Black Wind Read online

  I glanced over at the small Shinto shrine—little more than a raised platform before a small painted screen in the corner—where his daisho sat on the black lacquered rack, the big katana mounted over the shorter wakizashi. To think that those swords had actually killed someone—many someones, according to Nagata, who claimed the blades were hundreds of years old.

  Our flower arrangements were finally finished. Nagata's was beautiful, a perfect balance of budding gladiolas with leaves and arching twigs winding over and through the design. Next to his, Matsuo's and mine looked like wild brambles.

  We all shared some cold rice balls and vegetables Oba-san had left behind. I cleaned my plate, especially my rice, remembering Oba-san's persistent warning that every wasted grain became a wart on a loved one's face.

  When the meal was over, we stood and I bowed, offering my host the humblest of thank-yous. "Katajikenai, Nagata-san."

  He bowed in return.

  Then Matsuo said to me, "I have to go to work."

  "So early?"

  "Izumi-san wants me to give the store a good sweeping before it gets too crowded this afternoon."

  I was disappointed. Now I'd have to spend the day alone. In the summer Matsuo worked in Japantown most mornings and every Saturday afternoon, but usually he didn't have to go in this early.

  "Come with me."

  "Oh, I don't know..."

  I got bored hanging around the store while Matsuo worked. I liked to practice my Japanese on the issei who bought vegetables at Izumi's yao-ya, but that got tiring after a while.

  "Come with me, Frankie," Matsuo said with an intense expression.

  "Okay. Sure."

  I hung my furin on the hook outside the door until later, put on my shoes, and followed Matsuo down the driveway. We had a fair distance to walk to the sixteen or so square blocks on the southern slope of Pacific Heights known as Nihonmachi to its residents, Japantown to the rest of us.

  We headed over toward California Street. The houses up here in Seacliff where I lived were big and new with lawns and gardens. They got smaller and closer together as we neared California where we stole aboard a passing cable car, clinging to the brass rail and squatting low on the back steps until the conductor spotted us and kicked us off. It was mostly downhill from Seacliff to Nihonmachi, but forty blocks is forty blocks.

  We walked down for a while, eyes ahead to the long upward slope waiting for us. The sun was bright and hot, glaring off the sidewalks and the curved glass windows of the turrets of the Victorian houses lined side by side along our way. These were old, some falling apart, some in excellent repair. They had been old before we were born, survivors of the great quake and fire back in '03.

  We were clinging to our third California Street cable car when we reached Japantown. I readied myself to jump off at Fillmore, but Matsuo grabbed my arm and shook his head. So we hung on all the way up the near-vertical slope of Nob Hill where the imposing bulks of Grace Cathedral and the Union Pacific Club and the ritzy hotels ruled. I could see the bay glittering behind the tower of the Ferry Building far below as we crested the hill and began the giddy descent. Matsuo nudged me off when we reached Powell Street.

  "Where're we going?"

  He smiled. "Follow me."

  As usual, I did.

  We hopped a southbound cable car for the steep ride down to Market Street where we jumped off again. I now had a pretty good idea what Matsuo had in mind. The guy was crazy about movies, and Market Street had most of the city's theaters—the President, the Imperial, the Capitol, the St. Francis, the Granada, the California, and the Golden Gate, all within a few blocks.

  We were both immediately attracted by the posters at the St. Francis for The Flaming Frontier, all about Custer's last stand. The poster of Olive Borden in a sarong for Yellow Fingers at the California was tempting, but we kept looking.

  The city was pancake flat down here and the walking was easy. We strolled up and down Market, perusing the posters, and passed a small shop with a smashed front window. I could still read NAKAMURA LAUNDRY on the upper part of the glass. A board had been nailed up to cover the break, and someone had stuck a poster to the board. We stopped to read it:

  JAPS

  You came to care for lawns,

  we stood for it

  You came to work in truck gardens,

  we stood for it

  You sent your children to our public schools,

  we stood for it

  You moved a few families in our midst,

  we stood for it

  You try to open businesses in all our neighborhoods

  BUT

  WE WON'T STAND FOR IT

  You impose more on us each day

  until you have gone your limit

  WE DON'T WANT YOU WITH US

  SO GET BUSY JAPS, AND

  GET OUT OF SAN FRANCISCO

  I looked at Matsuo but his face was impassive. He glanced at me with a wry smile and shrugged.

