March 11, 2011
Her eyes snapped open in the darkness; she could hear the deep distant rumble and knew
exactly what it was. She flung her futon cover off and jumped up and made for the next
room. It hit like thunder, her house shaking violently, books and ornaments tossed from
the shelves. She clung to a wooden beam as a wave of energy jolted the house,
threatening to tear it from its foundations. The Buddhist altar crashed to the floor. The
thunderous noise grew, and another wave tore through the house, sending her sprawling
across the floor. The wall clock smashed to the floor. The structure trembled and she
could hear the roof tiles shattering on the road outside. And then it was gone, and an eerie
silence fell over the town. She read the time on her watch: 1:55 a.m. She slid open the
door to the next room and saw her bedridden husband staring out of the darkness. “It’s all
right. I won’t leave you,” she said softly. She moved next to him and held his trembling
hand and began to stroke his hair.
**
“I’m so cold! Help me! Mommy…Momm...y—please Mommy!” She lay trembling, her
freezing hands barely able to cling to pile of wooden wreckage. The first snowflakes
melted on her wet skin, but her body was too numb to feel their icy touch. Night shrouded
the last of the daylight and darkness swiftly cloaked her.
“Mommy!” she managed to scream one last time before she disappeared into the
bitter darkness.
**
It was just getting light when Sachie slipped out of the futon and dressed quietly.
“Mo iku no? Are you going so soon?” Her boyfriend asked, stirring under the
quilt.
She knelt down next to him and stroked his black hair. “The tournament is next
month. I have to practice.”
He sighed. “You always put practice before me.”
She smiled and looked into his brown eyes and then put her hand on his cheek.
“I must win this tournament.”
He brushed her hand away and sat up; a dim light seeped through the window
revealing his muscular body and sharp facial features. “Have you told your parents yet?
Or at least your mother and grandfather?”
Sachie giggled. “You mean that you asked me to marry you?”
“Well–” He paused. The splay of twilight accentuated her soft face and long dark
hair—she was so beautiful. “Yes. You did agree to marry me, didn’t you?”
Sachie didn’t answer; just let the question hang in the air like a taut string about
to snap.
“You said yes…remember?” His voice was tinged with concern.
At last she laughed. “Of course I will marry you.”
He let out a shallow sigh of relief. “Stop teasing me.”
“I wasn’t,” she said with a smirk.
He took her hand and lay back, gently luring her onto him. “You were,” he said.
“You know I’m a sucker for you.”
She grinned and then kissed him softly on the lips.
He felt her warmth flow through him and pulled her tighter, kissing her more
deeply—she didn’t resist and he rolled her onto her back. “I love you,” he whispered.
“Watashi mo. Me too,” she said softly.
He could feel her hard breasts on his bare chest; feel himself growing. He kissed
her again and she kissed back. He unbuckled her jeans and slipped them down.
A few minutes later, she lay panting in his arms. He gently kissed her on the
forehead and then closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
Sachie slid from the futon, took a shower and dressed. She looked down at him
and smiled. “Tomo,” she said, whispering his name. “I can’t–” He let out a soft laugh.
The thought of him coming to her house and traditionally asking for her hand in marriage
made her almost burst out with laughter. He would have to don a black suit and tie—
neither he owned, nor had probably ever worn in his life. As tradition required, he had to
kneel before his parents, head to the floor and ask his father for the right to marry her.
Suddenly, the memory of the night of her father’s accident surfaced and a tear ran down
her cheek. “I’m sorry father.” She turned and left his apartment.
**
“Heave!” shouted the old fisherman to his grandson. “Heave or they’ll get away.”
His grandson pulled on the net, heaving the fish closer to the boat.
“That’s it! Just a little closer,” the old man encouraged, moving to the starboard side.
He hauled the net and up and over the gunwales and fish spilled onto the deck.
“Well done!” the old man said, slapping his grandson on the back.
The young man stood on the deck, fish flapping around his rubber rain boots.
“Thanks for the lesson,” he replied.
