Islands of Protest

by Davinder L. Bhowmik

  Two soldiers with guns in their hands turned toward the entrance and climbed up the rocks. Shōsei and the soldiers bracing his body on either side followed behind. Ishino, with his sword, and Yonamine climbed up last, speaking in low voices. As Shōsei went out of the cave, he turned and looked at Gozei. The soldier holding his arms hit him in the face and dragged him outside. The moonlight cast a shadow, and she could no longer clearly make out his face. But Gozei believed that Shōsei could see her face, lit by the moonlight. But maybe not. Why did she then hide in the shadows of the rocks? She covered her ears to the voices of the returning soldiers. Ishino came for her, beating her when she resisted. He hurled his excited body against her. He smelled of blood. Shōsei’s blood.

  Refusing the help of the Korean woman who came to her, Gozei lay face down in the mud. She did not move. If only she could melt away into the mud and darkness. Her entire body was chilled to the core. Only the dull pain in her groin told her she was still alive. How many days did she lie there that way? When the Americans came, Ishino only gave a few warning shots from the cave opening, before surrendering. The Korean woman came to her, caressing her hair and forehead. The woman grasped her hand and spoke to her. Gozei didn’t have the strength to listen. It was only much later that she regretted having parted from the woman without ever learning her name.

  The hospital was on a hill overlooking the bay. The trees planted around the parking lot seemed not to have grown in the three years since Yoshiaki’s grandmother had been hospitalized. The trees with branches resting on wooden supports stood out. “When the typhoons come, they must be hit hard by the winds,” Yoshiaki thought. Trucks carrying gravel from the quarry at the tip of the peninsula passed along the bay road without pause. Through the mist, he could look directly at the white sun floating over the bay. He remembered it had been on a pleasant day like this when his grandmother had died. That day, as soon as he heard the news, he went to the hospital. But her body had already been brought to the house. Seeing the stripped bed, he realized that she had really died. He never imagined that he would be here again. Standing on the curb, he took a few minutes to take in the scenery. Then he headed for the hospital entrance.

  The hospital had two floors, with the first floor used for examinations. Maybe because it was a Sunday afternoon, very few patients were in the outpatient clinic. There were about ten patients in all, waiting to be examined or admitted, sitting on the sofas in the lobby reading newspapers or watching television. Smelling the distinctive hospital smell for the first time in a while, he climbed the stairs to the nurses’ station. When he told the young nurse at the counter that he’d come to see Gozei, she gave him the room number right away. As he signed his name in the visitors book, he flipped the pages to the front. There were names of the elderly patients that appeared often and those that appeared only a few times. Two weeks should have passed since Gozei’s hospitalization, but he saw only the names of the head of the ward and the secretary signed in the early pages.

  The room was right near the nurse station. Entering the room, he immediately saw that only the patients in serious condition had been placed there. Not one person in the six beds was sitting up. Each was attached to a respirator or electrocardiogram. Gozei was lying on the far bed, by the window, with a tube in her nose and an IV in her arm. Maybe because she wasn’t getting any sun, she’d become pale. But her gray complexion, with the pulling of her skin, made it seem, like it or not, that the shadow of death was upon her. Her mouth hung open as if her jaw was broken, and the roots of her rotting teeth poked out. White moss was growing on her dried tongue. He stood by her pillow, stroking her stark white hair, which had been cropped short. He placed his hand on her forehead and stared at the red rope that had caught his eyes since entering the room.

  Gozei’s arms were spread to either side and bound to the bed rails. Seeing the peeling skin around her swollen wrists, a feeling of anger or sadness rose up in him. The nurses must be used to visitors reacting this way. The petite nurse in her early thirties who was aspirating phlegm from another patient told him at once, “If we don’t do that, she pulls out her IV and nose tube. I know it looks cruel, but please understand.”

  He could only turn to her and nod.

