The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11) Page 11

  “It’s unbelievable,” I whispered, thinking I’d probably done the same when talking to the Hanedas.

  “If all the preparations the government made couldn’t save them, what is to stop this from happening again?” Tanaka-san wept softly. “Why should we give anyone hope this place is safe to live in again? Cleaning up and rebuilding is futile.”

  “Every effort is meaningful.” Mrs. Endo’s calm voice came from a bit farther down the row of sleeping bags. “We have had the honor of giving them their first hot meals and cleaning homes and streets. Nurse Tanaka, you touched people with your hands who are in pain but will now recover. The local people will decide for themselves whether to stay here or move. It’s like the prime minister says: right now, we all should practice kizuna.”

  Mrs. Endo was using a unique word that meant something like “bonds of loving kindness.” This was different from the general western concept of love because of the aspect of giving to others. I thought kizuna was a beautiful word and had noticed the press and government officials using it repeatedly when praising acts of help to those hurt by the disaster.

  Nestling down into the warmth of the down sleeping bag, I turned on my cell phone for the first time all day. Michael had left me three text messages. I was eager to read them and text back that I’d found Mr. Ishida. But as I attempted to read the first message, a tiny whirling circle appeared on the screen. I knew what it meant. As the phone’s face went black, I swore under my breath.

  Oddly enough, Reiko—who’d snored through the conversation between Mrs. Endo, Nurse Tanaka and me—stirred. Poking her head out of a Hello Kitty sleeping bag, she whispered, “Dead telephone?”

  “Yes. And I don’t have the right kind of charger—”

  “You can use mine.” She sat up and reached around to grope in her backpack. After a moment she handed me a small but heavy black plastic box.

  “I’m all charged up. Please. You use it now.”

  “Thank you so much. I hope this doesn’t use up all your battery power.”

  “No worry about that,” she said with a light laugh. “We are only here one more day and then go home.”

  She would go, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t be with her.

  Chapter 14

  Sunday morning I awoke to electronic bells playing a wake-up song from an outdoor speaker. I wasn’t surprised; many Japanese towns played a ritual daily minute of canned music. Sometimes the music was played in the morning; other places rang chimes around dinnertime. Some foreigners thought it was a touch of Big Brother to have this loud, corporate-designed music take the place of birdsong. It always seemed to me that it was a way of reassuring everyone that community systems were operating as normal.

  Sugihama’s town song was a lightweight approximation of the Beatles’ “Eleanor Rigby.” The Beatles were perennially popular in Japan. This remake was all keyboards and synthesizers, but mentally, I put in the missing lyrics.

  I’d seen plenty of lonely people in the shelters. The rest of them were scattered throughout the towns, freezing in their damaged homes. It was clear where they’d come from. The question was, where would they go?

  Teeth chattering in the early morning cold, I pulled yesterday’s clothes over my long underwear and went down the staircase to sit outside by myself in the winter sun, eating two granola bars as slowly as I could manage.

  At least my cell phone was fully rejuvenated. I spent some time checking text messages. A contractor had sent an irritable message about the nonstandard window sizes in three of the Ewa Landing cottages. And Michael had sent ten messages with varying levels of concern about not hearing from me. I began a response with Found Mr. Ishida! and would have included a lot more if Nurse Tanaka hadn’t touched me on the shoulder and said it was time to join in calisthenics. I threw on a few heart emoticons, pressed “send,” and then turned off the phone again.

  The volunteers’ morning exercise assembly was being held outdoors on the other side of the building. I went around to a cleared area where the masked volunteers had arranged themselves in six shivering lines. I fell in with Tanaka-san as Mr. Yano clapped his hands.

  “Ichi ni san! Ichi ni san!” He bellowed the one-two-three count into a megaphone and began high-stepping until everyone had joined him. After two minutes, I was exhausted, but then came squats, kicks, and punches. In Japan, group exercise for students and employees was common, aimed to build unity and daily energy. But the tsunami volunteers had already spent many hours lifting rubble and slept in an uncomfortable, cold room. People moved slowly. I felt myself stumble over something and scrambled to keep my balance.