  "Some of Mr. Hearst's friends, I imagine."

  I forced a laugh. This sort of thing embarrassed me. The Anti-Japanese Laundry League had been quieter since the Immigration Act reduced the Japanese quota to zero two years ago, but its nastiness still popped up once in a while. I supposed they were angry that the government hadn't kicked out the Japanese who were already here.

  We walked on and, because of its suggestive poster, finally settled on Pola Negri in Good and Naughty at the Granada. We faced a major problem, however.

  "I'm broke," I said, checking my pockets. "How about you?"

  "Me too," but he gave me a sly smile as he pulled a paper clip out of his pocket. "That never stopped us before."

  Obviously Matsuo had been planning on a matinee for a while. But he had to be sneaky about it—Nagata disapproved of movies.

  "What about work?"

  "I can be late."

  I couldn't help laughing. "Let's go."

  We ran through the alley to the rear of the building where a warped old delivery door led to the basement. Matsuo straightened the paper clip, rebent it his own way, then began to play it in and out of the lock, twisting it this way and that with his eyes closed. Suddenly came a soft click. The door swung open, and we were in. The Granada hadn't put on a live performance in years, so we were alone backstage with the dark and the dust. When the show started, we sneaked up into the ghost-lit area behind the screen and belly-crawled down from the stage to the seats. No one saw us.

  We sat in the third row and watched Charlie Chaplin dunk a man's beard in soup. Matsuo guffawed so hard I thought he would choke. His uncontrolled laughter got me going, too, until I was afraid the ushers would come by and ask us for our tickets. Chaplin always did that to him. I think the little man's complete lack of reserve and total disregard for common decorum outraged Matsuo's Japanese sensibilities to the point where he had to laugh hysterically or flee the theater.

  Then came the feature. During the credits, Matsuo nudged me out of my seat and we trotted up a side aisle to the balcony stairs. Up in the loge, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a familiar green pack: Lucky Strikes. We lit one of the rumpled cigarettes and passed it back and forth between us. I practiced my smoke rings and Matsuo made no sound from then on. Pola Negri was on the screen and he was mesmerized. We finished a second cigarette by the time "THE END" appeared.

  "Good movie," he said as we wandered out toward daylight.

  "It was okay."

  I hadn't found it particularly interesting. In fact, I was disappointed. The poster had been far more risqué than the movie itself. But I was feeling good, even a little lightheaded from that second cigarette.

  Then I spotted a familiar figure outside and everything changed.

  "Let's wait here for a while," I said, stopping at the top of the front ramp that led to the street.

  "What's wrong?"

  I pointed to a group of boys leaning on a car outside the theater. "Look."

  Mick McGarrigle and his crew were hanging around out f
ront. Beefy and round-faced, with red hair sprouting at all angles from under the dirty plaid cloth cap he always wore, he was a year older and at least an inch taller than either of us, although he was still in our grade level at school.

  Mick terrified me. I had only to catch sight of him, even from this far away, and I’d feel a need to pee. Mick—my nemesis from first grade. He had taken one look at my port wine stain and that was it—I became "Spot," his favorite target.

  Maybe if I had been a different sort, I could have changed things before they got this bad. Maybe if I had taken a swing at his nose every time he called me Spot back when we were six years old, he might have found another target. But I had only cried and turned tail. Maybe because I felt like someone named Spot. It was too late to change matters now. Our roles were set: Mick was the bully; I was the victim.

  God, how I hated it. I dreamed of striking back, vowing to launch myself at his throat the next time he called me Spot. But I never did. Just seeing him made me feel like a whipped pup.

