fashioned my loincloth out of a torn piece of cotton I found, caught in the branches of that very same tree.
These branches shall be my clothing closet,
I thought,
my chest of drawers!
The cloth of my loincloth was dead-leaf yellow, the color of bravery. Ha!
As I had made my way from my makeshift raft up the beach, staggering and crawling and half dead of thirst, I had seen this strip of cloth fluttering, caught by a gust of wind, a tattered flag. And when I reached it — reached the coconut palms and shelter from the scorching sun — I had stripped out of my army uniform, peeling it away from my damaged skin, glad to be free of the stench of it.
I stopped now, beside the uniform, dry and warm to the touch. It was so strange, Hisako, for it was as if I were touching the shoulder of a dead comrade. My hand strayed to my chest, to my
omamori,
your gift to me. There were beads of water on it. I brushed them away.
“I am alive, Hisako,” I murmured. “I have no idea whether I am in this world or some other, but I am alive.”
Then I turned to scan the beach, my hand raised to my brow, squinting in the brightness after the shadowy coolness of the jungle. My ghostly cavalcade turned with me to look.
There were torn and broken things everywhere.
Crates and broken boards of wood, tangles of rope, all manner of debris. All manner of treasures! It was like a market — a bazaar. I remembered in a sudden flash the busy prefecture where you lived and worked in your father’s noodle shop.
“Ah, for a bowl of
miso nikomi,
” I said out loud, patting my stomach. But no, there was nothing so comforting there. After a while I did find food, or something like it, half buried in the sand, like pirate treasure. On my knees, digging like a dog for a bone, I cleared away the splintered, sun-bleached wood. I peered into the crate, shoved my arm inside it, and pulled out something wrapped in cellophane. I pulled out tin cans with indecipherable words on them. What else: matches — good!
And what was this? I picked up a slim packet, as long as my hand, flat and wrapped in paper and foil. I opened it to reveal a hard flat brown stick. I smelled it, scraped at the dark surface with my ragged fingernail, sniffed it again. Sweet. Then I tasted it. Ah,
such
sweetness. I dared to bite into it.
Pock!
A piece snapped off in my mouth. I let it sit there. It was not like anything I have ever tasted. I closed my eyes and savored the substance now melting on my tongue. 1
There were other things, white tablets. I licked one of them. 2
“Mazui!”
I spit and spit to get the taste out of my mouth. Luckily, there was also dried fruit, which I gobbled down greedily. But the dark brown substance, Hisako. How I hope one day you will taste it.
Before nightfall I had explored the eastern side of the island and found no signs of human habitation, other than the detritus on the beach. The jungle was dense enough that there might well be people at the heart of it. But I did not see the smoke of fires nor, as it darkened, the lights of any settlement or camp. I would explore the island in time, for there was nothing else for me to do. And I would have to make myself some kind of a shelter. How long would I be here? I could not say. But by the end of that first day, I was in no hurry to go anywhere. Somehow, I knew, I would have to try to find my way back to Saipan, back to you, Hisako, and to our tiny set of rooms, if indeed there is anything of it left. But I wanted to be whole again, first. I wanted to heal. There was so much healing to do.
At sunset I climbed a grassy hill at the northern end of the island, a hill high enough that I could see the whole island with its white beaches and green heart. And from there I perceived that it was, yes, heart-shaped. Gazing down at the place where the western and eastern shores curved up and around and then back down until they met in a deep cleft, I suddenly remembered a favorite book of my
These branches shall be my clothing closet,
I thought,
my chest of drawers!
The cloth of my loincloth was dead-leaf yellow, the color of bravery. Ha!
As I had made my way from my makeshift raft up the beach, staggering and crawling and half dead of thirst, I had seen this strip of cloth fluttering, caught by a gust of wind, a tattered flag. And when I reached it — reached the coconut palms and shelter from the scorching sun — I had stripped out of my army uniform, peeling it away from my damaged skin, glad to be free of the stench of it.
I stopped now, beside the uniform, dry and warm to the touch. It was so strange, Hisako, for it was as if I were touching the shoulder of a dead comrade. My hand strayed to my chest, to my
omamori,
your gift to me. There were beads of water on it. I brushed them away.
“I am alive, Hisako,” I murmured. “I have no idea whether I am in this world or some other, but I am alive.”
Then I turned to scan the beach, my hand raised to my brow, squinting in the brightness after the shadowy coolness of the jungle. My ghostly cavalcade turned with me to look.
There were torn and broken things everywhere.
Crates and broken boards of wood, tangles of rope, all manner of debris. All manner of treasures! It was like a market — a bazaar. I remembered in a sudden flash the busy prefecture where you lived and worked in your father’s noodle shop.
“Ah, for a bowl of
miso nikomi,
” I said out loud, patting my stomach. But no, there was nothing so comforting there. After a while I did find food, or something like it, half buried in the sand, like pirate treasure. On my knees, digging like a dog for a bone, I cleared away the splintered, sun-bleached wood. I peered into the crate, shoved my arm inside it, and pulled out something wrapped in cellophane. I pulled out tin cans with indecipherable words on them. What else: matches — good!
And what was this? I picked up a slim packet, as long as my hand, flat and wrapped in paper and foil. I opened it to reveal a hard flat brown stick. I smelled it, scraped at the dark surface with my ragged fingernail, sniffed it again. Sweet. Then I tasted it. Ah,
such
sweetness. I dared to bite into it.
Pock!
A piece snapped off in my mouth. I let it sit there. It was not like anything I have ever tasted. I closed my eyes and savored the substance now melting on my tongue. 1
There were other things, white tablets. I licked one of them. 2
“Mazui!”
I spit and spit to get the taste out of my mouth. Luckily, there was also dried fruit, which I gobbled down greedily. But the dark brown substance, Hisako. How I hope one day you will taste it.
Before nightfall I had explored the eastern side of the island and found no signs of human habitation, other than the detritus on the beach. The jungle was dense enough that there might well be people at the heart of it. But I did not see the smoke of fires nor, as it darkened, the lights of any settlement or camp. I would explore the island in time, for there was nothing else for me to do. And I would have to make myself some kind of a shelter. How long would I be here? I could not say. But by the end of that first day, I was in no hurry to go anywhere. Somehow, I knew, I would have to try to find my way back to Saipan, back to you, Hisako, and to our tiny set of rooms, if indeed there is anything of it left. But I wanted to be whole again, first. I wanted to heal. There was so much healing to do.
At sunset I climbed a grassy hill at the northern end of the island, a hill high enough that I could see the whole island with its white beaches and green heart. And from there I perceived that it was, yes, heart-shaped. Gazing down at the place where the western and eastern shores curved up and around and then back down until they met in a deep cleft, I suddenly remembered a favorite book of my
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