War of the Eagles (13 page)

“No, I'm not! Think about it. How would you like it if you and your family had to register?”

“Me and my family?”

“Yeah! What if your mother and grandmother and you had to carry around those little cards with you wherever you went? How would you like that?”

“I guess I wouldn't,” I admitted. “But why would they register us? I was born here and my father's a Canadian citizen, and …”

“Just like I was born here and my father and mother are naturalized Canadians. My father's been in this country longer than your father! Why don't they make your father register? What's the difference?” he de–manded. “What's the difference?”

I stood silently. “I don't know … there isn't a differ–ence, I guess. I just wasn't thinking about it … I'm sorry … I just didn't understand.”

The fire in his eyes faded away and his shoulders slumped down. “I'm sorry too. I didn't mean to yell at you. It's not like it's your fault. You're not the guy who made up all that stuff.”

“That's okay,” I replied. “I should have been smarter about it.”

We started walking again.

“And anyway, you're right … they wouldn't make your father get registered no matter what. He's English and white. But, if things were different, I could see how they might make your mother and grandmother and you register.”

“What are you talking about?” I questioned.

“They don't treat the Tsimshian much different than they treat the Japanese. I heard some of the bars and hotels in Rupert don't even let natives in, and they can't buy liquor and things like that.”

“Yeah, but still, that's different than all that regis–tration stuff. My mother's people have been here for thousands of years … thousands,” I responded. Now I started moving slightly faster.

“Your mother's people? Why do you always call them

‘your mother's people'? Aren't they your people too?”

“What are talking about?” I asked. Tadashi was lag–ging behind.

“The Tsimshian aren't just your mother's people.

They're your people too. You're Tsimshian too.”

“I'm Canadian is what I am. Canadian!”

“The way I figure it you're at least half native, so if they ever decided to register the Tsimshian, there'd be a fifty-fifty chance they'd make you register and …”

“Shut up!” I yelled, turning to face him. “Shut right up!”

“Come on, Jed, I was just trying to …”

I turned away and started back up the path. I could hear Tadashi's steps trailing behind me. Now I wasn't in any mood to talk.

“Was it difficult today working?” Mrs. Fukushima asked, as we took off our coats in her warm kitchen.

“Not too bad,” Tadashi replied. He picked up a cou–ple of plates and took them to the table in the other room. Yuri smiled shyly at me, but said nothing as she moved from the counter to the table with food.

Mrs. Fukushima nodded her head slowly. “You both seem … tired.”

“We're more worn out from the walk home,” I said, without telling her the reason why the walk was so tir–ing. We'd walked in silence for quite a while before we started talking about other things and pretended we hadn't had words.

I went to grab a steaming bowl from the counter.

“No, no, Jed. You are our guest,” Mrs. Fukushima said.

“Here, let me take it!” I turned around and Midori was standing in the doorway, a big smile on her face. She walked over and gently took the bowl from my hands.

“Please, Jed, will you join my father and mother at the table.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Come on,” Midori said, holding the door to the dining area open. “You can sit beside me.”

Tadashi came through the open door back into the kitchen, as Midori went the other way into the dining area. I wondered if he'd heard her comment. He came up beside me. “Oh, no, Jed,” he murmured in a girlish voice, “I would just die if you didn't sit beside me.” He started to laugh. I looked at Yuri and could see that she was having a hard time holding back as well. As I turned and left the kitchen, I heard her start to giggle.

Mr. Fukushima was seated on the floor at the head of the table. Etushi's grandmother was sitting to his side. They were speaking in Japanese but stopped when I entered. Mr. Fukushima motioned for me to take a seat on the opposite side from where Midori and Yuri would sit. I squatted down and sat on the right hand side of the table, two spots down from him. The place between us was reserved for Tadashi. Mrs. Fukushima would be at the end of the table, although she would never actually sit down during a meal.

I reached out a hand and stroked the wood of the table. Their table always intrigued me; smooth, shiny wood, polished to a gleam; black with an intricate pat–tern of painted flowers. There was something beautiful about the table. Tadi always said he'd take a real table with long legs and chairs any day of the week.

The table was fully set. A series of small plates; square, rectangular, oval and round sat on the table in front of us, looking so small and delicate that it made me think of a dinner party for dolls. Each plate was for a differ–ent type of food. Beside the plates was a tea bowl. Sweet green tea would be served throughout the meal.

Midori and Yuri came in carrying two more platters of food which they placed in the center of the table along with the two large covered bowls. They sat down at the table, followed by Tadashi. Mrs. Fukushima entered last and immediately began serving the steaming rice.

“We are honored you could join us on this special celebration,” Mr. Fukushima said quietly.

“Thank you for having me.”

“Special food for a special occasion,” Midori added.

I could see some of my favorites already adorned the table. Aside from the rice, there was sushi and wakame.

Thank goodness I'd eaten wakame before I knew what it was — a type of seaweed tied into a bow — or I might never have found out how good it tasted. There was also a platter holding food I didn't recognize.

“What's that?” I asked, pointing to the unknown dish.

It looked almost like a jelly roll except it was steamy white, veined with lines of red.

“Kamaboko,” Mrs. Fukushima answered.

“Steamed fish,” Tadashi translated. “The red lines are made of soy beans. One of my favorites. We only get it on special occasions.”

“Like birthdays,” Tadashi's grandmother smiled.

“And engagements of marriage, and weddings and wedding anniversaries,” Midori added.

“I see,” I answered. She was really starting to make me nervous.

A long time ago Tadashi had explained to me that, to the Japanese, eating is as much about ceremony as it is about putting food in your mouth. There's a tradi–tion to the way things are cooked, presented on the platters, put on separate plates and eaten. Appearance, the way the food looks, mattered as much as taste. And, no matter how wonderful something tasted, you were never to take very much. Small pieces of many, many courses made up all the meals.

During the course of the meal Mrs. Fukushima only joined us at the table for a few minutes. Most of the time she worked in the kitchen, brought in the dishes, or served at the table. Midori and Yuri had now joined in and were clearing the table. Even Tadashi's grand–mother was helping clear things away.

“Saki,” Mr. Fukushima requested. His wife nodded in acknowledgment.

“For three?” Tadashi asked, giving me a sideways glance.

“One,” he replied. “Only one here to have saki. Next you will be asking for shouchu.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“It's like saki except instead of being made from rice it comes from fermented potatoes,” Tadashi explained.

“A little stronger,” his father added.

“A little stronger!” Tadashi said with a grin. “A lot stronger, and it doesn't taste nearly as good as saki.”

His father gave him a puzzled frown. “How would you know about the taste?”

Tadashi looked as if he would have crawled under the low table if there were room. “I … I … just …”

Mr. Fukushima started laughing and the tension and nervousness dissolved. “I tasted both before my time, without my father knowing, too,” Mr. Fukushima said.

“Midori!”

She popped her head out of the kitchen. “Yes, Fa–ther?”“Bring three cups for saki.”

“Three?” she questioned without thinking and then thought better of it. “Yes, Father.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

“Perhaps the time is now for the two of you. Both are working hard … earning money for your families.”

Mrs. Fukushima entered carrying a ceramic decant–er. Inside was the heated saki. Yuri followed and placed a small cup in front of each of the three of us. Mrs.

Fukushima poured the saki, first for her husband, then me and finally she filled Tadi's cup. She left the room.

“We are most grateful for your assistance in arrang–ing our son's position … and for your friendship. I wish a toast.”

I lifted my cup. The smell from the saki floated up to my nostrils. It was sweet and fragrant. It smelled like plums.

“To the gold that is family and the silver that is friendship.”

I brought the cup to my mouth and took a sip. It was warm and strong tasting and burned as it blazed a path down my throat. I coughed and gagged a little.

I could feel Tadashi smiling beside me. I tipped back the cup and took a bigger sip, suppressing the urge to cough again.

“And to boys who are becoming men,” Mr. Fukushima said, raising his cup again.

I drained my cup. I wondered what my Naani would think about me drinking rice wine. She had no use for alcohol. I guess she didn't have to find out everything.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost eight o'clock, well after the time I'd told her I'd be home.

“I have to go. Thank you for the meal,” I said, as I rose to my feet. My legs felt a little rubbery.

Tadashi and his father got up as well.

“I will come part way with you to your village,” Mr.

Fukushima said.

“That's okay, I can go on my own.”

“No. A walk after dinner is good.”

“Yeah, a walk would be nice,” Tadashi agreed.

“You have school work to complete,” his father stated firmly.

“I've finished all my homework.”

“Have you finished learning all you can learn?”

“Well …”

“Then stay. Work, study, practice. I will walk with Jed.”

Mr. Fukushima got ready while we all said our good–byes. Tadi walked me to the door.

“Why is your father coming with me?” I asked quietly.

“He's never come along with me before.”

“I think he wants to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Beats me,” Tadashi shrugged.

I was never completely comfortable walking through the forest alone after dark, so I should have been grate–ful for the company. Instead, I found myself less nervous about the things that could be lurking in the darkness than I was about why he was here with me. We covered a good part of the distance between Sikma and my vil–lage in silence.

Finally he spoke. “You and Tadashi are good friends.”

“The best.”

“And you will always be friends … never less … but never more.”

I didn't understand what he was getting at so I walked along in quiet confusion.

“Friends. You will always be a friend to my family. To my wife and to me … to my son and to my daughters. To Midori. A friend. Nothing less, and nothing more.”

We walked along in silence for a while.

“I should turn back for my home,” Mr. Fukushima said quietly. “Remember you are always welcome in my house and at my table.”

“Thank you.”

“But also remember we can share a meal and a path–way, but in the end you will go home to your village and I must go home to mine. Good night, Jed.”