Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet (9 page)

H
enry burst through his front door, fifteen minutes earlier than the time he normally came home from school. He didn’t care, and his parents didn’t seem to mind. He needed to talk to someone. Needed to tell his parents what was going on. They’d know what to do, wouldn’t they? Shouldn’t they? Henry needed to do something. But what? What could he do? He was only twelve.

‘Mom, I need to tell you something!’ he yelled, trying to catch his breath.

‘Henry, we were hoping you’d be home soon! We have guests for tea.’ He heard his mother in the kitchen, speaking in Cantonese.

She came out, speaking broken English, shushing him, urging him to their modest living room. ‘Come, you come.’

Henry found himself indulging in a terrible fantasy. Keiko had run away; she was here, safe. Maybe her entire family
had fled, just before the FBI broke down their door, leaving them to find an empty house – the window open, curtains blowing in the wind. He’d never met them but could picture them clearly, running down the alley, leaving the FBI agents flat-footed and confused.

He walked around to the sitting area and felt his stomach drop, as if hitting the floor, rolling under the couch, lost somewhere.

‘You must be Henry. We’ve been waiting for you.’ An older Caucasian man in a fine tan suit sat across from Henry’s father. Sitting next to the man was Chaz.

‘Sit. Sit.’ Henry’s father motioned, speaking Chinglish.

‘Henry, I’m Charles Preston. I’m a building developer. I think you know Junior here – we call him Chaz, in our house anyway. You can call him whatever you want.’ Henry had a few choice names. In two languages even. He waved at Chaz, who smiled so sweetly Henry noticed his dimples for the first time.

Still, he didn’t understand what was going on – in his own home no less. ‘What …’ What are
you
doing here? He thought it, but the words were stuck somewhere in his throat as he realized why his father had worn his suit – the one he always wore to important meetings – that morning.

‘Your father and I were trying to discuss a business matter, and he indicated you’d be a perfect translator. He says you’re learning English over at Rainier Elementary.’

‘Hi, Henry.’ Chaz winked, then turned to his father. ‘Henry’s one of the smartest kids in class. He can translate anything.
Japanese
too, I bet.’ Those last words came out like mumbled ice cubes as Chaz once again beamed at Henry. Henry could
tell Chaz didn’t like being there any more than he did, but he was content playing cat and mouse with Henry while innocently seated at Mr Preston’s elbow.

‘Henry, Mr Preston owns several apartment buildings around here. He’s interested in developing some property on Maynard Avenue, in Japantown,’ Henry’s father explained in Cantonese. ‘Since I’m a Chong Wa board member, he needs my support, and the support of the Chinese community in the International District. He needs our support for the approval of the city council.’ He said it in a way – his tone, his eyes, his mannerisms – that made Henry realize this was a very big deal. Very serious, but also very enthusiastic. His father didn’t get excited about too many things. Victories in China over the invading Japanese army, which were few, and Henry’s
scholarshipping
at Rainier were the only things he’d ever talked about with such electric enthusiasm. Until now anyway.

Henry sat on the footstool between them, feeling small and insignificant. Caught between a rock and another rock, two towering pieces of adult-shaped granite.

‘What do I need to do?’ he asked in English, then in Cantonese.

‘Just translate what each of us is saying, the best you can,’ Mr Preston said. Henry’s father nodded, trying to follow the English words Chaz’s father spoke slowly.

Henry rubbed grit and soot from the corners of his eyes, wondering about Keiko and her family. He thought about those three Japanese couples lying facedown on the dirty floor of the Black Elks Club in their evening finery. Being hauled out and jailed somewhere. He stared back at Mr Preston, a
man trying to buy land out from under families who were now burning their most precious possessions to keep from being called traitors or spies.

For the first time Henry realized where he was, standing on one side of an unseen line between himself and his father, and everything else he’d known. He couldn’t recall when he’d crossed it and couldn’t see an easy way back.

He looked at Mr Preston and Chaz, then at his father, and nodded. Go ahead, I’ll translate. I’ll do my
best
, he thought.

‘Henry, can you tell your father that I’m trying to buy the vacant lot behind the Nichibei publishing company? If we can force the Japanese newspaper out of business, will he approve us to buy that land as well?’

Henry listened intently. Then he turned to his father, speaking in Cantonese. ‘He wants to buy the land behind the Japanese newspaper and the building too.’

