The apartment building looked old and modest, but a flat there still probably cost a fortune compared with the simple home Henry had occupied in Seattle for the past forty years.
Looking at the address Marty had given to him, Henry went inside and found himself on the eighth floor, a Chinese lucky number. Standing in the hallway, he stared at the door of Kay Hatsune, a widow of three years. Henry didn't know what had happened to her husband. If Marty knew, he hadn't said.
Just that Kay was indeed ... Keiko.
Henry looked at the record in his hand. When he took it partway out of the sleeve, the vinyl looked impossibly new. She must have taken impeccable care of it over the years.
Putting the record away, Henry straightened the line of the old two-piece suit his son had set out for him, checked his hair and the shine of his shoes.
He touched his face where he'd shaved on the plane.
Then he knocked.
Twice, before he heard the shuffled steps of someone inside. A shadow fell across the eyepiece in the door, then he heard the tumble of the locks.
As the door opened, Henry felt the warmth from the inside windows shining through, illuminating the darkened hallway. Standing in front of him was a woman in her fifties, her hair shorter than he remembered, with an occasional streak of gray. She was slender, and held the door with trim fingers and manicured nails. Her chestnut brown eyes, despite the lifetime she wore in the lovely lines of her face, shone as clear and fluid as ever.
The same eyes that had looked inside him all those years ago. Hopeful eyes.
She paused momentarily not completely recognizing him; then her hands cupped her mouth--then touched her cheeks in surprise. Keiko sighed, a confession in her smile.
"I'd ... almost given up on you ..." She opened the door wide for Henry to come in.
Inside her tiny apartment hung an assortment of watercolors and oils. Of cherry blossoms and ume trees. Of lonesome prairie and barbed wire. Henry knew the paintings were all Keiko's. They had the same touch, only a grown-up version of the way she'd expressed herself as a girl. The way she remembered things.
"Can I get you something, some iced tea?"
"That'd be nice, thank you," Henry answered. Amazed that he was having this conversation, and that it sounded so normal, like a natural extension--a follow-up to where they'd left off forty years earlier, as if they hadn't each lived a lifetime apart.
While she disappeared into the kitchen, Henry was drawn to the photos on her mantel, of her and her husband, her family. He touched a framed photo of her father, in an army uniform, a member of the famed 442nd. He and a group of Japanese American soldiers were standing in the snow, smiling, proudly holding a captured German flag--written on it were the words "Go for Broke!" Henry found a tiny silver frame nearby. He picked it up and wiped a thin coat of dust from the glass. It was a black-and-white sketch of him and Keiko from Camp Minidoka. He had a peaceful, contented grin. She was sticking her tongue out.
Minidoka was gone now. Long gone. But she had kept the drawing.
Near a window, an old stereo caught his eye. Next to it sat a small collection of Seattle jazz recordings--vinyl 78s of Palmer Johnson, Wanda Brown, and Leon Vaughn.
Henry carefully removed the record he'd been carrying and gently placed it on the turntable. He turned the old dial, watching the label begin to spin as he delicately set the needle in the outside groove. In his heart music began to play--Sheldon's record. His and Keiko's song. Complete with bumps and scratches.
It was old, and hollow sounding, imperfect.
But it was enough.
When he turned around, Keiko was standing there. The grown-up woman Keiko had become--a mother, a widow, an artist--handing him a glass of iced green tea, with ginger and honey from the taste of it.
They stood there, smiling at each other, like they had done all those years ago, standing on either side of that fence.
"Oai deki te ..." She paused.
"Ureshii desu," Henry said, softly.
Author's Note
Though this is a work of fiction, many of the events, particularly those dealing with the internment of Japanese Americans, did occur as described. As an author, I did my best to re-create this historic landscape, without judging the good or bad intentions of those involved at the time. My intent was not to create a morality play, with my voice being the loudest on the stage, but rather to defer to the reader's sense of justice, of right and wrong, and let the facts speak plainly. And while I strove mightily to be true to those facts, the blame for any historical or geographical errors lay firmly at my feet.
Because many people have asked, let me say, yes, the Panama Hotel is a very real place. And yes, the belongings of thirty-seven Japanese families do indeed reside there, most of them in the dusty, dimly lit basement. If you happen to visit, be sure to stop in at the tearoom, where many of these artifacts are on display.
I highly recommend the lychee blend--it never disappoints.
Bud's Jazz Records is there too. Just down the street, in the heart of Seattle's Pioneer Square. It's easy to miss but hard to forget. I popped in once to take some publicity photos. The owner simply asked, "Is this for good or for evil?"
I
said,
"Good," of course.
"Good enough for me" was his smooth reply.
However, if you're stopping at either place looking for a long-lost Oscar Holden recording, you might be out of luck. Though Oscar was certainly one of the great fathers of the Northwest jazz scene, to my knowledge, a vinyl recording does not exist.
But, you never know ...
AcknowledgmentsAs the saying goes, writing is a lonely business. Fortunately I've had my wife, Leesha, and our children--Haley, Karissa, Taylor, Madi, Kassie, and Lucas--to keep me company. Feel free to hum the Brady Bunch theme song--we do all the time.
