The Remembering

by Steve Cash

  Katsuo nodded and removed his formal headgear, but the long robes were still uncomfortable and beads of sweat gathered on his upper lip and forehead. He began recounting our tale to the captain, though he was speaking to Ichiro. He talked for twenty minutes in Japanese, enriching his speech with elaborate gestures and intermittent praises to the gods. And it was a tall tale indeed. Katsuo explained that Sailor and I had been Cuban born, while Susheela the Ninth was from Guyana. The three of us were the adopted children of a Brazilian industrialist and his wife, who were all traveling together through Japan during the late autumn of 1941. After a brief stay in Nagano, our touring car had crashed deep in the mountains, not far from Katsuo’s village. The three of us survived the crash, escaping with only minor injuries, but our parents were killed. The date was December 6. Of course, as Katsuo emphasized, the next day changed everything. With war declared on America and the West, too many questions and problems might present themselves, for us as well as the village, should the priests turn us over to the authorities. Instead, they decided to hide and protect us until the war was over. Katsuo paused and took in a long breath, letting it out slowly, like a long overdue sigh. He looked once in our direction, then directly at the young captain. “Atara! The day has come,” he said.

  Captain Blaine Harrington made no response, but that was to be expected. Katsuo had been speaking Japanese. The captain had not moved or changed expression during the entire story. Instead, he had been watching and studying Sheela, Sailor, and me with cold, unblinking eyes that gave nothing away. I had no idea what he thought of Katsuo’s long-winded explanation, but Sailor was convinced the details of our story would prove irrelevant. Sailor believed the Americans would be compelled to help us leave Japan out of sheer goodwill.

  Katsuo turned to Ichiro and nodded once, as if giving him permission to begin the translation. Ichiro said nothing. Several awkward seconds passed, yet Ichiro never started translating. There was no need.

  “You may speak directly to me, sir,” the captain said suddenly in perfect, measured Japanese. They were the first words he had spoken and I knew immediately that Sailor’s “plan” could be in trouble. He waited a few more moments. Katsuo wiped a single drop of sweat from his forehead and remained calm and composed in his chair. “Katsuo,” the captain said. “That is your name, is it not, sir?”

  Katsuo nodded slowly.

  “You say you and the others in your village never had contact with the authorities. Is that correct, sir?”

  Katsuo nodded again.

  “And no one came for the children or their parents. No one inquired. Is that correct, sir?”

  Katsuo nodded once more.

  The captain looked in our direction, focusing on Sailor and holding his gaze, but never changing expression. He looked back at Katsuo and stood up, acting as if he were about to leave. “Katsuo,” he said, “what is the name of your village?”

  Katsuo never hesitated and gave him the name Hakata.

  “I see, and this village is near Nagano. Is that correct, sir?”

  “Yes,” Katsuo answered.

  “Then why, sir, do you speak in the distinctive Osaka-ben dialect?”

  Katsuo said nothing for a moment, then came up with a rambling explanation, saying he had been born physically in Osaka and spiritually in Hakata. I watched the captain and realized he wasn’t buying Katsuo’s story.

  “I’m not at all sure who you are, sir, and I do not know who these children are or why they are in Japan, but whatever the truth, I believe this is a Japanese problem.” The captain paused, then continued talking as he moved toward the door. He was still speaking Japanese. “The correct channels will be found and the matter shall be turned over to them. Come back tomorrow and see the lieutenant for the information. The children will receive proper care and attention and then you may return to whatever it is you do.” He paused again and stared down at Katsuo with a thin smile. “Do I make myself clear, sir?” The captain didn’t wait for an answer. He glanced once at us and reached for the door.

  I have never known exactly why I said what I said next, but the “plan” had unraveled and we were out of time. The odds were long and it was a complete shot in the dark. I spoke in Spanish using the best Cuban accent I could remember, the one I had always heard spoken by Ciela. Just as the captain opened the door, I blurted out, “Where is Señor Jack Flowers?”

  Captain Blaine Harrington froze in his tracks. He spun around and looked at me with a piercing stare. I could feel everyone in the room turn in my direction.