“You’ll make a great fisherman.” A broad smile creased his dark, leathery face,
revealing a mouth with a few remaining tobacco-stained teeth—the daily bottle of sake
aiding the decay.
His grandson was about to say he didn’t want to become a fisherman. He didn’t
want to learn the trade, didn’t want go home stinking of fish every day, but he held back
knowing it would break the old man’s heart. He didn’t know when he would tell him that
he had been accepted into Tokyo University’s Department of Law. His goal—young and
ignorant as he was—was to become a rich lawyer and siphon as much money as he could
out of the hapless public. His parents had kept his acceptance into university under the
rug. Instead he asked, “Do you always get such a good catch?”
“Only when I have such a good hand to help me.” He grinned, lifting the net so
the fish slid into a plastic box.
“Is that so?” his grandson replied, scooping up the remaining fish in a bucket. “I
think you’re having me on.”
“Look!” said the grandfather, pointing toward the land.
The grandson gazed in the direction he was pointing. The sky was awash with streaks
of red, orange, and pink. The morning sun was just peeping over the crests of the snow-
capped mountains, splaying a golden light across the silver sea.
“It’s so beautiful,” said the grandson. But he knew he couldn’t stay in this town.
He knew his destiny lay in the big city. Like the young all over Japan, he too wanted to
flee the countryside for the money and excitement of the big cities of Tokyo, Osaka, and
Yokohama. He would join the ranks of deserters and leave the aging population to make
its last stand throughout the rural areas of Japan.
“Yes, so beautiful,” his grandfather said. “Let’s get these fish packed up and go
home and have a sake to warm us.”
His grandson nodded his agreement.
The grandfather went into the wheelhouse and turned the ignition. There was a
loud crack followed by smoke.
“What happened? Are you OK?” yelled the grandson.
“Damn electric system blew,” coughed the grandfather, stumbling from the he
wheelhouse.
“Can you fix it?” asked the grandson anxiously.
“No and the radio is down as well. We’ll have to drift until someone sees us.
They’ll eventually work out something is wrong and come looking for us.”
“I can ring the harbor on my mobile phone.” He took out his phone and pressed
the start button. “Damn!” he cursed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I forgot to charge it last night—no power.”
“That’s OK,” said his grandfather matter-of-factly. “I’ll put up the aft sail so
when the wind comes up we can steer towards shore. (Many Japanese fishing boats hoist
a small aft sail to save on fuel when they have a tailwind.)
“Do you think a wind will come up today?”
“At about ten o’clock,” he replied.
**
“Tono, the village of Folk Law,” Yukino called excitedly from the backseat.
“That’s right. Everything strange and weird comes from here,” Yuta said,
grinning and putting his foot down on the accelerator and running another red light.
“What do you mean ‘weird’?” she asked.
“UFOs,” he replied.
“You’re the one who’s weird,” she said.
He took it as a compliment and said, “Not just me; many people have seen
strange lights in the sky over the last couple of weeks.”
She ignored him and looked out the window as the sun crested the mountains
and night faded away to morning.
“I love Kapa. He’s my favorite folk character,” Yukino said, sliding the van’s
window open to let the fragrances of Tono blow against her face.
“Well, I guess you can see him since you’re still a child.” Yuta grinned through the
rearview mirror.
Japanese folk law says that only children can see the mystical characters called
Kapas. The creatures are believed to live in rivers and ponds. They are about the size of a
child. Their scaly, reptilian skin ranges in color from green to yellow or blue, with
webbed feet and hands. They are naughty creatures that like to play pranks, such as loudly
passing gas or looking up women’s skirts or kimonos or, to the more malevolent,
drowning people and animals, kidnapping children, and raping women. On top of their
head they have a lily pad-like bowl, which is believed to be their power source, and it
must be kept full of water or their power will drain away, leaving them rendered helpless.
Yukino glared back at his reflection. “Well, that’s one advantage we have over
you adults.”
