by Peter Albano
A smiling young woman in a formal kimono approached. “Ah, Miss Hachiya. Irashi masei,”(Welcome) she said, smiling. She bowed to Brent. “My name is Fukiko Hironami, Lieutenant. This way, please.” She gestured at a hut. “All is prepared.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. You were sure of yourself,” Brent said. Mayumi only laughed.
Entering the hut, Brent found eclectic appointments designed to cater to both Japanese and American tastes. There was a plump couch, and a table and chairs for long-legged Americans. But the floor was covered with tatami mats, and there was a low table with four zabutons in a corner enclosing a toconoma. A small sink was partially visible behind a shoji in a corner.
After the guests removed their shoes, the waitress eyed Brent expectantly. Brent nodded at the low table. “Might as well be traditional,” he sighed, bending his knees and cramping his long legs under the table. Both women laughed and Mayumi seated herself on the zabuton opposite.
“As you probably know, Brent,” Mayumi said, “most Japanese restaurants specialize in one or two dishes.” Brent nodded. Mayumi continued, “But here, they have a wide menu — a western menu, too.”
“You talked about tradition.”
“True.”
“What is their Japanese specialty?”
Mayumi hesitated. “Fugu.” The waitress’ face muscles twitched and she raised an eyebrow. “It’s marvelous and the chef is a true artist.”
“Is fugu the challenge — the warrior’s challenge?”
“Yes.”
“Then, by all means, fugu,” Brent said enthusiastically.
“Brent,” she said carefully. “First, let me explain the challenge.”
“Explain away.”
She drummed the table. Sighed. “Fugu is a marvelous fish, but it must be carefully prepared.” She leaned forward. “Parts of it are poisonous.”
“You mean Russian roulette with chopsticks.”
“Can be three hundred times more deadly than cyanide.”
Brent swallowed hard. “And you eat it?”
“It is more than an eating experience. It’s a microcosm of one’s whole existence.”
“I’d like to exist tomorrow.”
She laughed. “The chef here is famous. They have had very few fatalities.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“Well, last year someone died only because he insisted on eating the liver.”
“Against the chefs advice?”
“Of course.”
He scratched his chin. “I had plans for you after dinner — delightful plans. A dessert we’ve both been thinking about. You said you make your own choices.”
“I don’t know if I am ready for that choice. We could both be hurt.”
He waved. “You just said we could both be killed.”
“That is life.”
“My choice is life, yours can be death. Why are you afraid of mine? Take it.”
She leaned forward, bound his eyes to hers with a fierceness he had never seen before. “We’ll eat first and then we’ll see,” she said, taking his hand. She squeezed very hard, ran fingers over his scabbed knuckles, the rough skin and hair.
Caught up in Mayumi’s excitement, he turned to the waitress. “Fugu,” he said. And then quickly added, “And sake, Jochu-san”
The fish arrived with a chef, a jolly, sprightly middle-aged man with a big laugh as wide as his waistline. With a shock of white hair and alcohol-quickened blood coloring his puffy cheeks, he looked like an Oriental version of Santa Claus. “Fugu,” he beamed, placing a large, puffed brown and white fish on a table next to the diners. “My name is Inazo Nitobe,” he added. “I am a licensed fugu chef and it is always pleasant to meet true gourmets.”
Brent chuckled as he accepted a sakazuki from the waitress. “Perhaps gambler would be a better description,” he said, tossing off the small cup with a single draught. A flash of a colorful kimono and his cup was full.
“Never let the cup be empty and never let it be full,” Mayumi said, quoting an ancient saying. She raised her cup, Brent met her eyes with his, and they drank, eyes locked.
Flourishing a hocho — a long thin-bladed knife with an edge like a razor — Inazo Nitobe went to work. Within seconds, he had sliced off fins, mouth and nose, and removed the entrails. It was clear he relished his work and his mouth was as fast as his hands. “The fugu is actually a puffer fish and this is a tiger puffer.” Expertly, the skin was removed and entrails were dumped into a small covered container. “There are thirty steps prescribed by law in the preparation of fugu.” He gestured at the container. “I just removed the poisonous parts — intestines, liver, ovaries, kidneys, eyes, and most of the skin.” The hocho slashed and a long white filet appeared. Smacking his lips, Nitobe deftly sliced dozens of tiny diamond-shaped pieces. Quickly, Fukiko took the paper-thin slices to the sink and carefully washed them. Gesturing at the waitress, Nitobe spoke casually, “Fukiko is washing away the poisons.”
