18. GENTARO

Izumi, 2000

The woman behind the kiosk was trying to maintain her dignity but wanted to make the sale. Her quick glance at Michiko indicated that she found her young male customer as entertaining as he was unusual. Gen pretended he didn’t see the glance the old ladies exchanged.

“Look, Gran, there’s a sand sauna Kitty,” said Gen. “I know we got the purple potato sake-drinking Kitty and the giant radish Kitty yesterday, but I think I have to get this one too.”

“It’s certainly as ridiculous as the purple one,” said Michiko.

“Oh, and there’s a bonton ame phone charm too. I can’t leave without that. ”

“But it won’t mean anything to Lynn.”

“No, Gran, the Hello Kitty ones are for her. I’m keeping the bonton ame one for myself. I remember Dad mentioning bonton ame and saying how he discovered it on a trip to Shikoku with you and Gramps. And now I’ve discovered it with you.”

“Sort of a silly family tradition,” said Michiko, trying to sound grumpy.

Gen ignored her and told the sales clerk that he wanted all the knickknack charms he had selected. She thanked Gen and smiled again at Michiko as she wrapped them. They crossed the station concourse, headed for the bus terminal, and joined the queue.

They had arrived in Ibusuki early the day before and had had a chance to revel in the odd mix of the resort’s attractions—the sand saunas, the hot spring baths, the gardens around the pink hotel buildings, and the art museum tucked away in a corner of the grounds. By the time they had exhausted themselves with all of that, there was only an hour before dinner. Michiko was seated at the table in their tatami room and reviewing the dinner menu and the hotel flyer listing the evening’s events. She commented that the exotic Hawaii-themed show of the 1960s was evidently history, and Gen responded cheerfully that the neat path with palm trees that led to the beach was like Hawaii. He leaned over and gave his grandmother a big hug and sloppy kiss, and promised to be back soon from a run to the beach. When he left, Michiko moved to the balcony and sat. She saw her grandson emerge from under the hotel’s entranceway and head for the beach. She watched him head along the curved path, and leaned back, relaxing in the sunshine as he disappeared out of sight around a bend. She awoke when she heard the key in the door to the room.

“Gran, I’ve already been to the bath and have cleaned up. It’s almost time for dinner. Are you ready?”

The dining room was Japanese Christmas season excess incarnate. “At least it’s cheerfully vulgar,” said Michiko as the maître d’ walked them to their table. A dozen white Christmas trees were situated throughout the room, shining under spotlights. Each was decorated with different-colored balls. Gen entertained himself by reciting all the colors for his grandmother: red, green, navy blue, aqua, baby blue, silver, gold, purple, fuchsia, rose, baby pink, and early summer rice-paddy green.

“They’ve certainly covered all the bases,” Michiko said.

“Gran, stop grumping. I know you secretly love this stuff as much as you love Hello Kitty,” he said, knowing he would make her laugh.

“Yes,” she said, obliging him with a laugh. “I feel the same way about all of it. It’s all ridiculous. Now what’s for dinner?”

As they worked through the courses, Michiko commented that the meal, like everything else they had encountered that day, was too much.

“Well, Gran, at least our stomachs will be full for our trip tomorrow. I don’t think we’ll find such fancy stuff where we’re going.”

“I’m sure you’re right, my dear,” she said.

The trip to Chiran was accomplished in stages, with two bus changes, and other stops at scenic spots. The first stop was at Lake Ikeda, Kyushu’s largest body of water. Its beautiful, clear blue waters reflected the graceful lines of Mt. Kaimon, which dominated the landscape. The bus labored up and down the hills that rose from the coast, and all the passengers snapped pictures of the mountain as the changes in altitude provided varied views of the “Mount Fuji of Kyushu.”

At Chiran, Gen escorted his grandmother to the museum dedicated to peace and to the sacrifices of the kamikaze pilots. He suspected she found it all too sentimental, but she made no comments.

The museum was a warren of small, irregularly-connected rooms, and Gen had been in a room with the photos on the wall for quite some time before he looked up from the display cases and took in how much was crammed in the room. The walls were covered with rows and rows of portraits. He was mesmerized, walking slowly and looking at one face after another. After the first dozen or so, he got beyond the faded sepia and the stern looks, and was aware—no, overwhelmed—by the one blinding fact of all of the portraits. They were young—his age or even younger. Finally, he noticed that but for one elderly gentleman he was alone. The old man was in his seventies. His hands were clasped behind his back, his gray jacket lay open, unzipped, and his face was impassive as he stooped over an exhibit of a manned torpedo horribly named the Cherry Blossom, inspecting it closely. He’s my Gran’s age. How have any of them survived with the sorrows their hearts hold?