His grin stretched further across his face, and she regretted what she had said,
playing straight into his hands. She had announced, as if on a loud speaker, that she was
not old enough for him—not that he was that much older. But, when you are sixteen, four
years’ difference seems like an eternity apart.
He looked at her through the mirror again. “Do you know how to escape from a
Kapa if you encounter one?”
She turned her head and stared out the window, ignoring his question.
“They are really obsessed with being polite.” He paused and looked at her
reflection staring out the window. “There is only one way to escape. I know because I
encountered one when I was your age.”
She quickly turned and stared back at him through the mirror. “Where?” she
asked.
“At the Kapa temple just over there,” he said, pointing out the window.
“How did you escape?”
“I knew that they are obsessed with politeness, so I bowed deeply and the Kapa
returned the bow. The water spilled out of the bowl on his head, rendering him powerless
until the bowl was refilled.” He looked back and saw her eyes wide with astonishment.
“Did you refill the bowl?” she asked, her voice full of curiosity.
“Uh…”
“If you refill his bowl, he must serve you for the rest of your life and–”
“Well I di–”
“You can show him to me, can’t you? He has to do whatever you say?”
Yuta knew he had gone too far. “Look! I didn’t refill his bowl. I ran for my life.”
“What! You didn’t put water back into the bowl,” she said disappointedly.
“I just wanted to get as far away as possible—as quickly as possible,” he replied. He
evaded her eyes in the mirror.
“You’re a fool,” she said, looking back out of the window.
“I am not,” he said defensively.
“Coward,” she murmured, paying no attention to him.
**
Mr. Suzuki drove his Toyota hybrid through the rice fields of Futaba town in the direction
of Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant. He thought driving a hybrid car was a little
contradictory considering he was the manager of a nuclear power station. His company
TEPCO didn’t want people to reduce their energy usage—on the contrary, they wanted
them to use as much as they could. TEPCO and the other Japanese power companies
wanted everyone to use electric cars so they could build more and more nuclear power
stations all over Japan. Forget about solar and renewable energy; nuclear was clearly the
future.
He turned left and in the distance, set against the backdrop of a clear spring sky,
towered the six reactor buildings of Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant.
Unfortunately, his mood didn’t reciprocate the lovely spring morning. Last night he had
come home a little too late from a hostess bar and a little too drunk with lipstick lips on his
cheek. His wife was unimpressed by his incoherent excuses, and he had an uncomfortable
sleep on the bare tatami floor. (Tatami floor is a straw mat forming a traditional Japanese
floor covering.) When he had woken in the morning, he had found a note on the table
saying she had gone to stay with their daughter. “Damn Risa!” he cursed out loud,
remembering the cute young girl who had sat and poured him drinks the night before and
kept him company listening and talking to him. She’d even sounded interested when he’d
voiced his opposition to the construction of a new tsunami wall that had suddenly come
under consideration to ward off a killer-tsunami. He let out a long sigh at the absurd idea.
This so-called killer-tsunami was the concoction of a group of seismologists and was
scaring the crap out of some Tokyo politicians. A report had been submitted two days
previously that predicted a tsunami of more than ten meters could hit the Fukushima plant.
He put these types of seismologists in the same category as the sensationalist news
reporters—idiots who had no inkling of how much trouble and damage they did to world
economies and the everyday person by spreading information devoid of facts and, in
some cases, spreading downright lies. He shook his head in disgust and imagined the next
pandemic would probably be dog or cat flu, and everyone would have to kill their
precious pets—sure, it would make great news.
“Bastards!” he yelled out the window. He had only two years to go before
retirement, but if the construction of the new tsunami wall was given the go-ahead, his
retirement would be put on hold for another few years. His plan to retire to Hawaii would
come to nothing.
