swung closed behind them. The three men dropped him in the gutter, and one had, after an extra push on Yoshio’s limp shoulder with one shiny black usher shoe, slapped his hands together in a washing motion. That sound, the susurration of what Yoshio could only describe as a kind of contented violence, reverberated in his head for years. Even after the screams of the girl had finally faded from his memory, this did not. That sudden, mocking swish-swish, half applause, half gleeful hand rubbing—even now he sometimes heard it in the hum of the surf, or in the first clickety-clack as Irene pushed denims under the sewing machine. It stopped him dead in his tracks and his heart would begin to thump wildly. Of course, he had worse memories. And there it was, that voice again.

  Yellow sissy, it whispered.

  -No disrespect meant, Harada-san. But in Japan there is a right place for everyone. Surely a Japanese man like you would never bow so deeply to others.

  Yoshio came out of his reverie and saw Nishikaichi staring at him. He forced his hands loose and slapped at the water. Then he put his palms on his hips, as if afraid the fingers would come together again, and glared at Nishikaichi.

  -You’re the prisoner here, not me.

  Nishikaichi looked at him with squint-eyed concentration.

  -You deserve more, Harada-san, that’s all, he finally said, bowing his head.

  -We wait for Mr. Robinson, Yoshio said quietly.

  -Harada-san, I’ll make sure no one here on Niihau gets hurt. If you help.

  Yoshio blinked at the water. For a moment it seemed as if he would nod in agreement.

  -Here comes Howard, he said instead.

  When the sun was a palm’s width from the horizon, Howard announced that they would stay the night instead of making the long, fifteen-mile journey back to Puuwai. Yoshio felt a surge of relief. Irene would be disappointed and frustrated that the pilot would not be at their house. But he was glad for the short reprieve.

  Yoshio motioned that he would be back soon, and made his way to the end of the beach where the cliffs plummeted to the ocean and a stand of kiawe withstood the onshore wind. There he stopped and exhaled. He wanted to scream or cry, he did not know which. Instead, he turned a
nd stared at the horizon.

  He was not looking one last time for Robinson, but for the Huna Motu, sacred and mysterious islands that the ranch hands sometimes mentioned. In 1778 Captain Cook reported that he saw them, naming them Moonapapa in his journals, and returning to Niihau twice with high hopes of sailing toward them, but they never appeared again. Irene had laughed and said it was all ignorance. But when the unulau wind blew, some of the villagers, unbeknownst to Robinson, headed to the old volcano Kaiwoha on the eastern tip of Niihau to catch a glimpse of one of the Huna Motu chain, the island Unulani, which burst with fruit, animals, and houses. Right before dawn it appeared for seconds, they said, and disappeared again with the sun. Yoshio had pushed to hear more about it, but the men had shut up then, and turned to peeling their fruit with sudden earnestness. Perhaps the islands would appear for him now, even though it was dusk. Yoshio raised his arms. What was he doing? he wondered. All he knew was that he needed a sign and anything would do, a disappearing island, a shark spirit, Jesus Christ himself.

  15

  As Nishikaichi settled onto the hard floor for the night, he was strangely calm. In the cooling air the warehouse smelled of old wood and dust and reminded him of the temple near his home in the Shikoku prefecture, where the pilgrims came and lit candles and left offerings, and where the rooms were ghostly with ancient things, as if all the candles ever lit, all the whispered prayers ever exhaled, all the fruit ever offered had left their scents in the grain of the walls. But as he turned on his back to get comfortable on the dirt (the other men put their heads on the tight balls of their dusty shirts, but Nishikaichi would still not allow himself to remove his flight suit), he caught sight of the Christian cross on the wall. It reminded him of the Zero, its wings outstretched uselessly, tilted on the rocky ground, abandoned. His heart clenched then, but he closed his eyes to feign sleep, though he would not sleep, not now, when his mission was so far from completion and dishonor pushed down on his shoulders like a weight. When the sub came—it would come, wouldn’t it?—he wouldn’t need Harada-san anymore. The sub’s crew would blow the plane up. He would watch as the sheared metal heaved toward the blue sky in one last effort to take flight.

