The Sun Gods

by Jay Rubin

  One Saturday night, the big dinner rush was over and the late-night crowd had not yet begun to come in when Reiko invited him to sit in one of the empty booths for a Japanese lesson. She sat next to him rather than on the other side of the table, and she edged closer to him as they traded phrases. He had seen enough now of Japanese feminine behavior to ignore the silly slapping and patting that constituted the greater part of their coquetry, but he was not prepared for the placement of a hand high up on his thigh.

  Almost the moment it happened, Kumiko burst out of the kitchen, aiming a machine-gun spray of syllables at Reiko. He recognized the word guzu-guzu—“wasting time,” but the rest went by too quickly for him to make any sense of it. The intensity of Kumiko’s fury was obvious enough without a knowledge of Japanese, though. Reiko jumped to her feet, bringing her broad, flat mask to within inches of Kumiko’s little face and matching Kumiko’s husky snarling with her own high-pitched squeals. Heads popped up from the two booths where customers were sitting, but the show ended quickly. Reiko tore off her apron and flung it at Kumiko’s feet. Then she stalked to the back of the restaurant and returned with her purse. Casting one last, pleading glance at Bill, she rushed to the door and flung it open with a bang, disappearing into the night.

  By this time, the boss had come out from the kitchen holding a large, black ladle. “Dohshitanda!” he demanded of Kumiko: “What the hell’s going on here?” She was too agitated to speak, but stood there, holding onto the edge of the table, eyes moist with angry tears.

  Bill tried to explain in Japanese what had happened.

  “Kenka desu,” he said, at which the normally poker-faced boss bared his enormous teeth and threw his head back in reverberating laughter. Even Kumiko was unable to maintain her high level of excitement and began to titter, covering her white teeth with a tiny hand.

  Bill looked at them in bewilderment, which prompted another round of laughter. “Too polite,” Kumiko said finally when she stopped laughing. From what he could understand of the mixed English and Japanese explanation he received from the couple, he had stepped forward at the culmination of the wild battle to announce in formal Japanese, “It is a quarrel.”

  Kumiko and the Bosu-san then launched into a serious discussion of whether or not they should bring Reiko back, to which Kumiko was adamantly opposed. When the after-theater-after-gambling crowd began to pour in looking for sushi and ochazuke, though, they would be in trouble, he cautioned her. She would find a way to handle it, she assured him.

  Even before all the booths had become filled with hungry customers, Bill peeked out from the order window to see that Kumiko’s confidence had begun to crumble. Her forehead was beaded with sweat.

  “Oi!” called the boss, motioning toward Bill. “You go.”

  “What?!” he exclaimed, incredulous that he, too, should suddenly be fired in the midst of the chaos.

  “You go,” repeated the boss, this time gesturing with his hands as if holding a pad and pencil.

  Incredible—the boss wanted him to wait on tables. He pictured Kumiko and Reiko zipping back and forth in their little ballet between the booths and the order window, and he saw himself as a big blond ox stumbling across the stage, smashing dishes and trampling people’s feet.

  The boss grunted at him again, and Bill wiped his hands and grabbed an order pad from the pile in the corner. Since Kumiko had been trying to cope with the entire L-shaped restaurant, the clear division between her section and Reiko’s had been lost. He simply searched for the booth with the most impatient-looking people, approaching four Japanese men who were craning their necks toward the kitchen and grumbling loudly.

  “Onna wa doko da!” demanded the fat one in the left-hand corner. Bill hadn’t been expecting this. Why hadn’t he looked for a booth containing white faces? He turned in search of Kumiko, hoping to trade tables, when he realized with a thrill that he understood the man’s question: “Where’s the woman?”

  All four men had open collars and their hair was slicked back. They slouched in the booth, looking at him with sullen expressions that dissolved into smiles when he replied, “Ima wa imasen”—“She is not here now.”

  It was one thing to parrot phrases from Kumiko or the boss, but the experience of having successfully communicated with a hostile stranger made his heart dance. He wished he could follow it up with something equally impressive, but the best he could do was wave the order pad in their faces and say, “Dohzo,” which meant “Please.”

