Hiroshima Boy Page 9

  “Do you remember his response?”

  “Well, he didn’t know the dead boy.”

  “Don’t you think that’s strange, since he’s the son of one of his closest friends?”

  That had bothered Mas, of course, but he didn’t express it.

  “Do you have any more information to share with me, then?”

  Mas got up. “Please come with me.”

  The detective followed Mas down the corridor, past the open doors of the residents. A few pulled themselves up from their beds, curious about the presence of the detective who walked with such confidence and brashness. Walking with him, Mas almost felt like he was a delinquent boy awaiting his punishment. When they passed Ayako’s door, Mas made sure that his eyes were focused on what was ahead of him. He didn’t need to be interrogated by her, too.

  They entered his room and Mas was glad that he had made sure to fold the futons and put them to the side. And Rei’s note was safely out of sight in the depths of his suitcase.

  The detective sat on his legs on the tatami floor. It was judo-style, and even though he was probably in his fifties, his body was still supple. Why should that surprise you, Mas thought. Here is a man who catches criminals for a living.

  “I never gave you my meishi. Suzuki Goro.” The policeman pulled out a case from his pocket, opened it, and took out an immaculate business card. Barely bending his neck forward, he presented it to Mas with both hands. Mas was Japanese enough to bow his head deeply, his forehead almost touching the tatami floor. Of course, he didn’t have a business card to exchange. His last one, which boasted “ORIENTAL GARDENING,” had been printed maybe four decades earlier.

  Mas brought out the camera and attempted to find the photo he had taken. He kept pressing the button to advance the images and then had to go back. He had to stop to get his reading glasses and then started all over again. Finally he located the photo with the boy. “I didn’t know that I had taken this,” he explained. “It’s Sora with a village boy.”

  There seemed to be some kind of recognition in Suzuki’s eyes, but he revealed nothing.

  Mas took back the camera and found the picture of the message that had been carved in the seat in the ferry.

  The detective stared at it for a while, “Shi-ne,” he said, and Mas nodded.

  “I’m going to have to borrow this camera. I will return it after we have downloaded those photos.”

  Mas didn’t care. Bringing the camera wasn’t his idea, anyway.

  “Arai-san, I don’t know how it is in America, but we are having an epidemic of bullying here in Japan. It wouldn’t surprise me if Sora-kun was being targeted.” Suzuki moved his position so he was sitting cross-legged. Even he had a breaking point in terms of sitting on his legs. “But that doesn’t mean he was coerced into committing suicide by the boys.”

  Mas knew that. He sat cross-legged, too, and faced the detective.

  “Did the mother tell you where she was that night?”

  Mas shook his head. He’d assumed she had a night job.

  “She has not yet come up with an adequate alibi for us. Do you think that is what a proper mother does? Stays out all night while her hikokomori son is by himself?”

  Mas kept his eyes on the tatami and studied its seams. They were actually not completely straight.

  “I don’t know if she asked you to look into her son’s death, but I want to tell you to stop. This is the police’s job, and we are quite capable of handling it.”

  Mas bowed his head.

  “By the way, do you know where she went? She left the inn without paying for her additional last days of stay. And none of the ferrymen recall transporting her back to Ujina.”

  “No,” Mas said, feeling the heat rise to his head. Did Suzuki know that she had spent the night here in his room on practically the same spot that he was sitting on? That needed to remain a secret; it would be too difficult to explain their relationship.

  The detective stood up effortlessly, without even using his hands for balance. “Oh, and I may be seeing you again, Arai-san. I’ll be staying here in the home until tomorrow, for the atomic-bomb commemoration. I figure that I should stay around to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

  “I’m not planning to go,” Mas informed him.

  “I hope you won’t be sneaking away.” Mas couldn’t tell if Suzuki was joking. “I expect to be fully informed on your whereabouts and when you leave Hiroshima.”

  I’m no prisoner, Mas thought. But maybe he was.

