“I’ll tell him. He and Adele arrived in town last week to gear for salmon. Dawn’s already spent two nights there. We’re going for dinner tomorrow.”
“Say hi, say hi! And I don’t need brainwashing to see that when these people pay premium for freshest fish they know the difference. I’ll have new respect for fresh back on the boat. Guys might not like it, too bad. We’ll get better price. And Yashi-san, my keeper here, he’s okay. Little stiff. Worrier, pain in the ass at first. But after a few hot sake’s we talk like buddies. He’s putting this phone call on the ryokan bill, nice guy in ways like that. Wish you were here. The temples we’ve been seeing for the last two days are . .. unusual.”
“Thought you went over there to work.” Her tone had changed.
“I really miss you.”
“Glad it’s going right. I don’t know what we’d do without that bribe they gave you to see sunny Japan. The bills are just stacking. And this phone call’s racking up your obligation. Don’t get in any deeper.”
“I love you.”
“I know, I know. Take care.”
She didn’t say “I love you” back. It left him tossing on the futon long after Hayashi’s regular breaths proved him asleep.
When they left a day later for the Tokyo train the woman who had served them insisted on carrying his bag to the taxi and refused the yen notes he offered. With a low bow she handed him a wrapped box. Lacquered chopsticks. “What do I do, Yashi, I don’t have any gifts.”
“Not necessary. It is her great honor. But perhaps your pen?”
He started to grab it with his left hand, remembered an admonition from John Gains, and presented the pen with his right hand. The woman held it to her cheek, and bowed and bowed. Should have coughed up something better, too late.
The train sped them through hilly countryside, past tile-roofed towns. They ate smoked eel from neat boxes sold by a vendor passing through. Hank pinched his chopsticks neatly around each last rice grain that had absorbed the rich oil. The Japanese were all right. Friendly and generous.
Back in Tokyo, the largest meeting of all that they had dragged him to took place in the boardroom of the Tsurifune Suisan Fishing Co. Ltd.
Director Kiyoshi Tsurifune officiated. His bald head glistened under the flourescent lights. Wrinkles extending from eyes to chin gave him the look of a sack drawn tight, but a cheerful sack and aristocratic. He beamed across the table and talked rapidly in Japanese, then tittered in that strange Japanese way without losing any of his natural dignity. His eyes were active, almost merry.
“‘American art is my . . . excitement, Mr. Crawford,’” Fred Nishimori, the hired interpreter at his elbow, translated smoothly. “ ‘Abstract, but also what you would call very of the flesh.’ It is at this ‘of the flesh’ that Mr. Tsurifune was laughing, Mr. Crawford. Mr. Tsurifune continues: ‘And you should know that I learned to play golf expertly, not at Saint Andrews in Scotland, but on famous American golf courses with American friends. Thus you see how deep I’m very in friendship with America.’”
The big room had a map of the world on its main wall directly behind Mr. Tsurifune, and beside it a poster with paint scratches from the Museum of Modem Art in New York City that announced an exhibit of American Abstract Expressionist paintings. The Tokyo pleasantries had already lasted more than two hours. A dozen Japanese businessmen faced Hank around a long polished table. All wore dark suits and subdued ties. Behind each sat assistants who scribbled notes and passed up papers at a nod from their boss, while behind Hank sat members of the fishery agency, including friendly Hayashi and grim Kodama. Discreet, smiling ladies replenished green tea around the table, though not for staff. Fred the interpreter flanked Hank on one side, and John Gains, newly arrived from the States, on the other.
“I’m really impressed with the way you handle your seafood,” Hank had declared to approving nods and even grunts. “Very impressive, your passion for freshness. I’d like to thank Mr. Hayashi for first showing me this.” He winked back at Hayashi whose face exploded into gratified nods. “I’ve always respected fish and crabs as food. Now that I’ve eaten ‘em your way, so fresh they practically quiver, and served up like a picture besides, I’ll respect my seafood even more. And I’ll tell my friends that when Japanese insist on quality fresh, they are, uh . . . sincere.”
“Good word. Translates well,” murmured Gains. “But keep sentences simple.”