  “Good morning, Rei-san!”

  Miki had slipped into the calisthenics assembly and brought Hachiko with her for good measure. Behind me, I could hear her whispering to Hachiko to follow along.

  “Hey there,” I whispered, turning around to ruffle the fur on Hachiko’s thick neck. “Let’s give Hachiko breakfast right after this. I’ll see my friend Ishida-san today and tell him how you’re helping. He will want to meet you before they return to Tokyo.”

  “But she’s with me now. Why would she go away?” Miki’s voice wavered.

  “Remember when I told you that she belongs to my friend? Yesterday, Hachiko found him at a shelter in Yamagawa When the doctor thinks it’s all right, they’ll go home to Tokyo. Just like your family’s going to stay together.”

  Her mouth quivered. “Everyone but Otoochan and Butter.”

  I couldn’t begin to address that point. “Soon you’ll leave this shelter. Your family will stay for a while in a trailer that you can decorate just like an apartment. That will be cozier than staying in a gymnasium.”

  “But I want to go home to our apartment. It’s so nice. And right outdoors we have a playground and a community garden. I can show you next week. The suisen will start blooming then, Okaachan says.”

  She was speaking of white narcissus, the first flowers that showed their faces in the spring. I nodded, but in my heart, I didn’t believe the flowers would come. In the nearby town of Rikuzentakata, just one pine tree from a giant forest had survived the wave. The land was changed forever, just like Miki’s family’s life.

  “You’d like to deliver lunch at the injured persons’ shelter again? I can guess why,” Mr. Yano said with a slight laugh when I raised my hand to ask permission to travel again to Yamagawa during the group assignment time.

  He probably believed I was thinking of myself and not the group. And I had accomplished my objective of finding a lost friend—why wouldn’t I do something more helpful to others? Awkwardly I explained, “I’d like to go back there, if it’s not too much of an inconvenience. A lot of the people are bedridden and enjoyed seeing a friendly face. They were also so happy to have their first hot meal.”

  “Well, you can volunteer here this morning and bring lunch to them—but not the dog. I heard from Dr. Nishi about that.”

  Blushing, I said, “Of course, I’ll do whatever’s needed here before I go. Hauling garbage, shoveling mud—”

  “I shall try to match the work with your skills.”

  I was assigned to give out antiseptic wipes and fresh socks. Foot hygiene. The simplicity of my job reminded me of how minimal my abilities were. Still, I was becoming tougher. And I didn’t feel like gagging when I put on the gauze mask to load up the military jeeps that had returned to take Nurse Tanaka, Mrs. Endo, and me to the injured persons’ shelter for lunchtime service.

  Upon arrival at the Morito Recreation Center, I checked in with Dr. Nishi, who wanted to know the lunch menu. I told him.

  Shaking his head, he said, “Don’t make the ramen too hot. It will be easy for the patients to suffer burns.”

  I knew that by the time the soup was spooned into bowls and carried on a tray indoors, it would lose ten Fahrenheit degrees—at least. And noodle soup like ramen was only good when it was blistering hot. But I kept that opinion to myself.

  “About the patient, Ishida Yasushi.” The doctor
cleared his throat. “This morning, I made contact with his personal physician you mentioned. Dr. Fujita is comfortable with Ishida-san returning to Tokyo, but agrees it would be better for him to travel with a companion.”

  I hadn’t realized how stiffly I’d been standing until I felt relief wash through my muscles. “Thank you, Doctor. He will be so pleased about that.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure what his reaction will be.” Dr. Nishi pressed his lips together. “I will sign the discharge paperwork and have it ready for you to take when you depart with him later today. It’s a good thing you came. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known how to consult with his doctor in Tokyo.”

  “Thanks. But Ishida-san could have told you—”

  “He never even said he was from Tokyo. Very strange, don’t you think?”

  Leaving the little office, I thought about Mr. Ishida’s resistance to disclosing his address. I guessed that he’d kept it quiet because he didn’t want to be sent out of Tohoku without finding Mayumi. But how frustrating for him to have been kept inside all this time with nothing to do but throw mah-jongg tiles.

