Summer of the Big Bachi (37 page)

koden
envelope. “The clerk for the mortuary had come to me, confused. It seems that someone had not written their own name on the envelope. Just Joji Haneda, and an address in Hiroshima. I told him that I would take care of it.” Nakane took out a silver lighter, flipped it open, and then placed the tip of the envelope on the flame. When he saw the fire had taken hold, Nakane released the burning envelope. It eventually landed on the dirt next to some weeds.

 

 

“Youzu wasted thirty dolla,” Mas simply said.

 

 

“And how about that thirty thousand dollars, Arai-
san
? You got rid of that money a lot quicker than I thought you could.”

 

 

“You killsu that girl.”

 

 

“I did? Oh, no, Arai-
san
. It wasn’t me. My associates are responsible for that. But there’s absolutely no proof. The American way, right? We are all innocent until proven guilty.”

 

 

“I knowsu. Someone tellsu me. I go to police.”

 

 

“Now, that would be a tragic mistake, I think. And who would they believe?”

 

 

With the toe of his fancy shoe, Nakane crushed the burnt envelope, which looked like a large piece of dried seaweed. For a second, Mas felt afraid. This man could kill him, right then and there. In fact, murder would be quite convenient, because Mas’s body could then go straight into the ground.

 

 

Mas heard a murmur of voices from the front of the chapel. The funeral must be over, he thought, and then, before he knew it, Akemi was heading right toward them. “Nakane, I must talk to you,” she said.

 

 

Mas stepped in front of Akemi’s path. “No, no,” he whispered.

 

 

Akemi acted as though Mas weren’t even there. “You can take the land,” she said to Nakane. “I’ll sign it over to you. I don’t care. But my grandson. Spare him.”

 

 

“I wish you had made this offer back in Hiroshima,” said Nakane. “But there’s nothing I can do.”

 

 

More people filed out from the front, and then the side door of the chapel burst open. The mortician and five other men carried the coffin toward the small, square building with the chimney. The men disappeared through a door, and then quickly emerged without the casket.

 

 

The mortician with the white gloves firmly locked the door with a huge metal key. After peering into the room again through a small window on the door, the man left for the front office.

 

 

“Thatsu not Joji Haneda,” Mas said as loudly he could. A few couples in the parking lot stared at him. “Thatsu not Haneda.”

 

 

“What are you doing, Masao-
san
?” Akemi asked.

 

 

Mas went to the crematorium and pressed his face through the window. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. The coffin, looking less grand than it had in the chapel, lay in the middle of the giant gas oven.

 

 

Mas felt a wetness down his collar. He began pounding the door. “Stop!” he cried out. “Stop!”

 

 

Someone pulled at his arm. “He’s dead. He’s gone.”

 

 

The crematorium then rumbled like an earthquake, and Mas began to smell something foul, like burning fish. He turned toward the square window in time to see the coffin explode in flames.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

 

In a matter of minutes, most of the casket had burned away. All that was left was the vague rectangular frame, and then Riki’s body, engulfed in fire, began to rise.

 

 

The person tugging on Mas’s arm had let go. It was stone quiet, aside from a police siren in the distance. Mas stood transfixed as the flames licked the frame of the casket. With each layer that burned, another layer appeared.

 

 

 

The air raid siren had rung early that morning, about seven-thirty, Mas remembered. There were four of them— Mas, Riki, Joji, and a younger boy, Kenji— in the basement of the train station. Like all the other boys, they wore school uniforms even though they had stopped going to school long ago. Sewn on each uniform was a square cloth with a name and blood type: Mas was AB; Riki, A; and Joji, O. Mas couldn’t recall much about Kenji; he was one of those boys you noticed only when he was gone.

 

 

Mas hid underneath a shelf in the corner, Joji scrunched in a doorway, and Kenji pressed himself against the floor, covering his head with his hands. Riki, however, remained in the center of the room. He flung his arms out and wagged his tongue as if he were catching raindrops in his mouth.

 

 

“Have you gone mad?” Mas couldn’t believe that Riki was acting so foolish.

 

 

“I’m tired of ducking each time we hear that siren. I’ve decided to dance instead.” Riki then started kicking up his legs.

 

 

Riki looked so ridiculous, Mas couldn’t help but laugh. Soon he himself was in the middle of the cement basement floor, leaping up and down like a frog. Joji remained in the doorway, waiting, while Kenji lay still. Minutes passed, and they heard just the droning of the cicadas. Not even the sound of a lone B-29.