  His anxiety did not last long. The hum of the shore break was soothing, the wind, which had picked up, whistled quietly. Nishikaichi had begun to see why Harada-san was still loyal to this island. There was a serenity here that Nishikaichi could not explain. Perhaps it was the lack of machines. Perhaps it was just the heat, relentless, sapping. He would have to be careful that he did not let his guard down too much, get carried away by this loosening of his limbs.

  As he drifted off to sleep, the pilot thought of the white scar of the fishmonger’s daughter. It moved like a wave, beckoning him. He lifted his arms and, still breathing deeply, began to swim toward it.

  Nishikaichi woke the morning of Wednesday, December 10, with a headache. He’d had disturbing, incoherent dreams of a plane come alive. It walked on its back tail and flapped large wings menacingly. Which was why, despite the steely nerve that had been drilled into him as a soldier, the sight of Howard looming over him startled him so much.

  -Ohana, the Hawaiian man said. Nishikaichi got to his feet, thinking that perhaps the emperor’s boat had come, but then Howard stopped a few feet outside the door and kicked some rocks out of the way. Then he went carefully to his knees. He raised folded hands to the lightening sky. After a moment Nishikaichi heard a strange bleating sound and realized that Howard had begun to sing. His voice quickly gathered momentum and soon it was loud and exuberant. Despite his tightened bladder, Nishikaichi did not move from the warehouse. He was not sure what to make of this sudden, unabashed worship, but he knew he did not want to disturb it. He slowly sat back on the ground, crossed his own legs, and lay the backs of his hands on his knees. He closed his eyes. Within a moment he had forgotten his own need to urinate. He blanked his mind in a quick rush of what he could only describe as wind and felt the familiar lightness that came with the meditative prayer he had learned as a boy. He chanted in a voice that came silently from the crown of his head. While the voice repeated the sacred words, his heart opened slowly, like the mouth of a cave seems to do when the sun hits. His heart spoke then, without words, asking the great forces to allow him to see the fishmonger’s daughter one more time, to miraculously destroy his plane and papers, to protect his parents, and to keep the war from this lonely island. He wondered if this was blasphemous, communing with Lord Buddha against the backdrop of Jesus. It didn’t feel like it; it felt organic and whole. The more powerful Howard’s singing became, the more the white light behind his eyes shone, the more his scalp glowed. When the singing stopped, Nishikaichi opened his eyes quickly. He was letting his guard down too much, much too much.

  No one said anything during the breakfast of leftover yams, not even Howard. When the sun was well above the horizon, Nishikaichi walked to the water’s edge, but he no longer wanted to swim. The Niihauan emperor had not arrived, and this was Nishikaichi’s third day with no sign of a rescuing submarine. The sub was not coming, he would have to face that. Now something had to change here, he knew. He waited for Yoshio to join him so that he could begin to talk in earnest to him, but the man stayed in the warehouse, a tormented look on his face, and so Nishikaichi stared out to sea alone.

  16

  Late that morning three children rode up on horses. The two younger ones rode together—a round, wide-smiling girl and another more serious one on a handsome young piebald. The boy skidded up on a horse of his own. He was older, perhaps sixteen or so. At the sound of the arriving horses, each man perked up slightly. Howard stood and stubbed out his cigarette with haste, his shame returning momentarily so that he shoved the remainder in his pocket too roughly and waved at the smoke as if punching the air. Yoshio raised his head for only a moment before putting his hands together and lowering it again.

  -Mr. Kaleohano! called the boy, one hand raised in greeting.

  -Ah, my friend, Kahuna Pule. Little Preacher. Howard coughed, looked from side to side anxiously, and then shook the young man’s hand with vigor.

  -My father wants to light the emergency signals on Mount Paniau, Little Preacher said, glancing at the pilot.

  Howard paused, looking alarmed, and then his face broke out into his crooked-toothed smile. He waved one hand.

