Chapter 42

Kazuki’s choice of meeting place surprised Hugh. Hardly a tourist attraction, the archery range was little known even to Los Angelenos. But Hugh had momentarily forgotten the knowledge that his own odyssey bequeathed. For twelve years, his sons were in Kazuki’s company. What had he not drawn out of them? What experience remained only Hugh’s?

The boys were eight when Hugh had taken them to play basketball at the hilly and sprawling park, which sat adjacent to a golf course; but after shooting hoops for an hour, the boys became restless. Hugh suggested that they explore, see what else the park might offer. The archery range, an unexpected feature of the park, delighted them. There were a half-dozen colorful targets, and behind the targets a wall of stacked hay bales, which were backed up by a grassy hill.

As Hugh and the boys watched the archers, an older black man with a mysterious air came up to them. He laid his bow on a nearby picnic table shaded by a huge scrub oak and beckoned them to come closer. He showed them an unshelled peanut, which he then placed on the top of his baseball cap. A large blue jay darted out of the tree and alighted on the hat. Perched, the jay took the nut in its beak, cracked the shell and ate the peanut. When the bird had finished, the man put another peanut up there. He smiled at Hugh and the boys.

“I’m Francis,” he said, extending his sinewy hand to the twins, and then to Hugh, who introduced Takumi and Hitoshi.

“And this is my friend, Bob,” said Francis, pointing at the jay.

“Hi, Bob,” said the boys, fascinated.

“Want to give him a peanut?”

“Sure.”

Francis supplied the boys with peanuts, which they fed to the cooperative bird. For many minutes, Francis regaled the boys with the colorful history of archery. As one of the founders of the range, Francis saw himself as a spokesperson and recruiter for the sport. With Hugh’s permission, Francis spent the next hour teaching the boys the rudiments of archery, allowing them to hold his bow and even insert the arrow, which had a blunt tip, the only kind of arrow used at the range. Hunting arrows had razor tips, explained Francis, which if shot skillfully could penetrate the hide of an elephant. Even the blunter-tipped target arrows could kill, a fact meant to impress. Francis said his bow was too strong for the boys, but there were some practice bows that he could find for them. But first they would have to take a safety class.

Soon after, Hugh bought them their own equipment, beginning another weekend ritual. But a year later, their initial passion cooled, and they were on to other things. When the twins gave up the sport, Setsuko was relieved, for the boys didn’t confine their sport to the range, taking the bows into the hills and fields when Hugh was away at work, and despite their mother’s denial of permission, Hugh thought it no big deal. They had only blunt arrows and they knew the safety rules. Setsuko wanted the bows locked up, but Hugh, though agreeing, postponed and sidetracked the action so many times that Setsuko stopped bringing up the subject. In the end nothing happened, though one night Hugh came home and found all of the boys’ arrows snapped in two. When Hugh asked what happened, Setsuko said she had broken them, but wouldn’t explain why. Hugh bought more arrows.

Arriving at the range ten minutes before the appointed time, Hugh spotted Kazuki among a half-dozen archers on the shooting line. He wore a striped polo shirt, beige cargo pants and a Dodgers cap, his gray ponytail jutting up over the rear band like a rooster’s comb. Hanging from a band around his neck were a pair of sports goggles, which Kazuki now set over his eyes.

Kazuki set his arrow and pulled back the compound bow, holding the string at the base of his ear for several seconds before he released. With a soft swoosh, the shaft flew true to its target, the yellow bull’s-eye of the colored concentric circles. With the barest glance across his shoulder, Kazuki made eye contact with Hugh through the goggles’ thick plastic lenses, acknowledging Hugh’s presence, and then continued shooting until he’d emptied his quiver. Not every arrow found the yellow, but none were outside the red second circle. Three were grouped as if a single thick shaft. A whistle blew. The archers lowered their bows and retrieved their arrows, exchanging praise and consolation.

The whistle blew again.

Kazuki and the other archers set their shafts.

Don’t hurry for me, you bastard.

When the round was done and he had returned his arrows to their quiver, Kazuki walked over to Hugh. He yanked off his goggles.

“Good morning, Hugh. Remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

Hugh had no sooner said that when Kazuki placed a peanut on his hat. Out of the tree a blue jay flew down, landed on Kazuki’s hat and ate the peanut.

