Katsuo nodded and removed his formal headgear, but the long robes were still uncomfortable and beads of sweat gathered on his upper lip and forehead. He began recounting our tale to the captain, though he was speaking to Ichiro. He talked for twenty minutes in Japanese, enriching his speech with elaborate gestures and intermittent praises to the gods. And it was a tall tale indeed. Katsuo explained that Sailor and I had been Cuban born, while Susheela the Ninth was from Guyana. The three of us were the adopted children of a Brazilian industrialist and his wife, who were all traveling together through Japan during the late autumn of 1941. After a brief stay in Nagano, our touring car had crashed deep in the mountains, not far from Katsuo’s village. The three of us survived the crash, escaping with only minor injuries, but our parents were killed. The date was December 6. Of course, as Katsuo emphasized, the next day changed everything. With war declared on America and the West, too many questions and problems might present themselves, for us as well as the village, should the priests turn us over to the authorities. Instead, they decided to hide and protect us until the war was over. Katsuo paused and took in a long breath, letting it out slowly, like a long overdue sigh. He looked once in our direction, then directly at the young captain. “Atara! The day has come,” he said.
Captain Blaine Harrington made no response, but that was to be expected. Katsuo had been speaking Japanese. The captain had not moved or changed expression during the entire story. Instead, he had been watching and studying Sheela, Sailor, and me with cold, unblinking eyes that gave nothing away. I had no idea what he thought of Katsuo’s long-winded explanation, but Sailor was convinced the details of our story would prove irrelevant. Sailor believed the Americans would be compelled to help us leave Japan out of sheer goodwill.
Katsuo turned to Ichiro and nodded once, as if giving him permission to begin the translation. Ichiro said nothing. Several awkward seconds passed, yet Ichiro never started translating. There was no need.
“You may speak directly to me, sir,” the captain said suddenly in perfect, measured Japanese. They were the first words he had spoken and I knew immediately that Sailor’s “plan” could be in trouble. He waited a few more moments. Katsuo wiped a single drop of sweat from his forehead and remained calm and composed in his chair. “Katsuo,” the captain said. “That is your name, is it not, sir?”
Katsuo nodded slowly.
“You say you and the others in your village never had contact with the authorities. Is that correct, sir?”
Katsuo nodded again.
“And no one came for the children or their parents. No one inquired. Is that correct, sir?”
Katsuo nodded once more.
The captain looked in our direction, focusing on Sailor and holding his gaze, but never changing expression. He looked back at Katsuo and stood up, acting as if he were about to leave. “Katsuo,” he said, “what is the name of your village?”
Katsuo never hesitated and gave him the name Hakata.
“I see, and this village is near Nagano. Is that correct, sir?”
“Yes,” Katsuo answered.
“Then why, sir, do you speak in the distinctive Osaka-ben dialect?”
Katsuo said nothing for a moment, then came up with a rambling explanation, saying he had been born physically in Osaka and spiritually in Hakata. I watched the captain and realized he wasn’t buying Katsuo’s story.
“I’m not at all sure who you are, sir, and I do not know who these children are or why they are in Japan, but whatever the truth, I believe this is a Japanese problem.” The captain paused, then continued talking as he moved toward the door. He was still speaking Japanese. “The correct channels will be found and the matter shall be turned over to them. Come back tomorrow and see the lieutenant for the information. The children will receive proper care and attention and then you may return to whatever it is you do.” He paused again and stared down at Katsuo with a thin smile. “Do I make myself clear, sir?” The captain didn’t wait for an answer. He glanced once at us and reached for the door.
I have never known exactly why I said what I said next, but the “plan” had unraveled and we were out of time. The odds were long and it was a complete shot in the dark. I spoke in Spanish using the best Cuban accent I could remember, the one I had always heard spoken by Ciela. Just as the captain opened the door, I blurted out, “Where is Senor Jack Flowers?”
Captain Blaine Harrington froze in his tracks. He spun around and looked at me with a piercing stare. I could feel everyone in the room turn in my direction.
Speaking Spanish, the captain asked, “What did you say, son? Did you say ‘Jack Flowers’?”
“
“Solomon Jack Flowers?”
“
The captain closed the door and paused, then took two steps in my direction. I was standing next to Sheela and Sailor off to the side of Katsuo. He stopped and studied me up and down, slowly taking in every detail. He bent over and leaned in closer. I could see his wire-rimmed glasses pressing into the skin of his temples and around his ears. His blue eyes were huge behind the lenses, and he smelled of American soap and shaving lotion. There was something slightly ominous about his total lack of expression or emotion. I felt like a butterfly being pinned into place and observed with cold and careful precision by its collector.
The captain straightened up and let his eyes run over the three of us again. Finally, he told Katsuo we were to come back in two hours. The lieutenant would then bring us directly to the captain’s office. “In two hours,” he said, “this matter will definitely be sorted out.” He waited another moment. “Am I clear?”
Katsuo nodded one last time. After reminding the lieutenant in English to please escort us out of the embassy, Captain Blaine Harrington turned and left the room. I glanced at Sailor and he shook his head back and forth with an expression that told me exactly what he was thinking. Sailor thought I had blown every legitimate chance we might have had. Now it would be a tricky affair for us to leave Japan.
We found Ikuko and quickly made our way back to the small room we had rented the previous evening. Katsuo removed his robes the moment we entered and sat down on his tatami mat, naked to the waist and barefoot. He crossed his legs and shut his eyes, taking in several long and deep breaths. Gradually his eyes opened and he looked at Sailor. “I believe I have failed you,” he said. “You have my full apologies.”
“No!” Sailor shot back. “No, Katsuo, not so. You have not failed, do you hear? We could not have anticipated the American captain understanding and speaking Japanese fluently. There was no failure, Katsuo. Your performance was a good one. It should have worked.”
“He is correct, Katsuo,” Sheela said. “Your actions were the only appropriate ones.”
Ikuko was fanning her grandfather by waving a towel above his head. Outside, the traffic of Tokyo could be heard all around us. The minutes crept by and we said little. Finally, the two hours were nearly up and we got ready to return. Sailor told Katsuo the formal Shinto robes were no longer necessary, but Katsuo refused to step out of character and put on the heavy uncomfortable robes without complaint. He told Ikuko to stay in the room and kissed her on the forehead. Sailor and I said good-bye to Ikuko, and Sheela gave her an especially long embrace, then we set out for the embassy.
Once we crossed the courtyard and climbed the steps, we were met outside by the lieutenant, who seemed to be waiting for us. Without delay, he ushered us into the embassy and down the wide hallway toward the captain’s office. As we neared the door, we passed a group of men standing off to one side, laughing and smoking cigarettes. They were all Americans, some civilians, some in uniform. One of the men said, “Well, well, would you look at that?” Sheela and I kept walking and staring straight ahead, but Sailor turned his head in the man’s direction. At the same time, a flashbulb went off. Somewhere among them, a soldier had taken Sailor’s picture. The lieutenant stopped and told the men there would be none of that, then commanded the soldier who snapped the picture to hand over the film. There was some protest from the man, but he was outranked and forced to comply. The lieutenant then asked all of the men to move along. By that time, the door had opened and Captain Blaine Harrington was standing in the doorway. He watched the man hand over the film, then said, “Inside, Lieutenant. Now.” He turned to Katsuo with a false smile. “This way, sir,” he said in Japanese.
As we walked inside, I noticed another man in the room. He was sitting casually in a chair next to the