His father evidently knew this area well, answering, ‘That property is owned by the Shitame family, but the head of the family was arrested weeks ago. Make an offer to the bank, and they will sell it out from under them.’ The words came out slowly, presumably so Henry wouldn’t miss a thing in translation.

Henry was shocked at what he was hearing. He looked around for his mother. She was nowhere to be seen – probably downstairs doing laundry, or making tea for the guests. He hesitated for a moment, then looked at Mr Preston and in all seriousness said, ‘My father won’t approve of the sale. It was once a Japanese cemetery and it’s very bad luck to build there. That’s why the lot is empty.’ Henry pictured a dive-bomber, augering toward its target, loaded with ordnance.

Mr Preston laughed. ‘He’s kidding, right? Ask him if he’s joking.’

Henry could hardly believe that for the first time in months he was actually talking to his father – and telling him lies.
But necessary ones
, Henry thought. He looked over at Chaz, who just stared at the ceiling, seemingly out of boredom.

Henry’s father was hanging on his every Cantonese word. ‘Mr Preston says he wants to turn the building into a jazz club. That kind of music is very popular, and there’s a lot of money to be made.’ Henry pictured his imaginary bomber releasing its payload, the bombs raining down …
screeeeeeeeeeeee
…

His father looked more offended than confused.
Bull’s-eye.
The bombs exploded on impact. The International District needed many things, his father argued, but more nightclubs and more drunken sailors were evidently not very high on Henry’s father’s agenda for progressive community development, even if they displaced some of the Japanese in Nihonmachi.

The conversation went significantly downhill from there.

Mr Preston grew angry, accusing Henry’s father of indulging in Japanese superstition. Henry’s father accused Mr Preston of indulging too often in the spirits that he intended to sell at his proposed jazz club.

After more mixed translation on Henry’s part, they ended their bilingual discussion, agreeing to disagree, each warily eyeing the other.

But they still argued, bypassing Henry altogether, hardly understanding a word each other was saying. Chaz stared at Henry, not even blinking. He opened his coat and showed Henry the button he’d stolen from him. Neither parent noticed,
but Henry saw. Chaz flashed him a bucktoothed grin, then closed his coat again and smiled angelically as his father said, ‘We’re done talking about this. I can see coming here was the wrong thing to do. You people will never be able to handle real business anyway.’

Henry’s mother walked in with a fresh pot of her best chrysanthemum tea, just in time to see Chaz and Mr Preston stand up and storm out, looking like gamblers who’d lost their last sawbuck on a round of pitch and toss.

Henry took a cup of tea and graciously thanked his mother – in English. She didn’t understand the words, of course, but seemed to appreciate the tone.

After finishing his tea, Henry excused himself to his room. It was early, but he felt weary. He lay down, closing his eyes, and thought about Mr Preston, the adult version of Chaz, greedily carving up Japantown, and his own father, so eager to help with these important
business
matters. Henry
half-expected
to feel happy about disrupting their plans, but all he felt was exhausted relief, and guilt. He’d never disobeyed his father so blatantly. But he had to. He had seen the fires in Nihonmachi and people burning their prized possessions – ashen remainders of who they had been, who they still were. Boarded-up storefronts with American flags in the windows. He didn’t know much about business, but he knew times were tough and getting worse. He needed to find Keiko, needed to see her. As darkness fell, he pictured her in some family photograph, a portrait on fire, curling, burning, and turning to ash.

W
hen Henry finally opened his eyes again, he saw nothing but darkness.
What time is it
? What day? How long have I been asleep?
His thoughts raced as he rubbed his eyes and blinked, doing his best to wake up. A sliver of moonlight peeked between the blackout curtains on his bedroom window.

Something had woken him. What was it? A sound? Then he heard it again, a ringing in the kitchen.

He stretched, reorienting once again to time and place, then rolled his feet to the cold wooden floor, sitting up. His eyes adjusting to the darkness, Henry could make out the silhouette of a serving tray in his room. His mother had thoughtfully left him dinner. She’d even put the vase with her starfire lily on the tray for simple decoration.