A large, nervous man with slitted eyes spoke up, growling. “Mr. Sukisumi says he is very gratified to hear this information. But he fears that American wages are too high. Therefore the case, that Japanese attention to their own product will be too costly when demanded of American workers. Thus better that Japanese perform.”
“Tell Mr. Sakasumo that high pay gives Americans plenty of incentive. We can catch and deliver Japan quality.”
MR. SUKISUMI, wrote John Gains in large block letters, and underlined the vowels.
Hank grinned. “Mr. Sukisumi. Sorry.” The gentleman nodded, pleased. The gesture appeared to satisfy him as much as an answer.
“Everyone would like to know more of your good impressions, Mr. Crawford.”
Hank told them more of what he knew they wanted to hear.
On it went. At length the lean, bald Mr. Tsurifune cleared his throat loudly, and the others fell silent. All faces turned grave. He’s big cheese, scribbled John Gains.
“Mr. Tsurifune wishes now to make a statement that he hopes you will listen with full attention, Mr. Crawford. He wishes to tell you this in all seriousness: ‘I am up to my temper at the moment with the issue with the United States.’” Tsurifune threw up his hands, then slapped them on the table. “I love America. I buy works of American artists. Why are you forcing us to make alliances with the Soviets instead? Don’t Americans understand that alliances are permanent?”‘
“Well, sir, I don’t make the law, so please don’t be angry with me.”
“‘You’re right, so I won’t be angry with you.’” General laughter. Hank liked him.
“‘We are such friends with America, that it gives us only greatest pain that our friend now treats us like—’” Fred turned smoothly. “I will use an idiom you will understand, Mr. Crawford, rather than Mr. Tsurifune’s expression which you will not understand. Like an old shoe, discarded when no longer useful.”
“Thanks. But you can let me figure the idioms for myself.” The Fred fellow could have been John Gains’s Asian cousin. Same latest glasses encircled by large, dark frames, same black hair groomed to a shine, manner not quite slick nor condescending but close enough. Prissy little mustache, that difference. And at least Gains had earned his authority, give him that.
“Back now exactly as Mr. Tsurifune speaks it: ‘Without more pollack quota from America for my company in the Bering Sea, it is banzai! Banzai.’ Does this word need translation, Mr. Crawford?”
“Tell Mr. Tsurifune that it does not,” Hank said coldly. “Americans have encountered the word.”
“Easy now,” muttered Gains.
A confident-looking man Hank’s age by Tsurifune’s side whispered in the older man’s ear. Tsurifune waved him aside. A smile intensified despite his words. “‘Americans have no use for this fish that Japanese need. Yet Americans contend that they must more and more capture this fish in vessels they do not possess, and merely sell it to Japanese producers. It is disaster for my company with two hundred and twelve employees who depend, founded in 1917, my father founded, my son here beside me soon to become director if the company is not destroyed. I wish to say that this you call Joint Ventures is unrealistic, Mr. Crawford. Not good friendship.”
“Tell Mr. Tsurifune that I’m only a fisherman myself. I have one boat, not a ship. And I’ve got bills to pay and a family to support like everyone else. What does he hope that I can do for him?”
“Mr. Tsurifune says, Mr. Crawford: ‘You are a famous fisherman and influential. We admire that you talk to United States senators. And, it is reliably said, you ar
e friends to the Secretary of State Mr. Haig and even to President Reagan himself.’”
“What the hell,” Hank muttered.
“You pulled that know-’em trick yourself,” Gains muttered back. “So live with it. Don’t worry. Not the main point here. Be sympathetic.”
A thickset man with glasses that caught the light spoke bluntly. “Mr. Satoh says: ‘Only Japanese know how to capture fish by Japanese standard.’”
“Well. . . Japanese may have lessons to teach us about care and handling. But Americans know how to catch fish by anybody’s standard.”
“Mr. Satoh says that much of fish captured by American vessels is wrong size and wrong species.”
“Tell him I’ve visited Japanese factory ships that receive from Japanese boats. They take what they find in the water like anybody else.”
“Ah!” declared Mr. Tsurifune when he heard the translation. “‘But we do not waste. All product not used for surimi becomes fish meal.’”
Hank smiled. “Maybe.”