  “Ore wa katsudon,” said the fat one. He wanted katsudon—a bowl of rice topped with a pork cutlet and eggs. Bill knew the menu inside out by now, and even if he couldn’t catch all the words used to order the dishes, he could tell what people wanted. Numbers were a problem, though, which he realized when the other men were specifying how many items they wanted. To double-check, he read back the order to them, holding up the appropriate number of fingers. Sent off with smiles and nods, he had started back to the order window when one of the men called to him, “Oi! O-cha!” Of course—he had forgotten the tea!

  He managed to serve the meal without a hitch after that, and when the four men left an hour later, he experienced the warm glow of a successful debut. In addition, they had left him a dollar tip. He walked into the kitchen with the four quarters spread out on his palm. “Doh shimashoh?” he asked. “What should I do with this?”

  Terry, who had been forced to wash dishes again, looked up from the sink and grunted, but the boss said, “You keep!” flashing his big teeth and gesturing as if putting something in his pocket.

  Bill’s other customers that night were not as generous as the four men, but he came back to the dorm satisfied with an extra $2.80 in his pocket.

  The boss was quick to see the commercial potential of having a tall, blond waiter who could speak some Japanese. He gave Bill a black and blue happi coat with big, white Japanese characters on the lapels to wear along with a white hachimaki headband. Bill was still expected to wash dishes in his spare time, but when word began to spread about the gaijin waiter in Maneki who could speak Japanese, he rarely had time for that. The booths were constantly full, and some customers waited for tables to clear in Bill’s section of the restaurant rather than have Kumiko or one of the other waitresses serve them.

  Soon he began to have regulars, like Seiji Nagahara, a fisheries company executive. All Bill had to do was say “Konban wa”—“Good evening”—and Nagahara would gush at Bill’s phenomenal linguistic powers. Atsushi Bando never failed to get drunk and tearfully sing “Danny Boy” in impenetrable English, proclaiming that Bill was his own, personal “Danny Boy,” whatever that was supposed to mean. Norman Miki, who worked for Boeing, was Bill’s most loyal customer and perhaps the closest thing he had ever had to a public relations manager. Norman never missed a chance to promote his “act.” Every couple of nights he would show up with new friends who, he insisted, had to “see this guy.” Women customers especially enjoyed calling Bill by his nickname, Ohji-sama, and soon he was permanently established as the Prince Charming of Maneki.

  With the aid of a little sake, some of the women would boldly ask him when he got off from work, or they would hand him their telephone numbers scribbled on scraps of paper. Kumiko remained ever vigilant, and when one tipsy woman of middle age began shamelessly propositioning Ohji-sama and yanking on his arm in hopes that he would sit next to her, she slapped the woman’s hand and scolded her, provoking tears and apologies.

  One cold, stormy Saturday night in the middle of November, Norman Miki arrived at Maneki with two new spectators for the Ohji-sama show, both of them Japanese men in their late thirties or early forties like himself. Bill smiled and bowed and welcomed them with a vigorous “Irasshaimase!”—“Come right in!” He gestured toward a table, and the three men began to file past him.

  The last of the three was a tall, well-built man with a strong curved nose. Bill guessed he must be a successful executive somewhere: he dressed with an understated elegance that spoke o
f a comfortable life. But one feature of his clothing took Bill’s breath away. The left sleeve of the man’s beige silk sports coat was empty and pinned up to the shoulder. Bill shrunk back as the newcomer edged by him.

  The man turned, glaring at Bill. In that instant, Bill was fifteen years old again, waiting for a bus that one gray morning when the green DeSoto pulled up. He could feel the cold drizzle and hear the cries of the gulls winging over Puget Sound. He knew, as surely as he had ever known anything, that this man was the driver who had emerged from behind the rain-streaked window and called him by name.

  Bill tore himself away from the table and went for the tea. He felt himself moving through the smoke and commotion of Maneki, but he was no longer a part of it. Carrying the tray with the teapot and cups, he was headed down a long, dark tunnel toward Norman Miki and the stranger. When, at last, he stood before them, he saw that the one-armed man was still staring at him.

