I suppose I wanted to come face-to-face with Hisashi as a surrogate for Owen, so that I could begin to understand what had happened. It was possible that Hisashi didn’t know why Owen had done what he did, and moreover that he didn’t know much about our relationship. Maybe he thought I was just a friend Owen knew casually at Northwestern. He’d told me he had the tea set for me and I was eager to see it again, to see if its crimson glow was as beautiful as I recalled, if tea I made with it was sweet, and not bitter, as Owen promised it would be.
I sat on my futon sofa, sipping iced wine, inhaling the scent of cleaning fluid from the building’s once-a-week maid. It was the thirteenth floor of a fifteen-story tower and my view was to the East, into bustling, tumble-down Okinawa City. There was a good-sized picture window at the back of the flat and I could see down to a row of small unkempt houses and a large grass courtyard where two cows slouched, tied to a tree. My apartment was also just outside Kadena Air Base, the largest base on the island, and close to a thriving shopping and eating district, Kadena Gate Street, which Amista assured me was perfect for a “young, single person.” Protestors were there, she said, but wouldn’t get in my way.
I’d gotten up my nerve and finally decided to call Hisashi, ask him for photographic help with my next story, a piece about Okinawans who learned English so they could get jobs on military bases. I’d call him the next day right when I got to work. In the meantime, I had an evening alone and needed out of my tiny apartment where I bumped around like a pinball.
Though it was my fifth night in the apartment, I hadn’t once walked around the Kadena Gate Street neighborhood. I’d gone straight to work each day, secretly willing Hisashi to be there, starting in my chair whenever the door opened, hoping he’d bluster in the front door again. I returned to my place each night, tired and disappointed. Amista had invited me for dinner a few nights earlier, but I pled exhaustion, which was true. I was limp from the lingering effects of jetlag, or more precisely the utter shock to my body and spirit of being in a new time zone, in a foreign and complicated country, and from the effort of learning a new job, along with the delicate navigation of an unfamiliar workplace with different norms. Owen’s hollow eyes from the last day I’d seen him hovered around my consciousness, in bursts of sadness that were sandbags on my spirit. I’d taken to speculating, “What if?” What if I hadn’t been so proud after he left Illinois and I’d picked up the phone and called him? What if, when he sent me his one sad text, “Sorry Lu,” I had replied, asking him, “Sorry for what?” What if we’d stayed in contact? Would he still have tried to kill himself? I berated myself this way every day and my nightly drinking had become a slippery slope. I rationalized it by telling myself it calmed me and helped me sleep.
Amista had asked me several times lately if I was “okay.” She’d given me a second message from Nathan. Since I hadn’t responded to his first email, he’d tracked me down via the paper’s general email box and asked me to call him. But I didn’t want to. I changed my clothes and headed out to Kadena Gate Street. My sundress fluttered up around my legs and I inhaled the florid evening air. Creepy Date-san peered at me from his office window as I walked by. I figured he must sleep in the office because he was there whenever I passed by. He was leaning back with his feet on the desk, and the TV glow illuminated his sallow skin.
I rounded the corner onto Kadena Gate Street and squinted in the viridescent lights blaring over Aiko’s Soba Shop. There was so much neon on Okinawa that parts of the nighttime sky lit up like a lurid rainbow. To attract the young soldiers into debauchery, Amista had told me, that’s why so much neon. Protestors lined the street further up and I turned down an alley to avoid them.
The street was quiet, with the military still on lockdown and no carousing soldiers or loud music blaring from bars as I’d been led to expect. I started to open the door to a place called Airman’s Ale House, but stepped back, confronted by a placard taped to the glass, “No Americans.” Stung, I headed toward a curry shop up ahead that I hoped had no foreboding sign in the window.
A portly man with a baseball hat had been walking alongside me, and now he was too close, right beside me, so I picked up my pace. He dropped back but I could still feel him there, so I paused, pretended to browse a cell phone shop window. Infuriatingly, he stopped too, close on my left. I headed toward the curry shop and he followed. I lingered, as if studying the menu. I debated my options and remembered a self-defense class I’d taken in college. I recalled the instructor’s advice to follow my gut. So, I turned ready to confront the man invading my space, to yell at him to leave me alone.
Just as I turned, four hands grabbed at the portly man’s arms, yanked him to the side. I yelped and jumped the other way. Two police officers in powder-blue uniforms had the man in their grasp, and a third was putting handcuffs on him. A fourth approached me where I stood, frozen in place, unclear on what had just happened. “Miss, are you okay? Are you harmed?”
“Harmed? What’s going on?” I was trying to process the purpose of this interaction.
“Miss, I am very sorry for this terrible intrusion. We are taking this man to jail for the camera on his shoe. Can you make a statement? Come with us to the station?”
“Camera on his shoe?” I said, letting his words sink in. The officer was young with round cheeks like a teenager. The concern in his eyes told me he didn’t believe I understood the situation. He motioned toward a police car parked across the street. “Can you come to the station? This man was filming you. You didn’t know this? Up your dress. I’m sorry to tell you.”
I’d worn a new sundress I’d brought with me from Illinois. I’d chosen it that night because its flowy skirt wasn’t binding and helped me stay cool in the heat. Why would someone want video of my scrawny legs?
“Miss. I’m sorry. Upskirt photos are somewhat of a problem. If you can make a statement, you will help us convict him.”
