The next morning, Hisashi and I headed north up Okinawa’s West Coast Highway 58, the flat, bustling main road that ran the length of the island. We passed miles of metal fences on our right, surrounding the military bases. The runways, parking lots, fields and clusters of organized buildings looked bland and misplaced across the street from colorful local trinket shops and busy pachinko parlors. Hisashi turned into a small strip mall and parked in front of a store with blacked-out windows. The sun reflected hotly off the store front and I squinted.
Inside we were greeted by a tiny old woman wearing a vivid green kimono. Her hair was black in defiance of the years etched into her brown skin and it was twisted into an elaborate bun held secure by polished wooden chopsticks. The room was small and dim, with tatami mats on the floor and a cinnamon scent in the air. “We’re participating in a traditional tea ceremony,” Hisashi whispered. “Usually they don’t let untrained Americans take tea, but Honda-san makes exceptions.”
We removed our shoes and Honda-san led us to a black granite basin in the corner. Hisashi rinsed his hands in the basin and took a swig of water from a small decanter, so I did the same. Then Honda-san indicated where we should sit on one side of the low table. She then left the room through an almost invisible back door that was flush with the wall.
“She will use matcha, powdered green tea,” he whispered. “She skips all the courses of food that go with traditional tea ceremonies. It’s like tea ceremony ‘light,’ for Americans and their short attention spans. She’ll perform it in twenty minutes, versus several hours.” His description made me smile.
Honda-san reentered the room, and cleansed her hands at the granite basin, moving methodically. Then she sat on the other side of the low table and placed both hands on the semi-circular handle of a jade green and ivory pot in front of her. The pot sat on an ivory lacquer tray along with three matching bowls, a smaller stone bowl filled with the matcha, and a small whisk and a scoop. An ivory cloth was draped over the side of the tray. With slow gentle movements Honda-san scooped the powder into one of the bowls, poured in the hot water and whisked the tea as steam rose in a wisp. She presented the bowl to Hisashi who sipped it and said something in Japanese to Honda-san. Then he picked up the ivory cloth, wiped the edge of the tea bowl, turned it around and passed it to me. I imitated him, sipping, thanking Honda-san in English because I couldn’t think to say arigato or any Japanese words. I wiped the bowl and handed it back to Honda-san, who stood, bowed, slid open the sliding panel that served as both wall and door, left the room.
“That sliding door is called a fusuma,” Hisashi said, and I nodded. My mind flashed back to the intimate tea ceremony that Owen and I had shared so long ago, and I smiled again. Seeing my smile, Hisashi smiled too.
“Don’t move, she will give us more tea,” he said. I sat as still as I could, ignoring the urge to unbend my legs. Honda-san returned and prepared tea in each of the two remaining bowls, filling them almost to the top. She gave them to us, and we again thanked her. This time I gave a little bow too. Hisashi took his time in drinking the tea and Honda-san sat like a Buddha meditating. When our bowls were empty, Honda-san picked up the ivory towel and cleaned off the whisk and scoop, and handed the implements to Hisashi, who said, “These are beautiful objects.”
To my surprise Honda-san replied in English. “Thank you. They were first used by my great-grandmother who commissioned them from Naoto Kadekaru, a brilliant artisan. My great-grandmother passed them down to my grandmother and so on. They aren’t as fancy as some, but to my family, they are precious.” She turned to me, obviously expecting me to speak.
“They are precious,” I said, feeling a little silly for repeating what she had said. Honda-san stood and bowed. Hisashi and I did the same.
“This was not elaborate, but I am honored that you joined me,” Honda-san said. Hisashi tried to hand her a few bills, but she shook them off. “It is my gift. Nothing should mar the beauty of matcha shared with friends.” Then she turned to me. “Tosch-san, please accept the apology of my ancestors that you were treated with such disregard.”
Hisashi avoided my eyes. Honda-san bowed a final time and left through the secret door in the back. Outside I squinted again. “You told Honda-san about the upskirt incident?”
