A Thousand Stitches (30 page)

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.

Kamakura, 2000

Gen was upstairs
in his room at his desk. His review books were in three neat stacks, put away for the day.

“Don't forget to thank your Gran,” Lynn said. “The jacket is beautiful. I love the pattern the stitches make. Yuko told me it's called
sashiko.
And I've finally figured out how to attach those ridiculous Hello Kitty things to my cell phone.
So
sophisticated,” she laughed.

“Merry Christmas, Lynn. Wish I were there.”

“Gen-chan, I wish you were here too, but we'll see each other soon. Love you,” she said before she hung up.

Tetsutaro
called from downstairs, reminding Gen and his mom that they should leave in ten minutes.

“Yes, dear. I'm just finishing,” his mom answered.

“I'm ready to go, Dad. I'm just going to call Dave and Yuko to say Merry Christmas,” Gen called, as he dialed again.

“Dave, Merry Christmas. I miss you all.”

“Gen, we miss you. My mom was complaining this afternoon that with you gone, no one wants to help her bake. Hold on a sec, while I go get Yuko. She's upstairs still wrapping some presents. It took us a long time to get the kids to bed. They're so excited, I doubt they'll sleep much tonight.”

“My dear Gen. How are you?” said Yuko when she picked up the phone. “And how are your mom and dad? What are you doing to celebrate Christmas?”

“Going to a year-end party at the hospital. My dad's getting an award.”

“How was Kyushu?

“Great. Loved the time with my Gran. Learned a lot.”

“The studying?”

“I've been resolute and I'm ready. I could take the exams today. So next month will be fine.”

“Lynn?”

“Just talked to her. I'll be there in March with my mom and dad, so we'll see you all then, and I'll come back again in the summer. Lynn will come back with me then. I have to take her to Nara to meet my Gran.”

“Merry Christmas, dear Gen, and
Akemashite
in advance. I know the New Year will bring you success and much happiness.”

Himeji, 2000

The table was
set, this time for seven. Akiko finished reading the Christmas cards from Katherine, Pauline, and friends in Ohio and stacked them on top of her bookcase next to Sam's picture.
Two years.

A postcard was propped up against the metal bowl in front of the picture. As soon as she had pulled it out of her mailbox the week before, even before she turned it over and saw just the word
samazama
as its message, she had known it was from Michiko. The picture—thousands upon thousands of cranes—displayed Izumi's splendor and pride.

She lit a stick of incense, and struck the side of the bowl with the tiny hammer that sat at its side. “My darling, thinking of you,” she said. After a few moments of perfect stillness, she turned and walked into her husband's study. She sat at the desk and looked out the window at the Castle in the distance. The light was fading from the sky and the White Heron would soon be glowing.

The day they came to look at the condo, Sam had come in here while she was still chatting with the real estate agent in the living room. When he stepped back to join them, he said, “Akiko, go look.” She had walked in and been delighted with the light and the view. He turned when he heard her come back. Her eyes met his and they agreed. “We like it,” he said, turning back to the agent. “Can we get started on the paperwork?”

It had been all they knew it would be at that moment. Lovely, and spacious, these rooms had been their refuge. A new home as happy as their house in Ohio and their apartment in San Francisco. He had loved his work, just as he had ever since the first days after the war, his experiences deepening and strengthening with every passing year, with each new class, with each batch of bright young students.

She sat at his desk, where in the last year, she had found herself often. She was happy among his things, the souvenirs of his years of work, and had stacked her books on his desk. Her haiku group wouldn't meet until long after the New Year holiday, but she sat to read, leafing through her favorite volumes of poetry. After all her adventures with Sam, she had returned to the magic and comforts of literature, the magic that had inspired her in Ukawa, promising a wider world she was eager to rush out to meet, and the comfort she had drawn on the lonely nights in Tokyo when she was convinced that, even though she had taken the first steps into that wider world, she would have to continue the journey without the one for her—the person who would complete her.

