Warm family memories
Chisato was intrigued and cautiously anticipated Thursday. Who wants to meet me? And why all the secrecy? She also wondered about Sam Otagaki. What had he done to make my husband so angry with him? Who was he? I will have to find out.
Ernie’s Café was as busy as ever, even for a Thursday morning. And Ernie was as brusque as expected, talking rudely to his many customers. The New Year had not lightened his outlook, she surmised.
“You don’t like the service, get the hell out and go somewhere else!” he yelled more than once. Either in English or Japanese.
She smirked, bemused if a little offended by his gruff personality. In her peripheral vision, she saw a man leave his chair and approach her.
“Kimura-san! So nice see you. Happy to be here.” Speak of the devil, she recognized the familiar bumpy Japanese. It belonged to Sam Otagaki. Involuntarily, she rotated her head to see if her husband was nearby.
Sam soon situated himself in front of her. His grin was as wide as the horizon. He then shifted to the side while pointing back to his table. Sitting there was a guest, a woman.
“You know, I know,” Sam pronounced.
At first, Chisato didn’t recognize her but soon realized it was her friend from the ship and Immigration Building, Sachiko Jikemura. She seemed much smaller, as she was hunched over and scrawny. Her sad face smiled weakly as Chisato gazed at her. Still, Chisato’s face beamed as she swiftly moved to the table.
“I go now,” Sam said and moved to leave chuckling to himself in a self-satisfied way. “Ja-ne!”
Although shocked by his familiarity, she ignored Sam. “Sachiko-chan!” Chisato gushed as she sat down. “It really is you!”
Sachiko nodded.
“I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Me neither.” Her voice was weak, hoarse. She had changed so much, she had lost a lot of weight, her neck was so skinny and ribbed, it was a wonder it held up her boney head. Her hair was scraggly, matted, thinned out, and coarse. Her body exuded a faint odour of poverty and decay. Her clothes were frayed and ragged.
Only one coffee cup was on the table—Sam’s, Chisato assumed, since it wasn’t in front of her friend.
“How…how did you find me? What are you doing here? How do you know Sammu?” Her questions were many and rapid. She finally caught herself, stopped talking while taking in a breath. It was her friend’s turn.
Sachiko began slowly. She seemed in pain and couldn’t move easily or quickly. She shivered with the cold January air, even indoors.
“Akamatsu…I mean, Kimura-san, I asked Otagaki-san to help find you and arrange this meeting.”
“Wait…how do you know Sammu?”
“Morii-san ordered Otagaki-san to help me.”
That name again. Who is this Morii? She put that aside for the moment. “So, it was no accident that he met me in that Canadian restaurant.”
Sachiko nodded. “I asked Morii-san for help, and he called in Sammu. I had to get a-hold of you…” Her voice trailed away.
“I am happy to see you again, but why so secretive about it all?” That was when she noticed the bruises shaded around her neck and on the exposed part of her forearms. Every time she moved, however slightly, her face grimaced. She also let out an almost imperceptible groan. Almost.
Chisato remembered Hideki’s punishment wounds. He never thought she noticed the dark spots on his body. But she had. She didn’t say anything to spare him and family members embarrassment. She knew Chiemi would deal with his problems.
“I…I…I need your help.”
“Of course,” Chisato said reassuringly. “How?”
“I heard you had married well. Your husband has a lot of influence in Powell Street and in BC. My husband is a monster. I think he’s…not right in the—” she said, pointing to her head and lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Don’t say that!” Chisato’s voice rose unconsciously. She hoped that no one had heard or seen Sachiko.
“Look!” she said as she pushed up one sleeve of her blouse. Her entire arm was covered in the light and dark shadows of bruises, old and new. It was worse than Chisato had suspected.
Chisato was stunned. How could anyone do that, especially to his own wife?
“Most of my body is like that. I don’t know why I’m still alive.” She paused as Chisato let it sink in. “I need you…I ask you to help me get away. I live in Steveston… my husband is a fisherman. He’ll be leaving soon to begin work. It’s a good time to escape.”
“But how can I help?”
“I’ll need somewhere to go. Maybe your husband can find a place for me.”
“I don’t know—”
Sachiko reached out and grabbed Chisato’s forearm.
“I’m desperate, Akamatsu-san. If our time coming over here together meant anything to you, you’ll help me!”
Chisato noticed the customers around them had started to stare at them. She moved her arm to loosen the grip. She lowered her gaze.
“Why doesn’t this Morii do something?”
“I’m too small to bother with,” she said. Her lips curled into a sneer.
Chisato didn’t know what that meant exactly, but she knew Morii was a deadend. “I’ll do what I can…but you must realize—”
“That’s all I ask. But I am depending on you. Convince your husband to help.” Her voice anguished, she stood and made leaving noises.
“Wait,” Chisato said loudly, “how will I get in touch with you?”
“Otagaki-san” was all she said and quickly shuffled out of the door.
Chisato was abruptly alone, and she felt all eyes on her. She too made her way out of the place.
***
That evening, she stood at the dinner table serving dinner. Kiyoshi sat with legs crossed reading a newspaper while he waited for the food. She knew he would be leaving the house after he ate to go who knows where, so Chisato had to have the conversation.
“Kiyoshi, do you remember Sachiko Jikemura?”
“Hmm,” he murmured, not looking at her.
“Sachiko Jikemura. Remember her from the Immigration Building when I first met you?”
Kiyoshi bent his paper down and looked at her with a questioning look. “Yes, yes, I remember her. You were concerned because her husband lied to her.”
