That was laying it on thick. The Fisherman or Fisherman-san-Mr. Fisherman-was fine. Fisherman- sama… As Jiro bowed back, he said, “You boys must be hungry if you start calling me Lord Fisherman.”
The sentries laughed. “We’re always hungry, Fisherman-sama,” said the one who’d used the name before.
They probably were, too. Japanese soldiers got better rations than local civilians, but still ate lots of rice and not much of anything else. The sentries came from the same class as Jiro, and from the Hiroshima area, too. When he could, he brought them something. Today, though, he bowed again, apologetically.
“Please excuse me, friends. Next time for you, if I get the chance. Maybe the men inside will share this ahi with you.” He held up the fish.
“Fat chance!” two soldiers said at the same time. One of them added, “Those stingy bastards don’t know how lucky they are to have you for a friend.”
“No, I think I’m the lucky one,” Jiro said. The sentries only jeered. But he meant it. “These are important people from the home islands, and they’re glad to see me. Of course I’m lucky.”
“They’re glad to see your fish, anyhow,” a sentry said.
“We’re not going to convince him,” another one said. “Let’s just let him through. He’ll find out for himself sooner or later.” They stood aside. Jiro walked past them and into the consular compound.
A clerk greeted him: “Good day, Takahashi-san. How are you?”
“Pretty well, thanks. I’d like to see Consul Kita, if I may.” Jiro held up the ahi again to explain why.
“I’m so sorry, but the consul isn’t here right now,” the clerk said. “He’s still out on the golf course. He won’t be back till this evening.”
“The golf course,” Jiro muttered. He knew Kita was fond of the Western game, but he’d never understood why. Whacking a ball with a stick till it fell into a hole? What was the point, besides giving you an excuse to waste time whenever you felt like it?
“Chancellor Morimura is in, though,” the clerk said helpfully. “I’m sure he’d be glad to help you.” He was looking at the ahi, not at Jiro. Maybe the sentries knew what they were talking about after all.
Tadashi Morimura was studying a map of Pearl Harbor when the clerk led Jiro into his office. Morimura was tall and handsome, with a long face and an aristocrat’s cheekbones and eyebrows. He couldn’t have been more than thirty. “Good to see you, Takahashi-san,” he said, rising and bowing. “That’s a handsome fish you have there. Do you want me to take charge of it till the consul comes back?”
“Yes, please,” Jiro said.
Morimura didn’t take it in his own hands (interesting hands, for his left index finger was missing the first joint). He called a clerk, who carried it off to the refrigerator. Had he dismissed Jiro right after that, the fisherman might have decided the consular staff did value him for his fish alone. But the chancellor-who held a title that sounded impressive but could have meant anything-said, “Please sit down, Takahashi- san. I’m glad to see you. I was thinking about you earlier today, as a matter of fact.”
“About me?” Jiro said in surprise as he sank into a chair.
“Hai-about you.” Morimura nodded. “Do you know Osami Murata?”
Jiro shook his head. “Gomen nasai, but I’m afraid I don’t. Could you tell me who he is?”
“He’s a broadcaster, a radio man,” Morimura said. “He usually works out of Tokyo, where he lives, but he’s here in Hawaii now. He’s doing some shows about the islands since we took them away from the Americans. You would be a good man for him to interview. You could tell him-you could tell all of Japan-what things are like.”
“They would hear me back in Japan?” Jiro said.
“That’s right.” Morimura smiled and nodded. His smile was exceptionally charming; it made his big eyes light up. “They’d hear you all over the world, in fact. That’s how short-wave radio works.”
“All over the world? Me?” Jiro laughed at that. “I can’t even get my boys to pay attention to me half the time.”
“Didn’t they pay attention when you were in the Nippon jiji?” Morimura asked slyly.
“Well… some.” Takahashi didn’t want to say what kind of attention he’d got from Hiroshi and Kenzo after they saw his interview in the Japanese-language newspaper. They’d warned him against being a collaborator. How can I be a collaborator? Japan is my country, he thought. But his sons didn’t see it that way.
“We’ll set up an interview,” Tadashi Morimura said. “Are you free tomorrow afternoon, Takahashi-san ?”
“I ought to be out catching fish,” Jiro said uncertainly.
Morimura winked at him. Jiro blinked. Had he really seen that? The chancellor said, “Can’t you send your sons out on the Oshima Maru by themselves for one day?”
Jiro was flattered that the consular official remembered the name of his sampan-flattered almost to the point of blushing and coughing and stammering like a schoolboy. “I suppose I could,” he said, and knew that he would. Hiroshi and Kenzo would be astonished when he didn’t want to put to sea with them; he’d never been a man to shirk work, and, say what they would about him, they couldn’t claim he had. But they were no happier with his company than he was with theirs. Their hearts wouldn’t break to make a fishing run without him. If they brought in a good catch, they wouldn’t let him forget it, either.
He shrugged broad shoulders. He’d survived worse things than that. “What time would you want me here, Morimura-san?” he asked.
“Come at two o’ clock,” Morimura answered. “But not here. Go to the KGMB studio. That’s where he will want to do the interview. Have you got the address?”
“I’m sorry, but no.” Not speaking English and not caring for the music KGMB played, Jiro had no idea where the station was. Morimura gave him the address. It wasn’t too far from the consulate. “I’ll be there,” he promised.
And he was. His sons both stared at him when he told them to take the Oshima Maru out on their own. But they didn’t argue very hard or ask very many questions. That saddened Jiro without much surprising him.
Nobody could stay sad for long around Osami Murata. “What, no fish for me?” he exclaimed when Morimura introduced Jiro to him. “I’m so insulted, I’m going to commit seppuku.” He mimed slitting his belly, then laughed uproariously. “Now, Takahashi-san, let’s figure out what we’re going to talk about when we get you in front of the mike.”
He was a whirlwind of jokes and energy. Jiro could no more help being swept along than his sampan could have in a gale. He wasn’t even nervous when Murata plopped him down in a chair in front of a mike in a room whose likes he’d never seen before. The ceiling, three of the walls, and even the inside of the door were covered by what looked like cardboard egg cartons.
Noticing his stare, Murata said, “Stuff deadens sound.” He pointed to the fourth wall, which was of glass and let Jiro see into the adjoining room. “Those are the engineers in there. If they’re very, very good, maybe we’ll let them out again once the show is over.”
Did he mean it? He might-some of them were haoles, and had surely been doing their jobs here before the Japanese came. Or he might be fooling again, trying to put Jiro at ease.
“Nervous?” Murata asked. When Jiro nodded, the broadcaster poked him in the ribs and made funny faces. Haoles were often boisterous and foolish. Jiro didn’t know what to make of a Japanese who acted like that. Murata scribbled some notes, then pointed to a light bulb that wasn’t shining just then.