slid down gently and into place on his finger. “Egibizirik bilatu,” Sailor said. “I am Umla-Meq, a friend of Takeda Gidayu.”
The big man’s eyes widened and so did the girl’s. He backed away a pace or two and bowed deeply from the waist three times. It was a formal, courtly gesture and the girl seemed confused. She watched her grandfather with an open mouth, as if she had never seen him do such a thing. “I am Katsuo Gidayu,” the man said, “Takeda Gidayu’s son.” He looked once at Susheela the Ninth and me, then back to Sailor, and I knew he knew we were Meq. “I am honored by your presence,” he said. “How may I serve you?”
Sailor smiled slightly. “We need shelter.”
“It shall be our pleasure … for as long as you need it, sir.”
“Please, formalities are unnecessary, Katsuo. You may call me ‘Sailor.’ ”
“Yes, sir, if you so desire.”
The girl was pulling on her grandfather’s arm. He bent over so she could whisper something to him, which she did. When he straightened up he told Sailor his granddaughter, Ikuko, was foolish and unsophisticated, but if it would not offend, she had a question for the black girl.
Speaking flawless Japanese, Susheela the Ninth responded to the man herself, saying, “Yes, most certainly, and it would not offend.” She looked directly at the girl, who was still clinging to her grandfather’s arm. “You may ask me anything, Ikuko, anything at all. What do you wish to know?”
The girl relaxed a little and said, “Are you from Africa?”
Susheela the Ninth smiled wide and laughed, reminding me again of Opari. “Yes … yes I am,” she said. “Have you ever heard of a land named Ethiopia?”
Ikuko glanced up at her grandfather, shy and unsure what to do or say. Katsuo simply nodded his head and told her to answer. She stared back at Susheela the Ninth. “Yes,” she said in a tiny voice. “I think so.”
Sailor and I laughed and Katsuo welcomed us all into his home. Immediately I could smell wonderful scents and aromas emanating from the kitchen and closed my eyes to breathe them and taste them. Katsuo must have seen me. “Takoyaki,” he said. “Octopus dumplings and udon with ginger.”
Sailor gave me a wink with his “ghost eye,” which was still clear. I knew he loved octopus. In English, he whispered, “Heaven.”
The meal was delicious. Katsuo and Ikuko shared everything with us, even though it was apparent they had been living a spare and harsh existence. Katsuo told us his only son, who was the father of Ikuko, was killed in combat and her mother had died during a bombing raid on Kobe. He said he had to close the family’s puppet theater in 1942, and since then he and Ikuko had been living by their wits, scrounging what they could however they could. Luckily, Katsuo said, he knew many people and had many friends. He thought the entire war was a mistake from the beginning and Japan had been insane to attack the United States. He talked at length about the Emperor’s speech, the surrender, and the vague future of Japan. Oddly, he never said a word about Hiroshima or Nagasaki. None of us mentioned the horrors we had witnessed in Nagasaki. Several times Katsuo said he wanted to reopen his theater, but admitted it would be extremely difficult for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was financing. “The people need the puppets,” he said, “they need to lighten their hearts from all the losses they have suffered.”
Soon after our meal, we were led to an unoccupied room with windows on three sides, and each of us was offered a tatami mat on which to sleep. Ikuko had already become fast friends with Susheela the Ninth and gave her some of her own clothes to wear, including a pair of shoes and clean pajamas. In return, Susheela the Ninth told Ikuko to call her “Sheela” and then gave her two ancient loop earrings made of ivory, gold, and lapis lazuli, which she had quickly shoved into her pajama pockets as we
The big man’s eyes widened and so did the girl’s. He backed away a pace or two and bowed deeply from the waist three times. It was a formal, courtly gesture and the girl seemed confused. She watched her grandfather with an open mouth, as if she had never seen him do such a thing. “I am Katsuo Gidayu,” the man said, “Takeda Gidayu’s son.” He looked once at Susheela the Ninth and me, then back to Sailor, and I knew he knew we were Meq. “I am honored by your presence,” he said. “How may I serve you?”
Sailor smiled slightly. “We need shelter.”
“It shall be our pleasure … for as long as you need it, sir.”
“Please, formalities are unnecessary, Katsuo. You may call me ‘Sailor.’ ”
“Yes, sir, if you so desire.”
The girl was pulling on her grandfather’s arm. He bent over so she could whisper something to him, which she did. When he straightened up he told Sailor his granddaughter, Ikuko, was foolish and unsophisticated, but if it would not offend, she had a question for the black girl.
Speaking flawless Japanese, Susheela the Ninth responded to the man herself, saying, “Yes, most certainly, and it would not offend.” She looked directly at the girl, who was still clinging to her grandfather’s arm. “You may ask me anything, Ikuko, anything at all. What do you wish to know?”
The girl relaxed a little and said, “Are you from Africa?”
Susheela the Ninth smiled wide and laughed, reminding me again of Opari. “Yes … yes I am,” she said. “Have you ever heard of a land named Ethiopia?”
Ikuko glanced up at her grandfather, shy and unsure what to do or say. Katsuo simply nodded his head and told her to answer. She stared back at Susheela the Ninth. “Yes,” she said in a tiny voice. “I think so.”
Sailor and I laughed and Katsuo welcomed us all into his home. Immediately I could smell wonderful scents and aromas emanating from the kitchen and closed my eyes to breathe them and taste them. Katsuo must have seen me. “Takoyaki,” he said. “Octopus dumplings and udon with ginger.”
Sailor gave me a wink with his “ghost eye,” which was still clear. I knew he loved octopus. In English, he whispered, “Heaven.”
The meal was delicious. Katsuo and Ikuko shared everything with us, even though it was apparent they had been living a spare and harsh existence. Katsuo told us his only son, who was the father of Ikuko, was killed in combat and her mother had died during a bombing raid on Kobe. He said he had to close the family’s puppet theater in 1942, and since then he and Ikuko had been living by their wits, scrounging what they could however they could. Luckily, Katsuo said, he knew many people and had many friends. He thought the entire war was a mistake from the beginning and Japan had been insane to attack the United States. He talked at length about the Emperor’s speech, the surrender, and the vague future of Japan. Oddly, he never said a word about Hiroshima or Nagasaki. None of us mentioned the horrors we had witnessed in Nagasaki. Several times Katsuo said he wanted to reopen his theater, but admitted it would be extremely difficult for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was financing. “The people need the puppets,” he said, “they need to lighten their hearts from all the losses they have suffered.”
Soon after our meal, we were led to an unoccupied room with windows on three sides, and each of us was offered a tatami mat on which to sleep. Ikuko had already become fast friends with Susheela the Ninth and gave her some of her own clothes to wear, including a pair of shoes and clean pajamas. In return, Susheela the Ninth told Ikuko to call her “Sheela” and then gave her two ancient loop earrings made of ivory, gold, and lapis lazuli, which she had quickly shoved into her pajama pockets as we
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