The Japanese Lover

by Isabel Allende

  “We need to talk,” she told him.

  She had decided to follow Catherine Hope’s advice. When she had heard about Irina’s past, Cathy had made her promise she would tell Seth, not merely to tear out the malignant growth poisoning her, but also because he deserved to know the truth.

  * * *

  At the end of 2000, Agent Wilkins had collaborated with two Canadian investigators to identify hundreds of images being trafficked on the Internet of a girl who looked about nine years old and had been subjected to such excesses of depravity and violence that she possibly had not survived. These were the favorite images of the perverts who specialized in child pornography and exchanged photos and videos privately through an international network. There was nothing new about the sexual exploitation of children, it had been going on for centuries with complete impunity, but the police could now count on a law passed in 1978 that made it illegal in the United States. From then on, the production and distribution of photographs and films diminished because the rewards did not justify the legal risks, but then came the Internet, and the market grew uncontrollably. It was calculated that there were hundreds of thousands of websites devoted to child pornography, and more than twenty million consumers, half of them in the United States. The challenge was not only to discover who the clients were, more important still was to catch the producers. The code name given to the case of the little ash-blond girl with pointy ears and a dimpled chin was Alice. The material was recent. The Canadians suspected Alice could be older than she looked, because the producers tried to make their victims appear as young as possible to satisfy their customers’ demands. After fifteen months of close collaboration, Wilkins and the Canadians tracked down one of the clients, a plastic surgeon in Montreal. They raided his house and clinic, impounded his computers, and discovered more than six hundred images, among which were two photographs and a video of Alice. The surgeon was arrested and agreed to help the authorities in exchange for a reduced sentence. Thanks to the information and contacts provided, Wilkins went into action. The giant FBI man described himself as a bloodhound: once he was on the scent of a trail, nothing could put him off, and he would track it right to the end, not resting until he had succeeded. Pretending to be an enthusiast, he downloaded several photos of Alice; digitally modified them so that they looked original and her face could not be seen, although they were recognizable for those in the know; and thanks to them obtained access to the network used by the Montreal collector. He soon had several potential customers. That was his first clue; the rest was down to his hound’s instinct.

  One night in November 2002, Wilkins rang the bell at a house in a poor district in south Dallas. Alice opened the door. He recognized her at first sight: she was unmistakable. “I’ve come to talk to your parents,” he told her, breathing a sigh of relief: he hadn’t been sure if she was still alive. This was during one of those fortunate periods when Robyns was working in another city and the girl was alone with her mother. He flashed his FBI badge and didn’t wait to be invited in: he pushed open the door and barged straight into the living room. Irina would always remember that moment as if it had just happened: the giant black man with his sweet-smelling cologne; deep, drawling voice; big, delicate hands and their pink palms.

  “How old are you?” he asked Irina.

  Radmila was already on her second vodka and third bottle of beer, but still thought she was lucid, and tried to intervene by saying that her daughter was a minor and that his questions should be addressed to her.

  Wilkins silenced her with a gesture.

  “I’m almost fifteen,” Alice murmured in a faint voice, as though caught doing something wrong.

  Wilkins shuddered, because his only daughter, the light of his life, was the same age. Alice had evidently suffered a deprived childhood lacking in protein; she was a late developer and her small size and delicate bone structure meant she could easily be taken for a much younger girl. Wilkins calculated that if at that moment she looked twelve, in the first images that had circulated on the Internet she could have looked nine or ten years old.

  “Let me talk to your mother on her own,” an embarrassed Wilkins told her.

  But by then Radmila had entered the aggressive stage of drunkenness and shouted that her daughter had the right to hear whatever he had to say. “Isn’t that so, Elisabeta?”

  The girl nodded as if in a trance, her eyes fixed on the wall.

  “I’m so sorry, child,” said Wilkins, laying half a dozen photographs on the table. This was what brought Radmila face-to-face with what had been going on in her house for more than two years, although she had refused to see it, and this was how Alice learned that millions of men all over the world had viewed her in secret “games” with her stepfather. For years she had felt dirty, evil, and guilty; when she saw the photographs on the table she wanted to die. For her, no redemption seemed possible.

  Robyns had assured her that this kind of game with a father or uncle was perfectly normal, and that many boys and girls who played it did so willingly and happily. Those children were special. But nobody talked about it, it was a well-kept secret, and she shouldn’t ever mention it to anyone, not her girlfriends or teachers, above all not to the doctor, because people would say she was sinful, filthy, and she would be left all alone, with no friends. Even her own mother would reject her, because Radmila was very jealous. Why didn’t she want to play? Did she want presents? No? Okay, so he would pay her as if she were a little grown-up woman: not directly to her, but to her grandparents. He would make sure he sent them money in Moldova on behalf of their granddaughter; she had to write a card to go with the money, but again, she shouldn’t say anything to Radmila, this was their secret too. Sometimes the old couple needed a bit extra; they had to repair the roof or buy another goat. That was no problem; he was bighearted and understood life was hard in Moldova. Fortunately, Elisabeta had been lucky enough to come to America, but it wasn’t good to establish a precedent that money came for free, she had to earn it, didn’t she? She could at least smile, that cost nothing, she had to put on the clothes he told her to, to get used to the ropes and chains, to drink gin to relax, mixed with apple juice so it didn’t burn her throat, she’d soon become accustomed to the taste, did she want more sugar? Despite the alcohol, the drugs, and her fear, at some point she realized there were cameras in the toolshed, the “little house” the two of them shared, where no one else, not even her mother, could enter. Robyns swore that the photos and videos were private, they belonged just to him, nobody would ever see them, he would keep them as a memento in the years to come, when she was away at college. How he was going to miss her!