  Gozei’s fingers, which had been thin but strong like roosters’ legs, were now swollen, like an infant’s. Yoshiaki wrapped his hands around hers and stroked them. Her palm, unexpectedly soft, was cold. He brought his face close to her ear and called, “Gozei Obaa, Gozei Obaa.” But her eyelids only fluttered slightly. The sound of the nurse with the tube sucking up the phlegm reverberated in the room. He stood for about five minutes, stroking her hand. Only three weeks had passed since the harvest festival. He never imagined her condition would worsen so quickly. The nurse came around the other side of the bed, apologized, and looked inside Gozei’s throat. She placed a tube in her mouth and started the aspirator. Only a small amount of phlegm came out. The nurse wiped her face carefully with a wet towel, bowed to Yoshiaki, and moved to the next bed.

  “Gozei Obaa, I’m going now,” he called to her loudly.

  Placing his palm on her brow, he squeezed her fingers, which waved slightly like water weeds. There was no trace of the strength that had gripped his wrist and pulled him that night of the harvest festival. When he was about to leave the hospital room, he turned to look around one last time.

  He sensed that Gozei’s eyes had opened slightly and were looking his way. He wondered whether to check for sure, but her faint gaze had already faded. Instead, he met the nurse’s eyes. They briefly nodded to each other. Yoshiaki stepped out of the room and quickly walked down the hallway.

  “Gozei, Gozei!” Shōsei was calling from far away. No, he was right here. The moonlight poured down, and the yūna’s flock of yellow butterflies looked as if it would take flight at any moment. As soon as she came under the shadow of the tree, she was pulled by a strong force, as if to savor the little time that was left. His hot tongue dug at her throat, and his stiff left arm pressed into her back. Burying her head in his chest, she choked on the scent of the forest and tide. She’d never thought that a woman like her would be held by a man and feel this way. From the depth of the darkness, at the base of her ear, she could hear him whisper her name: “Gozei, Gozei. You don’t need to rush.” Gently, he held both her hands and stroked her hair. The steamy night air that clung to her skin soaked her in sweat to the innermost folds of her body. The sensation of clinging to Shōsei returned to her arms. “I’ve already sunk into the mud.” The Korean woman was saying something. Something was being pushed inside her mouth. It was a piece of brown sugar. Her mouth began to water, as if a thin white root of life were growing. “Don’t worry about me. Thank you.” A woman squeezed her hand and stroked her fingers. Every sensation in her body began to fade along with the dull pain in her groin.

  Shōsei, on his knees as soldiers punched him, raised his head and looked toward her. A shadow stood at the mouth of the cave with the moonlight on its back. “Yes, you must have understood everything. Even what kind of woman I was. A young girl with a bundle in her hands is walking down the street in the pleasure district. Go back, don’t go any further. As if I could have gone back. No matter how much that road bended, narrowed, or even ended, I had to keep going. There was no other way for those like me.”

  Gozei. Oh, Gozei.

  Gazing at the yūna blossom that had fallen to the ground, Gozei pressed her face against his chest. Laughing, she let the front of her kimono open, sent blood pulsing through her entire body, and listened to the source of the sound of all the heat in her body. She prayed that the moment under the yūna tree would never end. He might be alive somewhere. How do I know he’s dead? I didn’t see him die. Do you really believe that? Is that why you lived by the yūna tree? To wait for him … Don’t fool yourself. Dragging that cart, collecting empty bottles and selling them to the brewery. Living on the little money you got.… That road where the white limestone shone so brightly that you coul
dn’t keep your eyes open. I’ll never walk that road again. Walking on the road in rubber sandals. Feet turning white with dust. The figure of that little boy crying by the roadside flashed before her eyes. It was the first time she’d held a crying, clinging child. The sensation of those thin arms clinging to her neck. She never imagined that her heart would ache for those whimpers in her ear. So this was the scent of a child. She pressed her nose against his thin chest. She regretted that she only had a dirty towel, but she used it to wipe his face and neck. Then she put a bit of brown sugar in his mouth. The child finally stopped crying, and not wanting to frighten him, she forced an unaccustomed smile, placed him on her cart, and headed toward his village. Afterwards, his parents had shouted at her furiously, but that short moment had been the happiest of her time in the village. “If only I’d been able to have your child.…”