Brent downed his third sakazuki. “Great,” he muttered, feeling doubts stirring again. “I can hardly wait.”
“Brent,” Mayumi said. “You could order something else.”
He waved her off with his sakazuki, spilling some of the spiced wine. “But you’ll eat fugu”
“Yes.”
“You can say yes to fugu.”
“Please, Brent.”
“Sorry” he waved the cup again. “Fugu all around.” He made a circle with his cup.
The chef laughed, hands flying over a large platter. “We will get about a hundred of these pieces,” he said, arranging neat patterns.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Brent said refilling his cup from a pitcher. “A bird.”
“A crane,” Nitobe said. “Flying.” Quickly, the bird materialized as each little piece of fish became a feather, eyes dots of hot pepper, tail made of carefully stretched slivers of dark skin. In full flight, the bird’s neck was outstretched, wings spread wide. The fish was cut so thin it was transparent and Brent could see the full richness of the colorful flower design on the serving plate through it.
Finally, Inazo Nitobe placed the platter in front of Brent. “The crane signifies long life to us, Lieutenant,” he said, beaming.
Both diners took a piece with their hashi, dipped it in a mixture of soy sauce, radish, and red pepper and ate it slowly while staring at each other. Brent felt no danger. Indeed, it was thrilling, an amalgam of excitement and anxiety reminiscent of the minutes before battle or love-making. And Mayumi’s eyes were there, watching with a feverish glow — a disturbing stare that simmered with promise.
As Brent chewed, he realized the meat had no fiber and the flavor was more like chicken than fish. “Excellent,” he said.
Reaching for another piece, Mayumi said, “I knew you would like it, Brent.” And then smiling, “And there is a good chance we’ll survive.” Everyone laughed politely.
More food was served; sliced eel arranged on white rice served in rectangular black lacquer boxes, and a soup of fugu chunks steamed with tofu, mushrooms, leeks, seaweed and cabbage. Finally, the meal was finished and after the table had been cleared and the chef and waitress had closed the door discreetly as they left, Brent sat quietly, staring at his beautiful companion and toying with his sakazuki.
“Brent,” Mayumi said, deep in thought. “Only Yonaga stands between Japan and her enemies.” The girl’s words ripped aside the ethereal gauze of romance, rendered thoughts of impending lovemaking like an axe.
Brent was shocked and disappointed by the girl’s choice of topics. For the moment, the warm intimacy was dead. Nevertheless, he knew the threats to Japan were on every citizen’s mind and despite feelings of resentment he answered honestly and professionally. “The Self-Defense Force is equipped with planes that won’t fly and has ships with firepower that won’t fire. And there’s the Constitution, and the Japanese Red Army, and pacifists.” He waved a hand futilely.
The girl pressed on, “Admiral Fujita takes his orde
rs only from Emperor Hirohito.”
“Everyone knows that.”
“Emperor Hirohito has been de-deified, Brent.”
“Not to Fujita and the crew of Yonaga.”
“Doesn’t that sound ridiculous to you, Brent? How can an American believe in a god-emperor?”
Brent hunched forward, his resentment turning to a gnawing anger which caught in his craw. “Why not?” His smile was filled with irony. “I’m from a country that supports TV preachers who talk to God every morning and then report their conversations to their congregations in the afternoon. The loot’s a billion a year. These men of God drive Mercedes and Rolls Royces, live in million-dollar mansions and even build amusement parks. They lie, cheat, sleep with prostitutes, and take Social Security checks from starving people. Your god-emperor is minor league.” Angry with Mayumi and himself for the turn in conversation, he squirmed uncomfortably, long legs stiffening under the low table.
