The fourteenth-floor fishery office was nearly as wide as a Tsukiji auction space. Desks formed precise double rows from wall to window. Each row ended at the window with a facing desk presided over by a man gravely neat in dark suit and tie. Those at subsidiary desks formed ranks of white shirtsleeves and dark ties.
Hayashi escorted him to a head desk to meet his supervisor. Hank exchanged cards and did the bow looking down on lips stretched over gold teeth. Mr. Matsunaga was a caricature of careful reserve as befitted his station. He became alert when Hayashi spoke in Japanese. “Tsukiji Market alone, Mr. Crawford? This is very dangerous! And unnecessary since it is on your schedule. Tsukiji is very busy. A vehicle might have injured you.”
“Oh, I know how to step out of the way.” Their concerned talk continued in Japanese as if he were not present.
After Mr. Matsunaga returned busily to his telephone, Hayashi led Hank to a conference room. A smiling woman brought in tea. Soon he faced six members of the shirtsleeve staff. With cards exchanged, Hayashi introduced them. Levels of English appeared to vary. Hank greeted two afresh before realizing they were the ones who had fetched him the night before. Except for an older man they all did look alike despite varying degrees of hair. It made an easy joke to arrange their cards by seating pattern to keep them straight.
One man—Yukihiro Kodama from his card—appeared better built and more self-contained than the others despite the same kind of white shirt and dark tie. A gym bag decorated with smiling cartoon animals lay at his feet. Hank pointed to the bag. Maybe exercise. “Judo? Basketball? Soccer?”
“Every morning run, Mr. Carford.”
“Hey, I’ll join you!”
“Starting half-four in morning.” Hank slapped his forehead and declared he’d never make it. General polite chuckles.
Hayashi took charge, passing each a copy of the schedule. Tsukiji Market indeed figured prominently during three days allotted to Tokyo. Lunches and dinners all specific. (No Kabuki, too bad.) Train then north to a place called Shiogama to visit typical fish plants and officials. Then a flight farther north to the island of Hokkaido, for a long list of visits to more fish plants and officials. Then—unexpected but nice—a train for a cultural visit to Kyoto. Then a return to Tokyo for meetings with officials. No boats.
“I’d expected to meet some real fishermen.”
“Oh, naturally, Mr. Crawford,” said Hayashi brightly. “They will be invited to the offices.”
“But I want to check out their boats.” Hayashi assured him they’d go to the harbors and look at vessels. “I mean, I want to go fishing with fishermen. Go out for a few days on the water. I’ve packed my own boots and oilskins.” Everyone scribbled notes. “That’s understood then? I’ll be going on some fishing boats? Right?”
Hayashi glanced around for help, said quickly “Perhaps, of course,” then added: “No worry, Mr. Crawford, very interesting, all.”
Hank turned to the others and addressed the older man—Mr. Suzuki from his card—whose gaze had never left his face. “I’m really hands-on, you see. Hands-on?” He flicked his hands, then made rope-pulling motions. “Meetings are nice, sure, for a while, but I like to see how things operate. You don’t learn just by listening.”
Suzuki nodded vigorously, then spoke to the others in Japanese. He certainly understands, thought Hank. Mr. Asakura, part of the airport greeting party, cleared his throat. “Mr. Crawford, Mr. Suzuki does not speak English. He wonders if this is American game you wish to show us, this you call hands. On-hands? Does this mean perhaps on-hands of friendship? We wish very much friendship with America. And thank you, all agree with you that meetings are . . . nice.”
Work this out away from the conference tables, he decided. “Sure. Friendship. Good stuff.” The others murmured and nodded. Mr. Suzuki leaned across the table with dignity and shook his hand.
At lunch, held in a restaurant’s private room, Hank sat cross-legged at a low table with a new set of name cards. Except for Hayashi and Kodama the men represented agencies with long names. They treated him so graciously that he felt ashamed ever to have mocked Japanese manners. Hardly a sip lowered the level of his tea or his beer before one of them replenished it. As his ear became accustomed he found them easier to understand than those at the morning conference. Discreet women in kimonos knelt behind them to serve seafood, the first of it raw, arranged with flowers. Whole small fish in a subtle sauce followed, along with plates holding decorated single large prawns and other sea life. He had eaten Japanese in the States, even aboard Japanese ships, but this tasted better in every way.
