Breakers

by William B. McCIoskey Jr.

  “Hold on here.” Hank laid down his pen and pushed away the pad. “You’re who? Mr. . . . Satoh. I don’t think you know your damned history. Sir.” He turned to Mr. Tsurifune. “What were you doing forty years ago, sir? You yourself? Excuse me, but I think you were playing some part in trying to destroy America and the rest of the world. Japanese started one of the dirtiest wars in the history of man.” He threw aside Gains’s urgent hand on his arm. “But we defeated you. If we hadn’t, the world would now be hell for everybody but Japanese. But we did not destroy you, sir. We helped you to recover and become strong again. Helped you! So that now, it’s possible for you to sit here today, the important head of a powerful company. You rattle on to me about favors and friendship—”

  “Please, Mr. Crawford, let me catch up,” interjected the interpreter with breathless awe.

  “What Mr. Crawford means to say—”

  “Shut up, John.”

  Hank calmly sipped his water, again brushed off Gains’s anxious hand, and scanned their startled faces. Tsurifune’s son studied Hank with narrowed eyes and a stretch of the mouth that was possibly a smile. Only the old man himself waited without expression. “Caught up, Fred? Okay. Sir, don’t tell me about favors this year or last year. Remember the many, many years of American friendship that has made you strong instead of wiping you out. Remember why it is that all of you are sitting here today rather than . . . well, excuse me, but. . . instead of in some prison.”

  After the translation, silence. Get up and leave calmly, Hank told himself. Catch the first plane home. Around the table, wary eyes had focused on Mr. Tsurifune. The aristocratic face remained a mask.

  Suddenly the old man chuckled, then laughed. Everyone else did the same, cautiously. Gains joined with nervous excess. The son, unsmiling, raised one eyebrow and scribbled notes. Tsurifune resumed in a calm, pleasant voice, his eyes again merry. Fred cleared his throat. “Mr. Tsurifune says: ‘We will now leave this controversial subject to discuss other interesting matters. American painting of the . . . for example . . .’” The interpreter asked a puzzled question, and Mr. Tsurifune’s reply in Japanese contained the English words. “Ah. Abstract expressions, for example. ‘This is achievement of great consequence for America. I myself possess paintings by the great Americans Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, Sam Francis. And now, today also Jasper Johns. Does this amaze you?”‘

  Hank forced himself to settle back. “Very amazing, sir.” Not just paintings that amazed! He fingered his beard, feeling light as his battle tension eased. Painter si The guy named after a fish was the only one he’d heard of: man who sold scribbles for the price of a crabber. To play the strange new game he said: “One I like, I guess. Bellows? John or George Bellows? Those prizefighter paintings?”

  Tsurifune wagged a finger and his eyes sparkled. “‘Your tastes are literal, Mr. Crawford. And aggressive

  “Just like Japanese Kabuki, sir. Which I like very much.”

  “Ah!” Several of the dignitaries nodded eagerly. But further talk revealed that none of them had attended Kabuki in years.

  The meeting lasted another hour and covered the full range of Tsurifune’s interest in pleasures American from golf to bourbon. Hank listened politely with wandering attention while his buzz settled. Jones Henry, you should have heard your old buddy tell ‘em off, seen ‘em back down! Now he knew how to handle Japs . . . Japanese.

  Yet he continued to like Mr. T. The word gentleman applied. Grace under fire. At last the director concluded, voicing flowery praise for Japanese-American friendship at that. “‘Photos now, Mr. Crawford.’” As translator Fred folded notes into his briefcase, he regarded Hank with subdued respect. Now that he wasn’t parroting other people’s bold words, he seemed to have no presence of his own—little face behind a smudge of mustache. Mr. Tsurifune in passing dismissed him with such an absent wave of the hand that Hank said something kind to compliment Fred’s English. The guy lapped it up like a puppy. Hank turned to the fishery people. The dependably friendly Hayashi—who had greeted him that morning enthusiastically—bustled with papers and averted his eyes.

  A photographer snapped the whole party (minus staff and fisheries), in front of a vast abstract frieze outside the company boardroom. Frame after frame followed of Hank and Tsurifune together, with Hank’s arm lightly on the shoulder below him and the old man’s arm reaching high. As soon as the photos ended, the dignitaries and their staffs vanished.