  Gozei. Oh, Gozei. What is there to regret? In the end, everything, even our bodies, will muddy and mix together, like the river by the yūna tree. Everything in this world will become one in the ocean. Out of each and every cell, dripping from palms, oozing from hair, coursing over thighs, trickling from eyes and ears, you will flutter into the air the way coral lay eggs. The last of her spirit left her mouth as if from a hollow in a tree and became a butterfly. The butterfly flew quietly around the room, passed through the glass of the closed window, and danced toward the moonlit sky.

  It was past seven when Yoshiaki returned to the house. Since he had work the next morning, he planned to return to Naha right after dinner. Sitting across from Yoshinori in the living room as he ate in front of the TV, Yoshiaki reached for the sashimi that Kimi brought to them. After eating three slivers, he suddenly noticed the characters on the altar tablets. His family tablet was clear and new, rewritten after his grandmother’s death. However, the Wakugawa family tablet was smudged and difficult to read. The first character of Shōsei’s name could barely be seen.

  “The writing on this tablet, don’t you think we should fix it?” Yoshiaki said.

  Yoshinori looked at the tablet but didn’t answer. He continued to eat and stare at the television in silence for about five minutes. He then lowered his chopsticks and looked once more at the altar.

  “That writing, you know Ojii wrote that.…”

  Yoshiaki did not know if he was referring to his grandfather or great-grandfather but was surprised by his father’s emotion.

  “Did you learn anything from Uchima?” Kimi called from the kitchen.

  “Yeah, a little.” As Yoshiaki contemplated how to summarize what he had heard from Uchima, Yoshinori finished eating and began to speak, looking back and forth between Yoshiaki and his mother.

  “We didn’t have the remains of that man Shōsei, so about ten years after the war, the old man and I, we went to the beach and found coral that looked like bones. We put it in a new urn and placed it in the family grave.”

  The inside of a dark grave rose before him. The coral fragments, smooth from being washed by the tide, lay one on top of the other at the bottom of the urn. These, too, were fine bones.

  ISLAND CONFINEMENT (1990)

  Sakiyama Tami

  Translated by Takuma Sminkey

  THE DIRT ROAD HEADING INTO THE island’s interior stretched off to the west. As it receded into the island’s depths, it seemed to fade away into the glaring white sunlight that beat down upon it. In front of an expanse of wild vegetation, a mountain of gravel stood next to an angular foreign object, jutting out into the road studded with Ryukyu limestone. The object was a construction vehicle, folded up like a giant praying mantis that had become petrified just before crawling out into the narrow road.

  A microbus, about a third of its seats filled with passengers from the afternoon ferry, nearly clipped the giant insect as it came rumbling down the road in a cloud of dust. A truck loaded with cardboard boxes bounced along behind. The bus pulled to a stop alongside me, and the driver signaled for me to board. “Y’know, Miss, it’s quite a ways to the village,” said the bearded, swarthy driver. I declined his kind offer and watched the bus drive off without me.

  The only villages on the island were the oldest one, located inland toward the north; an offshoot, located just before the original one; and a fishing community formed by drifters from other islands, located along the coast on the opposite shore. Had the island’s population increased or decreased from before? Back then, depopulation was already a serious problem, casting a cloud of uncertainty over people’s lives. But a calm resignation seemed to have already returned. At least the looks of the islanders on the ferry made me think so.

  The island was ninety-nine meters at its highest point. Since an additional meter would make it an even hundred, a one-meter-high pillar had been erected as a monument. I looked up at the summit, which had been clearly visible from the boat, and blinked. Blocked by a dense thicket of trees, the small mountain was hidden beyond the foothills. When I realized I had penetrated so far into the island’s interior, my hesitant steps came to a halt. I had walked all the way from the landing pier by myself. But, since my destination was a house in the old village, I still had to make my way further inland.