“Do you have pleasure to be in Japan, Mr. Crawford?”
“Well, I’ve just arrived. But I’m glad to be here.” He described his Kabuki visit enthusiastically, and his desire to see it again.
Discussion in Japanese, led by a confident man shiny and fat as a Buddha. Hayashi declared that Mr. Endo wished to invite him to Kabuki tomorrow night although a dinner meeting with officials had been scheduled. “I do not Kabuki for me. But Mr. Endo very important and insists to be hospitable. I must therefore alter the schedule.”
“Why, thanks. That’s really obliging!” (Should impress Daisy Mae if they happened to meet.)
“Since Mr. Endo informs that Kabuki ends at half-nine,” said Hayashi, “we must ask officials to meet at ten.”
“Maybe we could just skip that one.”
“Oh no.”
He waited, relaxed, for the inevitable pitch defending Japanese fishing in Alaska, ready to listen politely as he’d promised John Gains. The pitch never came. Rather they asked him about American fishermen: their level of prosperity and acceptance in the society, their expectations. It took him by surprise and forced quick introspection even while eating delicate food. “Ohhh. We want to make a living, I guess. Raise our families. Do work we like to do.” He grinned and raised his glass. “Be prosperous, like everybody else.”
They all laughed and toasted.
“And Mr. Carford,” asked Mr. Kodama the a.m. runner, “do American fishermen feel dutiful to their employer?”
“We don’t work for companies, we work for ourselves. That’s our duty, to our boats.” Another grin. “And to our wives of course. They handle the money.” Murmured translations. After a silence to absorb it, uncertain laughs and further toasts.
The luncheon became a convivial blur. By the time of another session back at the fishery office Hank needed sleep. Hayashi was sensitive enough to shorten the meeting and return him to the hotel in a taxi. “You must rest, Mr. Crawford, after your long journey. Tonight I will wait for you in the lobby at half after seven, for the dinner banquet with high officials. Please rest quickly.”
As the cab passed the Kabuki theater Hank noted customers entering even though it was only four in the afternoon. He needed a moment to stretch. After Hayashi left him at the hotel he strolled around the comer and studied the Kabuki posters, not sure what he wanted.
“Why, it’s Cousin Herbert, I do declare.”
“Hey! That’s a coincidence, I was just—Daisy Mae, sight for sore eyes. Hey, you know, I went in for the performance last night after you left. It was goodl”
Soon they were talking like old friends. He learned that her name was Helene Foster, and he was no longer tired. Nice, the way she flung scarves around her neck and shoulders. And a whiff of light perfume. Women in Kodiak had forgotten how to be feminine. And how to tease.
“So you’ve caught the last act of Iwafuji, and there’s a soul behind that great beard. I never doubted!” Her face, not necessarily pretty, had all kinds of lights and expressions. “Well, the whole play starts again in a few minutes, and you’ve got to come in.” She took his hand and pulled him along. “Don’t worry, I get in free.”
“I’m supposed to sleep, so I can stay awake for a meeting tonight.”
“Do you think everybody stays awake except for the good stuff? Come on. The seats downstairs are comfortable.”
“Just for a minute.”
; The long drama started indeed full of talk. But, now sitting close, he found the exotic makeup, gestures, and costumes too interesting to turn away. Each time she whispered translations he enjoyed a whiff of light perfume. Smelled fresh, like apples. Sudden tremor so far from Jody. Nothing he couldn’t handle as long as he kept it in public places. Enjoy it. Vacation. During a break he bought them sweet drinks and cakes, and joked with her over the complications of Kabuki.
A glance at his watch. “Sonofa, almost seven. Hey, look for me tomorrow when I get escorted here. What’s your phone in case I? . . .” He in turn noted his hotel room for messages. He sprinted to the hotel in time to dash water on his face and put on a tie.
“I see you have rested, Mr. Crawford,” said Hayashi a few minutes later in the lobby. “You are looking now fresh and vigorous.”
“Very vigorous, thanks.”