Upskirt photos. The term rang a bell and I remembered reading it somewhere before, then felt a sickening thud in my head when I realized it had just happened to me. Groping on trains, I could have sworn Owen’s voice whispered in my ear. The portly man stood ten feet away in his handcuffs, officers gripping his arms. He stared at me with no embarrassment on his face, no apologetic contrition. The relentlessness of his gaze made me shudder. “Yes, I’ll come with you,” I heard myself say to the policemen. My voice sounded like a shy child.
Inside the Okinawa Prefecture police station, the young officer hustled me through a large crowded work room and into a much smaller over-bright room with bare walls. He sat down on one side of a square metal table and indicated that I should sit on the other side. I felt disembodied, not fully connected with my physical self, seeing the scene from a distance. It seemed absurd that I was in an Okinawa police station; I’d never even been in an American police station. The room was like those I’d seen on reruns of Law and Order and Forensic Files, an old-fashioned interview room, claustrophobically tiny and cold, with uncomfortable metal chairs and a dark window that could have been a two-way mirror. Soupy with fatigue, the cumulative stress of the past weeks, and the sickness in my gut from what just happened, I almost laughed. I felt a crazy giggle welling up, pushing at the base of my throat, and I squelched it back with a swallow. The young officer would think I was nuts if I laughed at such an odd time.
Another officer, much older, came into the room, carrying a third chair, which he set down next to me. The words, I’m surrounded, leapt into my mind. And, Maybe I should make a break for it. Again, a giggle tried to burst from my throat.
“Miss Tosch,” the kind younger man said, “we are very sorry to meet you under these circumstances. We apologize for your inhospitable treatment. Could you help us please, and make a statement about what happened tonight?” He spoke quietly, respectfully, his pen poised over a little notebook.
“Yes, we extend our apologies for your harassment,” said the older man. His name tag said Daishi, and at some point, the younger man had introduced himself as Officer Tanaka. “We have called the American military police and they are on the way. We will ask you a few questions and then they will take you home, okay?”
“Military police? I’m not in the military.”
“Hai. We know. You told us in the car,” Tanaka said. “You are a reporter at Okinawa Week.”
I didn’t remember telling him that, didn’t remember the car ride. I was on Kadena Gate Street a minute ago and now I was here. “Okay.”
“The military police are involved in all crimes that involve Americans,” Daishi said. He sat upright, his hands on his legs. “When did you first see the suspect?”
“When you arrested him.”
“You didn’t see him following you?” Tanaka said. “On the street? For about five minutes?”
“Well, yes, I did. But I didn’t get a look at him until you grabbed him.”
“You were unaware that he took video?” Tanaka lowered his voice as if this was a secret.
“I only know because you told me.”
“Miss Tosch,” Daishi said, in an officious tone, “we would like to show you the video, so you can confirm that it’s you in these images. The suspect hasn’t admitted the crime, but we documented him filming you and two other women. Can you take a look?” I nodded that I could.
Officer Tanaka flipped open his computer and there on the screen in super magnification were my legs, the floral pattern of my dress, my underwear. My underwear, seen from a vantage point directly below. Pink cotton. Clearly mine.
I felt my face flush. I wanted to shrink away and disappear from this room, this island, to have the past few weeks erased. Humiliation mixed with the quiet recognition that I shouldn’t be humiliated. Isn’t this what they taught us as women? That being preyed upon is never our fault, nothing to be ashamed of? I knew this to be true and yet still, the undeniable pressure of humiliation sunk down through my skin and settled into my bones as I sat in this tiny room watching my underwear on video along with the two officers.
“Yes. That’s me.”
Tanaka flipped the computer closed. “Thank you. Sign here. And again, please accept our humble apologies that you experienced this.”
“Thank you,” I said, not sure why I was thanking anyone, except that he seemed genuinely sorry.
Just then the door opened, and a man and a woman walked in. They were wearing white shirts with the letters USAF MP printed on the sleeves. “Miss Tosch?” The woman extended her hand. “I’m Officer Penn and this is Officer March. We’d be happy to drive you home.” Officer Penn’s hair was slicked back on the sides and she had a burgundy lipstick line in place of an upper lip. “We work together with the Okinawa police.” I shook her hand and she continued, telling me that it was quite common to feel traumatized in these types of cases. She spoke with forced enunciation, as if to a child or someone with compromised mental function. When she dropped me at my apartment, she gave me her business card. “Captain Gayle Penn, U.S. Air Force, Sex Crimes Specialist,” it read. “Call me any time. I’ll call you tomorrow to check up on you.”
Now I was someone who needed to be checked up on because some strange man followed me on the street? Wasn’t that an overreaction? It wasn’t really sexual assault, was it? I hadn’t even been aware it was happening. The humiliation only set in afterward when I realized what the man had done. Certainly, this was a short-term humiliation, one that I’d shake off after a good night’s sleep. If I didn’t think I was a victim, I wasn’t. Wasn’t that right?
Date-san wasn’t in his office as I passed by, thank goodness. If he had leered, I probably would have punched him in the face. I called Amista right after I locked my door. “Lucy, he’s just some pervert with no life,” she said.
I lay awake all night, the words “sexual assault” rattling around in my brain. I had suffered the most minor type of sexual assault and my body felt pounded by a wrecking ball. Poor Midori Ishikori, if her accusation was true, must have crumbled into a pile of dust and ash.