  “Ah, you come again with lunch,” Mr. Ishida said when I made it to his little playing group about a half hour later.

  “It’s miso-ramen today,” I said. “I do hope it’s hot enough.”

  “I heard that I can leave today,” Mr. Ishida said, smiling widely. “But the question is, where will I stay?”

  “I’ll get things sorted out with Helping Hands. But I think we should go to Sugihama together today. Hachiko’s waiting for you there,” I added as an extra persuasion.

  “By herself?”

  “Actually, she’s enjoying some time with a little girl called Miki. She and her family were able to keep her inside the shelter with them last night.”

  “Hachiko likes children.” Mr. Ishida sounded approving. “I only hope she doesn’t lead them on a hunt for me. Her nose is all too powerful.”

  “Yes. She put on quite a show yesterday when she found you.”

  Mr. Ishida glanced at his watch, a round-faced Seiko model with a simple leather strap that dated from the 1950s. “About how long are you staying here today?”

  “At least another hour. Let me finish serving the whole room, and then I’ll come back so we can talk about the situation.”

  Easier said than done. It took longer than usual to serve today, because a number of the shelter’s residents remembered Hachiko’s dramatic run and wanted to chat about it. By the time I’d thrown away the empty paper bowls, more than two hours had passed, and I didn’t see Mr. Ishida in the mah-jongg group anymore. As I glanced around, debating where to look for him, I saw someone waving hard at me from the door.

  Mr. Ishida had already changed into his clothes from home: a brown tweed coat, corduroy trousers, and a black beret. He gestured again, looking impatient.

  “I’ve decided to start my search at the Takara Auction House. If you would come along, I’d be obliged.”

  I hesitated. “It won’t be long until I’m packed up to return in the jeep. We can get everything to the volunteer headquarters. After that, it should be easy to get directions to the auction house.”

  “It’s already three o’clock. Once it’s dark there won’t be time. And my goodness, I’m ready to walk.”

  “But…” I trailed off as Mr. Ishida walked out the door. I stepped out after him and saw Mrs. Endo looking questioningly at me from the picnic table where she was taking empty tureens off the camp stoves.

  Hurriedly, I went over to her. “That’s my friend. He’s been discharged but is insisting on walking to Sugihama. I’d better go after him.”

  “He certainly is a fit gentleman. But give him a mask.” Mrs. Endo reached into her pocket and pulled out one of her plastic-wrapped gauze face masks. I grabbed the petite mask in my hand and my small leather messenger bag in the other and took off with some murmured thanks.

  I scurried after Mr. Ishida, who was now carefully picking his way through tsunami wreckage some distance from the shelter. Breathlessly, I said, “Here’s a mask for you. Yesteday I found that the walk between Yamagawa and Sugihama takes almost an hour. It’s hard walking, with mud and obstacles and plenty of ups and downs. And I didn’t see an auction house yesterday. Really, the jeep will take us—”

  “I believe I’ll recognize the area,” Mr. Ishida said calmly, opening up the mask and slipping the elastic over his head.

  “Well, let me ask him.” I pointed toward a Japan Self-Defenses Force sailor wearing a rugged camouflage suit.

  I’d barely uttered my question about directions before the sailor, whose nametag read Uchida, immediately offered to take us in his jeep. This wasn’t entirely surprising, because I found that when asking a Japanese person for directions, he or she usually felt duty-bound to bring me all the way. I gave the news to Mr. Ishida, who agreed to go once he was satisfied that the young seaman knew Sugihama’s waterfront shopping district.

  “So kind of you,” Mr. Ishida said with a warm smile as Petty Officer Uchida reminded us both to fasten our seatbelts.

  “One of our duties is inspecting and repairing streets in the shopping area there as well as in Yamagawa,” Petty Officer Uchida told us as the jeep rolled along. “The place you are going was in a low area. It was hit hard, but there were some tall buildings that survived.”

  “I spent the tsunami on the third floor of the antiques store there,” Mr. Ishida said.