At the banquet, held in a place that must have been killer-expensive to judge by the individual waitresses dressed as geishas behind each guest, beer soon gave way to sake for toasts. His geisha was unbelievably charming and attentive, even to feeding him morsels with chopsticks when he permitted. After the first hour he began to long for sleep: could have laid back in the woman’s lap and drifted off as she stroked his head. If Jody could see him! (But she’d snap something and change the fun. Daisy Mae, now, would laugh and take notes.) Warm sake soothed like no other alcohol. Cups of it continued to be raised to friendship. The hosts talked no deeper of fisheries than to urge sea delicacies on him, including whale, while commenting on the importance of seafood to all Japanese.
On the way back to the hotel (the Kabuki marquee was now dark as they passed it), Hayashi reminded him: “Sleep well, Mr. Crawford, and suggest you sleep quickly. Better leave wake-up at the desk. I will come for you at half-after four in morning for Tsukiji Market.”
“Couldn’t we make it later?”
“Oh no, time for the tuna auction and then appointment with Tsukiji officials. Do not worry. We will eat breakfast there.”
A note waited at the desk from Helene Foster. “Be fun to lead you by the beard through some of old Tokyo that your keepers might not show you. Could do it with lunch tomorrow, or day after. Even backstage at Kabuki-Za. Advise.” He folded the note in his pocket, too groggy to think it through beyond: Nice. Vacation. Nothing couldn’t handle. Tomorrow that damned schedule listed another lunch. In the room he heaped clothes on the single chair (no hooks anywhere), brushed teeth, started to pull off socks but lay back first, and woke only to the phone jangle for his four-fifteen wake-up call.
The tuna auction proceeded as before, although now he watched it without zest while an official chattered statistics. Next they rode the elevator to the room of boxed small seafood. A recognized man hurried over from the office space to greet them—the enforcer who had kicked him out the morning before. Hank winked. The man looked away, flustered, not amused. After being taken to the head desk for the usual formalities, the man toured them with statistics that Hayashi translated. The man continued stem as if Hank might after all be a spy or imposter.
Breakfast at last, among shouting people at a raucous counter just outside the market. Hank pointed to slices and dollops of seafood glistening on ice, which the seemingly slapdash waiters behind the counter presented in petal patterns. Hayashi urged him to mix a pablum of green horseradish with a brown sauce, but the original flavors were so fresh and subtle that he savored them plain. Only when he ate his own catch immediately from the water was the taste ever so sweet. No wonder the Japanese were such fanatics about handling. When Hayashi received the scribbled bill he glanced over and calculated the yen. Nearly a hundred dollars for just the two of them! No wonder Jones Henry’s hated Japs could pay fishermen a higher price than any competitor when they chose and could dictate terms.
By the time they returned from breakfast the wholesale market had entered full swing. Two merchants knelt beside one stall hand-sawing a big tuna into pieces. They left the head intact, probably as proof of freshness. Hayashi pointed to blocks of a ruby meat on ice. The kerchiefed woman behind the trays smiled and bowed. “Whale meat, Mr. Crawford. Very now expensive because the U.S.A. leads the world to restrict Japan whaling.”
“Out of my field, I’m afraid.”
They drew aside for a long cart piled with baskets of small fish. The puller shouted for way, keeping momentum, his face tight beneath a yellow sweatband. He turned a comer sharply. The cart veered. The baskets slid off and overturned. The man stood with mouth open, expressionless, at a heap of fish nearly as high as his knees. A few of the merchants chuckled and paid little attention, but a man in uniform began to berate him with raised arm.
“Why doesn’t that jerk who’s yelling shut up and do something helpful?” said Hank. “Poor little guy.”
“An official surely does not do helping, Mr. Crawford. You see this worker not careful. So. Consequently. Now he must pay, for the fish is unfit.”
Hank strode over, scooped one of the tumbled baskets with fish, and started filling other baskets. The cart man jolted back, then followed suit.
“Oh Mr. Crawford, this is not necessary.” Hank continued. “Mr. Crawford, your shoes and clothing will become filthy.”
“Nobody else is helping.”
“It is this person’s problem.” Hank shook his head and lifted a filled basket onto the cart. “Mr. Crawford, most unseemly that you do this. See how the official disapproves.”
When the mess was down to the need for a shovel Hank straightened. The cart man bowed uncertainly. Hank’s hands were slimy, but after consideration he pulled his wallet, wadded a yen note in his palm, and pointedly shook the man’s hand. “Good luck, guy.” The man started, looked at the note, frowned, and handed it back.