  A banquet would follow in four hours. “‘Since I am an old man and must rest,”‘ declared Tsurifune with a twinkle, (in English!) “you must please accept hospitality from my son.”

  To Hank’s dismay the meeting would resume next morning at ten. “What the hell’s left to say?” he muttered to Gains.

  “Now it’s your turn to shut up.”

  “Well. . .,” Hank ventured in the cab back to the hotel. Beside him, Gains said nothing. Afternoon traffic was already thick. Get moving, Hank silently urged the cab, begrudging every car that blocked their way. John’s obvious disapproval penned him in, while the meeting had left him pumped up, needing to let it out. Call Jody. Then, maybe, catch the first acts of Kabuki before the banquet grabbed him. Admit it. A little harmless joking with Helene would be nice, if she was there. Tell her about the meeting, hear her laugh. . . He returned to the grave game-play with John. “Well. . . Old Tsurifune took his medicine like a gentleman.”

  “You don’t know Japanese, do you? How he acts now is the surface. He’ll never forget. Maybe never forgive.”

  “Want me to ship home tomorrow?”

  “Wish I had the option. No, you stay. See if you can hold your tongue tonight and tomorrow. At least see it through on the surface. God knows what they’ll make of you now.” When they reached the hotel: “Freshen up. We can meet for a drink in, say, an hour, and I’ll try to—”

  “Uh-uh. See you when they pick us up for the banquet.”

  “See here, Hank—”

  “No thanks.” In the cramped room he placed a call to Jody, showered quickly listening for the phone, dressed slowly, checked the hotel operator who assured him he’d not been forgotten, then waited restlessly. At last the operator confirmed: no answer. He’d wanted her voice. And wanted to relate how he’d told off the Japanese. Have her give the message to Jones Henry: Pearl Harbor remembered.

  Time for Kabuki to start around the comer. When the elevator opened onto the lobby, damn, there was Gains, seated with a group of Japanese talking seriously. Gains rose and beckoned him over. “Sorry,” Hank called. “See you back here seven-forty for pickup.”

  Gains started toward him. The smooth face framed by neat black hair and homed glasses turned anxious. Hank hurried to the street and quickened his pace without looking back.

  Soon he stood by the box office of Kabuki-Za to buy the cheapest balcony seat.

  “My stars it’s Cousin Herbert, I do declare!”

  “Hey Daisy Mae!” Without thinking he held out his arms. “My dear ol’ cousin!” Her agreeable scent surrounded him. Apples again. Her arms closed, more than the casual greeting he’d intended. It triggered an unexpected surge. He released the hug quickly and stepped back. There she stood, scarf over shoulder, interesting as ever. He realized she was part of Kabuki’s attraction.

  “And dressed fit to kill!” she exclaimed. “I’d suspected those were some muscles I finally felt beneath the padding.” Her eyes drifted to his chest, then back to his face directly.

  He stepped back, wary, and uneasy for being so. “Dressed for banquet tonight. Got to leave by seven-thirty.”

  “A shame.” But did she look relieved? As they walked into the lobby a knot of Japanese matrons in traditional dress tittered. “You know, don’t you, Cousin Herbert, that your splendid barbaric beard is part of the show here?”

  “Plenty I don’t know.”

  He followed to the good orchestra seats she commanded. The program was no longer that of the actor playing seven roles in a long drama, but a series of shor
ter ones. “They change every month,” she noted, and began to explain the plot of the first play. The curtain parted on a chalkfaced woman. (“That a man?” “Of course. Shush.”) Backdrop of moon-rippling water. The character swayed as she/he whimpered and agonized in a high singsong voice.

  He’d hoped for warriors with growls and gnashing. Helene’s perfume kept pulling his attention from the static drama.

  When she escorted him out to catch the banquet transport: “You do have my address and phone number, Cousin Herbert?”

  “Somewhere.” Best to have lost it.

  “Here. I wrote it down again. In case you’d say that.”

  He tucked it in a pocket of his suit jacket.

  “Enjoy the air up in that male tree.”

  He started to ask what she meant, decided better not. Her half-saucy look made him uneasy. But lighthearted. Now that he was safely leaving.