 

 

“You know—” Riki said in between deep breaths. “I believe that our old principal, Naito-
sensei,
is actually in charge of that siren.”

 

 

“Naito-
sensei
?” Mas pictured the bald, soft head with round-framed glasses.

 

 

“Yeah— whenever he has to go to the toilet, he just rings that siren.”

 

 

The two of them broke down in laughter. It was very unpatriotic of them, Mas knew. Many bombs had fallen; many people had been killed. But it was still funny to imagine Naito-
sensei
squatting and declaring a raid.

 

 

Joji finally moved from the doorway and began changing his shoes. He was one of the few teenagers who actually owned a pair of work boots— probably from America, Riki had sneered jealously one day. They were all familiar with Joji’s routine by now, how he carefully transferred some folded-up papers from his sock to the inside of his left boot.

 

 

“Always so serious, Haneda,” Riki finally said.

 

 

“You think that all of this is a joke?”

 

 

“A joke?” Riki mimicked Joji’s American accent. “War is a joke.”

 

 

“You won’t be laughing when America wins the war.” Joji patted the side of his boot. “With these papers, I’ll be on my way home.”

 

 

“Home to what? A prison camp?” Riki said.

 

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

 

“Didn’t you hear? The Japanese in America are in camps.”

 

 

Joji furiously laced his boots. “Liar.”

 

 

“Yeah, I heard it from one of my neighbors. Their relative was sent back on a boat as part of a prisoner-of-war exchange. That’s what they think of you back in America, Haneda. As a thing to be traded for one of their own.”

 

 

“You don’t know what you are talking about,” Joji said, but even in the dim morning light, Mas could see the glimmer of doubt on his face. They all had heard the stories. There had even been talk of Joji’s father’s being a spy, maybe even a double agent, trapped in America.

 

 

Joji climbed up the staircase. “It’s past eight. You guys can fool around, but I’m going to work.”

 

 

“Go ahead, Haneda. Work, work, work. Just know that you are working for your enemy.”

 

 

Joji paused at the top of the stairs, shook his head, and then turned the doorknob. As the door opened, a flash of light flooded the basement and Mas felt himself being knocked to the ground.

 

 

 

Mas pressed his face against the door of the crematorium. The burning body was moving now, as if it were alive. “Joji, Joji, is that you?” he cried. He felt feverishly hot, salty drops of sweat stinging his eyes and falling onto his funeral suit.

 

 

But the body was not Joji’s. It twisted back in time and now Mas saw the body of their supervisor at the train station, his black boots still remaining on his burnt legs.

 

 

“Masao-
san,
Masao-
san
.”

 

 

Someone was calling his name. Who? It came like a faint whistle through the orange flames and smoke. The whole world was on fire.

 

 

“Help us, help us. We are so thirsty.”

 

 

Mas climbed up the rubble. There were people everywhere, running, weeping, their flesh melting away from their bodies. “Water, water,” they all seemed to say.

 

 

“Masao-
san,
over here, over here.”

 

 

There was Kenji, the boy that no one noticed. Only now his face, arms, and even scalp— what had happened to his hair?— were strangely dotted with dark spots. “Water, we need to go to the river. The river by the bridge,” said Kenji.

 

 

“Wait, wait,” Mas called out. He looked down and was shocked to see that his uniform had been torn to shreds, exposing his thin gray underwear. His toes were bleeding, but he felt no pain.

 

 

Mas was being pushed by the crowd to the bridge, the same bridge where he, Joji, and Riki had posed for a local photographer. Now people were throwing themselves into the black water, their scorched bodies seeking some sort of relief. Mas thought some were wearing their pajamas, but he realized that they were naked; the checkered pattern of their pajamas had been burnt into their skin. After their bodies touched the water, their faces shone for a moment with pleasure, then the current swept them away.

 

 

“Come on, Masao,” said Kenji, standing at the edge of the bridge. He jumped into the rushing currents, and Mas closed his eyes to follow. He leaned forward to make the plunge, but suddenly someone grabbed on to his shoulder.

 

 

“What—” Mas dangled from the bridge and looked down to see bunches of logs rushing down the river. They seemed to be of every size, some short and stubby, some long and thin. One was even connected to a pair of shoes, noticed Mas. How strange.