“Bastards!” he yelled out the window again. He let his thoughts wander back to
the night before, and Risa’s sweet face floated into his mind. She was new at the bar, and
she’d genuinely seemed impressed that he was the boss of the plant. He guessed the
Mama-san had sent her to his table because all the other girls were bored of hearing the
same old stories about his work. He let out another long sigh. He had worked for TEPCO
for thirty-five years, and, except for the occasional company golf game, he had no other
interest outside of his job. His daughter was married to a salary man in Osaka and only
came home once a year at New Year; although last year she had made up some excuse
why she couldn’t return. His son, the one they had placed so much hope in, had dropped
out of university in the first year. He had taken up surfing and now lived in Okinawa,
working part-time in convenience stores and pubs. He hadn’t seen him for three years,
except for the rare telephone call when he needed money to support his fruitless lifestyle.
He was a damn beggar he had told his wife on more than one occasion, and she had
nodded her agreement, and then, without telling him, she would transfer money into his
bank account the next day.
He looked in the rearview mirror, his head shaved bald—the modern man’s
answer to rejuvenation once the receding hairline turned to a shiny patch. He had more
wrinkles than the last time he had looked. He wasn’t aged by any means; he still looked
way below his age. And if he compared himself to his American counterparts in GE
(General Electric), who visited the Daiichi plant on occasions, he looked half their age. He
smiled and touched his cheek, remembering Risa’s soft kiss, the kiss that had stained his
skin and made his wife over the moon to see him—so over the moon that he had spent the
night on a bare tatami floor. Then he remembered she had whispered into his ear. He
pulled over to the side of the road and searched his coat pocket. He took out the paper
chopstick cover and read what she had written. He looked out the window, his thoughts
swaying back to his wife, and he touched his wedding band. “Yes, I still love you,” he
said out loud. How many times had he repeated this sentence; it seemed almost a daily
ritual recently, as if he was trying to convince himself. His wife hadn’t kept herself in
shape and was twice the weight she should have been. Of course, she was a loyal, dutiful
Japanese wife who always greeted him whatever time he came home. Always, she would
pour him a cold beer and listen attentively to what had happened at the power plant that
day, and then she would serve him dinner and prepare his bath. While he soaked in the
bath, she would wash the dishes and then leave the evening newspaper on the table with a
cup of sake and go to bed. He couldn’t remember the last time they had made love.
He looked down at the paper chopstick holder.
Meet me tomorrow for lunch?
Two o’clock at the Mellow Yellow Café in Tomioka.
09023476383
Risa
There were lipstick lips on the chopstick holder.
He brought the paper to his nose and inhaled her scent. He pulled back onto the
road and drove flat-out toward the Daiichi plant, a big grin plastered across his face; he
felt young again, and he began to sing a hit from his university days.
**
Mr. Saito watched the car pull back onto the road and speed off toward the Daiichi plant.
One of the plant’s workers rushing to work, he thought. He slid the door closed behind
him and gazed out over the farmland. Saito’s family had farmed rice on this land for
centuries, going back 500 years, and now he and his son-in-law farmed it. They loved the
land and took great pride in the high-quality rice they grew. It was said that the pure river
water made the Fukushima rice especially tasty, but he knew it was generations of
cultivating a good seed that made their rice superior to others, although he did have to
concede that the water probably played a part as well.
He went over to a small shrine next to the house, lit a stick of incense, and placed
it at the foot of the 500-year-old altar and then clapped his hands twice and bowed silently
in prayer. He then went over to the barn, climbed onto his tractor, started it, and let it idle
while the engine warmed. He was seventy-eight, fit, and well-tanned from working
outdoors. He had a pleasant round face with a small nose and a crop of grey hair—a quiet
and simple man that needed no more than the love of his family, a good hot meal once a
day, and the occasional cup of sake. He wore a navy blue jacket, matching colored baggy
trousers, and black rain boots. His thoughts drifted to his wife and his daughter’s family.
A few weeks ago, his son-in-law had asked his permission to take his two grandchildren,
a four-year-old boy and a six-year-old girl, on a trip to Okinawa before the rice planting
started. He had thought it a good idea and gladly agreed, and, even though he loved his
family deeply, he didn’t mind having a little peace and quiet for a few days. He pushed
down on the accelerator, and the tractor lumbered slowly forward toward the rice fields.