She smiled. “I guess all people are capable of foolishness, Brent.” She nodded at the couch, warm glow returning to her eyes. “Let’s move. Unwind those long legs of yours.” She rose. Gratefully, he followed her.
In a moment they were side by side on the plump sofa, fingers entwined. She was so close he could feel her warmth, smell her exotic perfume and his blood quickened to her magnetism. “You’re back,” he murmured, pulling her close.
“I’m sorry, Brent — talking politics, war.” She kissed his cheek. “Not tonight.”
“Not what?”
She chuckled. “War, politics.”
“Have you made up your mind?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“You’ll see.”
“I like the way you say yes.”
Her answer was to circle her arms around his neck and lift her lips to his. He found her mouth open, hot and demanding. Gently, he pushed her and she toppled back until full-length on the couch. He let his weight force her deep into the cushions. His hands were busy, clumsily unbuttoning her blouse, pulling it from her body, and throwing it on the floor like a discarded rag.
One snap was conquered and her brassiere fell away revealing her marvelous full breasts, twin swollen peaks capped with rose-colored areolas and large pointed nipples.
Hungrily, he kissed her chin, the pulse in her neck, the slope of her breast, and then he toyed with a nipple with his fingers and tongue. He pushed his arousal against her. She squirmed and hissed, clasping his head with both hands, head thrown back, framed by the deep folds of her own hair. His hand moved down to the minute waist, found a zipper. Frantically, he attacked it, pushed the skirt down and found cloth over a pulsing abdomen. Then lower he caressed the hip, and still lower the firm, naked flesh of her thigh. A single finger traced a line upward, and upward, reaching its ultimate goal like a hungry serpent. He tore at the nylon covering her sex.
“No! No, Brent,” she cried, pushing him away.
“Stop now?” he sputtered in anguish. “I thought you made up your mind — the answer was yes. This is insane.”
“To go on is insane,” she said, pulling at her skirt, and pushing him until he sat erect. “And I’ve made up my mind.”
“I can’t believe this,” he said with anger and dejection.
Bending, she shrugged into her brassiere and picked up her blouse. “Take me home, Brent,” she said, voice trembling. “Please take me home.” She buttoned her blouse.
Angrily he rose, walked to the table and downed his sakazuki with one gulp.
“Let’s go,” he said bitterly, turning to the door. “For Christ’s sake, let’s go.”
She followed him out into the cold night.
*
Standing at the door to her apartment, Brent avoided Mayumi’s eyes. He felt empty and his guts were sour with a festering anger.
“You don’t understand, do you?” she said.
“Why do you lead me on? Like a pt!”
“A pt?”
“A tease.”
“I don’t mean to. I don’t mean to tease you.” The girl’s voice was thick and she seemed to be drawing into herself like a wounded sparrow. “Maybe, Brent, I can’t help myself.”
“You did pretty well.”
He felt her hand on his arm. “Brent, I can’t be a sailor’s toy. A plaything when you’re in port.”
“Christ, you can’t believe that.” Anger brought his dead eyes to life.
She sighed, a deep unhappy sound. “Oh, Brent. Please understand. No woman wants to think of herself as a one-night stand.”
“That’s preposterous. I could never think of you like that.”
“Then, prove it.”
“How?”
“Let things develop slowly.”
He tapped the wall with a clenched fist. “What do you want? Do you want me to tell you I love you? Is that it?”
She bit her lip. “I’m not sure. There must be a bond. Something tangible between us. Not just sex.” And then firmly. “I won’t be an animal copulating in a barnyard.”
“My God, you can’t believe that — you can’t.”
She took his hands. Staring up, the black of her eyes was heightened by moisture. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Brent.” She searched his face anxiously. “Will I see you again?”
He nudged the baseboard with the toe of a big shoe. “If you want to.” He raised his hands, taking her small arms in his hands. “You mean a lot to me, Mayumi. If it makes you happy, we’ll slow it down.” He smiled for the first time in almost an hour. “Yes, we’ll slow it down to a crawl.”
There was a look of joy on her face. “Brent, Kimio wants to go to Ueno Park the day after tomorrow — Tuesday. She and Yoshi Matsuhara.”