She had been finding her inspiration in her books as well as in her walks around her neighborhood and the garden of the Castle. Her haiku group had visited Mount Shoshazan and Engyoji Temple in the autumn when the foliage had been spectacular, before the winds stripped the trees and brought the cold. Many of the poems she was drawn to were old, old friends and too personal for haiku, but she read on, knowing that the beauty of their words could uncoil at any time; they gave not just immediate pleasure, but insight and inspiration that could come at any time—a new way of looking and seeing, the source of ideas and sometimes even the very words she would shape into haiku.
Yes, it's all here,
she thought.

All through the autumn,
she thought,
as the winds blew, I thought about managing the nights alone. When the leaves turned brilliant red, and were then touched by frost and fell, I thought of all the years ahead of me, and how in all that time I will not forget you—ever. And now it is winter again, and the night is cold. There's no sleet tonight, but there was two years ago. And, my darling, like that cold night of wet snow, tonight, without the pillow of your arms, again I shall have to sleep alone. But tonight, like every night, and like the bright days when I sit here, I know that you will return in memories. Even though you have traveled into death's dateless night, all I have to do is think on thee. With that, my losses are restored and my sorrows ended. My sweet, sweet love remembered.

Akiko's thoughts of love and loneliness borrowed phrases from some of her favorite poems in the
Manyoshu,
the eighth-century anthology of Japanese poetry, and from William Shakespeare's sonnets. These words by a few of Akiko's favorite poets seemed to capture her mood and give her strength.

The
knock at the door that she was expecting came.

She rose from the desk and called, “Welcome,” as she started through the living room. The incense was still burning, and she stopped to strike the bell one more time. “I'm coming, big sister” she added, but paused to listen to the last of the bell tone. She whispered to her husband, “I've set out the ornaments again, my darling.”

“
Meri
kurisumasu.
It's as cold as the North Pole,” called Junko from the
genkan
. Akiko could hear her put her packages down and begin to struggle out of her boots. “The first order of business is getting some tea made. I need to warm up so I can enjoy the good party I know Sam wants us to have. I wonder if the Professor will get completely slogged again.”

Fortified by her time with the books and the poetry, Akiko walked to the hallway. As she remembered again holding his hand in the hospital and the trip home alone on that cold night, she thought about the journey of life, realizing with wonder and gratitude, that even though stitched together on a foundation of sorrow, loss, and tragedy, it could be happy and long. There had been great adventures on her journey, and joy in her companion as long as grace had granted her him. Now, she knew, her happiness endured in memories, sustaining her for what was to come. She stepped forward and reached out to help her sister, smiling.

Names

When both names are used, Japanese names are presented Western style, with personal names first and family names second.

Orthography and Transliteration

Many Japanese words have long vowels. Various conventions are used to indicate them, with macrons being the most typical. However, that convention is abandoned for very common words such as Tōkyō and Ōsaka, which are typically written merely as Tokyo and Osaka. This text takes the same liberties with all Japanese words with long vowels, and numerous personal and place names, most notably the names of the men of the Miyazawa family: Shōtarō, Tetsutarō, and Gentarō, appear in the text without any indication of their long vowels. Other personal names (some real, some imaginary, and some mythical) that have lost their macrons in the text include Ōtomo (Tabito, Yakamochi, and Fumimochi) Natsume Sōseki, Kūkai, Matsuo Bashō, Akiko Satō, Saburō Miyakawa, Masao Katō, Amaterasu Ōmikami. Names of places and institutions (some real and some imaginary) that have suffered the same fate include: Hōryūji Temple, Hokkaidō, Honshū, Kyūshū, the Ryūkyūs, Chūō University, Kyōdai (Kyoto University), Tōdai (Tokyo University), Keiō (University), Tōzawa (University Hospital), Ōkaidō. The Manyōshū, Japan's great eighth century compilation of famous poems, is another victim, and is referred to in the text simply as the Manyoshu. Other words that are missing long vowels in the text include shōchū
,
Shintō,
tokkō,
Itō,
Dōki no Sakura, tokkō, Ōaka-gera.

The sound written with “n” in Japanese is pronounced “m” before bilabials such as b and p. Thus, the Tokyo neighborhood, “Shinbashi” is often rendered in English as
Shimbashi
(as it is typically pronounced). In this work, words with this combination are therefore transliterated using an “m” rather than “n.” Hence,
kempeitai
rather than kenpeitai, and
mompe
rather than monpe.