  -Hanaiki worries too much. He’ll be like the old man Ben Kanahele if he doesn’t stop!

  He kept smiling, but inside he thought how it was no good that the people were losing faith in Robinson, and that it was his job to stop that. He leaned toward Little Preacher and dropped his voice

  -The Old Lord comes today, Little Preacher, he intoned. I assure you, by the rump of my chestnut horse, that he’ll pull up any minute now. I think I even see a speck out there. Look.

  -You sure?

  -Sure.

  -And if no?

  -If no, by early afternoon, then okay, go tell your father to light the lamps. But not until then. Mr. Robinson, he’ll come, not to worry. Stay for a while now, swim. Or just cool yourself in the warehouse. And tell the keiki to stop sneaking around out there.

  With this last comment Howard jerked his head to the wall behind him.

  There was a loud shuffle. A few seconds later the two girls appeared at the side of the door, looking solemn and sheepish.

  The serious girl gave something to Howard and then approached Nishikaichi, avoiding his eyes, holding out a strange fruit, which he took and examined. It was heavy. It had thick, spiny skin. Leaves sprayed out from one end. He shook it. No sound. Holding on to one of its stiff leaves, he put his nose close and sniffed.

  -Halakahiki, the girl said. Pineapple.

  With two quick arcs of his knife, Howard cut his, the pieces falling away like petals. Yoshio watched the pilot stare at the flashing knife. Was he going to lunge for it? And if he did, what would Yoshio do?

  Nishikaichi made his move then, but it was not what Yoshio expected. He voraciously jamme
d his teeth against the skin of the fruit in his hand. He bit hard and deep and Yoshio flinched from the sting he knew his gums would feel from the stiff, unforgiving rind. Yoshio watched as the young man tried to clamp his jaw shut and tear a bite away, but the fruit would not give. He heard a sound between a gasp and a giggle; the girls stared at the pilot with wide-eyed amazement.

  -Skin isn’t for eating, said Yoshio gruffly.

  The pilot shook his teeth free and then let the thing fall to the ground, where it thudded loudly and kicked up dust. Then he spat a few times and smiled sheepishly.

  -No halakahiki in Japan, I see. Howard guffawed and continued to cut his fruit into pieces.

  Little Preacher stood with his arms folded. His nickname came from his earnest pronouncement at a young age that he would be a minister, and he had grown into a serious young man, as anyone who had taken all the biblical stories of scourges and plagues too much to heart was bound to be. He didn’t find anything particularly funny in the stranger spitting out pineapple on the floor. In fact the stranger meant little to him at all. He had disliked the large, broken carcass of metal and rubber left in the Niihau field. Its charred smell and dark frame had reminded him of the devil himself, and it had spooked Little Preacher to stand guard next to it. Though he had originally been as intrigued as anyone else about the stranger who had fallen from the sky, now he couldn’t look at the stranded pilot without thinking of the archangel Gabriel tumbling through the clouds as he was banished from heaven. The sooner the man left the island the better, Little Preacher thought, turning from Howard to watch with the rest of them as the girls ran laughing into the water.

  Nishikaichi said nothing until they were out of his sight. His face was flushed.

  -I scared them, he said to Yoshio.

  -Don’t worry, he responded. They don’t know any better.

  Yoshio’s voice was nonchalant but inside his stomach had jumped. The sight of those children laughing, the way their hands flew up to their faces as shields and dismissive waves at once—it reminded him of days in California when children smirked at the sight of him, or backed away when he dared to smile. Once, in his first few days there, a small girl had asked him if he really ate the boys before the girls, and he had first thought it was a joke, but she had been solemn and unsmiling. He thought suddenly of Taeko, on the floor with shells under her tiny fingers, Irene nearby, her holoku swirling around her thin frame as she turned to look at him. What was the look? Accusatory? Pleading? He heard more laughter on the shoreline, and from the open door he could see the two girls slouched toward each other, arms akimbo, flailing with hilarity or mockery, he could not tell which.