  Before the detective left, he turned from the sliding door. “You were carrying an umbrella when you were walking to the nursing home. That umbrella sure looked like the one that Tani-san had been carrying.”

  Mas stayed in his room for a while, almost afraid to breathe too loudly. His movements were being scrutinized from within the nursing home. He glanced at his watch, which read 9 p.m. Los Angeles time. If only he could hear Genessee’s voice, he could be set right again.

  Workers were pushing carts of food down the hallway, and Mas took the opportunity during all this activity to slip away to the office. As soon as he saw Tatsuo in the office, he felt a sense of relief. He waved at him through the glass window, and Tatsuo rushed to open the door for him.

  “Arai-san, how have you been? Makoto-san mentioned something about your daughter coming to visit.”

  Makoto must have been the name of the young man who had been working there earlier.

  “I need to call America,” Mas announced, and Tatsuo was only too happy to comply.

  Mas gripped the telephone receiver in the same office where he had been interrogated. A dial tone and then the familiar voice. “Hello.”

  “Hallo.”

  “Mas.” As soon as Genessee spoke his name, he felt a wave of relief. “How are you?”

  “Not too good.” He couldn’t fake his feelings. Slowly, in dribs and drabs, he told his wife almost everything that had transpired: The discovery of the boy’s body in the ocean. The bullying village boys. The police investigation. He did leave out the part about the young mother staying overnight in his room.

  “My goodness. You should come home, Mas. I’m sure you can change your flight.”

  He fell silent. He had to confess. “I’zu lost Haruo.”

  “Honey, I can’t hear you. What?”

  “Haruo gone.” Mas explained how his best friend’s ashes had been stolen.

  “Well, you have to tell her. The sister.”

  Mas knew that was what Genessee would say. “Sheezu gonna be mad.”

  “Well, what do they say—shikataganai. You can’t worry about that. It’s not your fault if one of the patients stole the ashes. You did what you promised Spoon—you took the ashes to that island. You can’t be responsible for a theft. You didn’t know anything about that place.”

  “How you’zu doin’?” Mas asked.

  “My knee is healing up. The physical therapy is going well. Pretty soon, I’ll be chasing you all around the house,” Genessee said. Nothing sounded better.

  After he said goodbye to Genessee, Mas took a deep breath. He knew what he needed to do, what he should have done from the get-go. To put it off a few more minutes, he sat by himself in the cell-like office with blank white walls.

  Why had he agreed to this mendokusai expedition again? Yes, he blamed Spoon, and he also blamed another friend’s widow, Lil Yamada. “Haruo was so committed to you; it would be so nice if you would do this for him,” she’d said. Mas had deeply resented her guilt trip, mostly because it was so effective.

  He tried not to think of his life without Haruo when he returned to Southern California. They had lived close enough that Mas had been able to go by his and Spoon’s Montebello house nearly every day during hospice. Others had dropped out or else just left food on the doorstep for Spoon, but not Mas. He brought his copy of The Rafu Shimpo, a Japanese American newspaper published in Little Tokyo, usually a couple of days old, to their household and would start summarizing all the obituar
ies, Haruo’s favorite activity.

  Since Mas’s reading ability was appalling, he would just say the name of the deceased, after which Haruo would comment, “Datsu so-and-so’s brotha, desho?” or “Dat guy in Heart Mountain.” Mas would scan the obituary and then either nod or shake his head. “Yah, you’zu right,” or “nah, dat anotha guy.”

  When Mas arrived one day, the white mortuary van was parked in the driveway. The sight of it was a punch to the gut, and he couldn’t park anywhere near it. He walked a block to the house, his whole body shaking. When he arrived at the house, Spoon called out for the workers to stop what they were doing.

  “Wait. This is my husband’s best friend. He needs to see him before you take him away.”

  Mas stumbled into the extra bedroom, where Spoon and her daughter had set up a hospital bed. But that body wasn’t Haruo’s. Yes, it had the same hideous scar and the patch of now completely white hair. His mouth was wide open, frozen in that state. His eyes were closed, hiding the existence of his fake eye.