There it was again – the unmistakable sound of their telephone ringing. Henry still wasn’t quite used to its loud,
jarring bell. Fewer than half of the homes in Seattle had telephones, and even fewer had them in Chinatown. His father had insisted on having one installed when the United States had declared war on the Axis powers. He was a block warden, and his responsibilities included staying in touch, with whom exactly Henry didn’t know.

The phone rang again, clanging like a wind-up alarm clock.

Henry started to yawn but froze partway as he thought about Chaz.
He now knows where I live.
He could be outside waiting for me right now. Waiting for me to come wandering out unawares, taking out the trash or bringing in the laundry. Then he’d pounce, getting even, without teachers and playground monitors to get in the way.

He peered through the heavy, musty curtains, but the street, two stories below, looked cold and empty, damp from a recent rainstorm.

In the kitchen, he could hear his mother answering, ‘Wei, wei?’ Hello, hello.

Henry opened his door, padding down the hallway toward the bathroom. His mother was mumbling something on the phone about not speaking English. She waved at Henry, pointing to the phone. The call was for him. Sort of.

‘Hello?’ he asked. Henry was used to handling all the wrong numbers. They were usually in English, or calls from census takers polling the Asian community. Strange women, asking Henry how old he was and if he was the man of the house.

‘Henry, I need your help.’ It was Keiko. She sounded calm but direct.

He hesitated, not having expected Keiko’s soft voice. He
started speaking in whispered tones, then remembered his parents didn’t speak English anyway. ‘Are you OK? You weren’t at school. Is your family OK?’

‘Can you meet me at the park, the park we met at last time?’

She was being vague. Deliberately vague. Henry could talk freely, but obviously she couldn’t. He thought about the operators who often listened in and understood. ‘When? Now? Tonight?’

‘Can you meet me in an hour?’

An hour? Henry’s mind raced. It’s already after dark. What’ll I tell my parents? Finally he agreed. ‘One hour, I’ll try my best.’ I’ll find a way.

‘Thank you, goodbye.’ She paused for a moment. Just as Henry thought she might say something, she hung up.

A sharp, chirpy female voice cut in on the line. ‘The other party has disconnected, would you like for me to assist you in another call?’

Henry hung up immediately, as if he’d been caught stealing.

His mother was standing there when he turned around. She had a look Henry couldn’t distinguish between curiosity and concern. ‘What? You have a
girlfriend
, maybe?’ she asked.

Henry shrugged and spoke in English. ‘I don’t know?’ And truth be told, he didn’t. If his mother thought it was odd that the little girl calling her son didn’t speak Chinese, she didn’t say anything. Maybe she thought all parents were forcing their children to
speak their American.
Who knew? Maybe they all were.

Henry thought about how he’d get to Kobe Park, after hours, after blackout. He was glad he’d slept earlier. It was shaping up to be a very long night.

Henry waited most of the hour in his room. It had been almost nine o’clock when Keiko called. His parents had settled into bed around nine-thirty, not because they were particularly tired but because going to bed early was the prudent thing to do. Saving electricity for the war effort was like a sacrament to Henry’s father.

After briefly listening and hearing no sign of his parents, Henry opened his window and crept down the fire escape. The ladder reached only halfway to the ground but near enough to a closed dumpster for recycled tires. Henry removed his shoes and leapt for the dumpster, which made a muffled clanging as his stocking feet landed on the heavy metal lid. Getting up again would be a bit of a scramble but doable, he thought, putting his shoes back on.

As he walked along the damp sidewalks, his breath came out in a swirling mist, adding to the fog rolling in off the water. He tried to stay in the shadows, despite the fear that crept into his mind and curdled his stomach. Henry had never been out this late by himself. Though with the crowds of people that bustled up and down the avenues, he hardly felt alone.

All the way down South King, the street was awash in the stain of neon signs that defied the blackout restrictions. Signs for bars and nightclubs reflected greens and reds in each puddle he jumped over. The occasional car would drive by, bathing the street in its dim blue headlights, illuminating
the men and women, Chinese and Caucasian, enjoying the nightlife – despite the rationing.

Crossing Seventh Avenue and entering Nihonmachi was like stepping onto the dark side of the moon. No lights. No cars moving. Everything locked down. Even the Manila Restaurant had boards across its windows to protect them from vandals, despite being owned by Filipinos – not Japanese. The streets were empty all the way along Maynard Avenue. From the Janagi Grocery to the Nippon Kan Hall, Henry saw no one, except for Keiko.