  Speaking Spanish, the captain asked, “What did you say, son? Did you say ‘Jack Flowers’?”

  “Sí … Señor Jack Flowers.”

  “Solomon Jack Flowers?”

  “Sí, sí … Señor Jack Flowers and Señora Carolina from St. Louis, America. They save my brother and me as ninos. Señor Jack Flowers will help us.”

  The captain closed the door and paused, then took two steps in my direction. I was standing next to Sheela and Sailor off to the side of Katsuo. He stopped and studied me up and down, slowly taking in every detail. He bent over and leaned in closer. I could see his wire-rimmed glasses pressing into the skin of his temples and around his ears. His blue eyes were huge behind the lenses, and he smelled of American soap and shaving lotion. There was something slightly ominous about his total lack of expression or emotion. I felt like a butterfly being pinned into place and observed with cold and careful precision by its collector. “Es verdad?” he said.

  “Es verdad,” I answered.

  The captain straightened up and let his eyes run over the three of us again. Finally, he told Katsuo we were to come back in two hours. The lieutenant would then bring us directly to the captain’s office. “In two hours,” he said, “this matter will definitely be sorted out.” He waited another moment. “Am I clear?”

  Katsuo nodded one last time. After reminding the lieutenant in English to please escort us out of the embassy, Captain Blaine Harrington turned and left the room. I glanced at Sailor and he shook his head back and forth with an expression that told me exactly what he was thinking. Sailor thought I had blown every legitimate chance we might have had. Now it would be a tricky affair for us to leave Japan.

  We found Ikuko and quickly made our way back to the small room we had rented the previous evening. Katsuo removed his robes the moment we entered and sat down on his tatami mat, naked to the waist and barefoot. He crossed his legs and shut his eyes, taking in several long and deep breaths. Gradually his eyes opened and he looked at Sailor. “I believe I have failed you,” he said. “You have my full apologies.”

  “No!” Sailor shot back. “No, Katsuo, not so. You have not failed, do you hear? We could not have anticipated the American captain understanding and speaking Japanese fluently. There was no failure, Katsuo. Your performance was a good one. It should have worked.”

  “He is correct, Katsuo,” Sheela said. “Your actions were the only appropriate ones.”

  Ikuko was fanning her grandfather by waving a towel above his head. Outside, the traffic of Tokyo could be heard all around us. The minutes crept by and we said little. Finally, the two hours were nearly up and we got ready to return. Sailor told Katsuo the formal Shinto robes were no longer necessary, but Katsuo refused to step out of character and put on the heavy uncomfortable robes without complaint. He told Ikuko to stay in the room and kissed her on the forehead. Sailor and I said good-bye to Ikuko, and Sheela gave her an especially long embrace, then we set out for the embassy.

  Once we crossed the courtyard and climbed the steps, we were met outside by the lieutenant, who seemed to be waiting for us. Without delay, he ushered us into the embassy and down the wide hallway toward the captain’s office. As we neared the door, we passed a group of men standing off to one side, laughing and smoking cigarettes. They were all Americans, some civilians, some in uniform. One of the men said, “Well, well, would you look at that?” Sheela and I kept walking and staring straight ahead, but Sailor turned h
is head in the man’s direction. At the same time, a flashbulb went off. Somewhere among them, a soldier had taken Sailor’s picture. The lieutenant stopped and told the men there would be none of that, then commanded the soldier who snapped the picture to hand over the film. There was some protest from the man, but he was outranked and forced to comply. The lieutenant then asked all of the men to move along. By that time, the door had opened and Captain Blaine Harrington was standing in the doorway. He watched the man hand over the film, then said, “Inside, Lieutenant. Now.” He turned to Katsuo with a false smile. “This way, sir,” he said in Japanese.