  15

  THE MALE TREE

  TOKYO, MAY 1982

  The restaurant admitted only members. Its proprietor bowed deeply to each. The place smelled of teak and money. They entered a private room raised from the floor. Waiting beside each cushion knelt a smiling girl dressed like a Japanese doll. The men settled cross-legged around a low table. They started with beer. This washed down courses of sea tidbits tucked on individual plates among fronds and blossoms. None were less than delicious. Sake followed, accompanied by raw, bright red slices of tuna and whale. The toasts began. On Hank’s left, Tsurifune’s son headed the party. A subdued John Gains sat at the turn of the table facing Hank. The other six guests were dignitaries from the earlier meeting. Hank studied their faces. Some were pompous, all overly convivial even to the blunt Mr. Satoh.

  “Call me Mike,” Shoji Tsurifune had said at once, in easy English. He had the direct look of his dad, though without the knowing twinkle of age. His dark suit and tie were as impeccable as Gains’s, but the way black hair flopped casually over his forehead showed an ease foreign to the straight-slicked Gains.

  “Whoever taught you English did a good job,” said Hank.

  “Thanks. At Harvard, I guess.” In warm-up conversation Hank learned that he played sax in a jazz ensemble (not for pay of course), had never seen Kabuki, seriously honed his golf and tennis skills, and had assumed from birth that he’d take over the family business. “Do I like my family business? Sure. Why not? What difference would it make?”

  Under Mike’s easy translation the talk flowed from one light subject to another, with fish business barely mentioned except to identify some exotic species when it came to table. It forced Hank back to his own college and Vietnam days when fishing hadn’t dominated his thoughts. Not as difficult as he might have expected, especially since new toasts interrupted often. Time passed quickly.

  “We’ve toasted friendship,” Mike declared. “Then once America, and once Japan, and Hank-san, and John-san who brought him here, and—” He counted with his fingers while some of the others who seemed to understand English nodded to each: “Baltimore Orioles, Boston Red Sox, U.S. Open, Boston Celtics. Any others? Oh, dog races, Iditarod. What next?” The kneeling girls behind each guest filled their cups from individual blue-striped carafes.

  “Been here only what? No more’n two hours, man,” said Hank, fingering the warm cup. “Want to get us drunk?”

  “Why not? Ah.” A door slid open. Smiling, bowing older women handed in platters of fish that still twitched and glistened silver against nests of small yellow chrysanthemums. The young hostesses received each dish ceremoniously, and with further bows arranged them around the table. The girl behind Hank leaned past him to cut out a piece of bright red meat and offer it to him between chopsticks. Her soft silk sleeve brushed his cheek.

  He looked comfortably into her eyes—after a toast or two he’d accepted being fed—and opened his mouth. Delicate flavor. (Poor critter now surely dead, forget it.)

  “You like?” she asked gently.

  “Ummm.”

  There followed conchs, uncooked, their guts hidden way up in the shell to be picked with little forks, then spiky urchins served likewise. Then some reddish sea vegetable with a taste so suddenly disgusting he coughed it out as everyone laughed and laughed.

  He looked around at the grinning faces of men who had been all tight business in the afternoon. Fat old Sukisumi whose eyes had slitted like a snake’s with each pointed question now rolled on his side when Hank told how fishermen sneaked around the comer to a cash buyer in Bristol Bay if the price was high enough and fuck the cannery. They all had roared. If Mike had been translating for the meeting it would have gone sweet. No snide bullshit. Nobody remembered anymore what he’d said about Japs in the war. Not from the way they acted now. Poor asshole Gains sitting there tried to laugh out and toast like the rest. He’d never get it. Hank told more anecdotes. He made each funnier than the last. They loved it. Who said all Japs were frozen little pricks?

  Cooked food began to arrive, first single big clams, then baked salmon and other fish, then soup with whole king crab legs. With each bite that the girl fed him, he declared he’d never eaten better. “You are nicel You know?” She giggled in the cutest way with a hand over her mouth, so pleased, and her whole little body bowed. Glad he’d said it. “You’re what they call a geisha?” Giggle again. “What’s your name?”

  “Machiko.”

