Japan, Present Day
Before Yoshio and I parted ways at the restaurant, he gave me the photo of the traditional house in Zushi along with its new address. I tried to pay for lunch to thank him, but he wouldn’t let me.
I found myself rather optimistic as I waited to board the Yokosuka line. Finally, there was progress. The home was registered under the name of Nakamura, the same name translated from my father’s marriage affidavit, and although the house stood empty, we’d found it, and there was a strong possibility the Nakamura Trading Company in Yokohama, with founding members from Zushi, were the owners.
It had to be them. A trading company fit Pops’s story.
I checked my JR rail pass, then looked around for signs to verify if I stood in the right queue. The day’s excitement and lingering jet lag made navigating the congested stations that much more confusing.
As was the white-gloved employee pointing at trains as they pulled in and out from the platform. He wasn’t one of the white-gloved people-pushers Yoshio described earlier, and although Pops once mentioned employees leading calisthenics on the platforms, the man wasn’t exercising. No one even watched him except for me.
I studied the odd LED blue lights attached to the overhang above him. Were those cameras that broadcast to a traffic control center?
“Suicide lights.”
I spun around to find a young man, blond, freckled and maybe all of twenty. He had the telltale buzz haircut of the military. He gestured to where I’d been looking. “Those lights, ma’am. They’re supposed to calm the crowds and keep people from leaping in front of the trains.”
“Really?” I stepped back from the painted line, the only barrier before the open tracks below. I’d just read an exposé on LED streetlights and how they doubled skin cancer risks. Why did Japan believe they were calming? I gave a half smile of disbelief. “Are you sure?”
“To be honest, I don’t rightly know.” He shrugged with a sheepish smile. “I only arrived from North Carolina this week and my designated buddy over there...” He motioned to his friend flirting with a group of Japanese girls. “Well, he could be pulling my leg.” They waved him over. “Welcome to Japan, I guess, right?” He laughed, then trotted off to join them.
He was no different than I imagined my father had been. Young, perhaps away from home for the first time, and craving adventure. Watching them laugh and posture, I pictured the young man, older and married, telling his children tales of Japan and the girls he met there. I smiled. I hoped his story had a happy ending.
I hoped mine did, too.
I glanced again at my rail pass, then back to the pointing train employee. “Excuse me.” I stepped toward him while motioning to my queue. “Is that the line for Yokosuka line?”
“Yo-kas-ka?” he asked without stopping his pointing gestures.
I’d been mispronouncing the city name. The o was short, and the u was silent. “Yes, is that the line for the Yo-kas-ka train?”
“Hai, Yokosuka.” He smiled, then gave a nod toward my line.
I found most Japanese could understand basic English, but few attempted to speak it. Instead, I was met with smiles, nods and gestures. I returned to my line with confidence and searched the Nakamura Trading Company website while I waited.
On a page designated “Company Heritage,” it explained how the family had a long history of importing manufactured goods and exporting raw materials but had recently expanded into industry. The distribution center was located near the harbor and the company was headquartered in the Minato Mirai 21 business district, a short hike from the Yokohama station. I considered calling them to set up an appointment, but my train arrived.
The doors opened, and as a mass of people poured out, we wove between them and crowded in. Unlike the nonstop express train from Narita Airport with roomy, upholstered seats, the Yokosuka line was a standard commuter. I unfolded one of the plastic outer wall chairs but offered it to an older man who came in after me. Signs posted the rules in pictures. No smoking, eating or talking on your phone, and the elderly, injured and pregnant had priority.
Clutching the strap above my head, I leaned into my arm, and caught the curious stare of the woman beside me, the man crammed behind her and the eyes of several others. I looked around to find everyone but me faced the outer walls, so I turned. There weren’t any signs about that.
The Yokosuka line, built over a century ago, traveled along the southwestern flank of the Miura Peninsula alongside Tokyo Bay. Not that I could see any of it. From the inside aisle, all I saw were people, and since I looked down, all I saw were shoes. I found mine were the only sandals.