Thank you for allowing me to write these strange things called books, even though we have a perfectly good TVAnd beyond the crayon-covered walls of my own home, I am indebted to the following people for their contributions to this book:To the faculty and alumni of that last bastion of bohemianism--the Squaw Valley Community of Writers--a group that I am humbled to be a part of Special thanks go to Louis B. Jones, Andrew Tonkovich, and Leslie Daniels. And of course a big doh je to fellow alumnus Yunshi Wang for double-checking my Chinese.To Orson Scott Card and my fellow Bootcampers: Scott Andrews, Aliette de Bodard, Kennedy Brandt, Pat Esden, Danielle Friedman, Mariko Gjorvig, Adam Holwerda, Gary Mailhiot, Brian McClellan, Alex Meehan, Jose Mojica, Paula "Rowdy" Raudenbush, and Jim Workman. Thanks for all the tough love.To readers Anne Frasier, Jim Tomlinson, Gin Petty, and Oregon's poet laureate (as well as former internee), Lawson Inada, for their valuable time and generous praise of an early manuscript.To Mark Pettus and Lisa Diane Kastner of the fledgling Picolata Review, for accepting a sliver of a story that would later become this book.To historian and activist Doug Chin, for his charismatic and inspirational insights.To Jan Johnson, owner of the Panama Hotel, for a three-hour tour of the basement and her relentless dedication to preserving the spirit of Nihonmachi. Without her, the Panama would have been bulldozed into oblivion by now.To the staff and volunteers of Seattle's Wing Luke Asian Museum, for remembering what others might choose to forget.To Grace Holden, for allowing me to channel the spirit of her father.To my uber-agent, Kristin Nelson, for her relentless optimism. (And Sara Megibow, because where would Batman be without Robin? Where would peanut butter be without jelly? Where would KISS be without makeup?)And finally to the saintly Jane von Mehren, Libby McGuire, Brian McLendon, Kim Hovey Allyson Pearl, Porscha Burke, and the amazing team at Ballantine--for welcoming Henry and Keiko with open arms.
ABOUT THE AUTHORJAMIE FORD is the great-grandson of Nevada mining pioneer Min Chung, 'who emigrated from Kaiping, China, to San Francisco in 1865, 'where he adopted the Western name "Ford," thus confusing countless generations. Ford is an award-winning short-story writer, an alumnus of the Squaw Valley Community of Wri
ters, and a survivor of Orson Scott Card's Literary Boot Camp. Having grown up near Seattle's Chinatown, he now lives in Montana 'with his 'wife and children.www.jamieford.com
Copyright (c) 2009 by James Ford
All rights reserved.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks
of Random House, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Duke Ellington, courtesy of the Estates of Mercer K.
Ellington and Edward K. Duke Ellington c/o LICENSEBOX--A MODA Entertainment Company. Duke Ellington Estate Executor: Paul Ellington Frontispiece photo courtesy of the National Archives,
photo no. 210-G-C158.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ford, Jamie.
Hotel on the corner of bitter and sweet: a novel / Jamie Ford.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-51250-5
1. Fathers and sons--Fiction. 2. Japanese Americans--Evacuation and relocation, 1942-1945--Fiction. 3. Widowers--Fiction. 4. Seattle (Wash.)--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3606.O737H68 2009
813'.6--dc22 2008044398
www.ballantinebooks.com
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Title
Page
Dedication
Chapter 1 - The Panama Hotel (1986)
Chapter 2 - Marty Lee (1986)
Chapter 3 - I Am Chinese (1942)
Chapter 4 - Flag Duty (1942)
Chapter 5 - Keiko (1942)
Chapter 6 - The Walk Home (1942)
Chapter 7 - Nihonmachi (1942)
Chapter 8 - Bud's Jazz Records (1986)
Chapter 9 - Dim Sum (1986)
Chapter 10 - Lake View (1986)
Chapter 11 - Speak Your American (1942)
Chapter 12 - Jamaican Ginger (1942)
Chapter 13 - I Am Japanese (1986)
Chapter 14 - The Basement (1986)
Chapter 15 - Executive Orders (1942)
Chapter 16 - Fires (1942)
Chapter 17 - Old News (1986)
Chapter 18 - Marty's Girl (1986)
Chapter 19 - Urne (1986)
Chapter 20 - Home Fires (1942)
Chapter 21 - Hello, Hello (1942)
Chapter 22 - Downhill (1942)
Chapter 23 - Tea (1986)
Chapter 24 - Records (1942)
Chapter 25 - Parents (1942)
Chapter 26 - Better Them Than Us (1942)
Chapter 27 - Empty Streets (1942)
Chapter 28 - Sketchbook (1986)
Chapter 29 - Uwajimaya (1986)
Chapter 30 - Camp Harmony (1942)
Chapter 31 - Visiting Hours (1942)
Chapter 32 - Home Again (1942)
Chapter 33 - Dinner (1986)
Chapter 34 - Steps (1986)
Chapter 35 - Sheldon's Record (1942)
Chapter 36 - Camp Anyway (1942)
Chapter 37 - Moving (1942)
Chapter 38 - Stranger (1942)
Chapter 39 - Thirteen (1942)
Chapter 40 - Sheldon Thomas (1986)
Chapter 41 - Waiting (1942)
Chapter 42 - Farewell (1942)
Chapter 43 - Angry Home (1942)
Chapter 44 - Letters (1943)
Chapter 45 - Years (1945)
Chapter 46 - Meeting at the Panama (1945)
Chapter 47 - V-J Day (1945)
Chapter 48 - Broken Records (1986)
Chapter 49 - Hearthstone (1986)
Chapter 50 - Tickets (1986)
Chapter 51 - Sheldon's Song (1986)
Chapter 52 - New York (1986)
Author's
Note
Acknowledgments
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Copyright
Jamie Ford, Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet
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