  “Hey, you look a little hen tonight, Ohji-sama,” piped up Norman, a Nisei who always spoke English peppered with Japanese phrases. “Whatsa matter? Neko got your tongue?”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” Bill asked, relieved to hear words coming from his mouth.

  “Oh, sure. This is Frank Sano,” Norman said, cocking his head toward the one-armed man sitting next to him, “and this is Jimmy Nakamura. We were buddies in the 442nd.”

  Norman had regaled him with stories of his outfit’s military prowess, so he knew all about the Nisei fighting unit, the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. Norman always called it “the famous 442nd,” and boasted of its many military decorations, but Bill had never heard a word about it from anyone else. There had been many stories of friends lost in action and others wounded, but this was the first time Bill had actually seen someone who had brought home the scars.

  He poured the men’s tea and took their orders. Frank Sano’s eyes were alive in a way that Bill could not define, in a way that was a little frightening.

  When he served their food, Norman Miki tried to engage him in the usual banter, but Bill had only one thing on his mind. Finally, when he had a spare moment, he filled their water glasses and said directly to Frank Sano, “Are you still driving the green DeSoto?”

  The others looked at Bill, then at Frank.

  Frank glanced down at his newly filled glass, then returned Bill’s gaze. “No,” he said, “I traded that one in a long time ago.”

  “Hey, what’s goin’ on here?” exclaimed Norman. “You two know each other?”

  Frank snorted once and, looking down, jogged his water glass so that the ice clinked against the sides. “Yes and no,” he said. “What time do you get off from work, Billy?”

  “Billy?” asked Norman. “Is that your name?”

  “It used to be,” he said, and then looked at Frank. “I’m off at midnight.”

  “I’ll be parked out front. I’m driving a black Chrysler now.”

  At midnight, the black Chrysler was waiting at the curb, and, without the slightest hesitation, Bill opened the front door and got in.

  “We’ll go someplace quiet,” Frank said, pulling into traffic. “The bar in the Olympic is open all night.”

  “I don’t drink,” said Bill.

  “Why not? You’re legal now, aren’t you?”

  “I turn twenty-two next month. You know a lot about me, I see.”

  “Not as much as I’d like to,” he said. “Anyway, we’ll order you orange juice or something. I don’t suppose you’re a milk drinker anymore?”

  Bill chuckled.

  They sat at a small table by the window, the lights of Seattle spread out beneath them and bending away in a long curve tracing the edge of Elliott Bay. A lone piano played quietly at the far side of the plush room, and glasses clinked now and then.

  A waitress in a short, frilly skirt took their orders, and when she left them, Bill looked at Frank. “Who am I?” he asked.

  Frank smiled and shook his head. “I can tell you who you were for me,” he said.

  “Fair enough.”

  “The first time I ever saw you, you were four years old. We were all trying to stuff mattresses, and you kept me busy tossing you into the straw.”

  “Wait, you’ve just gotten started, and already you’re miles ahead of me.”

  “This was in Puyallup,” Frank explained. “Camp Harmony.”

  “‘Camp What?’ You mean the fairgrounds? I’ve been to the state fair a few times.”

  Frank looked puzzled. “All right, we weren’t in Puyallup very long, but don’t tell me you don’t remember the camp in Idaho!”

  The only “camp” Bill had been to was the Bible camp, with Clare, this past summer. He shook his head.

  “You must have heard about the wartime relocation camps, at least.”

  Again Bill shook his head.

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Frank muttered. “No one ever talks about them anymore. It’s as if the whole thing never happened. Well, it happened, all right. God-damn did it happen!”

  PART FOUR:

  1941

  14

  MITSUKO HAD BEEN half listening to Tom’s sermon on “Strength and Humility,” but when he brought the topic around to the present diplomatic crisis, she wished that she had not been listening at all. Could nothing be free from the taint of the Japanese military? Christmas would be here in a few weeks. What a wonderful present it would be to the world if America could convince the Japanese to get out of China.

