Akemi Haneda was a couple of years older than Mas. A strange girl with an awkward American accent, she had a round face, round eyes, and deep dimples like someone had poked her cheeks with a pointed stick. She and her younger brother, Joji, had moved into the neighborhood around 1939. Mas spoke to her for the first time when she was burning something in her backyard in the middle of the night during the war.
Do you have any coal you can spare? Her long hair had been recently chopped to her earlobes, and she wore a thick, padded jacket and loose pantaloons. Mas at one time had thought she was pretty, but now she looked more like a boy.
He grudgingly gave her some dead coals from their table heater and watched as she threw one book after another into the tiny fire. The books were all thick, and written in English. Mas sat with her all morning until the last book fell apart into flat pieces like dried seaweed. Thank you, she said, her fingers black with charcoal. I wouldnt want to do that alone. She gathered Mass face into her hands and kissed him hard, her teeth sharp against his gums.
When Mas went back into the house, his second-oldest brother was lacing up his boots on his way to the naval station. Where have you been? the brother asked. And whats that black stuff on your face?
All this time in America, Mas had thought Akemi was dead. He, in fact, had not seen or heard anything about her since August of 1945. But now everything was off balance. Akemi and Riki, together? Impossible. Riki had mercilessly teased Akemi calling her white-radish legs, even though they couldnt see her legs in
monpe
pants. He even followed her around with a dirty sweet potato, holding it below his waist and making obscene noises. Through all of this, Joji remained silent. Mas himself had four sisters who seemed only trouble, but even he would have put an end to such torment.
And now, why had Shuji Nakane and this red-badger boy descended upon Los Angeles at the same time? It was as if goblins had been released from tightly secured boxes. Who had let them loose? Mas had a sneaking suspicion that it had been Joji Haneda, seeking a final
bachi
that would send them into hell.
Oh, Im tired. The reporter sank into the plastic chair next to Mas with a steaming cup of coffee. Got in last night. Jet lag.
Mas could get a better look at the boy. Why hadnt it hit him before? The physical similarity was there. He was tall and lean. High cheekbones. And those eyes, sharp enough to see a lie fifty meters away. On the boys arm was a tattoo, barely visible because of his dark tan.
Mas must have stared too long at the tattoo, because the boy responded. Its a wild boar. Ugly, huh? he said proudly. The creature was squat and hairy, like a mountain yam with tusks. I was born in the Year of
Inoshishi
. Like my grandmother.
So . . . Mas said without thinking. He remembered. Akemi had told him once that she was as stubborn as a warthog.
The reporter placed his cup on the floor. How come youre not in there? He gestured toward the different rooms in which doctors measured blood pressure and heart rates.
Mas shrugged. What for? What can they tell me that I dunno already?
Its for the future,
desho
? For my kids and their kids.
You got kids?
No. The reporter laughed, and Mas noticed that his lower front tooth was pushed in. Im not even married. But Im speaking generally.
Mas pulled at some callused skin around his thumbnail. Everyone knows the Bomb is bad. All the tests in the world dont change anytin.
A lot of people dont know. They dont even care anymore. Most of the
hibakusha
have died The reporter then blushed a little.
Gomen,
he apologized. I didnt mean
Dont worry, said Mas. I am dead. Just look alive.
The reporter looked puzzled for a minute.
Im kidding, Mas said. Itsu a joke. What was wrong with young people these days? he thought. No sense of humor.
Oh, the reporter said. Well, I even go in for exams. Back in Hiroshima.
Mas pinched his dead skin into a tiny ball. You not there fifty years ago.
They want to test the second generation, and even the third, like me. See if there are some latent effects.
And . . . ?
And nothing conclusive.
Ah
But my first test results came back with an abnormal number of white blood cells.
Mas shifted in his seat. You get it checked out?
They couldnt figure out why. The doctors check now, once a year.
You look plenty healthy, said Mas.
I just look alive, the boy said, picking up his cup from the floor. He then looked squarely at Mas. Joke, he said.
Oh. Mas pursed his lips. The boy was smart; there was no getting around that. They sat in silence as doctors in white coats passed by with clipboards and long white strips of paper. So, your grandmother have many kids?