I planned to check into my hotel in Zushi, get a good night’s rest and formulate a plan, but as we approached Yokohama, where the Nakamura Trading Company was located, I gripped the handle of my carry-on luggage and found myself edging toward the door.
Yokohama was the second largest city by population in Japan, and its train station was a city unto itself. Both the east and west entrances connected to an underground shopping district that spanned up several levels and linked to surrounding skyscrapers.
Once outside, I typed the Nakamura Trading Company address into my navigation app, and was on my way. I still didn’t have a plan. Had I landed an interview I would’ve prepared questions, but this was nothing short of an impromptu visit to gather information. I had one goal. Learn if the Nakamura family who founded the Nakamura Trading Company was the same family that owned the traditional home. And if they were, ask if they were available for a meeting. If Yoshio had already contacted them, I’d explain we were working together.
The wheels of my carry-on luggage rumbled along the pavement as I walked toward Tokyo Bay. It was the largest industrialized area in Japan, and as I neared the water, the scent of development—sulfur and smog—saturated the air. And yet, everywhere you looked, there were signs for tourist fishing excursions.
I had covered this in my article on the Fukushima nuclear incident. How, after the quake and subsequent tsunami in 2011, damaged reactors had continued to seep radioactive cesium into the ocean, collapsing the area’s fishing industry. And because of that, Tokyo Bay—once considered too polluted for the seafood trade—celebrated a resurgence.
I crossed another busy street and dabbed at my forehead. The short walk to the central business district turned into a thirty-minute hike under an unforgiving sun, but as I turned the final corner, it eclipsed behind the Yokohama Landmark Tower. The fourth tallest structure in all of Japan housed a five-star hotel, restaurants and shops, and various corporations, including the Nakamura Trading Company.
I picked up my pace.
As I cut across the garden plaza toward the mirrored door, I remembered the walk alongside my father to the hospital entrance in Ohio. How we strolled side by side, and our exaggerated reflections bounded forward to greet us. And as I neared, just as before, my reflection shrank in size, slowed in gait, and I faced my current self.
Only this time, I stood alone.
The vaulted lobby opened into an expansive five-story shopping mall with roman columns and two grand staircases on either side. People bustled along, but quietly, and the wheels of my carry-on warbling across the tile floor were anything but. I retracted the handle and opted to carry it to the elevators. According to the Landmark Tower directory, the Nakamura Trading Company was on the thirty-seventh floor.
I stepped inside, punched 3 and 7 on the digital screen and tried to calm my nerves with each passing floor. The family might be there, and I wasn’t really prepared.
I knew from research that Western culture had seeped into Eastern traditions and muddied the waters after the war. And how Americans were a curiosity for the young and an abomination for the old after the Occupation. And how babies born between Japanese women and American military were often abandoned just as Yoshio had said.
But my father abandoning a child?
Pops?
It was a horrid thought. A sickening idea. I could not believe it was true, but what if the Nakamura family did? What would I say? I’m sorry? I had my father’s letter of regret, money from the sale of his Caddy, and while I needed answers, I had none to give.
My stomach dropped as the elevator slowed, then opened.
Straight across the hall was a frosted glass wall with the etched logo of the Nakamura Trading Company. My heart pounded my chest as I walked across the small lobby. I’m here, I’m going. Wish me luck, Pops. I opened the door.
Stark white walls, red upholstered chairs and a curved desk with a vase of oversize white flowers.
The receptionist, smartly dressed in an ivory blouse and thick-rimmed glasses, smiled as I approached. “Hello. May I help you?”
English. I gave a smile of relief. “Hello, I don’t have an appointment, but I was hoping to speak with someone within the Nakamura family?”
She glanced at my luggage. “Are you wishing to establish an account with us? We have several salespeople available.” She placed a finger on her headset as though to call for one of them.
“No, thank you. I’m actually wanting to speak with a member of the family regarding a traditional home they own. Well, I believe they own it. It’s registered under the Nakamura name, and I was hoping to get some information.”
“Are you in real estate?”