  As we walked inside, I noticed another man in the room. He was sitting casually in a chair next to the captain’s desk. I tried not to seem shocked or surprised, but I’m not sure I succeeded. The man was dressed in civilian clothes, which were rumpled and slightly soiled, and he had at least three days’ growth of beard. His eyes reflected a certain kind of maturity and experience that had not been there the last time I’d seen him. He was now thirty-nine years old and looked exactly like his father. It was Jack Flowers. I looked at Sailor and he raised one eyebrow, as if to say, “Let us see where this goes.” We had expected to be quizzed about Jack, but we never expected to see him.

  Before the captain and Katsuo had taken their seats, Jack said, “I’ll be damned, Blaine, you were telling me the truth.” He leaned forward, staring at me. In Spanish, he asked, “Is that you, Felipe?” Then he nodded in Sailor’s direction. “And is that Hernando, as well?”

  I paused, unsure what to do or say, then realized Jack had probably been briefed by the captain and had figured it out. Now he was leading me, telling me to play along. Whatever he was doing in Tokyo I could find out later. Captain Blaine Harrington sat down in the seat behind his desk. He was observing me carefully. “Sí, Señor Jack,” I answered. “Felipe y Hernando.”

  Jack slapped his knee with one hand and laughed. The captain started to speak, but Jack cut him off and began a ten-minute fiction about Felipe and Hernando and a very bad Sunday in Pinar del Rio six years earlier. During mass, the roof of a church had collapsed without warning and twenty-six of fifty-three people praying inside were killed instantly. Our parents were among the dead. Jack and his mother, Carolina, personally found homes for all the children who were orphaned from the accident. Obviously, the captain had told Jack everything I had said, including the fact that Jack was supposed to have “saved” Sailor and me. Jack was ready with a cover story and he was good at it. I almost believed him myself. He ended by saying, “I’ll tell you what, Blaine … I mean, Captain Harrington, why don’t you let me take care of this? I know the perfect man. He’s Japanese and he’s connected. He’ll be able to find these kids a decent home.”

  The captain didn’t respond immediately. He breathed in sharply and glared at Jack, then at each of us until he let his eyes rest on Katsuo. He raised his hand and pointed a finger at Katsuo’s face. “I do not believe one word this man has uttered.” The captain looked back at Jack.

  Jack shrugged. “I’m sure it’s harmless,” he said. “The poor man is most likely only trying to find something in it for himself. I don’t blame him. Anyway, nothing to worry about and my man in Yokosuka will get to the bottom of it.”

  The captain removed his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped the lenses clean. His eyes were still large, even without the glasses. “The coincidence of all this is much too disproportionate.” He carefully refitted his glasses over his nose and back into the grooves along his temples and around his ears. “How is this possible, Jack?”

  Jack looked first at Sheela, then at Sailor and me. He laughed, shaking his head back and forth. “Luck,” he said. “Just pure dumb luck.” Jack leaned back in his chair. “What do you say? I’d really get a kick out of helping those kids again, Blaine.”

  The captain gave Katsuo another piercing stare. “Well, all right, Jack, but—”

  Jack interrupted. “Listen, Captain, if I leave right now, I might be able to make Yokosuka by nightfall.” Jack practically leaped out of his chair and opened the door to the hallway. “This way, everybody,” he said in English, motioning Katsuo and the three of us out the door. “Andele! Andele!” Once we were in the hallway, he turned back to the captain. “I’ve got Sergeant Roper waiting for me. I’ll send you a report from Yokosuka.”

  In two minutes we were out of the embassy, down the steps, and being hustled into a jeep. A red-haired man sat in the driver’s seat. When he saw us, he said, “What the—”

  “Never mind, Sergeant,” Jack said. “Just step on it.”

  We took Katsuo back to the room where Ikuko was waiting for him. There was so much for which to thank him, but there was no time. Sailor said his farewells to Katsuo in Japanese, and Sheela bowed to him deeply three times. I said my good-bye and thanked him as best I could, then we were off on a hectic, rough ride to Yokosuka.

  We arrived shortly after dark and made our way to the Japanese air base the U.S. Army now occupied. Jack told Sergeant Roper to drop us off at a small building squeezed between two enormous airplane hangars, saying he and the sergeant would be back soon. An hour later Jack, Sheela, Sailor, and I boarded a transport plane with no other passengers and little cargo. The plane took off, circled in a wide arc, and headed south. In less than ten minutes, I could no longer see Japan. Jack smiled and shouted over the noise of the engines, “Good to see you, Z.”

