Hiroshima Boy Page 4

  This island tabby, its left eye missing and side marked with a horrific scar, reminded Mas of Haruo. The state of his damaged face and neck, not to mention a fake eye to replace the lost one, were remnants of the Bomb, something he could not fully hide, but he nonetheless soldiered on with the greatest optimism. Mas had once dismissed his friend as being weak, but now, more than ever, he realized that to live with hope required the highest level of courage, more courage than he himself could muster.

  He finished the noodle sandwich, balling up the plastic wrapping in one fist and throwing it in the trash can. He didn’t know what kind of business Tatsuo had with the cranky cashier in the konbini, but it was taking a long time. The cats were at it again and Mas had had enough.

  The sun hitting him squarely in the face, he went straight to the right corner of the shrine. “Yamenasai!” he shouted for the black cat to stop, causing it to leap on a back wall and escape through a side alley. The tabby stayed frozen in place. It was straggly with matted fur and probably hadn’t eaten in a few days. Against his better judgment, Mas opened up his plastic bag, pulled open the wrap for the fried pork sandwich, and tore a corner piece for the homeless cat. It was famished, judging by the way it gobbled down the bit of bread and meat. “Orai,” Mas said. That’s it. But of course that wasn’t it. As he headed back to the air-conditioned waiting room, the cat followed. He closed the glass door, but the cat positioned itself right in front of the doorway, mewing furiously.

  Ah, shimmata, he thought, darn it. Here again a little bit of kindness led to trouble. He opened the door a crack. “Go home,” he admonished the cat, knowing full well that it had no home to go to.

  Tatsuo was by the door of his car, his arm raised as a signal that he was ready to go.

  “Yes, yes.” Mas bobbed his head and, without thinking, picked the cat up by its neck and stuck it in his bag.

  “I hope she wasn’t too rude.”

  “Huh?” Mas was too concerned about the cat in the trunk to be attentive to Tatsuo.

  “Kondo-san. The storekeeper. She doesn’t like anyone who isn’t from the island. Actually, she doesn’t much care for anyone on the island, either. She’s Gohata’s wife’s sister. The wife was bedridden from a mysterious illness for many years. Finally died last year.”

  “Gohata? Isn’t that the name of the district representative?”

  Tatsuo blinked several times. “You sure know a lot for arriving yesterday.” His voice had an almost accusatory tone.

  “He was there. On his motorbike. Where I found the boy.” Mas didn’t know why he had to defend himself.

  “Oh, yes,” Tatsuo said.

  They both grew quiet again, with Mas paying nervous attention to any sounds emanating from the trunk. The cat must have known to be quiet because no mew or movement could be heard, at least from the back.

  Barely able to let out a breath, he looked out his window. Part of the island was like a jungle, green with overgrown bamboo and an occasional massive camphor tree, called kusunoki in Japan. In any other season, the island would be pleasant.

  They stopped at a T in the road where a garden had been created on the right side. There were beds of flowers and a tan shed in the back. Someone had put in the time to make this corner more tame and colorful.

  “That’s where we found some bones about ten years ago,” Tatsuo said. “That happens sometimes. The bodies from the Bomb emerge from the land, in people’s yards and construction projects. But this was a significant finding. That’s why we decided to mark the spot with the garden. The tool shed has some photos of what was found.”

  Mas felt like spitting in distaste. Why desecrate a shed with such horrific images? It seemed like Hiroshima was all about remembering, not forgetting or moving on.

  “The bones were sent to the Peace Park. That’s where they belonged.”

  Mas pulled on the shoulder strap of his seatbelt. He felt like fleeing Japan as soon as possible. Drop off Haruo’s ashes to Queen Ayako and take off. He knew that he had another five, six days in Hiroshima, but he didn’t care about seeing any sights or going to the family house. Everyone he knew from before was dead. And now with the discovery of the boy in the water, more bad luck seemed to follow. Better hedge his bets and get out of Hiroshima pronto.