The director tapped on the table and began to speak deliberately. “Mr. Tsurifune says: ‘Americans are not aware of the . . . ah . . . complications of Japanese culture. It is directed toward efficiency, and at sea it is directed toward order in the fishery. Japanese fishermen must attend school. Yes, did you know, Mr. Crawford?. And Japanese fishing masters must attend very much school. On the other hand, any rich American, even a barber in America, can freely buy a vessel and capture all the fish he wishes.’”
“Come on now, that’s not—”
The interpreter raised his voice to override. “Mr. Tsurifune continues: ‘I wish to say, Americans are overdoing it. They do not know where’ . . . excuse me . . . ‘when to stop. Fish belong to the world, not only to Americans. You do not understand to share.’” Fred’s lips curled and his tone, unlike Tsurifune’s, became insinuating. “‘Frankly, Japanese feel they can trust Europeans more than Americans. They have a longer history, and because of that, people in Europe really value relations and friendship. Excuse me for saying it, but more American individuals are you might say cunning. And tactical. They don’t hesitate to change friendships. For example, the U.S. has many divorcing couples.’”
Hank turned to Gains. “Where’s this bullshit leading?” he said louder than he’d intended.
Fred leaned forward, absorbed it, and translated with the satisfaction of a child tattling. A silent instant, then Mr. Tsurifune snapped something so directly to the translator that it was clearly a rebuke. The fellow’s tone suddenly changed. His voice nearly trembled until it regained composure. “Mr. Tsurifune wishes not to argue with such a distinguished guest, Mr. Crawford. He only wishes to inform his American friends—”
Gains’s interruption sounded more casual than his grip on Hank’s arm. “Mr. Crawford has enjoyed sharing opinions with Mr. Tsurifune. As he told you, he is learning to appreciate Japanese culture. And has been grateful for the opportunity to observe, uh, Japanese culture.” He scribbled to Hank: Ride with it!
Hank guarded irritation as Tsurifune droned on. The old man’s voice peppered the air with such conviction that the translator regained confidence. The heavy, bitter green tea had begun to thicken in Hank’s mouth. Why didn’t they serve their usual flavorless little cakes to help the stuff go down? He covered the notepad in front of him with squares and triangles, then connected them, shaded some, enclosed some with circles.
“ ‘It is aggravation to us, Mr. Crawford, how Americans do not honor friendship and commitment. Perhaps you’re not aware that historically, Japanese have fished in the entire Bering Sea and also in the Gulf of Alaska. In these fisheries we have made great, yes, tremendous investment. We have put so much money into the market for black cod. Then it was deprived and we’re driven away. After all that Japanese people been through, it’s like they’ve been stretching their lifetime for a gold mine, and after they struck it, it’s taken away. And then this American guy says—’” Fred assumed a sly, sarcastic voice. “‘Out you go, go away.’”
A brisk woman dressed more severely than the tea girls hurried in with a phone on a long cord. As Tsurifune listened, his face tightened and he held up a hand for silence. “Hai, hai,” he snapped at intervals over the phone.
Hank took the opportunity to beckon the tea girl. “Some water, please, miss?” Fred translated curtly, his manner different toward a servant. She bowed and hurried away. “Af/zw, that’s the word for water,” said Hank, remembering.
“Buy!” Tsurifune declared, in English, his face as fierce as a sword thrust. A moment with pursed mouth, then another “hai,” and his lips parted in a slit that revealed gold teeth. A further moment and he had handed back the phone, waved the woman away, and returned businesslike to his notes.
“Mr. Tsurifune says: ‘Let us continue, Mr. Crawford. Japanese captured king crabs long before Americans thought to do it. My company has records crab fishing there in Bering Sea 1920, at that time managed by my own father. Then when Americans saw how profitable, you took equipment into areas of Japanese fishermen who unfortunately work to feed their families. Took equipment far from the American shore in waters once understood by all to be international by entire world.’”
“You mean, sir, by those in the entire world strong enough to kick out the others?”
“Nix,” wrote Gaines. But Tsurifune nodded, understanding.