**
Sachie’s chest heaved and her heart pounded in her ears as she climbed the last few
meters to the mountain peak. She pulled the sword from her waist-strap, the blade
shimmering in the dawn light. She faced the bay of Otsuchi, raised her sword high, and
brought the blade down, cleaving the air with no sound. Behind her the sky was a
kaleidoscope of colors. Again she repeated the attack drill, but this time she shouted,
“Men!” as the blade met the imaginary enemy’s skull. Over and over she performed the
drill with the skill of an expert Kendo fighter. She was training for a tournament in Tokyo
at the Budokan, the national martial arts stadium in a suburb of Kudan. She had been there
twice, once when she was a young girl with her grandparents. They had gone on August
15 to the ceremony the emperor headed every year to commemorate the Japanese people
lost in the Second World War. She remembered it well—the buildings, the people, and the
fashion so strangely different from that of her hometown. But what she really
remembered was the heat—the midsummer heat of forty degrees Celsius with humidity in
the eighties. The second time was last year when she had participated in the national
Kendo selection tournament; she had lost miserably in the first round. This year she
needed to win, or, more to the point, she was going to win. It was her chance to get on the
national team and go abroad and take part in the World Championships in Brazil. She
clasped the sword tightly; she preferred to practice with a real sword rather than a bamboo
one, as she was convinced the metal’s weight increased not just her strength but also her
spirit and raw instincts. She believed she could sense her opponent’s moves before they
made them, and she’d demonstrated this by winning the Northern Honshu
Championships last month. She raised the sword high but froze, her eyes glinting through
her protective headgear: she dropped her sword and tore off her headgear to stare out at
what seemed to be smoke coming from a fishing boat. She squinted trying to make out the
name of the boat, but it was too distant.
She undid the straps of her body amour and placed it on the ground. She stood
and let the morning breeze cool her body, her dark blue hakama fluttering. Are they ok?
She thought as she undid the scarf that was used to keep her hair neatly tied in a bun
under the protective headgear. “Probably nothing,” she said out load, as if trying to
convince herself. She ran her fingers through her long black hair, tousling it so the air
could seep in and cool her scalp.
I’d better report it to the harbor master when I get back? she thought, staring out to
sea. Otsuchi was a fishing town and through Tomo, her boyfriend who bought and sold
fish, she knew most of the fishermen.
“Tomo,” she whispered. Her first and only love. They had grown up together; gone
through the same schools. She remembered their first date in Junior High school. They
had gone to the movies in Kamaishi City. He had selected the movie; a violent samurai
movie, which she guessed, he had chosen because of her interest in Kendo. After the
movie, they had walked along the harbor front until they came to a deserted warehouse.
He had said let’s check it out and she followed him in. There he kissed her for the first
time, told her he loved her and that some day he would marry her. They kissed for almost
two hours non-stop, cradled in each other’s arms on an old wooden table.
She smiled to herself and then put her armor back on, picked up her sword. There was
a dull rumble and then the ground began to shake. Sachie crouched down and waited. The
shaking increased and then suddenly stopped; the mountain was silent not even a bird
chirped. She got to her feet and headed back down the mountain. Half an hour later she
came to the steepest, most dangerous part of the climb; the narrow ledge that she had to
cross to get to the other side of the mountain.
**
“There it is,” said Yuta, pointing to the east.
Yukino bent forward, her head between the driver and the passenger seat, eyes
wide with excitement. Beyond the massive concrete tsunami breakwater wall laid the
ocean. “Can I swim or is it still too cold?”
Yuta laughed. “Only if you want to die; anyone without a five-millimeter wetsuit
would be dead in ten minutes.”
“You’re kidding!” she said, not sure if he was teasing.
“I’m a surfer. I should know.”
She knew he was a surfer and his goal was to become a professional surfer.
“Are you sure?”
“If you don’t believe me, ask the fishermen,” he said, turning