  After Tatsuo parked the car, he popped open the trunk for Mas and excused himself, saying that he had to attend to some pressing and unexpected business. Relieved, Mas got out of the passenger seat to see what had happened to the cat in the back. Lifting up the tailgate revealed an empty food wrapper and a sated tabby, full of fried pork and bread.

  “Ara—thatsu suppose to be my dinner,” he scolded the cat, shooing it back into the plastic bag and carrying it to the side of the building.

  Someone had placed two cones to block entry to the jetty. In the distance Mas could see the red of the boy’s T-shirt as the body was lying there on the bamboo platform for all to see. He felt a sickness come over his stomach, intense and almost debilitating. Still clutching onto the bag, he balanced himself on the side of Tatsuo’s car and made his way to a shaded walkway in back of the rest home.

  There certainly were fewer table scraps on this side of the island, but then also fewer cats out for blood. He dumped the cat out from the bag and as it landed unsteadily on its feet, Mas christened it, right then and there: “Youzu Haruo.” As if taking to its new name and new home, the cat ran into some bushes, perhaps chasing a tiny lizard. The semi had started their raspy screeches, almost serving as the backbeat of the island. Matching that monotonous rhythm, a putt-putt of a motorbike joined in.

  Gohata parked a little north of the jetty and removed his helmet in the same way he had this morning. Tatsuo appeared from the nursing home and bowed his head a few times as he approached Gohata. They exchanged a few words, and Mas could have sworn that they both briefly looked his way.

  They came in a small boat with red trim. Mas couldn’t tell exactly how many, but he figured out it was a sizable number based on how slowly the boat moved in the bay toward the boat landing, a little bit north of the smaller makeshift jetty.

  As the boat approached, Mas saw that the officers, mostly dressed in black uniforms, were tightly packed like sardines in a can. He counted them as they emerged. Ichi, ni, san, shi, go . . . twelve of them in that tin can of a boat. One of them looked like a woman. The last ones to disembark carried the most equipment. Gohata met them on the landing, bowing at least three times to the police officers in the front. He was prepared with his business card, which he offered to them with both hands.

  The officers first set up a white tent on the soft ground by the water.

  Mas watched this from a bench in the shade of a camphor tree. He thought perhaps he was invisible, but he was wrong, because after some time, Tatsuo came over to deliver a message: “Arai-san, the police want to talk with you.”

  The police had set up their operations in the back room of the nursing-home office. On this side of the island, where else could they go? Exposing the investigation to the children at the Senbazuru Children’s Home was unacceptable, especially since they might be the ones with the most pertinent information, explained Tatsuo. His face was flushed and his blinking took on a strange musical rhythm. Pachi, pachi, pachi, pause, pachi, pachi, pachi, pause.

  Mas entered the back office. The papers that had once been stacked on the conference room table had been removed. Three detectives sat on different sides of the table, all facing Mas, who took the only other available seat.

  A video camera had been set up on the other side of Mas. Another officer, wearing headphones, stood behind the camera.

  The one who sat immediately across from Mas seemed the most senior. He had salt-and-pepper hair that stuck out like the spines of a hedgehog. He carefully turned each page in Mas’s passport. “You are American?”

  Mas nodded.

  “Why are you here in Ino?”

  “Came to see my friend’s sister. Ayako Mukai. She’s staying here.” On Mas’
s left, a detective with a baby face feverishly scribbled on his pad. Undoubtedly Ayako would be getting an official visit before the day was over.

  “I think saw that boy before. On the boat.”

  “What makes you say that?” The detectives focused intently on Mas’s face. The cameraman adjusted some settings on his equipment.

  “‘San Francisco.’ Was that on his T-shirt?”

  The detectives looked at each other again. “What can you tell us about him?”

  “I don’t know much. I am an outsider.” And he was, for once, so happy to be one.

  “Was he with someone?”

  “He sat by himself,” Mas said. He said he wasn’t sure if he was part of the gang of boys running around the Ujina landing and being disruptive. Mas normally tried to ignore groups of urusai boys instead of paying attention to what obnoxious things they were doing or saying. “I was with a girl.”