  Matsuo was his other favorite target. At times it seemed as if we were both born to be picked on by Mick McGarrigle. Lots of kids picked on Matsuo, though, just because he was Japanese. Dad once explained that to me in his usual style by saying, “The country's going through a particularly virulent period of xenophobia, especially here in California.” I eventually got him to explain that he meant that people hated foreigners just because they were foreign.

  Maybe that was why Matsuo never fought back. He probably knew he would catch the blame for any fight, no matter what the provocation. So Mick pushed him around, just like me.

  But somehow, Matsuo never seemed like a victim.

  We waited and waited. I was about to suggest sneaking out the back way when Mick and his four pack dogs finally moved on. We came out blinking in the sunlight, ready to make our way uphill to Nihonmachi, when I heard the nasty, grating voice that never failed to form spicules of ice in my stomach.

  "Well, well! If it ain't Chinky-boy and his pet dog, Spot!"

  I turned and saw Mick stepping out from where he and his boys had been leaning against the wall. He blocked our way. The blue eyes that peered out from the mass of freckles under the peak of his cap held the unmistakable vicious glint that bullies always seem to develop.

  * * *

  Mick watched Spot Slater's face pale to a sick white when he turned and saw him. He called it the White Look—white with fear. Only a few kids could he count on every time for the White Look, and Slater was one. He used to hate them for being such pantywaists, but now he felt mostly contempt and something akin to affection. The White Look was like a kind of dope. Every so often Mick needed a dose to make him feel good, needed to know that all he had to do was appear on a street or a playground and certain kids would want to be sick. It also meant that he had to do something to the kid to keep him ripe. Let him pass too often without something to remember Mick McGarrigle by and pretty soon the White Look would die out.

  He’d seen Slater duck back into the Granada and had decided to wait. It was a dull Saturday and he needed a dose.

  "Hey!" he shouted and gave Slater and the Jap kid each a shove hefty enough to send them sprawling. "You was gettin' yer shadows on me!"

  Jack, Jerry, Vinny, and Al all got a laugh out of that. Good old Spot Slater looked like he was going to pee in his pants. His eyes were down on the ground, staring at everybody's shoes. The Jap kid pulled on Spot's arm.

  "Come on," he said in a low voice. "We'll go this way."

  They turned and started to walk off the other way, but not before the Jap kid flashed Mick his own look, the one he always flashed, as if to say Mick McGarrigle was a piece of shit.

  God, how he hated Japs. All Japs, but especially this one, this Matsuo Okumo or whatever his name was. Mick called him Chinky-boy because Matsuo seemed to hate being taken for Chinese. Mick didn't know why. According to his father, Japs were a thousand times worse than Chinks. Chinks at least knew their place, but Japs—Japs were why Pop was out of work so much. At least that was what he said. And when he was out of work, he drank more. And when Pop was on a bender, everyone knew—Mom and all the kids—to walk on eggshells. Sometimes he could make Pop laugh and get him in a good mood by telling him how he had made some Jap kid or a rich sissy like Spot Slater crawl. And then Pop might take him down to O'Boyle's pool hall and show him some shots. But sometimes nothing would get him in a good mood.

  Mick felt a sudden burst of rage watching Spot and Chinky-boy move off. He ran up and wrapped an arm across Spot's throat and whipped him around so he was facing the guys.

  "Lookit here!" he shouted, using his free hand to pull Spot's hair up off his forehead. "I had a dog once with a spot like this, only the dog's was brown. He was kinda cute. But this is ugly."

  The guys roared. Mick glanced around at Spot's face and saw how red it was. A little bit tighter and maybe he'd start blubbering like a girl. Mick held him securely around the neck, but took no special precautions against him. Some other kid, held this way, might kick backward or drive an elbow into Mick's belly, but not Spot. Spot was too well trained. Spot knew Mick would beat him bloody if he tried anything stupid.

  Then Mick heard a voice, close to his ear, cutting through the guys' laughter.

  "Hey, Mick. How about it? You and me behind the theater."

  That little Jap bastard. The voice chilled him. So calm, so cool, like nothing in this world scared him.