At Kobe Park, across from the Kabuki theater, he waved as he found her sitting on the hill, like last time, surrounded by a grove of cherry trees whose blossoms were beginning to bud. After walking up the steep hill of the terraced park, Henry caught his breath and sat on a rock beside her. She looked pale in the moonlight, shivering in the cold Seattle air.

‘My parents made me stay home from school, they were afraid something might happen, that our family would be separated,’ she said. Henry watched as she brushed her long hair out of her face. He was surprised at how peaceful she looked, how calm. ‘The police and FBI came and took our radios, cameras, and a few people from our building, but then they left. We haven’t seen them since.’

‘I’m sorry.’ It was all he could think of – what else could he say?

‘They came and arrested scores of people back in December, right after Pearl Harbor, but it’s been quiet for months now. Too quiet, I guess. Papa said the navy has given up worrying about an invasion and now they’re more concerned about sabotage, you know – people blowing up bridges and
power plants and stuff like that. So they swept through and arrested more Japanese.’

Henry thought about the word
sabotage
. He’d sabotaged Mr Preston’s plans to buy up part of Japantown. Didn’t feel bad about it either. But weren’t these people taken away American? Japanese by descent, but American born? After all, Keiko’s father had been born here.

‘There’s even a curfew now.’

‘Curfew?’

Keiko nodded slowly, contemplating its effects as she looked around the barren streets. ‘No Japanese are allowed outside of our neighborhoods from eight o’clock at night to six in the morning. We’re prisoners at night.’

Henry shook his head, struggling to believe what she was saying but knowing it must be true. From the arrests at the Black Elks Club to the victorious smile on his father’s face, he knew it was really happening. He felt bad for Keiko and her family, for the wrongs done to everyone in Nihonmachi. Yet he was so selfishly grateful to be with her – feeling guilty at his own happiness.

‘I cut class today and went looking for you,’ he said. ‘I was worried …’

She looked at him, a small smile turning into a crooked grin. He felt nervous, stumbling over his words.

‘I was worried about school,’ Henry said. ‘It’s important that we don’t fall behind, especially since the teachers don’t pay attention to us very much anyway …’

There was silence for a moment, then they both heard the swing-shift horn – blaring all the way from Boeing Field. Thousands of workers would be going home. Thousands more
would be starting their day at ten o’clock at night, making airplanes to fight in the war.

‘It’s nice of you to care so much about my schooling, Henry.’

He could see the disappointment in her eyes. The same look she’d had when they departed last night, after the arrests at the Black Elks Club. ‘I wasn’t just worried about school,’ he admitted. ‘It’s more than that. I was worried about—’

‘It’s OK, Henry. I don’t mean to get you in trouble. Either at school or at home with your father.’

‘I’m not worried about my troubles …’

She looked at him and took a deep breath. ‘Good, ’cause I need a favor, Henry. A big favor.’ Keiko got up, and Henry followed her down the hill a bit, behind a bench where a red Radio Flyer wagon was partially hidden. In the back were stacks of photo albums and a box of prints. ‘These belong to my family. My mother told me to take them to the alley and burn them. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her father was in the Japanese navy. She wanted me to burn all her old photos from Japan.’ Keiko looked at Henry with sad eyes. ‘I can’t do it, Henry. I was hoping you might hide them for us. Just for a while. Can you do that for me?’

Henry remembered the horrible scene in Japantown that afternoon, the photographer from the Ochi Studio – visibly shaken but determined.

‘I can hide them in my room. Do you have more?’

‘This is the important stuff. My mom’s keepsakes – family memories. The stuff we have from my baby years is OK for us to keep, I think, and some families in our neighborhood are trying to find someplace else to store things. Bigger
things. We’ll probably put other stuff there if we have to.’

‘I’ll keep this safe, I promise.’

Keiko hugged Henry for a brief moment. He found himself hugging her back. His hand touched her hair. She was warmer than Henry had imagined.

‘I need to get back before they know I’m gone,’ Keiko said. ‘I guess I’ll see you in school tomorrow?’

Henry nodded, taking the handle of the little red wagon, heading for home, down the darkened, empty streets of Japantown. Pulling behind him a lifetime of memories. Memories that he’d hide, and a secret he would keep, somewhere back home.