  The petty officer shook his head. “You were lucky to have survived. There were many deaths around there. Five boys thought they could climb up high on a school’s playground equipment to survive the wave. The jungle gym was eight feet tall, but the wave was nine. Four of them died.”

  “Do you know about the dead from this area?” I asked. I gave him Mayumi’s name, and Mr. Ishida described her appearance, including the clothes she’d worn and the blue hair.

  “I’m not sure,” Petty Officer Uchida answered. “I haven’t seen anyone fitting that description, but we have long lists of names. If you give me the exact kanji characters for her name, I can give it to the help center, and they will send a text if there’s any confirmation of death.”

  “That would be kind,” I said. “Tell me—is there a registry of survivors?”

  “Yes. If people enter a shelter, of course their names are recorded. But if they stay in their homes, or go off to stay in another place, that would not automatically be known to us. We only know to look for somebody if we have a request.”

  “I asked at the injured persons’ shelter for a search to be made for her,” Ishida-san said. “They put her name on a missing list. But I didn’t hear anything again. It’s been six days.”

  “Maybe Mr. Morioka will know something. It could be that she returned days after the tsunami to look for you,” I said as we turned onto a road plastered in black mud and packed with wreckage: cars, broken buildings, beams, shop signs, and the contents of ruined stores. A couple of pigs crouched in the shadow of a ruined bakery devouring a muddy loaf of bread.

  A long pole with a basketball hoop lay across most of the road. This must have been ripped from the ill-fated playground the soldier had mentioned. And then there were all kinds of other debris.

  “I can’t believe something made of porcelain is still in one piece,” I said, pointing at a big, round blue-and-white brazier. It was the kind of thing that people used today as a table base, umbrella stand, or planter.

  “Yes, glazed stoneware can be surprisingly strong. It probably floated all the way here from the auction house. How about that Buddha?” Ishida-san pointed toward a four-foot-tall, bronze Buddha statue sitting upright on a heap of rubble.

  “It almost looks like someone’s made an altar,” I said.

  “Yes indeed,” the driver said. “People are doing this out of respect and hope. Several more Buddhas are watching over the streets of this town.”

  “Ah, there is the auction house,” Mr. Ishida called out. “We are exactly where we need
to be.”

  I followed his gaze to a stained stucco building with blown-out windows on the first floor. But the third-story windows were unbroken, and I caught a glimmer of warm light glowing from one of the windows. Only one stone lion-dog was left near the doorway; its mate must have been torn away by the wave.

  After thanking the JMSDF men profusely, Mr. Ishida and I gingerly climbed out of the jeep and headed for the shop’s front door, which had a “CLOSED” sign. However, the knob turned easily.

  “Ojama shimasu,” Mr. Ishida politely called out the stock phrase that meant “sorry for bothering you.” But I didn’t see anyone in the dark, dank, muddy interior. Dozens of chairs the auction goers must have sat upon were turned over or on top of each other, with smashed pieces of china and wood thrown over them. And of course, there was the ever-present fishy odor, although some smokiness in the shop’s air lessened it. Evaluating the color change on the wall from brown to beige, I thought that the wave had reached about eight feet and then subsided. Peering through the gloom, I saw a wooden staircase that was only discolored on the lower half.

  “Perhaps Morioka-san is upstairs in his living quarters. Shall we go a bit farther?” I suggested.

  “But of course,” Mr. Ishida said.

  I went up first, and when I reached the last filthy step, I carefully stepped out of my boots, holding onto a wiggly railing for support. I waited on the next step until Mr. Ishida had done the same with his sturdy Clarks lace-up shoes. Then the two of us continued in socks up to the second floor.

  Our voices must have been overheard, because a middle-aged man with scant hair and a sweaty face appeared at the top of the second floor. Behind him, I saw an office that was being warmed by a wood fire burning inside a wide hibachi. A stone lantern glowed on a wide desk and a blue-and-white hibachi sat on the floor, a burning scrap of wood inside. Now I realized from where the smoky smell had emanated. But it was cozy and warm, and I felt myself instinctively leaning toward this second-floor sanctuary.