  Submitting a letter of resignation citing “personal reasons,” I had just quit my job at the city’s folk-materials reference room, where I had worked for eight years. From the beginning, my status had been that of a temporary employee on a one-year renewable contract. The work wasn’t all that important, and no one was about to prevent the resignation of an overly stubborn woman. Still living on my own, I was already a year over thirty. Besides going to my job in the government district and making the twenty-minute walk home to my apartment behind an elementary school, I led an uneventful life, disrupted only by occasional minor incidents. A thin veil seemed to separate me from others, and I barely had the energy to endure my alienated position at work.

  After spending five days or so putting my affairs in order, I was pondering what to do next when an image of Toki popped up in a corner of my mind. As I pictured her serene, plump-cheeked face, I saw a dim light in the distance that made me feel that nothing else mattered. Giving myself over to this feeling, I searched for her number in the back of the thick phone book, under the listings for outlying islands. Picking a time in the evening when she’d probably be free, I gave her a call.

  After three rings, a woman answered, “Hello, Ōmichi residence.” The moment I heard Toki’s tranquil voice, which seemed to glide through the air, my heart leapt up with gratitude—and trepidation.

  “Oh, hello.… Remember me? … It’s Takako.…” Fighting back the tremor in my voice, I held my breath and waited. We had neither met nor corresponded since our unceremonious parting eight years ago, so just saying “Remember me?” was rather rude. I knew I should’ve said something else, but I held hope that she would sense my true feelings. Thankfully, her reply suggested that she did.

  “Takako … Oh, Takako! Takako, is it really you?” said Toki, excitedly repeating my name.

  She didn’t seem even the least put off, so I asked if it would be possible to visit in a couple of days. The brief, uncomfortable silence that followed worried me, but when her voice resumed, I could tell she was on the verge of tears.

  “Oh? You’re coming to visit? Takako, I’m so happy.…” Her teary voice reverberating in my ear seemed a bit overdramatic, but I assumed she was merely waxing nostalgic over the time I had agreed to live with her and her family.

  That had been exactly ten years ago.

  Though extremely small in size, the lowland area in the western part of the island was called Ufudā, which means “large field.” When I arrived, riding on the back of Hideo’s motorcycle, Mr. Ōmichi and Toki, his wife, were in the rice fields pulling up weeds under the scorching, early-afternoon August sun. Blending in with the rows of rice plants, not yet ready for harvest, the two figures clad in work clothes lifted their heads at the sound of the motorcycle. When Hideo called out to them, they stepped up to the narrow ridge that separated the
paddies. Eikichi, his father, glanced over at me and then stared at the ground. Toki took off her straw hat, which almost completely hid her face. As she wiped her sweaty neck and face with a towel, her twinkling eyes stared directly into mine. Though she was small in stature, her straight-backed way of squatting revealed she had a sturdy build for a woman in her late forties. After pulling a straw mat from a shed, she laid it in the shade of a kuwadiisaa tree and waved me over.

  “It’s so kind of you to have come all this way.”

  I was impressed by the fact that she spoke such perfect standard Japanese. She had a plump, sunburnt face, narrow eyes, and facial features less distinctive than those of most Okinawan women. In addition, she moved with a grace that seemed out of place in the countryside.

  “Hideo rarely brings his women friends here, so we’ve been fidgety all morning. We haven’t been able to get into our work at all.”

  Toki laughed cheerfully and turned around to look at her husband, who was sitting with his back against the trunk of the tree. Eikichi glanced at me again. Without even cracking a smile, he opened his mouth and took a long, slow drag on his cigarette. His aloofness didn’t bother me. I knew that islanders tended to distance themselves from outsiders, for I had lived on nearby O. Island1 until I was fourteen.

  “Some years he doesn’t come home at all, even when he’s on vacation. I mean, he doesn’t even try to understand how his parents must feel, always waiting for their only son. We heard he’s supposed to graduate this year, but we have no idea if he will.”