  Mike Tsurifune leaned toward his ear. “Like her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She’s yours for the asking, you know. Easy to arrange. Very private. My guest, of course. She’ll sing for you. Then, naturally, whatever you like.” Hank kept his look blank. He’d been daydreaming of this, but. . . He turned to find her watching, anxious and coaxing. “Ohh, Mike-san my man!” He leaned back laughing, and found his head in her lap. “I’ve got a wife. Don’t you know?” But he refrained from mentioning his wife by name. The silk of Machiko’s lap smelled of.. . what? Whatever.

  “Oh Hank-san. Who doesn’t have a wife at home? Home where they belong, eh?”

  “Straight ol’ Johnny Gains over there watching my every move,” Hank pretended to whisper. “You don’t want to shock Johnny Gains, do you?”

  “Part of the hospitality, Hank,” said Gains quietly.

  Hank shook himself and sat up. “Let’s eat a while. I’m good at eating.” Machiko started to select a large prawn from a platter that had just arrived. On impulse he brushed away her arm and used his own chopsticks. “Mr. Hank-san angry?” she asked in a small, hurt voice.

  “No, no, just. . . Americans like to wait on themselves.”

  “Then you angry with Machiko?” Her hand crept to his chest.

  “Get her off my back for a while, okay?” he muttered to Mike. “Don’t hurt her feelings, she’s nice, but she’s all over me.”

  An amused word from Mike, and she drew back. “Want her gone altogether? Plenty more. Look them over. Any here, any.” Hearty hand on his shoulder. “You’re guest of honor. Or we’ll send for more.”

  “Let’s eat a while.” Hank watched sober Gains, poor guy trying to be jolly and drunk. Probably drunk enough. Uh-uh, this wasn’t all friendship. Not with feeding him geishas. But they’d swallowed his hard talk that afternoon. What’s the most they expected? That he not bitch if their ships ran over his gear? No way. But he knew now that Japs were nice. Be glad enough to speak up for the way they needed their stuff fresh. What the hell, good word for their keeping some quota, maybe. He chuckled to himself. If ever he did actually meet Mister President, or Haig, that is.

  No question, he could handle the Japanese. “Reminds me,” he began. They all quieted and leaned forward, looking pleased, as he told another funny yam.

  He stayed on top of the blurred evening, although food kept coming until it lost its taste, and the sake turned crummy in his mouth with succeeding toasts until he demanded water in between. He wandered off to the restaurant’s head—Jap toilet a hole in the floor, watch your feet—and puked out some of it.

  John Gains appeare
d at his side as he washed his hands. “Save something for tomorrow, Crawford.”

  “That’s what I’m doin’, man. Don’t plan to carry all this in my gut all night, Mr. Johnny-san.”

  “I can’t just cart you off the way I’d like. Impolite. But I suggest you stay with the water and fake any more toasts. Empty your cup into a plate, discreetly. That’s what Shoji Tsurifune’s been doing, if you haven’t noticed. And if the girl attracts you, take her tomorrow night. She’ll keep. Old man Tsurifune’s going to be fresh tomorrow. He’s in bed asleep right now.”

  “Sure. He’s old. And you’ve got numb nuts, John. That girl’s got me roused. Easy for you to postpone. Well. No. Kidding. I’m too . . . wifed up. Even though it’s ten time zones away. Or what, nine? Eleven? Fuck.” Cold water on his face and deep breaths cleared his head briefly. “Whatever you say, John, it’s a great fuckin’ party. Hey?”

  “It’s a typical fucking party, Hank. For certain occasions. The old man has things to say to you tomorrow.”

  “Oh shit. More friendship gabble? Got to tell off old Tsuri.. . fuckie . . . fookie . . . again?”

  “That mouth’s going to screw you some day. Splash more water on your face, then let’s get back in there.”

  Back on the cushion, Machiko’s hand touched his thigh discreetly and her sleeve brushed his face whenever she served. They now took turns singing Japanese songs. Stuff sugary as lollipops. “Okay,” he announced at their urging. “Here’s mine.” Good way to forget that little hand. He wouldn’t have guessed how good “Love Me Tender” sounded in a full, rolling voice, but from the way they applauded and called for more he knew it was good.