  I yelled, “You, too, Jack. Where are we going?”

  “Midway,” he shouted back. “Then we’ll change planes and go on to Hawaii.”

  “You want to tell me what you were doing in Japan … and how you’re able to do what you’re doing? Are you in the Army?”

  He laughed. “No, I’m not in the Army, Z. At least, not technically. I’ll tell you all about it when we land.” Jack dropped his smile and said, “It really was luck, Z … no doubt about it. I was supposed to go to Nagasaki the same day I heard from Blaine Harrington. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

  “Why were you going to Nagasaki?”

  “I was ordered to write a report about what I saw for a few people in Washington.”

  “Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll tell you all about it. People everywhere should know what that bomb did.”

  Jack shot me a look. “What? You saw it, Z?”

  “Oh, yes, I saw it, all right. I saw the bomb drop and I saw Nagasaki … afterward … and it is in my mind forever.”

  “Tell me later,” Jack shouted. “It’s too damn loud in here.”

  I nodded my agreement and tried to get comfortable in the stiff makeshift seats. Jack tossed some blankets over to me. We were flying at several thousand feet and it was chilly inside the big plane. I turned to pass Sailor and Sheela a blanket and found them both asleep. She had her head on his shoulder and he was holding her hand. I put the blankets around them as gently as possible. For a moment they looked like two innocent children who had played all day and stayed up past their bedtime. I laughed to myself at the thought and closed my own eyes. I was on my way home. I couldn’t believe it, it seemed too good to be true, and even though Sailor’s “plan” had fallen through, he had been right about one thing—he said we would be on our way to Hawaii within a day, maybe two. And so we were, but not because of his or anybody’s “plan.” No, it was simpler than that. As Jack had said, it was nothing but pure dumb luck.

  The event usually happens in an instant. The resulting injury is severe and traumatic. The healing is painful and slow. Time becomes the handmaiden, the nurse, and the clock that will gradually change, rearrange, and sometimes erase the event from memory. The mind plays tricks on itself, the body moves on, the soul calms and the spirit forgets, but the scar … the scar is permanent. The scar remembers.

  “Pick it up, son. Pick up the baseball and give it to me,” the voice behind the mask said. The sun was shining. I stood on the pitcher’s mound and he was walking toward me. Who was he? Was he the umpire? I looked down and saw the baseball ly
ing in the dirt. Instead of normal laces, the ball had been stitched together with jewels, and they reflected sunlight in every color and every direction. “Give it to me,” the voice repeated. I was confused. Why should I give the baseball to him? Why?

  “Wake up, Z! We’re landing.”

  I was jarred awake just as the airplane’s huge wheels hit the runway. I turned to Jack. “Where is this?”

  “Hickam Field—but we won’t be here long. I want to get the three of you to my place before anybody asks any questions.” Jack looked over at Sailor and Sheela. He rubbed the stubble on his face and laughed once to himself. “You’ve got to tell me about her, Z. She’s amazing … I had no idea …”

  Jack didn’t need to finish his sentence. I watched Sheela as we taxied to a full stop. I knew what he meant and he was right—she was amazing, and so was her story, but I knew I would only be able to tell Jack a portion of the truth about Susheela the Ninth. I could tell him she was the last of her kind among the Meq; I could tell him she had once known famous painters, princes, and queens; I could even tell him she possessed unique mental powers, but I could never tell him one thing—her true and actual age. He would never believe me. With the engines still running, Jack opened the door. The sound was deafening. He lowered the ladder, saluted the two pilots, and we stepped out of the plane and onto the ground. Jack waved us toward an empty hangar while the big transport turned around and taxied off to another runway. The last remnants of a storm were dissolving in the western sky and the sun was setting. Only a long, lone, horizontal sliver of bloodred light shone through the clouds. It looked like a scar between two worlds.