“‘Then, therefore, even before you demanded possession of two hundred miles of water, you made control of king crabs, which consequently forced Japanese fishermen into very great loss. However, Japanese graciously changed to the capture of only snow crabs—tanner crabs, I think you call them—which were smaller and of no interest to Americans. Now, seeing this, Americans have captured the king crabs to extinction and have therefore decided to capture all the snow crabs for themselves.’”
“King crabs have disappeared from places we never fished. Nature changes its—”
“Please allow me to finish translation, Mr. Crawford. Mr. Tsurifune continues: ‘It is even more ironic that Americans possessed no economical way to extract meat from the very thin snow crab legs until their Japanese friends demonstrated. Yes, we gave away to you our method. Therefore, now, you’re telling Japanese friends go home, do not capture our snow crabs.’”
Hank’s scribbles had blackened one note page. He started another.
“‘The next case in point. It is that of pollack—bottomfish you call it—in the Bering sea. And decidedly sablefish—black cod you call it—in the Gulf of Alaska. When did Americans ever bother to capture these creatures before seeing that their Japanese friends needed to capture them for survival? Now it is, we see clearly that’—now, Mr. Crawford, I will report Mr Tsurifune’s own American idiom that he uses especially for you—‘Americans become a dog in the manger, demanding what you cannot need or use, in order to deprive Japanese friends.’”
“Please tell Mr. T that this might sound unfair to him. But Japan has its own water out to two hundred miles. It’s not our fault if you’ve fished it out. In our water the foreign ships—not just Japanese, also Soviet, Taiwanese, Korean, whatever, but mostly Japanese—were taking so much fish there was nothing left for Americans. Your ships were a city out there. I saw it many times. I was just a crab fisherman in a small boat, and Japanese ships sometimes destroyed my gear. You were the ones who overdid it. You forced us to take back our own.”
Tsurifune absorbed the message looking directly at Hank, nodding with a “hail” at each point, then leaned back frowning. His son, who had made notes throughout the meeting while saying nothing, passed him a slip of paper. Tsurifune read it, and pushed it back abruptly. But his tone became chatty. Fred’s voice in translating reflected the change. “‘Let us have a friendly discussion on this. Even in Japanese regions, Koreans with fishing boats are coming in within two hundred miles. Sometimes they fish illegally, and that’s when we also start criticizing. Those things happen. We also get angry. We have a saying, “we really expand the hole of
a needle.” We ignore Japanese fishing, get angry at Korean overfishing. Americans also fish illegally. Do you know this? All do it. So let’s not make that too much of an issue. What America is doing now, they send search planes looking for Japanese illegal fishing. And I think the cost of this airplane comes from money made by American fishermen, and do you know where the fishermen’s money came from? From Japanese buyers.’” The old man raised his eyebrows to make it a joke. The prompt produced appreciative laughs from his colleagues.
“‘Seriously, Mr. Crawford. Do you know Japanese eat up to ten million tons of fish annually, one-seventh of the worldwide amount? You’ve got to realize we have such a big market, and you have to take good care of it. So what I want to emphasize strongly is that if American people catch all the fish, and ninety percent is sold to Japan, it’s only fair that you let Japanese capture equal amount.’”
Hank was becoming increasingly restless. “That’s not in my hands, sir.”
Tsurifune returned to his notes and continued in his earlier tone. “‘Let me tell you frankly, Mr. Crawford, we are in anger and upset that our supposed American friends now deprive us of more and more quota that we have harvested historically. And, even with unfair quotas allowed, which you call Domestic Allowable Harvest I believe, you are trying to deprive even this unless we agree to buy also from American vessels in program called Joint Ventures, which therefore puts Japanese fishermen off boat thus to starve their families. Even now, too many vessels driven away from our historic fisheries off the U.S. must try to fish off Japan which crowds away Japanese home-stay fishermen and upsets the order.’” Tsurifune held out his hands. “‘Excuse me, but is this what Americans call friendship?’”
Thick Satoh leaned forward. His tone was harsh and the interpreter quickly reflected it adding a snide tone of his own. “‘Japanese have shared you our maritime research. We have shared you snow crab and black cod processing methods. In Japanese culture which Americans evidently do not understand, friends do not betray friends. But this way you have betrayed your good friend. Isn’t it customary for people who accept favors to give back favors?”‘
Breakers Page 23