  The arrival of this unknown black stranger, with his big hands, sad eyes, and photographs, were proof that her stepfather had lied to her. Everything that had gone on in their little house was circulating on the Internet and would continue to do so. There was no way of recovering or destroying it; it would be there forever. At every moment, somewhere in the world somebody was violating her, somebody was masturbating over her suffering. For the rest of her life, wherever she was, somebody could recognize her. There was no way out. The horror would never end. The smell of alcohol and the taste of apple would always take her back to that little house; she would permanently be looking over her shoulder, escaping; she would always loathe being touched.

  That night while Ron Wilkins had stepped outside to wait for Children’s Services, the girl shut herself in her room, paralyzed with terror and disgust. She was sure that when her stepfather returned he would kill her, just as he had warned her he would do if she let slip a single word about the games. Her only way out was death, but not at his hand in the slow, dreadful way he often described to her, always adding fresh details.

  Radmila meanwhile poured the rest of the bottle of vodka down her throat and fell unconscious. When she came to, she started to take it out on her daughter, the seductress, the whore who had perverted her husband. The beating didn’t last long, because a patrol car arr
ived with two policemen and a social worker, alerted by Wilkins. Radmila was arrested and the girl taken to a children’s psychiatric hospital while the juvenile court decided what to do with her. She never saw her mother or stepfather again.

  Radmila managed to warn Robyns that the police were after him, and he fled the country, but he had not counted on Wilkins, who spent the next four years scouring the world until he found him in Jamaica and brought him back in handcuffs to the United States. His victim did not have to confront him during the trial, because the lawyers took her statements in private, and the female judge exempted her from being present in court. It was from her that Elisabeta learned not only that her grandparents had died but that the money remittances had never been sent. Jim Robyns was sentenced to ten years in jail with no prospect of parole.

  “He has three years and two months left. When he gets out he’s going to come looking for me, and I’ll have nowhere to hide,” Irina concluded.

  “You won’t need to hide. He’ll have a restraining order, and if he comes anywhere near you he’ll go back to prison. I’ll be with you, and I’ll make sure the order is carried out,” said Seth.

  “Don’t you see it’s impossible, Seth? At any moment somebody in your circle, an associate, a friend, a client, even your own father, could recognize me. I’m on thousands and thousands of screens at this minute.”

  “No, Irina. You’re a twenty-six-year-old woman and the person on the Internet is Alice, a little girl who no longer exists. The pedophiles aren’t interested in you anymore.”

  “You’re wrong. I’ve had to move on several times from places because some swine was after me. And it’s no use my going to the police, they can’t stop the guy circulating my photographs. I used to think that by dyeing my hair black or using makeup I could escape being recognized, but that didn’t work: my face is easy to identify, it hasn’t changed much over the years. I can never be at ease, Seth. If your family rejects me for being poor and not Jewish, imagine what it would be like if they found all this out?”

  “We’ll tell them, Irina. It’ll be hard for them to accept at first, but I think they’ll end up loving you all the more for everything you’ve been through. They’re good people. You’ve suffered terribly in the past; now is a time for healing and forgiving.”

  “Forgiving, Seth?”

  “If you don’t, your rancor will destroy you. Almost all wounds heal with loving care, Irina. You have to love yourself and to love me. Agreed?”

  “That’s what Cathy said.”

  “Listen to her, she’s very wise. Let me help you. I may not be so wise, but I’m a good companion and I’ve given you more than enough proof of my stubbornness. I never give up. You’ll have to accept it, Irina, I’m not going to leave you in peace. Can you hear my heart? It’s calling out to you,” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his chest.

  “There’s something more, Seth.”

  “More?”

  “Ever since Agent Wilkins saved me from my stepfather, no one has touched me . . . You know what I mean. I’ve been alone, and prefer it that way.”

  “Well, Irina, that’s going to have to change, but let’s take it slowly. What happened had nothing to do with love and will never happen to you again. It’s got nothing to do with the two of us either. You once told me that old folk take their time making love. That’s not a bad idea. We’ll make love like a pair of grandparents, okay?”

  “I don’t think I can manage it, Seth.”