  Mick let Spot go and faced him. He could see dark fires alight in the Jap's eyes.

  "You lookin' for a fight, Chinky-boy?"

  "Just you and me, alone, behind the theater. Just the two of us. We'll see who walks back out."

  Mick's mind raced. He hadn't expected this. The Jap had never pulled anything like this before. At least he wasn't doing nothing but talking so far. Usually the Jap didn't even talk.

  That day last winter in the boys' room at school when the Jap had come in while Mick was sneaking a smoke, he hadn't talked much then, either. He took one look at Mick and walked by like Mick wasn't even there. Just like Pop always said—these Japs don't know their place. It had got Mick mad. No one else about, so Mick decided to stick Chinky-boy's head in one of the toilets—that would give Pop a laugh for sure.

  He had gone over to start things off by giving the little yellowface a casual shove as a kind of warm-up. But as soon as his hand touched the Jap, he felt himself twisted around and slammed against the wall. He thought he must have slipped so he charged right back. But this time he felt his arm grabbed and his feet coming up off the tiles as the Jap rolled him over his hip and somehow threw him. He landed flat on his back on the floor. With all the wind knocked out of him, he fought for breath while the Jap kid looked down at him with that expressionless, slanty-eyed face of his and walked out, not saying a word.

  Mick knew he couldn't face anything like that behind the Granada, and especially not out here in front of the guys. They would help him out for sure, but he hated the thought of them knowing he needed help handling anyone.

  "Don't make me laugh!" he said good and loud, slapping his thigh. "I'd be afraid I'd kill you. And besides, my dad'd kill me for getting Chink blood on my hands." As the guys laughed at this, he shoved Spot toward the Jap. "Take your pet back to Japtown while you can still walk, Chinky-boy."

  Mick signaled to the gang to follow and they all trotted up behind him. But as he crossed Market Street, he glanced back at the Jap and the rich kid. He saw Spot sneak a backward look of his own, but the Jap kept on walking like nothing had happened.

  God, how he hated Japs.

  * * *

  It took me a block or two to overcome my shame. I finally spoke to Matsuo as we turned a corner.

  "Why is he afraid of you?"

  "All bullies are cowards inside. Surely you know that, Frankie."

  "I've been told that, but I've never seen it."

  "It's true. Nagata says so."

  Matsuo's eyes were guileless as he spoke, but I had
a definite feeling he was holding something back.

  "I honor Nagata-san's words," I said, "but I know that if I had invited Mick behind the theater, he'd have been there in a flash."

  Matsuo shrugged. "Maybe."

  Something wasn't adding up. After Mick had let me go at Matsuo's challenge, I saw something flit across his pudgy, bully face, something I never thought I'd see there: fear. Mick was afraid to face Matsuo alone. Why? He had used Matsuo as a public punching bag for half of his life. It didn't make sense. I wondered what I'd learn if I kept a closer eye on my friend.

  * * *

  Matsuo swept the floor of Izumi-san's store and thought about the nightmare. It had left him alone since the spring, and now it was back. Those hideous, crawling, creeping forms—why should they want to kill him? What did it all mean? It made him afraid to go to sleep. Only the katana seemed to protect him from the dream. That was eerie. Almost as eerie as the dream itself.

  He would have preferred to dream of Japan. Although born there, he had lived in America since infancy and had no memory of home. But he knew from Nagata's stories that it was a wonderful, magical place, close to the hearts of the gods, where the land trembled and the mountains spewed forth smoke and fire. And Nagata should know. He had lived there all his life before coming to America to raise Matsuo according to Father's wishes.

  Besides all that, Japan was where Father lived: Baron Okumo, who existed only in photos and in the stories Nagata told about him. His brother, Hiroki, four years his senior, was there, too. All he knew about his brother he had learned from Nagata who had last seen him as a small boy.

  Japan sounded like paradise. But then, anywhere would be better than living here among these mean-spirited Westerners.

  "Haku! Haku!" Izumi said, gesturing to Matsuo's immobile broom.