Thinking of his grandmother made him realize he had lingered much too long. He retraced his steps through the welter of rooms but didn’t find her until he emerged from the museum. She was sitting on a bench across from a memorial stone with just the word “Firefly” carved on it. Michiko was watching ladies her age, one after another, move to stand in front of the stone and pose for photos. Two ladies were switching places and exchanging cameras as Gen walked up to his grandmother.

“Gran, sorry. I got carried away,” he said. “Do you want me to take your picture?” he asked, looking at the ladies.

“Do you know what this ‘Firefly’ stuff is about?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“Well,” she said, “there’s a sentimental story about Tomiya, an inn here in Chiran patronized by the special attack pilots. One of them, Saburo Miyakawa, was drinking at the inn on the night before his mission. He promised the owner and her daughter that he would return the next night as a firefly. And sure enough, the next night, when he was mere ashes somewhere far to the south, a firefly appeared at Tomiya. Those two ladies just finishing with their photos told me that the story is being filmed and will be released as a movie next year.”

“Well, Gran, why don’t you let me take your photo?”

Her slight hesitation made Gen think that perhaps she didn’t think it was such a good idea, but Michiko smiled at him, and moved to stand next to the stone, nodding to the two chatting ladies, who were gathering their belongings and moving off. Michiko smiled at her grandson as he raised the camera, but her face was grave when he clicked the shutter.

When he finished, Michiko announced that she was tired and suggested that they take the next bus back rather than touring the samurai houses that were Chiran’s other tourist attraction. They sat in companionable silence as the bus retraced the route they had taken that morning; the mountains were gilded by the dying light.

They ordered dinner in their room and relaxed away from the crowds in the dining room. Early the next morning they visited the hot spring baths as soon as they opened, had breakfast in their room, checked out, and set off for Izumi.

When the train arrived in Izumi, Gen sensed that his grandmother was finally truly interested. The only way to get around was to hire a taxi, and the elderly driver took them from one to another of the obscure memorial stones associated with the former Naval Air Station and the special attack pilots who had been trained there. The memorials were shabby, but still tended: a glass jar with wilted flowers at one; a bottle of whiskey with an inch of liquid at the base of another; and, at the last they visited, sake cups with crusted rims where the liquid had evaporated. Izumi was a country town. Its connection with the special attack forces was part of its history, but not a tourist attraction. The real focus in Izumi was the birds.

When the taxi driver finished showing them all the memorial stones, he told them about the Bird Center and the Bird Museum. He also offered to take them to a shrine dedicated to special attack aviators or to Fumoto, the area of town with old samurai residences. Gen was surprised when his grandmother chose Fumoto, and the taxi driver was pleased by the unexpected extra fare.

They passed the shrine as they headed away from Izumi’s small downtown. When Gen saw the concrete statue of a naval aviator decked out in his flight suit astride a thirty-foot-tall arch dominating the neighborhood around it, he wondered if he had been wrong about Izumi. When he turned to his grandmother, he saw her squint just a tiny bit. He thought she was going to say something, but she didn’t.

Gen held his grandmother’s arm as they walked the quiet streets of Fumoto and toured the one old mansion that was open to the public. “We’re just building anticipation for the birds, you know,” she said as they walked back to the taxi. “I suspect you’ve never seen anything like this.”

“You’re right, Gran.”

“Good, I was too tired for the samurai houses in Chiran but pleased that we didn’t skip them today.” She smiled at the taxi driver, who bowed low and helped her into his vehicle. When they were settled in the car, he began to talk about the Bird Center and Bird Museum again. Michiko finally got him to admit that the Bird Center was closer to where the birds actually were, and off they went. When they arrived the parking lot was surprisingly empty and they went into the Center. Soon, however, a bus tour group flooded in.

“I’ve seen enough. Time to go,” said Michiko.

“Look,” said Gen, as they emerged from the building and walked away from the parking lot, passing a sign that said “12,980.”

“Amazing,” said Michiko as a broad field came into sight. “So many of them.” The field was full, covered, as far as the eye could see. Huge, beautiful, stately, colorful cranes covered the center of the field. Thousands upon thousands.

“Sembazuru times ten and then plus,” said Gen. When his grandmother turned and looked at him smiling, he said, “Sorry, couldn’t help it. Bet you didn’t know I was literary. I wonder how they arrive at such an exact number.”

“I’m sure that’s the job of one of the learned scientists at the Center, but we can’t really care, can we, Gen-chan, when there’s such beauty to behold?” She stepped up to one of the platforms that lined the field and looked at the cranes through binoculars. “Take a look,” she said to him after staring for quite a while.