  “Even yesterday,” Tom intoned, his voice echoing through the sanctuary, “President Roosevelt showed us that humility can be the ultimate expression of strength. All through November, the militaristic government of Japan presented us with arrogance. First we heard that they were amassing troops in Indo-China, and then, a few days later, that some 30,000 troops were on the move south.”

  Mitsuko wondered if her first husband, Tadamasa, was among those troops, leading his men on to more savagery. She imagined him as he had been in the early days of their marriage, a dashing sight with his thick moustache and his sword in its gleaming, black scabbard. But that had been before he had seen action; later, she had wondered if the sword was stained with Chinese blood. When he began to beat her, she sensed that it was out of shame for what he and his troops had done to Chinese women.

  “Tojo told the world that Anglo-American ‘exploitation’ must be ‘purged with a vengeance,’” Tom continued, “and Togo rejected what he called the United States’ ‘fantastic’ proposals for settling the Far Eastern crisis. But just look at the strength of our good President Roosevelt. Only yesterday, as if turning the other cheek, he made a personal appeal to Emperor Hirohito to rein in his troops, cutting through all the diplomatic jargon to speak simply and humbly, from his heart to the heart of another man, in the hopes of bringing peace to a beleaguered world.”

  To be sure, thought Mitsuko, the emperor was but another man. She had known that at the age of six when he was a seventeen-year-old prince whose photograph would appear now and then in the papers. She and Yoshiko and her brothers Ichiro and Jiro had been at the dinner table with her parents, answering their questions about school. For Mitsuko, it had been especially exciting, her first day of school ever, and she could still recall the ring of smiles that surrounded her at the table when she recounted the teacher’s talk on their future of service to the nation.

  “And what do you want to be when you grow up?” her father asked her. Without hesitation, she replied, “I want to marry His Imperial Highness, the Crown Prince, and become the Empress!” Instantly, her father’s hand shot across the table and stung her cheek—the first and last time he ever hit her.

  “Sacrilege!” he cried. “Never say such a thing again!” She never dared to speak of it again, though when the prince had become engaged the following year, she had been bitterly disappointed.

  “In these troubled times,” Tom concluded, “we can only pray that more men of strength and vision learn the lesson that Chris
t has taught us.”

  Even little Billy seemed to feel something of the gravity of the mood that descended on the sanctuary; he was uncharacteristically quiet as they made their way to the front foyer. Tom solemnly wished the worshippers goodbye, the veins at his temples still bulging with the excitement of the sermon. The tension was evident, too, in the muscular flexing of his clenched jaw.

  Tom had a luncheon appointment this week with ministers from some of the white churches, so Mitsuko and Billy drove home with the Nomuras. The December weather was crisp and clear, and the car heater provided welcome relief from the cold.

  Luxuriating in the ease of speaking in her native tongue, Mitsuko was reluctant to part with her sister and brother-in-law.

  “Come in,” she said, “I’ll make some o-nigiri.”

  “Yum!” Billy said. “O-nigiri. Daddy’s not home.”

  “What difference does that make?” asked Yoshiko.

  Before Mitsuko could answer, Goro complained, “I can’t stay parked in the middle of the street like this. “Let’s go in. I like Mitsuko’s o-nigiri.”

  That settled the matter, and he found a place to park his blue Buick.

  Goro stayed in the living room listening to the radio while Billy played on the floor and the women got busy in the kitchen. Yoshiko toasted the black-green sheets of nori over the gas flames while Mitsuko chopped and sliced the pickles: the deep purple of shiba-zuke, the intense green of shiso-nomi, turmeric’s muted yellow in the disks of takuan.

  “You never answered my question,” said Yoshiko.

  “I was hoping you had forgotten. It’s nothing, really. Tom doesn’t like o-nigiri, so Billy only gets to eat it when he’s away. Of course, he’s been away a lot lately …”

  “Is it just o-nigiri he doesn’t like? Look, don’t think I didn’t notice Billy was calling you ‘Mommy’ for a while. He still slips occasionally. Is that another privilege he’s allowed only when his father is away?”

  Mitsuko concentrated on slicing the translucent amber nara-zuke as thinly as possible, and before she could answer, Goro charged in from the living room.