Requiem

parents. He had been hiding in Vancouver and caring for his sick wife ever since December 1941, when Pearl Harbor was bombed. After his wife died, the man wandered out onto the street and was picked up by police. No one knew how he had escaped detection for so long. The adults said that he must never have gone outside, that he must not have left the rooms he was renting in Japtown. They said he must have had help from Caucasians, his hakujin friends, to get food and supplies. They said that after his wife died, he didn’t care anymore about being seen. He went outside and was immediately detained and then sent to our camp above the Fraser. Ba and Ji told Mother and Father that he was known to the Vancouver community, and that he was an educated man who had once played the piano and knew a great deal about music. Everyone had assumed that he had been sent to a road camp somewhere in northern British Columbia and had been put to work building roads.

The old man’s shack, at the end of our row, was built with the help of Father and some of the other men. They worked quickly because they had to return to work in the gardens. The communal gardens had become large and productive, and everyone helped so that money would keep coming in from the sale of tomatoes, which were shipped to Vancouver by train.

The old man’s home was slightly smaller than everyone else’s because most of the ready building materials had already been used. With his arrival, the camp now had sixty-one shacks and a population of two hundred and seven.

Every day and evening, Hiroshi and Keiko and I saw the man outside his shack, chopping wood for kindling. When he was not chopping wood, he was tending a garden plot that he had started late. In the evenings, he went for long walks alone up to the Bench and around the hills behind the camp. Sometimes I saw Father speaking to him at the end of our row, and they had long conversations.

It was rumoured that of the many boxes that had accompanied the man when he arrived, several held books. These were unpacked and lined up on rough shelves in his shack. Some of the books contained pages of musical notes. Why, the neighbours wondered aloud, would anyone use an allotment of space for books? He could have brought bedding, or tools, or an extra bag of rice.

The old man’s name was Okuma-san, and not long after he arrived, he killed a bear. No one knew how he had done this, because no man in camp was allowed to have a gun. Father told us that Okuma-san’s name meant Great Bear, and that it was fitting he had killed such an animal.

Hiroshi and Keiko and I spoke about this among ourselves.

“He probably set a snare,” Hiroshi said, insisting that the old man must have read about snares in one of his books.

We all wondered if this was so, and if it was possible to learn how to catch a bear by reading a book. When Hiroshi asked Father about this, he said, “It is surprising, it is true, but Okuma-san is a wise person and he must have studied the habits of the bear. He knows that bear follows the same trails, over and over. He knows what bear likes to eat and where he takes his rest.”

The bear was hung with a rope around its neck in a rough and open woodshed that Okuma-san had erected behind his shack. Everyone came to see, knowing that after the carcass had hung for a few days, the meat would be shared out among the neighbours. With high summer temperatures and no refrigeration, fresh meat had to be eaten quickly before it decayed.

The day after the news of the bear went through the camp, I walked by myself to the end of the row and stared up into the cavity of the bear. Its belly was slit all the way to its groin, its organs removed, and I could see the thick lining of beige and milky-coloured fat that showed how the animal had begun to prepare for its long winter sleep. The bear’s eyes were open and its pink tongue lolled out the side of its jaw. The old man came out of his shack and asked my name, and I replied, giving my last name first. “Oda,” I said. “My first name is Bin. It’s short for Binosuke.”

Okuma-san nodded and repeated my name, and I was surprised to hear the softness in his voice. He told me that he had met my father, and that they’d had long talks. That was all he said, that and my name, and then the two of us stood in silence before the open woodshed, and despite the foul odour coming from the bear, we admired its beauty. I wanted to look through the window of Okuma-san’s shack so I could see the books that were rumoured to have pages of notes, but I was shy and I turned and went home without asking.

The next day, before nightfall, I returned to look at the bear. This time, I hid in shadow of the trees so I wouldn’t be seen. To my surprise, the bear’s hide had been removed and its body flipped end to end. Now it was hanging by its hind legs, which had a stick between them to keep them apart. In the dim light and from where I stood, the carcass had taken the shape of a human without a head. Only a bit of fur remained around its paws. I was so shocked by the sight, I couldn’t keep myself from shouting out. I stumbled and fell in the dirt, and picked myself up and raced for home.

For the rest of the summer, I dreamed of the headless bear that had once ambled alive and free over the Bench up on the side of the mountain. The dark mountain that cast its shadow, and that stretched up and up above the camp and the turbulent river.

CHAPTER 16

1997

“Does the river have voices, Dad?”

Greg.

A fisherman in hip waders was standing in the middle of the river, casting for trout. The kind of sports fishing First Father had never done—probably never had a chance to do. I watched as the flyline snapped forward, back, forward, back again, curving in on itself and out again, lighting, finally, on the surface of a small dark pool downstream. Amazing grace. Motion efficient, appearing effortless. Line at a standstill mid-air, yet moving again, again. Grace. Amazing.

“Voices?”

“You know. Like it might be trying to tell you something.”

I was trying to still the motion, the snaking of the tip through space, and yet create the illusion that the line, the movement, was about to thrust itself off the edge of the paper into—what? Imagination? Extension of imagined space?

It was the early eighties, I recall, and we were in Prince Edward Island beside the Dunk, a river so narrow we could toss a stone from one bank to the other. There was a muffled dampness to the surrounds, the result of strong rains the night before. Branches along the banks drooped over one another like crossed swords. We had walked the trail for a mile or so, no problem for seven-year-old Greg, who loved being outside in his rubber boots, loved to examine life along the trail—underbrush, wildflowers, plants and weeds. He was listening, that day, to the river.

“I do hear the river,” I said. “I listen because it has a story to tell. Sometimes many stories. What does it tell you?”

“Well,” he said, seriously, “I hear it say my name when it’s rushing by. It sounds like gregogregogrego.” He looked down sheepishly, then smiled, more to himself than to me. “I can hear the sea, too. I sure heard it in that big storm last night.” He added this bravely, and raised his chin to look up so he could check my reaction.

The storm last night. It was the end of August and we’d rented a cottage—our first family visit to that province. But something about the sea and the excitement of being there stayed with Greg from that time and never left. No surprise that he’s a science student now, and that his graduate work will be in marine studies.

The cottage we’d rented on the north shore of the island was actually a mobile home—a large trailer, though we called it a cottage. It was about thirty feet back from the edge of a cliff, set at the bottom of a long, narrow field owned by a bachelor farmer named Albert. We were in the wide part of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, the part that is expansive and so almost sea, it is sea. The storm the night before had been fierce, and we had been witness to the gathering of forces the entire day. Breezes changed to winds, winds to almost gale, low-lapping waves to fierce whitecaps rolling over the surface of the water. I ran outside to the car to get a map,