Hiroshima Boy Page 16
Mas grunted. “Yah,” he said but he knew they wouldn’t. He probably would never hear from her again.
Mas was first in line for a taxi and was surprised to see that it was the same driver he’d had earlier.
The driver also recognized him. “A-ra, again,” he said, rushing out of his black cab to place Mas’s suitcase into the trunk.
When Mas told him that his destination was Hiroshima police headquarters, the driver made a peculiar expression, but it was fleeting. He was a professional after all.
“Oh, it’s been hot, huh?” he said, driving up the boulevard. He’d been busy these past couple of days, he told Mas. So many gaijin from dozens of different countries. He’d probably driven to the Peace Park or the Peace Dome a hundred times over the past forty-eight hours. And the releasing of lanterns turned out to be as crowded as he predicted. Visitors waited an hour just to let their handwritten messages go down the Motoyasu River.
“Many of the gaijin were very moved,” the driver told Mas. Many had mentioned Sadako, the young girl who’d died from radiation sickness a decade after surviving the Bomb. While bedridden, she had taken to folding origami cranes from red medicine papers. She aimed for a thousand, the number that ensured a long life. She didn’t make it, but then her friends joined in. This simple act of kindness had led to the folding of billions of paper cranes by people all around the world.
Mas had seen photographs and video footage of the skeletal remains of the Atomic Bomb Dome, the building that miraculously survived the blast, and of the Sadako monument, her arms stretched out, holding a giant origami crane above her head. All of these memorials had been either preserved or produced after his time. They were for future generations, the ones who hadn’t experienced what could happen in a split second. Giant waves and the shaking of the ground could still destroy cities, but that was at the hands of Mother Nature. It was entirely different when the engine of destruction was human—different because it was calculated and planned for reasons both good and evil. But when that power was unleashed, who would it touch? It touched them all—the highest of the high and the lowest of the low. And even more frightening, it sent out a sickness that polluted your body, mind, and soul, and maybe also the generations to come.
They drove along the Kyobashi River, which was flanked by outdoor cafés and restaurants with colorful umbrellas. After a few minutes of traveling into a more residential area not far from Thea’s assisted-care facility, the driver finally stopped in front of a mid-size building. Made out of metal, Hiroshima Police Headquarters had rows of windows that were either frosted or too dirty to see into.
“We have arrived,” the driver said.
At the reception desk, Mas made his request to see Detective Suzuki. After the detective was informed of his presence, Mas and his suitcase were placed in a small conference room. Within a few minutes, the walls seemed to press in, making it difficult for Mas to breathe. He was almost ready to leave when the conference room’s door opened, revealing Detective Suzuki with his hedgehog hair.
“Ah, Arai-san.”
Mas cut right to the chase. “I want to let you know I’m leaving Hiroshima today.”
“Thank you for letting me know.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“Is there anything else?” the detective asked.
For a moment, Mas felt like a fool. Hadn’t Suzuki instructed him to keep him abreast of his date of departure?
Mas shook his head. That task completed, he set out for the lobby when Suzuki announced, “We are expecting Gohata-san to come in today.”
Mas was surprised and waited to hear more, but the detective offered only that. Gohata would most likely be confessing to killing Sora. Would he be accompanied by Toshi Ikeda?
“Ikeda-san told me what happened. Also that you were key in figuring it out.”
Two young people wearing paper masks entered the lobby and headed for the reception desk.
“Too bad you aren’t younger, Arai-san,” Suzuki said before Mas left the building. “Hiroshima could sure use you as a detective.”
As his new suitcase had dependable wheels, Mas leaned on the extended handle as he walked. Hiroshima could sure use you as a detective. Suzuki’s statement hit him squarely in the gut. There was a trace of respect in his joke.
Clouds had gathered, providing a respite from the blazing sun. The sky looked like it would break out in rain soon. Mas needed to make a decision quickly.
From the police station, he proceeded a few blocks to the place he’d been a few days earlier, Shukkei-en Garden. A group of seniors—bonnets on the women and white golf caps on the men—waited by the entrance, offering docent-led tours of the grounds. Mas, of course, declined their invitation. He knew the general direction of where he wanted to go.
He walked toward the river, where the stone memorializing the souls of the dead was placed. He remembered seeing something in this general area. And there, he found it.
It was a Buddha in a low-standing display box, barely visible through a grid. Interpretive signage in both Japanese and English explained that the wooden Buddha had survived a flood in the area two hundred years ago. This one and two others came floating down the Kyobashi River to the garden and then were housed in a special altar within the property. Then came the Bomb and the destruction of the two larger Buddhas. But this smaller one, a couple of feet high, survived.
Mas placed his face right next to the grid of the box so he could clearly see this Buddha’s bulging eyes and prominent nose. The statue’s mouth was half open, as if he were protesting his situation.
“Youzu survived flood and pikadon, atomic blast,” Mas declared to the Buddha.
This had to be as good a place as any. He opened up his new suitcase and took out the bag of ashes. Removing the gardening twine from the bag, he sprinkled some of Haruo around the altar, so that visitors looking for the Buddha would also get a whiff of his friend. He then went to the riverbank, which was cordoned off from the garden by a three-foot fence.
A strong breeze kicked up, blowing through the pine branches.
Mas bowed for a moment and then raised the open bag high toward the river, finally setting the ashes free.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Research for Hiroshima Boy was made possible through a grant from the Aurora Foundation in Los Angeles. My relatives in Hiroshima also aided me in getting a sense of the historic Ninoshima, the island that is the model for Ino.
I thank Prospect Park Books and its founder/leader, Colleen Dunn Bates, for continuing the Mas Arai series to this final novel. Amy Inouye, Dorie Bailey, Caitlin Ek, Jean Barrett, Sherry Kanzer, and Margery L. Schwartz all contributed to make this release of Hiroshima Boy as special as possible. Props go to readers who contributed character names for this novel: Carrie Morita, Chris Mason, Emily MacInnis, Cynthia Hughes, Pat Shiono, and Kathy Kumagai. And, of course, my creative “team,” which includes agent Allison Cohen of Gersh and my husband and fellow traveler, Wes Fukuchi.
About the Author
Naomi Hirahara is the Edgar Award–winning author of the Mas Arai mystery series. Nominated for the Macavity and Anthony awards, the series includes Sayonara Slam, Strawberry Yellow, Blood Hina, Snakeskin Shamisen, Gasa-Gasa Girl, and Summer of the Big Bachi. She is also the author of the Ellie Rush mystery series, as well as 1001 Cranes, a novel for children. A graduate of Stanford University, Naomi has also written many nonfiction books about gardening and Japanese American history and culture. Learn more at naomihirahara.com.
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