“I didn’t tell her. When I called to make the appointment, she told me she knew about it. Small island. Things get around.” He told me that the tradition of the tea ceremony is one of peace and generosity and that any tea host would be mortified to know that a guest had been treated shabbily by a local person. That’s part of the graciousness of Japan, he said. “At heart, the Japanese wish never to offend.” The simple eloquence of his statement brought a lump to my throat. He had planned this day for me, to show me something of the culture that I hadn’t yet seen because of the chaos since I’d arrived. In the dark sanctity of Honda-san’s tearoom, I got a glimpse of the elegant country I’d expected from the start.
We stopped at a curry shop for lunch and shared a plate of chicken and potatoes ladled with spicy yellow sauce, the best meal I’d had since I arrived. I thanked Hisashi for taking me to the tea ceremony. “I had tea with Owen once,” I said, feeling more comfortable in confiding in Hisashi. I explained how Owen had performed a makeshift ceremony for me there in his fort with his grandmother’s beautiful tea set.
“Owen is sweet like that,” Hisashi said, “an old soul. He loves Japanese traditions. He values our culture and history. He knows how to conduct a tea ceremony, he writes haiku, he takes time to honor our ancestors.” Hisashi’s voice rippled with love. It was a revelation. Owen was the traditional one, returning to Tokyo when called by his father. Hisashi, I suddenly understood, was the disobedient son who fled to Okinawa and stayed.
I told him Owen and I wrote a haiku together. He gave a little smile and nodded. “But I’ve never seen the one he published,” I added.
“Ah, well, I will show you. It’s quite beautiful. Captures the contradiction of Ota family history.”
I thought of my sheltered suburban Illinois upbringing. My parents rarely mentioned our Dutch ancestry. What little I knew of it I’d researched myself. In Oakville, I’d grown up unaffected by the type of pressure that Hisashi and Owen had to deal with. I hadn’t been raised to be proud of my heritage, but I hadn’t been forced to conform to it either. We finished lunch and my curiosity nudged me. With a deeper understanding of Owen now, and an even deeper respect for him, I felt drawn toward information that might provide closure, a final untethering of my heart
After lunch we drove up to Manza Beach Resort, the scene of the alleged rape, another place I’d developed intense curiosity about. Especially since my own assault, I wanted to see the place poor Midori Ishikori had been during the alleged attack, to fully grasp, somehow, that whether walking down a public street or lounging on an upscale tourist beach, women were at risk. We turned into the palm-shrouded driveway and the ocean was on the left, the tall hotel straight ahead. There was no police tape marking a spot, nor any upended chairs or misplaced trash, nothing to indicate a crime had taken place. It was open to the public and we paid a small fee to park and have beach access. The sand was pristine and white, and the shallow water sparkled turquoise. Fit boys monitored the beach, setting up sun umbrellas and sitting atop lifeguard stands. The hotel towered at one end of the beach.
“This is where the Ishikori family stayed?” I asked.
“Looks innocuous, doesn’t it?” Hisashi said.
The building was white, a shade lighter than the sand, with a cheerful blue ocean wave logo adorning the side. The lifeguards spread a large blanket for us under an umbrella and offered us plastic cups of wine.
“When I dreamed of coming to Japan, this kind of tropical scene never entered my mind.”
“What did you expect, a metropolis like a scene from a Gwen Stefani video?” he said, and I laughed for the first time in weeks, admitted he was right.
“It’s embarrassing,” I said. And I told him my image of Japan was some combination of busy downtown Tokyo, a music video, and beautiful women like his mother. “She was so kind and lovely.”
“That’s how she is still, kind and lovely. No idea how she puts up with my father.”
In the changing cabanas we put on our suits, then waded into the warm water and stood waist deep. Hisashi was muscular and a little plump, his tummy a rounded mound. I did a mental comparison to Owen who was almost as tall but lean as a street post. Hisashi ran his hand across the water creating a turquoise ripple. “I hated my dad. I blamed him.”
“And now?”
“I feel sorry for him.”
“Are all Japanese fathers so harsh?” I wasn’t sure if that was the right word, but didn’t want to say bigoted, which is the word that first came to mind.