  “I was gone only a few minutes and I found him like this. They say that people finally feel that they can let go when no one’s around.”

  Haruo, sumimasen, Mas apologized, for everything. For not being there and sometimes not listening when I was there. And in Hiroshima, for losing track of where you were.

  After remembering all this for a while, he rose. He went over to thank Tatsuo, who was sitting at a desk, before going straight to that ocean-view room. It was as if Ayako had been waiting for him all along.

  “Daijobu?” he asked from the open door. “You doin’ orai?”

  “Where have you been?” Ayako asked, still lying on her pillow. Her face was ashen gray, and it was obvious that she wasn’t doing well. “Why are you torturing me? Why are you keeping my brother’s ashes from me?”

  He took a deep breath and braced himself for Ayako’s reaction. “Gone. Somebody steal. I thinksu maybe Kondo-Obasan.”

  Ayako pressed a button on her bed railing, which elevated her mattress so she could sit up. “That’s the most elaborate lie I’ve ever heard. Why would she do such a thing?”

  “I dunno.”

  “I heard a detective from Hiroshima is staying here. If you don’t hand over my brother’s ashes, I will make sure you are arrested.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “I don’t want to hear any excuses. The next time I see you, you better have it with you.”

  Mas returned to his room in the foulest mood ever. He tried to watch television to while away the time, but his mind couldn’t follow any of the program’s comedic antics. He began to miss the heinous daytime shows in America, in which a couple’s shame was laid out bare for all to see, not for judgment but for entertainment. At least in that case, people weren’t putting on masks to pretend that they were better than they really were. Their ugly motives were cut out from the bodies and paraded around for public scorn.

  He didn’t know what he was going to do about Ayako and the ashes. He knew the detective had more important things to do than deal with this matter. But Ayako could still make it quite unpleasant for Mas. Even if he snuck back to Altadena, he could imagine the series of international calls that Spoon would receive. He guessed that she’d have to change her phone number. And he’d have to come up with the money to reimburse her for this trip.

  He had intended to make do without dinner, but it was after seven and his stomach was growling like a sick animal. No matter how terrible Ayako said the food was at the home, it was edible, right? He wandered over to the cafeteria, where workers were cleaning off plates and bowls from long tables.

  “Are you closed?” Mas asked, feeling foolish. One of the cafeteria workers, his hands gloved, looked surprised to see him and went to the back to talk to another worker.

  A woman wearing a mask and hairnet emerged from the back. She had on a full-length apron as if she was conducting science experiments rather than preparing food. She presented him with a tray holding a bowlful of okayu, rice gruel, chopsticks, and hot green tea.

  The watery okayu was tasteless. Absolutely no salt. Just the addition of one pickled plum would have brightened the eating experience. Again shikataganai. Had to bear down and eat it, at least for bodily sustenance.

  The windows of the cafeteria faced toward the front. A Buddhist sculpture loomed, a standing figure emerging from an open lotus blossom. Below the sculpture was a stone box, probably something to hold the remains of those who had died in the home. Strung over the windows were origami cranes, the only sign of the facility’s connection to the Bomb.

  Mas must have been telegraphing his displeasure with the bland mush, because the cafeteria worker returned to his table with a glass container of black strips.

  “Konbu,” she said through her mask. “For my own lunches.”

  He bowed his head and accepted the gift, picking up ample bunches of shiny marinated seaweed with the other end of his chopsticks. Stirred into the rice gruel, the seaweed markedly improved it, causing Mas to actually smile.

  He put a little of the gruel on a napkin. A treat for Haruo, he figured. Bowing his thanks, he made his way outside. He was hoping for some solitude. Instead there was Tatsuo on the ridge, looking through a pair of binoculars.

  Mas walked quietly behind him, but it wasn’t quiet enough, because Tatsuo turned and gestured for him to take a look.

  At first, all Mas could see through the binoculars were the oyster racks and the slow, rising tide. Tatsuo pointed to a figure in the distance. “Suzuki-san.”