My heart jumped; she didn’t even blink. “I’m actually a journalist. Is someone in the Nakamura family here I could speak to? Or set up an appointment with?” I found myself glancing over her shoulder for someone in the back offices.
“I am afraid Mr. Nakamura is away on extended business, and he is the only founding family member.” She pushed up her glasses.
The only? “Do you know when he might be back? I would only take a few minutes of his time.” I held my smile.
“I would be happy to give Mr. Nakamura your information when he returns.”
“Of course.” She wasn’t going to tell me. I reached into my pocket for a business card and handed it to her. “Do you mind if I take a company brochure?”
“Please...” She motioned to the stand that held them.
I took one and looked it over as I made my way to the door. It repeated some of the information I found on the website, but this included several photos of family members who held the title of CEO over the years, including the original founder, a man named Nakamura Kenji, who currently held the position. He was maybe sixty with a slight tinge of gray bordering his widow’s peak. It listed Nakamura Taro as his brother and former CEO. Just as I was about to ask if he was available, I noticed the dates below his name. He had passed several years ago.
I turned back and held the brochure up. “Thank you again.”
After I checked into my hotel, I hiked to Zushi Beach, needing a moment to wander and think. The Miura Peninsula, known for its broad and rugged coastline, was beautiful and Zushi was no exception. Since it was early evening, the swimming crowds had thinned, leaving only a rash of red umbrellas to speckle the still-fevered sand. I chatted with Yoshio on the phone as I walked barefoot through the wide, rolling swells that lapped the shore.
I’d amused him by my impromptu visit to the Nakamura Trading Company. “That is why I love Americans, always so inventive.”
“You mean impatient.” I smiled, knowing he was just being polite.
“Hai.” Another laugh.
“What do you think about actually writing a feature on NTC in Tokyo Times?” I stopped and toed the wet, gray sand. Although technically a volcanic beach, Zushi’s wasn’t the characteristic black. “You think you could arrange that?”
“I thought this wasn’t a real article, that it was of a personal matter?”
“Well, yes, that’s true.” I switched the phone to my other ear and continued walking—a slow, hand-in-the-pocket type of stride. “That part is personal, but I was reading through the company’s brochure, and the history is interesting. They survived the Great Kanto Earthquake and somehow managed through the postwar depression. And the eldest son, Taro, took over after the father died, but he died prematurely, leaving everything in the hands of the youngest son.”
“The current Mr. Nakamura?”
“Yes, and although he’s in his sixties now, when he took control, he was the youngest CEO in NTC’s history and has by far proven to be the most innovative. So what do you think? Worth a story in the paper?”
“I think you are feeling guilty for your American cowboy antics.”
“Grateful. I’m feeling grateful that my cowboy antics confirmed they are in fact the same family. Plus, it gives them a real reason to call us back. So how about you use your Japanese charm to wrangle them a real story?”
“I knew you thought I was charming.”
I stopped and laughed, letting the cool water surge over my feet. I blinked toward the setting sun, low and sleepy, decided that I was sleepy, too, and turned to head back the way I’d come. “Oh, wow.”
“What is it?”
High hills hugged the peninsula coast, untouched islands dotted the horizon and, in the gray-pink haze of an early-evening sky, Mount Fuji floated majestically between them. “Mount Fuji.”
“Ah, yes, Mount Fuji,” Yoshio said. “You are wise to climb it, but a fool to do it twice.”
“And that is why I love the Japanese, always so insightful,” I said, teasing him with his earlier words.
He laughed. “Actually, it was on my tea bag.”
“Of course it was.” I smiled. I planned to head back to my hotel, but after we hung up, I found myself sitting on the beach, watching the sun feather the sky in pinks and reds across a restless ocean. I was just as restless. Had my father been here? Did he see this, too? I didn’t find a photo of Mount Fuji among the pictures, but I had to assume he had.
I dug out a small piece of driftwood and drew the kanji lines that meant Nakamura in the sand. They owned the house. And although a tour of the property hadn’t been arranged, I wasn’t leaving Japan without seeing it.
I had the address, so I would find it in the morning.