“Some are, some aren’t. Just like fathers everywhere.” Hisashi stared out into the distance, thinking. “Maybe you’ll meet him.” Standing in the cooling ripples of the East China Sea I could envision a trip to Tokyo with Hisashi. “We’ll see,” he said, concluding a thought he didn’t share.
The soft lapping of the waves was interrupted by loud voices at the hotel. Security guards were pushing a group of people out of a side door. The people held cameras close to their chests and didn’t push back. “Reporters,” Hisashi said. I was transfixed, watching the commotion between the media and the hotel staff, an argument crescendoed and then stopped as the hotel doors shut. The photographers migrated to a spot by a small pond near the back corner of the hotel, snapping shots of the ground. That had to be the spot where Midori Ishikori said she’d been lured to and attacked. I wrapped a towel around my waist and went for a closer look. Coarse dirt, dry leaves, sticks on the edge of a swampy pool, nothing soft. Her skin must have been bruised and scratched, I realized, her wounds visible and palpable. My own assault had left nothing to see on my body, only a wound to my spirit, and yet I understood that I shared something with this tiny Japanese teenager, something no two women would want to have in common.
Hisashi retrieved his camera from the car, went over, took a few shots, talked with a few photographers. I asked him why the photographers were there today, and he said it was the first day that barriers were gone, a coincidence of timing with our day trip. My stomach churned and I was queasy. I told him we needed to go.
Our next stop was Hiji Falls, a hiking trail another twenty minutes up the road, across from a military campground called Okuma. The parking lot was almost empty, and we parked close to the mouth of the trail. We hiked up a well-maintained path with thick trees that formed a canopy overhead and blocked the sun. I pointed to a black-and-green turtle lounging on a rock and Hisashi told me was a native Ryukyu turtle. A few olive-brown birds skittered around on the ground calling in a high-pitched off-key shout, unlike the melodic robins and sparrows in Illinois. “Yanbaru kuina,” he said. “They are endangered and don’t fly well. Seeing them is a good omen.”
A sudden yearning came over me, to tell my father that I’d seen a rare Japanese bird. That’s how my grief had changed over time. Early on, I couldn’t think clear thoughts in a mind cratered by loss. Now, my moments of grief came in bolts of wonderment followed by the dull realization that he was gone, the same pattern repeated and repeated. It had been a similar pattern after Owen left me, but with sprinkles of hope that I’d see him again.
At one point in the trail Hisashi and I came to a suspension bridge several stories above a cavernous ravine. As usual he kept his hand on my back to guide me, pushing me at a steady pace over the river swirling far below. “Do you know what the hiji means in Hiji Falls?” He was trying to distract me so I wouldn’t be scared. “Elbow. So, we are on the way to the Elbow Falls. I don’t think it looks at all like an elbow. You’ll see.”
At the top of the trail we arrived at the falls, an imposing cascade of water running about seventy-five feet down a sheer rock wall, nothing at all like a bent elbow. My skin was slippery from the mist wafting off the falls and I held on to Hisashi’s sleeve to steady myself. Signs warned against swimming, but several teenagers floated just in front of the waterfall, weaving toward it and then away before being hit by the crashing water. I had the urge to jump in, swim under the falling torrent and take my chances. Did I hear my father’s laughter in the rushing water? A soft feeling of contentment crept over me as we headed back down the trail. The waning afternoon sun shadow danced through the trees and a flightless yanbaru kuina sprinted on a dead run in front of us and then took off. We paused to watch him soar up and take hold of a high branch where he perched like a king.
Hisashi and I were quiet on the drive back and when we got to my apartment, we sat on my little couch downing glasses of cold water and taking sips of beer. He told me that next time we had an outing he would take me to Katsuren Castle, the ruins of it anyway. It was the castle of Lord Amawari, one of Okinawa’s most popular rulers before Japan took over, he said. We also talked about Shuri Castle, which I’d read about, how it had been reconstructed after the war by Americans and Okinawans together. “Something good that our two countries did together,” he said. My phone rang.
“Upskirt!? Lucy! You should’ve told me,” my mother sounded frantic. “I called Rose and she told me.”