“Yes, well, I ran into her…at Ernie’s today,” she informed anticipating his next question.
“Oh?”
“Yes, she is being brutalized by her husband.”
“And how is that any of our business?”
She was surprised by her husband’s lack of compassion. Then again, he wasn’t Buddhist.
“But we should help—”
“What happens between a man and wife is their business.”
“Where is your Christian compassion for another Christian?”
“Is she Christian?”
She hesitated before answering. “Yes.”
“Then she should go to her minister.”
“In Steveston?”
“They have churches there.”
“Too much local gossip. It would be easier if our church helped. No one knows her here. The farther away she can get, the better.”
The argument seemed to convince Kiyoshi. “I’ll talk to Reverend James, but she must get herself to Powell Street. We can’t be accused of kidnapping her.”
Chisato added, “Once fishing season begins and her husband leaves, she will come.”
“How will we know?”
“Oh, I suppose, she’ll send a letter.” Again, she lied. She did not want to mention Otagaki’s name, given his reaction to Sam’s visit on Oshogatsu. But the problem remained. How was she going to get in touch? Otagaki?
***
Her next appointment at the Gaiety Beauty Salon supplied the answer. The usual crowd of Issei women was there, touching up their dos, or getting a fresh permanent, and gossiping.
In an advantageous moment, she spoke to the owner, Mitzi Abe, who was on a break from her customers, in soft, conspiratorial tones.
“Abe-san, you remember Sammu Otagaki,” she said and waited for a sign. “How do I get in touch with him?”
Michiko leaned towards her friend. “You don’t want to do that.”
“I do, actually. I need him to convey a message to a friend.”
“You don’t need a friend that is his friend.”
“Please, stop telling me what I don’t need or want. I just have to talk to him.”
“I told you to stay away from him. He works for Morii.”
“I thought he was working as a carpenter at—”
“He works for Morii.”
“And who is this Morii that everyone wants to avoid talking about?” She thought of her husband.
“He is the boss of the Black Dragon Society.”
“The what?”
“The Black Dragon Society. Yakuza. A gang of men who control gambling, alcohol, and other things I won’t talk about. Morii is the boss, and he is dangerous. You don’t want to get mixed up with him.”
“But I have to talk to Otagaki-san.”
A long pause as Mitzi seemed to be taking the measure of Chisato.
“I’m desperate,” Chisato insisted. “It could be a matter of life and death.” She didn’t feel she was exaggerating if the bruises on Sachiko’s body were any indication. Who knew how far Jikemura-san would go? She did not elaborate.
“Well, all right, it’s your funeral. Otagaki is often seen at the Showa Club on Powell Street.”
Strange expression, but Chisato ignored it. “Where on Powell?”
“Oh, I forget, somewhere in the 300 block.”
“Don’t you know where on the 300 block? It’s a long block.”
“Do you think I go to a place like that?” she said in an indignant tone. “Ask anyone there. Better yet, you’ll see the watchman sitting out front...at the foot of the stairs. You can’t miss him. He’s always there. The place is upstairs.”
“All right then. Thank you.”
“But no women are allowed in there. At least, only ‘working women’ are allowed.”
Chisato didn’t understand what she meant by “working women” but she let it stand. So many mysterious Canadian sayings.
“Just speak to the watchman and he’ll go fetch Otagaki, I reckon.”
***
A watchman indeed sat in the vestibule, hidden from a sideview from the street. He was a wizened old man with a sparse head of white hair, sunken cheeks, and a collapsed mouth, no teeth. His body sagged on both sides of the cheap metal chair, seemingly stolen from the Japanese Language School on Alexander Street—confirmed by the red lettering printed on the back of it.
Chisato approached the man gingerly. He looked like he was asleep.
“Please excuse me,” she said quietly and politely.
Nevertheless, the man was startled awake. “Who are you?” he growled, inspecting her with one squinting eye.
“I am Kimura Chisato,” she answered, reverting to the Japanese naming convention.
He pulled himself up to his feet with some difficulty. “Sorry, I was just resting my eyes.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said with a smile. “I’m looking for Otagaki Osamu. I understand he is likely upstairs at the…” She hesitated not wishing the watchman to know she knew about the place. “Can you help me?”
“Oh sure…sure. Wait here.” He was friendly enough as he slowly got up, turned, and creaked before climbing the stairs.
About five minutes later, she heard the scurry of shoes coming down the stairs. At the door Otagaki-san stood with a wide grin on his face.
The old watchman walked up the street some distance to avoid the business between them.
“Kimura-san, so nice see you,” Sam greeted.
Chisato would never get use to his Japanese. “Otagaki-san—”
“Sam,” he corrected. He stood smiling and staring at her.
“Yes, Sammu, I understand you can get a message to Sachiko Jikemura.”
“Who? Oh yes, at Ernie’s,” he said with confidence. “Yes, can. What message you have?”
“Tell her come see me in Vancouver…at my house…when…when the time is right.”
“When the time is right?”
“Yes, she’ll know what that means.”
“All right. And what I get?”
“Get?”
“Yes, for service,” he said with a lascivious leer. He then touched her shoulder with his index finger.
She shuddered at the implication. She quickly recovered and snapped back, “Maybe I should talk to Morii-san.”
Otagaki’s face drew back in horror. “No…no, you don’t want to do that.” He stepped back into the comfort of the vestibule.
“Maybe my husband—”
“I contact Sachiko. No worry. Don’t talk to Morii…husband…no need worry them,” he said.
Satisfied, Chisato turned and headed for home. Morii is a magical name, she thought to herself.