He’d extracted every detail from them, thought Hugh.

“The novel I’ve been writing is based on you,” said Kazuki.

“I hope it’s a success. I hope it gets one million readers.”

“I want one reader.”

“That’s modest.”

“You would have had the book already, but . . . I’ve had to make a few changes.”

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

Kazuki undid the band around his ponytail and let his hair unfurl. “Do you remember Setsuko breaking the arrows?”

“Yes.”

“Why did she do that?”

“She wanted me to lock up their bows. The boys liked to go out on their own and shoot. She didn’t think it was safe.”

“But you did?”

“There’s risk in crossing the street—with the light.”

“In the book, the character that represents you,” Kazuki smiled, “is named Yuudai, Yuudai O’Keefe. Yuudai’s twin sons are named Brent and James, which correspond to Takumi and Hitoshi.”

“I get it,” said Hugh. Kazuki withdrew a tube of sunscreen from his back pocket. As Kazuki rubbed the sunscreen into his forehead, Hugh watched the archers, their precise movements taking him back fifteen years.

Takumi and Hitoshi dashed to the firing line. They stood arm’s length apart and took identical poses, their slender fingers crooked over the strings as they drew back their arrows with such concentration that humanity’s survival must depend on piercing that painted yellow foam.

A young pretty woman carrying a bow crossed their path. Kazuki followed her trajectory. Kazuki said, “You spoke with Gina.”

“I saw my grave,” said Hugh. “You kept tabs on me from the moment I left Japan with Setsuko and the twins.”

“I wanted to protect them—and you.”

“Me—ah.”

“I protect you. You protect them.”

“That was my responsibility,” said Hugh.

“It broke her,” said Kazuki. “Takumi almost killed Hitoshi with an arrow.”

“It never fucking happened.”

“Your mulish refusal to lock up the bows.”

A shaft of sunlight broke through an opening in the branches above, gilding Kazuki’s hair where it lay on his shoulder.

“When Setsuko told me, I knew my instincts were correct.”

Someone was drawing Hugh’s blood. Lighter and fainter. Soon the wind of the laughter would blow him away. He could not hold his ground against this little man who had written his life.

“My daughter was infatuated with you. You were open, joyous, innocent, self-deprecating, funny, a dreamer, yes, but not driven. You didn’t want to fly to the sun. You didn’t have dreams that would kill you. My daughter didn’t know men like you. The young Japanese men of that time were intense. They were devoted to their jobs, their companies, their country. But you know, you’ve heard the stories. The sixteen-hour days. The seven-day work weeks. The after-work drinking parties with colleagues. The sleeping cubicles in train stations. Life was work or the celebration of work. Oh, not all, of course. But this was how Setsuko saw it. She was ready for an American, especially one that was tall, strong and handsome and cared nothing for conventional success. One who would be true. I thought it would pass, and then hoped it would pass and knew it would not pass. Setsuko loved like her mother loved, without limits.” Kazuki paused. “My daughter and I were very close. My only child. My wife gone. I didn’t want to lose her. You were the devil who would take her to the underworld and leave my world cold and barren. So, I did what I could.”

“I want to see my sons,” said Hugh. “You promised the truth.”

“Do you remember a woman in Tokyo named Nanami?” asked Kazuki.

“Yes,” said Hugh.

“You knew her before you met my daughter.”

“That’s right. But I told Setsuko—”

“That you would never see her again.”

Hugh nodded.

“You kept your word?”

Hugh made a fist, smacked his thigh. “I want my sons.”

“I need two more days. In two more days you’ll see your sons.”

“I need something now,” said Hugh.

“Do you want it all?” asked Kazuki.

A shadow passed over the two men, but looking up, Hugh saw only empty sky. “Look here,” said Kazuki, taking out his wallet. He withdrew a stiff square from the wallet and handed it to Hugh.

In the photo, their faces were at least a year older than the day they had disappeared. Their hair, which had fallen below their ears, was shorn.

“They cut each other’s,” said Kazuki. “Clipped it all off in protest, like the Irish singer. If that’s not enough, you’ll find it all at your former house.”

“Hitoshi,” whispered Hugh, eyes fixed on the image. “Takumi . . .”

“Two days. Two days to finish,” said Kazuki.