As Gen was looking, an older woman walked up and started chatting with Michiko. Gen listened long enough to realize that she was with one of the bus groups and that members of the group were beginning to drift out of the Center. Gran is being polite, he told himself, knowing that she would find something she had in common with this lady, and that he was free to drift off. He climbed down from the platform, excused himself, told his grandmother he was going to stretch his legs, and walked about the length of a city block along the fence.

He was beyond the group from the bus and standing alone. He had a good view of the birds across the field. He noticed that a few had moved a bit away from the huge group. He could see the crane closest to him clearly, but it had its head down, searching the ground for food. On an impulse, trying to get its attention, he took his keys from his pocket and began shaking them, and then hitting them gently against the closest fence pole. The crane he had his eye on looked up and then came toward him, lifting and bending its long legs one at a time, moving slowly and placing its feet deliberately. Obviously curious, it kept high-stepping gracefully, closer and closer to Gen and the fence that was vibrating with the noise he was making. Come here, my beauty, come here. I want to have a better look at you.

The crane didn’t stop until it was only about two feet from the fence. It stood sideways, looking at Gen with its small shining black eye. It moved its long neck, looked at him straight on, then moved back, still observing him. At first, Gen held his breath, but as both he and the bird relaxed, Gen relished all the beautiful details. He knew that, in English, this bird, the tanchozuru, was simply called a “Japanese crane.” It was larger than most of the others Gen could see, and its markings were bright, beautiful, and quite dramatic.

As the bird kept watching him, Gen took in the silver-dollar sized bumpy red patch above its eyes that looked like the surface of an ink pad, the white above that at the top of its nape, and the black that curled down its beautiful neck like a graceful swirl of sumi ink from a calligraphy brush. The feathers of its plump body were dazzling white. Even in the weak winter sunlight they were gleaming. The white feathers grew larger toward the end of the bird’s body and presented a breathtaking contrast to the long black feathers at its rear.

As the bird drew nearer, two things happened. Some of the group from the tour bus noticed what Gen was doing, and several of the old men began to walk toward Gen and what he was thinking of as his crane. And another crane noticed. As the second bird detached himself from the group, Gen realized that it was even larger than the one standing before him. It’s her mate, coming to protect her from the ojiisans—and from me.

When the male reached his mate, the two birds stood facing Gen. He stopped hitting his keys against the fence, and the ojiisans stopped walking, took out their cameras, and began snapping the magnificent birds. The male took a few steps forward, flapping his wings and then a few steps back, positioning himself next to his mate. The two of them stood looking calmly at Gen, until in silent and imperceptible agreement, they turned together and walked slowly back to the small group. Shortly thereafter, that small group, just a few beats behind the majority of the large group at the center of the field, ran for a few steps and took off, pointing and pulling themselves up into the air and wheeling out to the Yatsushiro Sea.

Gen walked back to where his grandmother stood, now by herself. “Let’s walk in the other direction,” she said. He walked with her for about ten minutes. They stood at the fence, again away from the crowd, enjoying the solitude and the views of the birds.

“They’re so beautiful, Gen. I’m glad you came here with me. So many of them here. And they’ve come so far. No wonder the people of Izumi are so proud of them. It makes me think of the lieutenant Sam wrote about.” After a few more moments, she took his arm and said, “I suppose we should start back.”

The taxi driver smiled when they returned to the parking lot. “To the station?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” said Michiko.

But when they were almost back to the station, and again passing the shrine, Gen leaned forward and asked the driver to stop at the first of the memorial stones they had visited. “Come with me, Gran,” he said.

Michiko got out of the taxi without asking any questions and walked with Gen to the memorial. Gen looked again at the jar on the ledge in front of the stone, the flowers it contained drooping over its sides, and squatted down to read the inscription. “I want to leave something, Gran. It’s silly, but it’s all I have,” he said reaching in his pocket and pulling out the giant radish Hello Kitty charm. “Lynn will understand when I tell her.”

“Thank you, Gen.”

“Samazama, Gran,” he said, as he stood up and took her arm. Walking her back to the taxi he thought about Lynn. And about what he had learned about his grandmother’s memories; he thought about Sam’s memories—Sam, who had loved being dressed like the cold crude concrete flight jock; he thought about the memories of the old man shuffling quietly about the crowded, pokey little rooms of the museum. And he thought about the Pacific stretching east from Japan and west from California. We’ve already made some of our own memories, and I know there will be lots more.

“Now to the station, please,” he said to the driver.