“Yoshi? He’s married to his airplanes.”
She laughed. “She said he promised.”
“Good.” He nodded. “Sure. I can make it.”
“I’m so happy, Brent.” Her arms circled his neck and he leaned down, finding her lips. He held her close, kissed her hard, but the hot wetness was gone. He broke from her for an instant, and then held her close again. She kissed his cheek, his neck. “Careful,” he said. “Don’t set me off again.”
She laughed and the champagne was back. “I’ll be as careful as walking on Norboribetsu.” They both laughed at the reference to the boiling volcano.
“Tuesday,” he said, dropping her hands. He turned and walked toward the elevator. He was stopped by her voice filled with a strange tension. “Brent!” He turned curiously. “You will think I’m mad.”
“What do you mean?”
“The mind of a woman.”
“It’s your mind.”
She rushed on. “I can’t bear to see you leave — not like this.”
“You want me — you want me to come back?”
“Yes.” She raised a hand like a supplicant. “I’m not afraid of the volcano anymore.” She smiled plaintively.
He moved close to her. Took her hands and lost himself in her wide black eyes. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Lava can burn.”
“I know. I’m not afraid.” Her arms ringed his neck tightly and when she kissed him the hunger was back: open, hot hunger that possessed her entire body — a body that molded itself to him like a trembling, pliable plastic. He dropped his hands to her buttocks, gripped her hard. She pressed her pelvis against him, rotating slowly in the timeless motion of the aroused woman. The heat was back, spreading from his groin in tingling waves that sent tiny shivers crawling up his spine, his heart pounding like a wild animal caught in the cage of his ribs.
“It won’t be no again?” he gasped into her ear.
“It’s yes, darling. It’s yes.”
“When you say that word the sun stops, the wind turns to listen…”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Darling, you’re a poet.”
She pulled him into the apartment and closed the door behind him.
*
He left early the
next morning. Driving back to the navy yard on the Higashi-Dori Expressway which had been made slick by a violent thunderstorm, the young lieutenant lolled in a warm euphoria. He could still hear her, still feel her, still smell the perfume of her body. The insatiable mouth against his, the hot writhing body meeting and riding his thrusts; rhythmic, urgent, pounding out the pulse of creation, gasping, moaning, crying with the sounds as old as man, as unchanging as the constellations.
He was jarred from his reveries by the angry shrieks of a Toyota’s horn and he realized he was drifting across the number two lane. “Careful,” Brent warned himself, whipping the wheel back and feeling the wheels slide on the slippery concrete. “You won’t live to see her again.” He smiled as he regained control and the Toyota roared past, tires peeling water from the roadway in clouds of a gray spray, the small, bald, angry man at the wheel waving a fist. Brent chuckled. “I guess I’m just a kamikaze pilot at heart.” He laughed out loud.
In a few moments, he exited the expressway and entered the navy yard. As he turned down the main road which led to dock B-2 and Yonaga's berth, he passed a water tower which had been blasted from its huge timber supports and blackened as if it had been bombed or shelled. “Strange,” the young man said to himself as he turned into the parking lot. “An exploding water tower?”
*
Tuesday morning, Brent knocked on Commander Yoshi Matsuhara’s door at 1000 hours. Smiling and gesturing to a chair, the coatless aviator ushered him in. Staring in the room’s lone mirror and adjusting his black tie, the aviator spoke softly. “I hear you’re a gambler, Brent-san.”
“A gambler?”
“I hear you have developed a taste for fugu.”
Brent rubbed his chin. He had told Admiral Allen about the meal and it was clear the admiral had discussed it with Yoshi.
“It’s delicious,” Brent said. “A real life experience.”
The flyer laughed. “There are poems about some of the possibilities in eating fugu.”
Brent knew Yoshi was a poet and loved to quote verses. Yoshi spoke into the mirror with the sing-song rhythm of haiku:
“Last night he and I ate fugu
Today, I am his pall bearer.”
They both laughed boisterously. Matsuhara continued, “Or try this one — the rhyme of the heartsick lover: