And so, when her son became a virtual high school dropout to spend all his time surfing, Sachi resigned herself to it. I did the same kind of thing when I was young. I can’t blame him. It’s probably in the blood.
She played in the bar for a year and a half. Her English improved, she put away a fair amount of money, and she got herself a boyfriend—a handsome African American aspiring actor. (Sachi would later spot him in a supporting role in Die Hard 2.) One day, however, an immigration officer with a badge on his chest showed up at the bar. She had apparently made too big a splash. The officer asked for her passport and arrested her on the spot for working illegally. A few days later she found herself on a jumbo jet bound for Narita—with a ticket she had to pay for from her savings. So ended Sachi’s life in America.
Back in Tokyo, Sachi thought about the possibilities open to her for the rest of her life, but playing the piano was the only way she could think of to make a go of it. Her opportunities were limited by her handicap with written music, but there were places where her talent for playing by ear was appreciated—hotel lounges, nightclubs, and piano bars. She could play in any style demanded by the atmosphere of the place, the types of customer, or the requests that came in. She might be a genuine “musical chameleon,” but she never had trouble making a living.
She married at the age of twenty-four, and two years later gave birth to a son. The man was a jazz guitarist one year younger than Sachi. His income was virtually nonexistent. He was addicted to drugs, and he fooled around with women. He stayed out much of the time, and when he did come home, he was often violent. Everyone opposed the marriage, and afterward everyone urged Sachi to divorce him. Unpolished though he was, Sachi’s husband possessed an original talent, and in the jazz world he was gaining attention as an upcoming star. This was probably what attracted Sachi to him in the first place. But the marriage lasted only five years. He suffered a heart seizure one night in another woman’s room, and died stark naked as they were rushing him to the hospital. It was probably a drug overdose.
Soon after her husband died, Sachi opened her own small piano bar in the fashionable Roppongi neighborhood. She had some savings, and she collected on an insurance policy she had secretly taken out on her husband’s life. She also managed to get a bank loan. It helped that a regular customer at the bar where Sachi had been playing was the head of a branch. She installed a used grand piano in the place, and built a counter that followed the shape of the instrument. To run the business, she paid a high salary to a capable bartender-manager she had decided to hire away from another bar. She played every night, taking requests from customers and accompanying them when they sang. A fishbowl sat on the piano for tips. Musicians appearing at jazz clubs in the neighborhood would stop by now and then to play a quick tune or two. The bar soon had its regular customers, and business was better than Sachi had hoped for. She was able to repay her loan on schedule. Quite fed up with married life as she had known it, she did not remarry, but she had men friends every now and then. Most of them were married, which made it all the easier for her. As time went by, her son grew up, became a surfer, and announced that he was going to go to Hanalei in Kauai. She didn’t like the idea, but she tired of arguing with him and reluctantly paid his fare. Long verbal battles were not her specialty. And so, while he was waiting for a good wave to come in, her son was attacked by a shark that entered the bay in pursuit of turtles, and ended his short life of nineteen years.
Sachi worked harder than ever once her son was dead. She played and played and played that first year, almost without letup. And when autumn was coming to an end, she took a three-week break, bought a business-class ticket on United Airlines, and went to Kauai. Another pianist took her place while she was gone.
Sachi sometimes played in Hanalei, too. One restaurant had a baby grand that was played on weekends by a string bean of a pianist in his midfifties. He would perform mostly harmless little tunes such as “Bali Hai” and “Blue Hawaii.” He was nothing special as a pianist, but his warm personality came through in his playing. Sachi got friendly with him and sat in for him now and then. She did it for fun, so of course the restaurant didn’t pay her anything, but the owner would treat her to wine and a plate of pasta. It just felt good to get her hands on the keys: it opened her up. This was not a question of talent or whether the activity was of any use. Sachi imagined that her son must have felt the same way when he was riding the waves.
In all honesty, however, Sachi had never really liked her son. Of course she loved him—he was the most important person in the world to her—but as an individual human being, she had had trouble liking him, which was a realization that it took her a very long time to reach. She probably would have had nothing to do with him had they not shared the same blood. He was self-centered, could never concentrate on anything, could never bring anything to fruition. She could never talk to him seriously about anything; he would immediately make up some phony excuse to avoid such talk. He hardly ever studied, which meant his grades were miserable. The only thing he ever lent some effort to was surfing, and there was no telling how long he would have kept that up. A sweet-faced boy, he never had a shortage of girlfriends, but after he had gotten what fun he could out of a girl, he would cast her off like an old toy. Maybe I’m the one who spoiled him, Sachi thought. Maybe I gave him too much spending money. Maybe I should have been stricter with him. But she had no concrete idea what she could have done so as to be stricter with him. Work had kept her too busy, and she knew nothing about boys—their psyches or their bodies.
Sachi was playing at the restaurant one evening when the two young surfers came in for a meal. It was the sixth day since they had arrived in Hanalei. They were thoroughly tanned, and they seemed to have a sturdier look about them now as well.
“Hey, you play the piano!” the stocky one exclaimed.
“And you’re good, too—a real pro,” chimed in the tall one.
“I do it for fun,” she said.
“Know any songs by the B’z?”
“No J-pop for me, thanks!” Sachi said. “But wait a minute, I thought you guys were broke. Can you afford to eat in a place like this?”
“Sure, I got my Diners Card!” the tall one announced.
“Yes, for emergencies…”
“Oh, I’m not worried. My old man was right, though. Use it once and it becomes a habit.”
“True, so now you can take it easy,” Sachi said.
“We were thinking we ought to buy you dinner,” the stocky boy said. “To thank you. You helped us a lot. And we’re goin’ home the day after tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” said the tall one. “How about right now? We can order wine, too. Our treat!”
“I’ve already had my dinner,” Sachi said, lifting her glass of red wine. “And this was on the house. I’ll accept your thanks, though. I appreciate the sentiment.”
Just then a large white man approached their table and stood near Sachi with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He was around forty and wore his hair short. His arms were like slender telephone poles, and one bore a large dragon tattoo above the letters “USMC.” Judging from its fading colors, the tattoo had been applied some years before.
“Hey, little lady, I like your piano playing,” he said.
Sachi glanced up at him and said, “Thanks.”
“You Japanese?”
“Sure am.”
“I was in Japan once. A long time ago. Stationed two years in Iwakuni. A long time ago.”
“Well, what do you know? I was in Chicago once for two years. A long time ago. That makes us even.”
The man thought about this for a moment, seemed to decide that she was joking, and smiled.
“Play something for me. Something upbeat. You know Bobby Darin’s ‘Beyond the Sea’? I wanna sing it.”
“I don’t work here, you know,” she said. “And right now I’m having a conversation with these two boys. See that skinny gentleman with the thinning hair sitting at the piano? He’s
the pianist here. Maybe you ought to give your request to him. And don’t forget to leave him a tip.”
The man shook his head. “That fruitcake can’t play anything but wishy-washy queer stuff. I wanna hear you play—something snappy. There’s ten bucks in it for you.”
“I wouldn’t do it for five hundred.”
“So that’s the way it is, huh?” the man said.
“Yes, that’s the way it is,” Sachi said.
“Tell me something, then, will you? Why aren’t you Japanese willing to fight to protect your own country? Why do we have to drag our asses to Iwakuni to keep you guys safe?”
“And because of that I’m supposed to shut up and play?”
“You got it,” the man said. He glanced across the table at the two boys. “And lookit you two—a coupla Jap surf bums. Come all the way to Hawaii—for what? In Iraq, we—”
“Let me ask you a question,” Sachi interjected. “Something I’ve been wondering about ever since you came over here.”
“Sure. Ask away.”
Twisting her neck, Sachi looked straight up at the man. “I’ve been wondering this whole time,” she said, “how somebody gets to be like you. Were you born that way, or did something terrible happen to make you the way you are? Which do you think it is?”
The man gave this a moment’s thought and then slammed his whiskey glass down on the table. “Look, lady—”
The owner of the restaurant heard the man’s raised voice and hurried over. He was a small man, but he took the ex-marine’s thick arm and led him away. They were friends apparently, and the ex-marine offered no resistance other than a parting shot or two.
The owner came back shortly afterward and apologized to Sachi. “He’s usually not a bad guy, but liquor changes him. Don’t worry, I’ll set him straight. Meanwhile, let me buy you something. Forget this ever happened.”
“That’s okay,” Sachi said. “I’m used to this kind of thing.”
The stocky boy asked Sachi, “What was that guy saying?”
“Yeah, I couldn’t catch a thing,” the tall boy added, “except ‘Jap.’”
“It’s just as well,” Sachi said. “Never mind. Have you guys had a good time here in Hanalei? Surfing your brains out, I suppose.”
“Faaantastic!” said the stocky boy.
“Just super,” said the tall one. “It changed my life. No kiddin’.”
“That’s wonderful,” Sachi said. “Get all the fun you can out of life while you’re still able. They’ll serve you the bill soon enough.”
“No problem,” said the tall boy. “I’ve got my card.”
“That’s the way,” Sachi said, shaking her head. “Nice and easy.”
Then the stocky boy said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, if you don’t mind.”
“About what?”
“I was just wondering if you had ever seen the one-legged Japanese surfer.”
“One-legged Japanese surfer?” Sachi looked straight at him with narrowed eyes. “No, I never have.”
“We saw him twice. He was on the beach, staring at us. He had a red Dick Brewer surfboard, and his leg was gone from here down.” The stocky boy drew a line with his finger a few inches above his knee. “Like it was chopped off. He was gone when we came out of the water. Just disappeared. We wanted to talk to him, so we tried hard to find him, but he wasn’t anywhere. I guess he musta been about our age.”
“Which leg was gone? The right one or the left one?” Sachi asked.
The stocky boy thought for a moment and said, “I’m pretty sure it was the right one. Right?”
“Yeah, definitely. The right one,” the tall boy said.
“Hmm,” Sachi said and moistened her mouth with a sip of wine. She could hear the sharp, hard beating of her heart. “You’re sure he was Japanese? Not Japanese American?”
“No way,” the tall boy said. “You can tell the difference right away. No, this guy was a surfer from Japan. Like us.”
Sachi bit hard into her lower lip, and stared at them for some moments. Then, her voice dry, she said, “Strange, though. This is such a small town, you couldn’t miss seeing somebody like that even if you wanted to: a one-legged Japanese surfer.”
“Yeah,” said the stocky boy. “I know it’s strange. A guy like that’d stick out like a sore thumb. But he was there, I’m sure of it. We both saw him.”
The tall boy looked at Sachi and said, “You’re always sitting there on the beach, right? He was standing there on one leg, a little ways away from where you always sit. And he was looking right at us, kind of like leaning against a tree trunk. He was under that clump of iron trees on the other side of the picnic tables.”
Sachi took a silent swallow of her wine.
The stocky boy went on: “I wonder how he can stand on his surfboard with one leg? It’s tough enough with two.”
Every day after that, from morning to evening, Sachi walked back and forth along the full length of Hanalei’s long beach, but there was never any sign of the one-legged surfer. She asked the local surfers, “Have you seen a one-legged Japanese surfer?” but they all gave her strange looks and shook their heads. A one-legged Japanese surfer? Never seen such a thing. If I had, I’d be sure to remember. He’d stand out. But how can anybody surf with one leg?
The night before she went back to Japan, Sachi finished packing and got into bed. The cries of the geckos mingled with the sound of the surf. Before long, she realized that her pillow was damp: she was crying. Why can’t I see him? she wondered. Why did he appear to those two surfers—who were nothing to him—and not to me? It was so unfair! She brought back the image of her son’s corpse in the morgue. If only it were possible, she would shake his shoulder until he woke up, and she would shout at him—Tell me why! How could you do such a thing?
Sachi buried her face in her damp pillow for a long time, muffling her sobs. Am I simply not qualified to see him? she asked herself, but she did not know the answer to her own question. All she knew for sure was that, whatever else she might do, she had to accept this island. As that gentle-spoken Japanese American police officer had suggested to her, she had to accept the things on this island as they were. As they were: fair or unfair, qualified or unqualified, it didn’t matter. Sachi woke up the next morning as a healthy middle-aged woman. She loaded her suitcase into the backseat of her Dodge and left Hanalei Bay.
She had been back in Japan for some eight months when she bumped into the stocky boy in Tokyo. Taking refuge from the rain, she was drinking a cup of coffee in a Starbucks near the Roppongi subway station. He was sitting at a nearby table. He was nattily dressed, in a well-pressed Ralph Lauren shirt and new chinos, and he was with a petite, pleasant-featured girl.
“What a coincidence!” he exclaimed as he approached her table with a big smile.
“How’ve you been?” she asked. “Look how short your hair is!”
“Well, I’m just about to graduate from college,” he said.
“I don’t believe it! You?”
“Uh-huh. I’ve got at least that much under control,” he said, slipping into the chair across from her.
“Have you quit surfing?”
“I do some on weekends once in a while, but not much longer: it’s hiring season now.”
“How about beanpole?”
“Oh, he’s got it easy. No job-hunting worries for him. His father’s got a big Western pastry shop in Akasaka, says they’ll buy him a BMW if he takes over the business. He’s so lucky!”
Sachi glanced outside. The passing summer shower had turned the streets black. Traffic was at a standstill, and an impatient taxi driver was honking his horn.
“Is she your girlfriend?” Sachi asked.
“Uh-huh…I guess. I’m workin’ on it,” he said, scratching his head.
“She’s cute. Too cute for you. Probably not giving you what you want.”
His eyes went up to the ceiling. “Whoa! I see you still say exactly what you think. You’re right, though
. Got any good advice for me? To make things happen, I mean…”
“There are only three ways to get along with a girl: one, shut up and listen to what she has to say; two, tell her you like what she’s wearing; and three, treat her to really good food. Easy, huh? If you do all that and still don’t get the results you want, better give up.”
“Sounds good: simple and practical. Mind if I write it down in my notebook?”
“Of course not. But you mean to say you can’t remember that much?”
“Nah, I’m like a chicken: three steps, and my mind’s a blank. So I write everything down. I heard Einstein used to do that.”
“Oh, sure, Einstein.”
“I don’t mind being forgetful,” he said. “It’s actually forgetting stuff that I don’t like.”
“Do as you please,” Sachi said.
Stocky pulled out his notebook and wrote down what she had said.
“You always give me good advice. Thanks again.”
“I hope it works.”
“I’ll give it my best shot,” he said, and stood up to go back to his own table. After a moment’s thought, he held out his hand. “You, too,” he said. “Give it your best shot.”
Sachi took his hand. “I’m glad the sharks didn’t eat you in Hanalei Bay,” she said.
“You mean, there are sharks there? Seriously?”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Seriously.”