  The detectives exchanged glances. Bakayaro, Mas wanted to yell at them. It’s not what you are thinking. “Mukai-san knows. Her student’s daughter picked me up from the station. Her name, Thea.” He couldn’t remember her last name.

  “Maybe she knows the boy,” the baby-faced detective interjected.

  Mas doubted it but said nothing.

  “Who else was on the ferry?” the senior detective asked.

  “These other boys. About his age. They ran into the village after we landed.”

  “Children,” the third detective, who had remained silent until now, said almost disparagingly, as if he’d had bad experiences dealing with youth.

  They asked a few more questions, purely perfunctory and nothing earth-shattering. At first Mas’s heart was pumping hard, but now he was completely calm, almost bored. It was obvious that he wasn’t a suspect.

  When Mas finally emerged from the makeshift interrogation room, Thea was sitting at the table in the lobby. He was surprised to see her, as she had mentioned something about going to work today.

  “I heard what happened,” she said. “How terrible.” She was drinking a canned iced coffee, most likely purchased from the vending machine inside the cafeteria.

  “When youzu come?”

  “Oh, I came on the ferry from the other side. I was able to get a ride in from Tatsuo-san.”

  Mas frowned. After driving him into the village, Tatsuo said he had to attend to business. Why was Thea lying?

  “By the way, Mukai-san is asking about her brother’s ashes.”

  “Yah, bring it right away.” He got up from his seat. Once this task was complete, he would be on his way, whether or not the police officers approved.

  Mas couldn’t help but smile a little as he walked down the wide corridor. He imagined being back in the embrace of Genessee, her musty scent so pure and earthy. Mari would come by, excerpts of her latest documentary viewable on her laptop. Mari’s husband, the Dodgers groundskeeper, would brief him on the latest gossip about the baseball team, and Takeo, his grandson, would show him photos from the latest judo match he’d won. Life was utterly mundane and simple—one day much like the day before, but Mas relished its consistency because there’d been times in his life when he could not depend on it.

  He slid open the door to his room. His futon was still out, unfolded like he left it. But when he went to retrieve Haruo’s ashes from in front of the yellow silk rose, he discovered that the bag was gone.

  Chapter Three

  How could Haruo’s ashes be missing?

  Mas looked underneath the table and behind the television screen. He pulled the sheets off the futon and examined the top comforter and futon mattress. Nothing. Had he returned it back to his suitcase for some reason? Whenever he was sleep-deprived, he did strange, illogical things, like put his keys in the refrigerator. He shook everything out of his suitcase and searched every compartment and zippered bag. No bag of ashes anywhere.

  Then Mas began to search the entire room. He had no idea why it would suddenly be in a far corner or in the closet where the bedding was stored, but he left no space unexamined. Even his dirty socks and underwear merited a second look.

  With the sheets bunched up and his clothing strewn on the bare futon and tatami floor, Mas felt completely dejected. He sunk to his knees. How could this have happened? He had one task and one task only, to deliver half of his friend’s ashes to the sister in Hiroshima, and he had failed terribly.

  There was a knocking on the wooden sliding door. “Arai-san, are you okay?” The girl’s high-pitched voice was like torture to Mas.

  He managed to make it to the door and opened it a crack. “I’zu not feelin’ so good,” Mas told Thea. “Tell Mukai-san I see her tomorrow.”

  “Can I help in any way? I can send for a doctor.”

  “No, sleepy.”

  “Of course, of course. I completely understand. You’ve had a shocking experience after such a tiring day of travel. Rest, Ojisan, please rest.”

  Mas bowed, relieved when Thea left. Closing the sliding door firmly shut, he took a deep breath. What the hell was he going to do? He couldn’t think straight with his room ransacked like this. He carefully folded his clean clothes back in his suitcase and even folded up his futon into thirds and pushed it into the bedding closet.

  And then he remembered. The strange woman in his room that first night. If she wasn’t a housekeeper, she must have been the one who took Haruo’s ashes. But who was she? Mas had no name, not even a good way to identify her. An old Japanese woman. Like eighty percent of people living in the home.

