“Maybe she’s Estonian.”
Mas nodded, and Tug took out his notebook from his pocket and jotted some notes. Health inspector turned detective, Tug took on his new role with relish.
Kevin finally returned to the counter with some papers in hand. Tug and Mas could overhear him and Mari struggle with the Japanese.
“Let’s see, hmm, well, this is the date, right? Damn, the year’s written by era. What are they again?” asked Mari.
“Meiji, Taisho, Showa,” Kevin recited. “Showa is during Emperor Hirohito’s reign. Starts around 1926, I think.”
Mari held a page close to her face. “These are the characters for Showa. How does it work again? The year in which the era begins minus one plus the number that follows the era?”
“Confusing.”
“I know,” said Mari. “It’s just like when babies are born in Japan; they come out a year old already. We had a heck of a time figuring out what year my grandmother was born after she died.”
“Dad”-Mari finally called over Mas-“can you help us with this?”
Mas got out his reading glasses, not that eager to serve as a linguist. He looked at Tug, Mari, and then Kevin. If Mas was the most literate one of them all, they were in deep trouble.
The pages were written in a woman’s fine script. She must have had some kind of education, because the strokes from her pen were definite and crisp. Each sentence ran straight from the top to the bottom without the aid of lined paper.
“Youzu start off here,” Mas told Mari and Kevin, pointing to the far right side.
“Dad, that much we know. What does it say?”
“Novemba sixteen, letsu see, 1930. Kumori, gray day. Ame, rain. Go buysu beef from whatchacallit-”
“Butcher?” offered Tug.
“Yah, butcha. So dis person-girl, right?-went to buysu beef for some kind of dinner. Stew. For, letsu see. Wakusuri.”
“The Waxleys!” Mari exclaimed.
“Yah, Waxley family, I guess.”
Mas flipped through more pages. All notes about preparing meals and rooms to clean. The writer was obviously some sort of housekeeper, like Chizuko, because all she wrote about was making the Waxley family more comfortable in the Prospect Park house.
Mas dragged his dirt-lined fingernail up and down the lines. This woman was wired to be chanto, to take her work seriously.
“Pretty tsumaranai ” was Mas’s final analysis.
“What?” Kevin asked.
“Boring,” Mari translated.
“Well, it’s her day-to-day activities.” Kevin shrugged his shoulders.
“Do you have more pages?” Mari asked.
“No, those are the only ones.”
“Can we make a copy?”
“Well, normally, we need to get permission from the donor. But since I know you-”
“Thanks, Kevin.” Mari followed Kevin to the photocopy machine. Kevin flicked a button on the machine. The photocopier purred and hummed as it warmed up.
“When I showed this to Kazzy, he got pretty excited,” said Kevin. A flash of bright light leaked from the edges of the photocopier’s glass cover. Why would these daily accounts have been of interest to Kazzy? wondered Mas. Maybe it was like the young professor said-Kazzy had known that he was going to die soon, so he wanted to piece together as much of his past as possible.
“Is there any mention of Kazzy in there?” Mari asked.
“I think some cursory stuff. He said that he could probably do the translation himself in exchange for getting access to the whole journal.”
“He didn’t have time to do a translation job. He was busy with the garden,” said Mari.
“Well, he was pretty adamant. He was on a mission to reclaim his childhood. Once you hit seventy, eighty, you’re dealing with your own mortality.” Kevin then realized that he was in the company of two seventy-something-year-olds and covered his face with his right callused hand.
Tug laughed, his eyes dissolving into thin sideways crescents. “Mas and I know our days are numbered.”
Mas grunted. Everybody’s days were numbered, he thought, both old and young. The thing was, you didn’t know what number you were dealt until it was too late.
“Well, anyway”-Kevin recovered from his embarrassment-“I provided him with Seiko’s phone number and address, but I think that she was pretty resistant.”
“Really? But she was willing to deal with you.”
“Yeah, but we’re a nonprofit institution. I think Seiko was a little taken aback by Kazzy’s aggressiveness. I mean, here’s this silk mogul who keeps bothering her about her mother’s diary. Even knowing that he and his family are mentioned in there, she was reluctant to help him.”
“So do you know what ended up happening?”
“I’m not sure, actually. Like I said, I met with Kazzy about six months ago, and Seiko was complaining to me about Kazzy’s constant calls soon after. But about four months ago, it all stopped. Hadn’t heard much of anything, until the reports of Kazzy’s death came in and you got in touch.” Kevin handed pages of the photocopied journal to Mari. “So, what’s the deal with Kazzy’s death?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was he bumped off, like people are saying? Some hakujin neighbor, or his hakujin gardener, right?”
After seeing the fields and furrows, Mas felt a little more open to the landscape of Seabrook, but the ground still seemed foreign. California had sandy loam, loose soil that allowed for the best strawberries and flowers in the nation, but everything here seemed dense, immovable. Sticky adobe soil. A farmer’s nightmare.
Even as the sun was starting to set, the open space didn’t seem right. Usually dusk brought a hush, a fuzzy hopefulness that with the end of this day, the next would be better. All Mas felt right now, however, was dread. That somehow crows and nocturnal pests would crowd into the fields to take them over.
They stopped by a small roadside diner that Kevin had recommended. Mari stayed outside for a while to call the hospital and check on Takeo. When she joined Mas and Tug in a red leather booth, her face looked relaxed. “Takeo’s doing well,” she said, slipping in beside Tug. “He’ll be coming home tomorrow.”
“Thank God,” Tug said, grabbing her hand. She rested her small head on Tug’s shoulder. With her short hair, she looked like a sparrow digging into her nest. “Thanks, Uncle Tug.”
Mas felt awkward. Shouldn’t he be the one comforting his daughter? He should be happy with the news about Takeo, yet, at the same time, he felt painfully inadequate. “Yah, good news, good news,” he finally said.
The simple menus-a single page laminated in plastic-came with hot coffee in heavy white ceramic cups.
“Dad, you should order the Philly cheesesteak. That’s the specialty here.”
“Oh, yah,” Mas said, grateful that his daughter was thinking about what he might enjoy.
He was surprised, however, when the waitress placed a long sandwich, instead of a slab of red meat, on a plate in front of him. Nanda, sandwich? I could have a sandwich any day, he thought. But today should not end with monku, a litany of complaints. Saying nothing, Mas stuffed his mouth with one end of the sandwich.
Mas was pleasantly surprised. “ Oishii, ” he declared. The bread was soft, just as he liked it. And the steak, tender, like slices of sukiyaki meat. And plenty of fried onions, lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese to bring the flavors together.
“See, Dad, I told you,” said Mari, chewing on her sandwich. “I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”
Tug had remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout the whole meal. He excused himself and left the table for a long time, long enough for Mas to worry that the cheesesteak had upset Tug’s stomach. If that was the case, it was only a matter of time before Mas and Mari were its next victims.