As they returned to the hotel so that Hank could change from the clothes he had messed, Hayashi observed politely, “Americans are very interesting, Mr. Crawford.”
“So are Japanese, Mr. Hayashi.”
14
AGGRESSION
KYOTO-TOKYO, MAY 1982
The elderly woman slid back the paper doors and entered on her knees, bearing dishes of food arranged like paintings. Serving them seemed her greatest pleasure. Whenever they entered the room her forehead touched the floor and she waited on them with the greatest smile.
Hank, cross-legged on straw mats he now knew as tatami, adjusted kimono flaps over his bare knees. Across the low table Hayashi stayed covered easily with an identical kimono provided by the riyokan. Of course, Hayashi was shorter by a head. His knees barely knobbed beneath the printed blue cotton.
Hank, now expert with chopsticks, detached a soft orange marble of sea urchin from its prickly shell. Clean flavor, tart. All the urchins he’d cursed for spiking through thick gloves, then smashed and kicked through the scuppers! And here they were food, a product to sell. “I liked the one on stilts best,” he continued. “Those gongs and people. Then the view.”
“Kiyomizu Temple. Yes, very old and beautiful. In Japan, when a man begins thing very difficult, like marriage, hehe, we say he jump off Kiyomizu. And the Ryoanji—your impression please?”
Hank stretched comfortably. “Which one’s that, Yashi-san? We saw five or six temples today.”
“Garden of stones and contemplation.”
“Oh. The rocks in the sand. Well. . . interesting. The big productions are more my style. Ceremonies, priests waving things . . . like Kabuki, you know, action. What about those schoolgirls outside Kiyomizu who wanted my autograph? Fifty at least. What do they do with all their little books?”
“Souvenirs. Places and persons of distinction, Hank-san. You gave gracious time to sign books. Made very happy.”
“Not hard to oblige over here.” He smiled up at the woman who was discreetly removing the urchin shells and replacing them with thin silver fish nested between green sprigs and a yellow flower. Good food at a Japanese inn after Kyoto’s great sights helped keep in perspective the frustrating previous days watching boats
only through windows while officials droned statistics and shy women served cup after cup of green tea.
Hayashi poured him sake and he reciprocated. With raised cup: “Gampai.”
“Chin-chin.” Hayashi smiled. “You see, I learning to say like you in America. Or is more correct to say ‘Mud in the eyes’?”
Hank considered. Where to begin? “In Japan, what did they say instead of gampai say, ten years ago, twenty?”
“Always gampai, naturally. My grandfather.”
“In America we change such words every few years. It’s called slang. Nobody says ‘mud in your eye’ anymore, and I’ve never heard ‘chin-chin’ except in books with English butlers.”
“But is books where I must learn. And why should word change when it. . . expresses the thought? Very confusing. Is not Japanese.”
Later in the evening he phoned Jody, to catch her at wake-up time in Kodiak. Her cheerful voice relaxed him at once. The boat under Seth was managing, although the tanner crabs remained scarce. Kids were fine. Pete remained silent but progressed normally in other ways. Then Henny and Dawn told him how Auntie Adele was back so they didn’t miss him so much anymore. He laughed and yearned to hold them.
“We’re at a place called a ryokan, hotel without beds or chairs, just this straw mat they call a tatami. Bedrolls tucked in a comer. Great seafood, never had it so fresh. Japan R-and-R to Tokyo from Vietnam a dozen years ago was never like this.”
“Jones Henry predicted right. You’re brainwashed.”
“Let ‘em try.” He glanced around the courtyard garden where an alcove sheltered the ryokan’s single phone, and lowered his voice. “If they’ve left out any statistic it’s oversight. Everybody they drag me to meet is supposed to be important. Since they’re so polite I’ve done my duty and listened. Even accepted that the closest I’ll get to handling a net here is boat walk-on’s with my keepers. They’re so anxious. Now we’re back to Tokyo with John Gains showing up, too bad. I’m doing fine by myself.” He started to add that now he’d get another look at all the Tokyo attractions but skipped it. “Now. Just tell Jones to relax. I can separate their bellyaches from mine.”
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