When they tied up at one of the quays, work kept them too busy to quarrel. The Japanese soldiers in charge of taking the fish weighed the catch and paid the Takahashis. As usual, the sergeant in charge of the detail asked, “Personal use?” when the fisherman took fish off the Oshima Maru.
“Hai,” Jiro said. “And I have some for the honorable Japanese consul, too.”
The sergeant bowed to him. “Yes, you’ve done that before-I remember. It shows a true Japanese spirit and feeling.” Delighted, Jiro bowed back. Whatever his sons were thinking, none of it showed on their faces. The sergeant waved them all away from the sampan harbor.
Their first stop, as usual these days, was Eizo Doi’s shop. As they were going in, a tall, suntanned haole came out. He saw the fish they were carrying and started to laugh. He said something in English. Kenzo nodded and answered in the same language. They went back and forth for a little while. Then the white man walked off with a smile and a wave. “What was that all about?” Jiro asked.
“He said he’s paying Doi off for putting a sail on his surfboard, of all the crazy things,” Kenzo answered.
“That is peculiar,” Jiro agreed. “But he could go out a lot farther with the sail than without it. If he doesn’t have a boat, I suppose it would be the next best thing.”
Kenzo nodded. “That’s what he said.”
Jiro talked about it with the handyman after they gave him his fish. “Yeah, I thought the haole was a baka yaro,” Eizo Doi said. “Who besides a prime jerk would come up with something that weird? But he says it works pretty well, and he gave me some good mackerel. These days, you don’t complain about any food you get.”
“Hai. Honto,” Jiro said, and then, “You’re getting so much fish from so many people, you could do some dealing on your own.”
“It’s against occupation regulations,” Doi said. For a moment, Jiro thought that meant he wasn’t doing it. Then the fisherman realized Doi hadn’t said any such thing. If he was dealing on the side, keeping quiet about it was a good idea.
After they left the handyman’s, Jiro and his sons went their separate ways. They headed back to the tent while he went on up Nuuanu Avenue to the consulate. Hiroshi and Kenzo wanted nothing to do with that. Jiro hadn’t tried to persuade them to join him, even if that might have looked good to the occupying authorities. He knew he would have got nowhere.
By now, the sentries outside the compound recognized him. They nudged one another as he came up the street. “Hey, it’s the fisherman,” one of them said. “What have you got today, fisherman-sama?” He and his pals laughed. Jiro smiled, too. Lord Fisherman sounded ridiculous. With Oahu so hungry these days, though, the fancy title was less absurd than it might have been.
“See for yourselves.” Jiro held up a good-sized fish with a long, high dorsal fin and a body blue and green above and golden below. The soldiers exclaimed-its like hardly ever got up into Japanese waters. “They call this a mahimahi here,” Jiro said. “It’s very good eating, as good as any tuna.”
“If it tastes as good as it looks, it’ll be wonderful,” said the sentry who’d called him Lord Fisherman. “But you can’t tell by looks. The fugu ’s the ugliest fish in the world, near enough, but it’s the best eating-if you live through it, anyway.”
Jiro nodded. “That’s the truth.” The fugu was a puffer fish that blew itself up into a huge, spiny ball to keep other fish from eating it. Its flesh was uniquely delicious-and deadly dangerous, for the puffer also produced a paralyzing poison. Skilled chefs knew how to cut away the dangerous entrails and leave only the safer meat behind. Dozens of Japanese fishermen killed themselves every year trying to prove they knew how to do the same thing.
“Well, I’m sure the consul will be glad to see you. Go on in,” the sentry said.
“Thanks,” Jiro said, and he did.
Secretaries and clerks exclaimed at the mahimahi. Jiro wondered how much fish Nagao Kita shared with them. That was something he couldn’t ask. It was the consul’s business, not his. He didn’t get to see Kita, either. “So sorry, Takahashi-san,” a clerk told him. “He’s in consultation with Army officers right now.”
“He’s come out before,” Jiro said.
“Not this time, I’m afraid. They’re… very serious, these Army men,” the clerk said. Jiro got the feeling he didn’t care for the Japanese officers at all. The fellow continued, “Morimura-san will take charge of the fish, though.”
“Ah.” Jiro brightened. “That will do.”
He liked the chancellor at the consulate. Tadashi Morimura was young to hold such a responsible post-he couldn’t have been more than thirty. He had a long face, handsome in a slightly horsey way, and had lost the first joint of his left index finger in some accident. “Thank you very much, Takahashi-san,” he said. “That is a very thoughtful gift for the honorable consul. I know he will be glad to have it.” He didn’t say anything about whether Kita would share, either.
“I am glad to be able to help. I know times are hard,” Jiro said.
“They will get better.” Morimura rose from behind his desk. He was of slightly above medium height, which made him several inches taller than Jiro, and wore a sharp Western-style suit. “I am going to put the-mahimahi, did you say? — in the icebox for now, to keep it fresh for Kita-san. Please don’t go-I’d like to talk for a little while.”
“Of course,” Jiro said. “It is a privilege to talk to such an important man.”
“You give me too much credit,” Morimura said with becoming modesty. “Please wait. I’ll be right back.” He was almost as good as his word. Maybe he has to make room in the icebox, Jiro thought as he sat in front of the desk. It’s a big fish. When Morimura came back, he offered Jiro a cigarette from a gold case.
“Thank you, Morimura-san.” Jiro bowed in his seat. He hadn’t tasted tobacco in a couple of weeks. He savored the first drag. “That’s very good.”
“Glad you like it. It’s the least I can do.” The younger man lit a cigarette, too. After blowing out a long plume of smoke, he asked, “Where did you catch such an interesting fish?”
“It was southwest of here, sir,” Jiro answered. “We sailed for about half a day-we had a nice strong breeze to take us along.”
“How many other sampans did you see while you were on the fishing grounds?”
“All told? Let me think.” Jiro puffed on the cigarette, smoking as slowly as he could to stretch out the pleasure. It did help him concentrate. “There were… five or six. Those were just the ones I could see, you understand. Bound to be plenty more out there.”
“Yes, I understand,” the consular official said. “Were they all sailing boats? Did you see any that had motors?”
“No, sir. Not one with a motor.” Jiro didn’t need to think about that. “Where would a boat with a motor get fuel?”
“Well, you never can tell,” Morimura replied-and what was that supposed to mean? “But I thank you very much for telling me what you saw… and for the mahimahi, too, of course. Kita-san will also be very grateful for the fish. I’ll be sure to tell him you were the one who brought it.”
He let Jiro finish the cigarette, then eased him out the door. Jiro scratched his head. Unless he was crazy, Morimura cared more about the sampans that he’d seen than about the lovely fish. Jiro wondered just what exactly the chancellor at the consulate did to earn his pay.
KAPIOLANI PARK WAS a big place. Before the Japs turned it into a POW camp, it had had plenty of trees-mostly pines. A lot of them had already come down to give the Americans firewood. Now, as a pair of prisoners banged away with axes, another pine swayed as if in a strong breeze.