Chapter Four Violet #4
“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he finally says.
“It’s my fault. I should’ve remembered geisha dolls are more demure than American girls.
” I am an American girl, I want to snap, and I’m not shy, I just don’t like you.
“I’ll be honest, though. I’ve always found you women to be the most beautiful.
Everything about Japanese culture is much more beautiful and intentional than others.
You know, I can get you some stuff you might like.
Candy. Perfume.” The smile widens on his lips, and he waits, as though eager for my gratitude.
“That’s generous of you,” I say, trying to contain my growing irritation. “But the only thing I want is for my letter to be mailed.”
“I might need reminding. How about this? Come back sometime and remind me. I’d love to know more about you and your ways.”
I let out a slow breath. I’ve gotten as far as I can with this man. If I keep talking to him, I’m likely to reveal how much I detest him.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Boser.” I try to sound gracious. “I need to get going.”
“Do you?” a cynical glint lights his eyes, one that makes me pause, and his smile narrows. “You have something to do?” He gestures out the window at the camp outside. Then he laughs. The sound makes me cringe. Mama was right. I shouldn’t have come.
Without another word, I turn and leave.
I burst out of the offices, rushing past the tomato plants and into one of the firebreaks.
The activity of the camp hits me like a swell at high tide.
People are everywhere, lining up outside the mess halls and latrines, sitting on steps whittling and talking, transporting work tools in wheelbarrows and buckets, chasing after children.
I seethe with frustration. I want to be alone.
But even if I go back to our barrack, only thin, translucent sheets will separate me from the Kimuras and the other occupants.
I come to a stop and lean against a barrack.
Loose layers of tar paper dig into my back.
A bright, trilling whistle bounds across the firebreak as though seeking me. My heart jumps. Otōsan. I would recognize his whistle anywhere. I stumble forward, searching. He must be here. It’s the only explanation. He must’ve been transferred. Our family will be whole again.
But it isn’t him.
It’s a different man, cutting across the dirt.
He walks with purpose, a blue silk kimono enveloping him and his long black hair bouncing freely about his shoulders.
A gold earring dangles from one ear and swings back and forth with the vigor of his steps.
He reminds me of the silk posters in the izakayas back home featuring kabuki actors with their painted faces and fierce expressions.
Against the colorless terrain, he’s like a blue butterfly that’s found its way to the soulless moon.
His shadow spreads across the dirt. It’s much too long for any regular shadow.
I watch as it morphs. Suddenly, his shadow has four arms instead of two and two heads instead of one.
My chest goes cold, goose bumps pricking along my skin.
People glance at the man passing by, but no one points to the bizarre shadow or seems to even notice it.
Then the strange man…disappears. I stifle a gasp, clamping my hands over my mouth. He’s gone. Not because he’s stepped into a doorway or passed beyond my sight, but because he’s vanished.
I rise, breathless, stories of yōkai crashing through my mind. Stumbling, I hurry forward to where the man was.
But he’s still there. In fact, he’s striding imperiously along, his shadow trailing behind him the way all shadows do, with one head and the correct number of limbs.
He’s still whistling, though it’s not one of Otōsan’s tunes.
I must have misheard. I must have misunderstood.
My imagination mixed with my longing betrayed me, making me think Otōsan was here and that the man was magical.
My hopes dash against the rocks of reality.
This man isn’t a yōkai. He’s an internee, like the rest of us—just unruly and eccentric.
I watch as he stops to peer into a window of a barrack, making someone inside yell at him.
He keeps going, pausing to hiss at a group of teenagers.
They exclaim in surprise and break into laughter.
Guards frown at him. He notices their glares and glares back, almost in imitation.
How silly of me to even think his whistle was Otōsan’s.
Sternly, I tell myself that I must keep my imagination under control.
I’ve always loved it. It lets me summon yōkai from the depths of my mind to the tip of my pencil.
But imagination is different at Manzanar.
It jumps and darts and creates hope where there is none.
“Miss Aratani!” I recognize the voice calling me immediately. Mr. Boser. He spots me. “Just a moment!”
I turn away, determined to slip between the barracks and avoid him. Just as I do, though, I run into someone.
The boy with the sling from apartment 1, barrack 7.