  “Then we’ll have to go to therapy. Come on, stop crying. Are you hungry? Comb your hair and we’ll go out for something to eat. We can talk about my grandmother’s sinful life, that always cheers us up.”

  TIJUANA

  During those heavenly months in 1955 when Alma and Ichimei were able to love each other freely at the sad motel in Martinez, she told him she was sterile. This was not so much a lie as a wish, a hope. She said this to preserve spontaneity between the sheets, because she trusted in a diaphragm to avoid surprises, and because her menstruation had always been so irregular that the gynecologist her aunt Lillian had taken her to see diagnosed ovarian cysts that would affect her fertility. As with so many other things, Alma postponed the operation, since motherhood was the last of her priorities. She thought that somehow magically she would not suffer the misfortune of falling pregnant at this young age: accidents like that happened to women from another class without education or resources. Because she did not follow her cycles, she did not realize she was pregnant until the tenth week, and when she did, she trusted to luck for a further two weeks. She thought she might have got the calculation wrong, but if the worst came to the worst, it could be resolved by violent exercise: she started biking everywhere, pedaling furiously. She regularly examined her underwear to see if there was any blood, her anxiety increasing with each passing day, and yet she continued meeting Ichimei and making love with the same frantic concern with which she pedaled up and down hills. Finally, when she could no longer ignore her swollen breasts, morning sickness, and sudden anxiety attacks, it was not Ichimei she turned to but Nathaniel, as she had done ever since they were children. To lessen the risk that her aunt and uncle would find out, she went to see him at the Belasco and Belasco Law Firm, opened in 1920, in the same office on Montgomery Street as during the days of the patriarch, with its solemn furniture and bookshelves filled with legal volumes bound in dark green leather, a mausoleum to the law, where Persian rugs muffled footsteps and everyone talked in confidential whispers.

  Nathaniel was at his desk, in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened and hair a mess, surrounded by piles of open documents and legal tomes, but as soon as he saw her he came over to greet her. Alma buried her face in his chest, deeply relieved to be able to pour out her drama to this man who had never failed her.

  “I’m pregnant,” was all she managed to utter.

  Still holding on to her, Nathaniel led her over to the sofa, where they sat side by side. Alma told him about her love, the motel, and how the pregnancy was not Ichimei’s fault but hers, and that if Ichimei found out he would doubtless insist on marrying her and taking responsibility for the child, but that she had thought it through carefully and wasn’t brave enough to give up all she had always enjoyed by becoming Ichimei’s wife. She adored him but knew that the disadvantages of poverty drove out love, because faced with the choice between a life of economic hardship within a Japanese community she had nothing in common with, or of continuing to be protected in her own environment, her fear of the unknown won out; she was ashamed of her own weakness, Ichimei deserved unconditional love, he was a wonderful man, a sage, a saint, a pure soul, a delicate, considerate lover in whose arms she felt blessed.

  She spoke in a rushing torrent of phrases, blowing her nose to avoid crying, trying to retain some dignity.

  She went on to add that Ichimei lived on a spiritual plane and was always going to be a simple gardener rather than develop his enormous artistic talent or to try to turn his flower nursery into a proper business; nothing like that, he didn’t want more, he was satisfied to earn just what he needed to get by and wasn’t the slightest bit concerned about prosperity or success; his passions were meditation and calmness, but they didn’t put food on the table and she wasn’t going to start a family in a wooden shack with a tin roof and live among gardeners with spades in their hands.

  “I know, Nathaniel, forgive me, you warned me a thousand times and I didn’t listen, you were right, you’re always right, I can see now I can’t marry Ichimei, but I can’t stop loving him either, without him I’d wither away like a plant in the desert, I’d die, and from now on I’ll be more careful, we’ll take precautions, this won’t happen again, I promise you, Nathaniel, I swear.” She went on talking and talking without pause, the excuses and sense of guilt welling up alternately, while Nathaniel listened without interrupting until she had run out of breath and her voice had died down to a murmur.

  “Let’s see if I understand you, Alma. You’re pregnant but aren’t
thinking of telling Ichimei,” Nathaniel concluded.

  “I can’t have a child outside of wedlock, Nat. You have to help me. You’re the only person I can turn to.”

  “An abortion? That’s illegal and dangerous. Don’t count on me for that, Alma.”

  “Listen, Nat. I’ve looked into it and it’s safe, there’s no risk and it would only cost a hundred dollars—but you have to come with me, because it’s in Tijuana.”

  “Tijuana? Abortion is illegal in Mexico too, Alma. This is crazy!”

  “It’s much more dangerous here, Nat. In Mexico there are doctors who perform the operation under the noses of the police, and nobody cares.”

  Alma showed him a scrap of paper with a phone number on it, and explained that she had already called up and spoken to someone named Ramón. A man had answered in terrible English, asking her who had sent her and if she knew the conditions. She gave him the name of her contact, assured him she would pay cash, and they agreed that in two days’ time he would pick her up in his car at three in the afternoon on a specific corner in Tijuana.