He points at the sun. ‘Taiyo,’ he says in his native tongue. He points at a log bythe side of the path. ‘Ki,’ he says.
Greta watches him closely. She sees the way he speaks, like every thought was formed in his soul and every word was ink-pressed in blood from his heart.
He points at two birds circling each other in the sky. ‘Bird,’ he says. ‘Water. Air. Light.’ He points at Molly. ‘Butterfly see you, Molly Hook.’ Molly smiles. ‘Butterfly short life,’ Yukio says. ‘But butterfly live forever – he raises a single forefinger – ‘in one day.’
Molly nods appreciatively, eyes wide and awed. The trio press on.
Silence for two full minutes. Then Molly breaks the silence. Molly always breaks the silence.
‘That’s like you and Nara,’ she says, looking straight ahead, speaking words as they come to her. ‘You only had a short time. But she could give you everything . . .’ – she knows now that the words she is saying are for herself – ‘in one day.’ This is why people tell stories, she thinks.
Yukio nods. His head turns to the ground and Greta can see the pain inside him and she wants to move three steps to the side and wrap her arms around that strange pilot’s shoulders, but that’s a move for different worlds, softer worlds than this one.
‘Molly Hook understand,’ Yukio says, softly.
*
Hot air and humidity. Greta rubs the sweat from the back of her neck and uses it to wash dirt from her hands and face. Molly is still pressing on quick and hard, walking alone some thirty yards ahead of them. Yukio quickens his walking pace to catch up to Greta’s left shoulder.
‘Bob,’ Yukio says.
‘Yeah,’ Greta says, shaking her head as she plods along. ‘Longcoat Bob, the magic man.’
‘Magic,’ Yukio says. ‘You . . . be . . . ahhh . . . believe?’
Greta gives a half-smile, shrugs her shoulders. ‘Not really,’ she says.
‘Why you come?’ Yukio asks. ‘Why . . . come . . . far?’
‘I don’t really know,’ Greta says. She nods at Molly, ahead of them, just at the moment she mistimes her step over a fallen branch. She trips, but plants a steadying foot to stop herself from falling flat on her face. ‘Someone had to keep her out of trouble.’
‘You . . . want . . . gold?’ Yukio ponders.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say no to it.’
They walk in silence.
‘Aisuru,’ Yukio says.
‘Huh?’
‘Aisuru,’ Yukio repeats. He nods at Molly. ‘You . . . Molly.’ And he puts his hand on his heart and pats it four times like it’s beating. ‘Aisuru.’
‘Love?’ Greta suggests.
The first word of English his father did not learn. ‘Love,’ he smiles. ‘You . . . love . . . Molly.’
Greta smiles. Considers that notion.
‘Like . . . child,’ Yukio adds.
Greta is taken aback by the comment, but she shrugs it off with a nervous chuckle. Her eyes return to Molly ahead, off the path now, inspecting something she’s seen beneath a broadleaved paperbark tree.
‘Well, yeah, I care about the kid, but I’m not about to stick her photograph in my purse,’ Greta says.
‘Girl . . . want . . . mother,’ Yukio says. ‘Girl . . . love . . . Greta.’
Greta speaks more sharply this time. ‘I don’t think for a second she’s my child, if that’s what you’re saying,’ she says. ‘The girl’s got a mother. It’s just a shame she’s six foot under.’
Yukio is bright enough to tune to the frequency of anger in her voice, despite his inability to understand all of her words.
‘Hey, Yukio,’ hollers Molly, running back to her fellow wanderers, one hand holding Bert and the other holding a black rhinoceros beetle in her hand. ‘You have these in Japan?’
She holds the beetle up to Yukio’s eyes and this armoured tank of an insect hisses with the roughhouse handling.
‘Ohhhh,’ Yukio says, leaning back with a show of great respect to the insect. ‘We have . . . Japan . . . but . . . but . . .’ Then he brings his hand to his face and makes the shape of a long horn extending from his nose. ‘Like,’ he says and he puts his lips together and he blows hard with his puffed cheeks and his fingers play a brass instrument as his feet dance on an imaginary stage.
‘Trumpet!’ Molly says. ‘They have trumpets on their heads in Japan?’
Yukio nods.
‘How about that!’ Molly says, chuffed by the knowledge. ‘You have trumpets in Japan?’
‘Haaaaa!’ Yukio smiles, jumping into a rousing trumpet number played through his thumb.
‘You have good music in Japan?’ Molly asks. ‘You have songs?’
He nods enthusiastically. ‘Song!’ he says, and he starts to sing as he skips down the path.
‘Getsu, getsu, ka, sui, moku, kin, kin,’ he sings and he makes the song sound so joyous despite the song’s content – and title – speaking of the restless drudgery that comes with being a member of the Imperial Japanese Navy: ‘Monday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Friday’.
Molly joins in the singing and they link arms as they spin around Greta, who rolls her eyes.
‘Hey, Greta Maze,’ Molly beams, stomping her legs in the path’s dirt. ‘Sing Yukio a song.’
Molly turns to Yukio. ‘She’s some canary when she gets goin’, Yukio. Wait till you hear her voice. Go on, Greta.’
Molly spins on Yukio’s arm now and her head flies back and her eyes go to the sky.
‘Sing him a song about the sky, Greta,’ Molly laughs.
It never takes much for Greta Maze to see a spotlight turned on her. And Yukio watches her make her transformation from sweaty wanderer to one-show-only Carnegie Hall sell-out torch singer lit up by the lights. And Greta hits a perfect high note, a voice that is pure Cotton Club. Pure Harlem, 1933. Pure jazz and blues and pure martini. It’s not a song about the sky. It’s a song about the weather. It’s a song about the rain, and Molly and Yukio stop spinning and they start marvelling, lost in the corridors of Greta Maze. A weepy torch song about hearts breaking and storms comin’, and Yukio can’t understand a word of what she’s singing but he follows every beat of her big heart.
Greta smiles