  Surely Tatsuo could help him. But he didn’t want to encounter the detectives again, so he thought that he would have to wait for at least a few hours. Even if they had chartered their own boat, there was no place to stay on the island. The police officers had to go home eventually.

  At around six, Mas slid open his door. It had been an hour since he’d heard the workers wheel carts down the linoleum floors. He listened intently with his better ear, the left one. Just a Japanese announcer on a television broadcast. It seemed safe to get to the office.

  Thankfully, Tatsuo was by himself behind the counter, applying a hanko, seal, on a piece of paper.

  “They left,” Mas observed, more than asked. The police seemed to have cleared the premises.

  “Yes. A couple of hours ago. They took the body with them.”

  Mas exhaled. The investigation was all over.

  “Can I help you with something, Arai-san?”

  “Do you have a house cleaner?”

  “We do have a janitor.”

  “Would he have cleaned my room sometime today?”

  Tatsuo shook his head. “The guest rooms are off limits. What has happened? Are you missing something?”

  Mas hesitated. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure if he could trust Tatsuo. What if he took this information and went straight to Ayako? It would be the ultimate shame, haji. Here he had traveled six thousand miles, and to return to Los Angeles without completing his duty? And Spoon had paid for his travel and then some? How could he look into the eyes of Haruo’s widow ever again?

  But without Tatsuo’s help, Mas definitely would be lost. “An old lady took something of mine,” he finally said. “She was in my room in the middle of the night. The night I arrived.”

  “What was her appearance? And what did she take?”

  Mas struggled to describe the woman. “It almost seemed she had no eyes. She was wearing a chanchanko. And she said something about people lying to her.” He didn’t mention what was stolen.

  Tatsuo nodded. “Sounds like Kondo-Obasan. She’s the konbini owner’s mother; she does things like this. But the only thing is—she was moved out of the home this morning.”

  Mas thought that his heart had stopped, right then and there. “Why? Did something happen to her?”

  Tatsuo cleaned the end of his hanko, the orange ink seeping into a white tissue. He seemed more intent on his task than answering Mas’s question. “Ah, well, I can’t get into details.”

  Mas wante
d to shake Tatsuo. Who cared about privacy at a time like this?

  Tatsuo must have sensed Mas’s agitation. “Let’s check her room,” he said. “What are we looking for?”

  Mas rubbed the back of his head. It felt painful to confess it audibly. “The ashes. Mukai-san’s brother’s ashes. They were in a small bag.”

  “Soka,” Tatsuo said, I understand. He nodded in the direction of the hallway and walked swiftly out.

  The woman had lived on the other side of the facility, and judging from the low beds and increasing number of residents in wheelchairs, Mas figured out that these patients were less ambulatory.

  More of the rooms seemed to hold at least two beds, but Kondo-Obasan’s was a single. It, too, had a view of the ocean. Kondo-Obasan, like Ayako, was undoubtedly a big shot, or at least a big shot’s relative.

  The room was empty; only the dirty, disheveled sheets were a sign that someone had stayed there. Tatsuo pulled the sheets from the mattress, but nothing emerged. Mas stuck his hands in between the mattress and bed frame, and again found nothing.

  Tatsuo balled up the sheets and then, after checking for anything left behind or hidden, chucked them into the hamper. Mas examined every corner of the room, even running his hand inside a tissue box. “There’s nothing here,” Tatsuo said, announcing the obvious. “Gohata-san packed everything up and moved her out in a few hours. It was quite sudden.” He absorbed Mas’s reaction. “Yes, the same Gohata-san. That’s Kondo-Obasan’s son-in-law.”

  The district representative seemed to be everywhere, his presence like a spider’s, spinning a web of secrets wherever he traveled.

  “It’s not unusual for the family to do this. Kondo-Obasan was just brought in overnight last May. No advance warning.”

  “Can you tell me where her new nursing home is?”

  Tatsuo hesitated. “I’m not sure if I should get involved.”