  Mas readjusted the binoculars and focused the lens on the detective. He was close to the oyster farm. He had rolled up his pant legs and the water reached his calves. He seemed to be holding something round covered in fabric.

  “What’s he doing?” Mas said out loud, not really to Tatsuo but to himself.

  “He’s been leaving these balls covered in different-color T-shirts in different places in the bay. I think he’s trying to figure out where the boy was when he was carried to the jetty over here.”

  The tides rise quickly overnight, Tatsuo explained to Mas. “Odds are the body was south of us.”

  “He’s trying to find out where the boy was when he was killed,” Mas said.

  Tatsuo seemed genuinely shocked by his choice of words. “I don’t think he was killed. Maybe where the ‘incident’ happened is a better way to put it.”

  Mas gritted his teeth. He didn’t care for semantics. The detective wouldn’t be here for a simple “incident.” Whether or not the islanders believed it, this was about murder.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Mas heard voices emanating from the hallway. Not one or two, but a series of them. There were older ones, speaking the strong Hiroshima dialect, and then younger, soft-pitched ones. They seemed on the move.

  Mas pushed open the door a crack, enough to see the nursing-home workers pushing wheelchairs and assisting residents with walkers.

  He glanced at his watch. The atomic-bomb ceremony was due to start in half an hour.

  Dressed in a pressed suit, the detective marched behind the parade of residents and their aides like a drill sergeant. How one man could stop any trouble at the ceremony was beyond logic. But then, there was probably no trouble to be had.

  All Mas knew was that he would not be there to witness anything. He wondered if Ayako felt strong enough to attend. She probably willed herself into recovery. Here was her chance to make an appearance in front of an audience beyond the nursing home, and this opportunity would not be squandered.

  He took a shower and changed into his last clean set of underwear. His khaki pants were supposed to carry him throughout most of his trip and they were now on day four. He felt liberated in the half-empty nursing home. A few voices still called out in pain or for help, but as the more ambulatory ones left for the ceremony, fewer eyes were watching his activities.

  Curious about the results of the detective’s experiment, Mas went outside only to see a line o
f five balls outfitted in T-shirts of different colors—white, red, blue, yellow, and green. They were all soaking wet, a few adorned with a garland of seaweed. Where had each of them ended up? Only the detective had that privileged information.

  “Mas, you haven’t left yet.” Thea was hurrying down the pathway in a pair of flats. She was more dressed up than usual, wearing a simple black frock. Mas could not look into the young woman’s face. Their last encounter was so personal and intimate. They had broken through the necessary distance that makes interactions superficial and carefree. Thea, though, acted without any self-consciousness, which helped put Mas more at ease.

  “You’re going to the ceremony, aren’t you? I don’t want to go late by myself.”

  “No, I don’t go.” That’s the last place Mas wanted to be.

  “C’mon. I need to at least show my face. Toshi is going to say a few words at the end. They never ask anyone from Senbazuru to participate. Mukai-san was really against it, but she was overruled.”

  To hear that Ayako might be a bit agitated at the ceremony was certainly an enticement, but not enough to win Mas over. Reluctantly, he told Thea about his encounter with Ayako the night before. “Somebody took Haruo,” Mas admitted, explaining that he believed the ashes were stolen by Kondo-Obasan.

  “That’s why you were so desperate to see her,” Thea said, referring to Mas’s trip to the Hiroshima facility. “I don’t remember her bringing anything that looked like ashes.”

  “Zannen,” Mas said in Japanese. There wasn’t any English-language equivalent that he could think of. It was too bad, but he couldn’t dwell on it. He needed to move on.

  “You know, we were visited by that detective, Suzuki, yesterday. He stayed an hour, just questioning Toshi. He wanted to know where he was from sundown to about 10 o’clock.”

  Mas raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes, we were together, and I confirmed it. But he spent most of the time asking about Rei. We, of course, had to tell him what happened with her. How she burst in the house, yelling bloody murder.”