“I know, I know. I had to appear in a courtroom where they showed my legs and underwear on a big screen in front of a bunch of people.” Mom reacted as I knew she would, sympathetic and also worried about my wellbeing, pleading with me to return to Illinois. She asked again about the rape case and the protests that she’d been seeing in the news. “It’s too soon to tell how the case will end up, but my friend at work is reporting on the case. And no, I haven’t been scared,” I said, figuring it was a white lie to save her some worry. “I have Amista and another friend here who are helping me navigate everything.” When I hung up, I again told her I loved her. It felt good to say it and I knew it was what she needed.
I handed Hisashi another beer. His skin was ruddy after our day outside and he had taken the bandages off his cheek to reveal a slender scab and deep black bruising. He said, “Am I your other friend?” and we both chuckled. We’d come a long way in a few weeks, from strangers with secrets and misapprehensions, to colleagues working on stories together, to friends who’d shared tough times and warm moments. Seeing his battered face beneath the bandages filled me with sympathy. All day together and he’d never even mentioned the attack. I touched his cheek gently and asked if it hurt.
“My pride more than anything else,” he said.
“Are you sure it’s best not to tell Ashimine-san?” His eyes went soft and he told me that he understood why it was hard for me to get it, why certain things were best left unsaid at Okinawa Week. The police would probably let Ashimine-san know what had happened, he said, but he wasn’t going to bring it up if Ashimine-san didn’t ask.
“It’s the Japanese way, to avoid inflaming conflict, to keep a strong and positive face to the world,” he said. As a Midwesterner, I understood the desire to avoid conflict, probably took that concept too far myself. Rose had always told me I’d apologize for falling if a stranger intentionally tripped me.
“But what if they come after someone else at work?”
“This isn’t the first time. Both times they called me by name, told me I was a traitor for working with Americans. So, you see….” And I did see. Hisashi was trying to protect all of us from unnecessary stress, from worrying about him on top of worrying about everything else.
Soon he told me he was tired, needed to rest, the lingering effects of the beating and our long day of touring had taken their toll. On the way out, he floated the idea of us taking a weekend trip to Tokyo. A butterfly of hope fluttered in my head. I still wanted to see Tokyo and other parts of Japan; still felt the draw of the exotic country I’d dreamed of. I asked if we’d see his parents and he said maybe. “What about Owen?”
“He won’t tell us where he is. He’s basically hiding from the family. He calls, but rarely. I don’t think we’ll be able to find him. Sorry.”
“I’m sure he’s got bigger worries than a visit from me,” I said, sad because it was certainly true.
I imagined meeting Mrs. Ota again. Would she be uncomfortable because I knew Owen’s secret? Would sadness have taken a toll on her beauty, etching her beautiful face with lines? And Mr. Ota, I couldn’t quite picture what such a harsh, judgmental father might look like. Would his face be sandpaper and his hands calloused, in keeping with his spirit? Would he speak to me kindly or would he judge me, as he’d done to his son?
If and when Hisashi and I made it to the mainland I’d approach him again with the idea of going to Suicide Forest. I couldn’t shake the notion that a visit there, the chance to see what it was, would give us both a sense of finality, to pen an end to my story with Owen. I was appalled that such a place could exist, but like a curious reporter, I believed I needed full knowledge, all possible information. It was another conundrum about Japan I longed to understand. A culture so beautiful that taking tea was a memorable occasion and yet so dark it contained a forest devoted to suicide.
Hisashi bear-hugged me without pressing his sore face onto my head. I had the urge to reach up and give him a kiss on the cheek but thought better of it.
When I was alone in my apartment, I kept thinking of Manza Beach and the trauma Midori Ishikori had probably experienced there. Before bed, I wrote a poem for her.
Manza Beach
Below the calm-rolling surface, its blue bluer than the never-ending sky,
invisible or unseen from the shelter of her shady umbrella where she digs
her toes into powder-soft sand and sips her soda with a straw,
sharp red plumes jab and flail, slice and slash, precious, dangerous coral.
She’s fearless or maybe stupid, bubble-gum-pink happy, until the cut comes,
and her broken skin seeps blood and accepts salt,
and she’s both empty and knowing.