No, she just had one son, my father. His name was Hikari
Hikari?
I know, a strange name. Not Buddhist or Christian. He was named after the light of the bomb. I guess
Obaachan
felt that
hikari
could stand for something good. My child of light, she called him. While the others came out with big heads, he was perfect that is, until he hit fifty. The boy scratched his arm, near his tattoo. He died last year. Lung cancer. Never smoked a cigarette in his life.
Mas wanted to say that those things happen; you cant blame the Bomb. Accept it, go on, and forget.
Growing up, I hated America. I figured they were heartless. Barbarians. Then
Obaachan
sat me down. She said, If you hate America, you hate me. I didnt understand. Then she brought out a passport, hers, stamped U.S.A. She kept her dual citizenship the whole time. But she never came back to America.
Mass secret question had been answered. Akemi had not set foot back in California and, most likely, would not in the future.
Shes the one who told me to accompany the medical tour this year. Shes hoping that I go back to school and become a decent salaryman, I think. But I dont think thats going to happen. The boy turned a new page in his notebook. Id like to interview you, when you have the time.
No time for interview.
Itll just take an hour or so.
An hour? An eternity. Mas shook his head more vigorously.
Theres about one thousand of you here in America. Those who survived the Bomb. Every year, fewer and fewer. Dont you think that you have a responsibility to tell your story?
Mass ears began to grow warm. Responsibility? I have no responsibility to you, red-haired boy. Plenty of folks ready to talk. They all ova dis place. Betta catch them before they leave. Mas shook his finger over his head as Yuki finally rose.
You dont have to tell it to me. But at least your children and your grandchildren. They deserve to know. The
pikadon
is still inside of them, after all.
Yeah, yeah. Mas wished the boy away, and in a matter of minutes he got his wish when Yuki disappeared down the hall. Mas continued waiting in the folding chair. His eyes felt as though they were covered in a sticky film. He rubbed them with his fists until they were dry again.
T
hey say that they can fix my face, Haruo said as they left the medical building.
Tada.
Only thing is, I gotta go to Hiroshima. In a airplane.
You had that face for fifty years. Why do you have to change now?
Think, Mas. I can go to my grave with a beautiful face.
A waste, thought Mas. Such a surgery should be reserved for young girls looking for a future husband. Not an old man close to seventy who might not even last another five years.
You can go with me, Mas.
Ha. Mas took out a fresh cigarette. I dont think so.
But I dont wanna go by myself.
If you do such a foolish thing, you deserve to be by yourself.
So, I saw you talking to that boy. Whatsu his name, Yuzo?
Yuki.
Yah, Yuki Kimura. Nice boy, huh?
Heezu
orai
. Gotsu too many questions.
Well, heezu a reporter. Thatsu his job. You cant get to the truth without asking questions.
Mas grunted and stared out the dirty passenger window.
Haruo rattled on and on about the people, new and old, he encountered at the medical exams. Mas, on the other hand, was disturbed by his meeting with the boy. Even when he closed his eyes, he could only think of that terrifying illustration drawn in muted colors. It was even more frightening than a real photograph. It held secrets the crooked circle, the cloth ID that became magnified in the artists hand. Had he gone quickly, he wondered, or was he alive when the maggots began to eat his body?
Mas remembered when the military police paid a visit to the Haneda household during the war. On the day Mas was to report for work at the Hiroshima train station, he noticed a couple of old women gathered outside the Hanedas home.
The MPs were here, hissed one gnarled woman, a bamboo basket filled with sweet potatoes tied on her curved back. Took away the girl. Shes a strange one, all right.
Akemi did not return for several days. Mas heard stories of the military police seeking out
inu,
those who aligned themselves with the barbarians. Radios were confiscated, English-language letters and cards burned. The old women whispered rumors of the MPs forcing girls into corners, slipping their hands into shirts, the rolling of loose buttons.
Akemi finally returned home. She sat on the stone steps of her house. Her head was now completely shaven.
Masao-
kun,
she called out as Mas walked past the Hanedas gate. Masao-
kun.
But Mas kept walking as if he had not heard.
CHAPTER SIX
