Sachie cursed when she heard her mother pull into the driveway in front of the shop; she
took one last drag on her cigarette, extinguished it in a potted plant, and then popped a
breath freshener in her mouth.
“I can smell it,” said Yukino when Sachie entered the kitchen.
Sachie rolled her eyes and then grabbed the air freshener off the shelf and
sprayed a little in the air as well as a touch on her clothes.
“No more smell now,” said Yukino, smiling.
Sachie sat down and poured herself some tea. She could hear her grandfather
cleaning the mess in the shop. “What are you doing this afternoon?”
“Uh…nothing much…just going on…a date,” she replied, letting the words slip
out slowly.
“Who with?” Sachie asked. Her tone was more a demand than a question.
“I’m not telling you,” she said, smiling mischievously.
“Whatever,” she said, taking a rice cracker from the tray and opening it.
Yukino felt a little taken aback that her cousin wasn’t interested in whom she
was going on a date with. “He’s taking me shopping in Kamaishi and then dinner,” she
said, with a mixture of pride and fuck you, cousin Sachie.
“How are you going to Kamaishi?”
“By car. He’s got a Fairlady-Z,” she replied quickly but knew straight away she
had let the cat out of the bag.
“Fairlady-Z,” said Sachie, grinning. “Mmm…who’s got that type of car? I only
know one idiot, Yuta, whose uncle has a Fairlady-Z.”
Yukino blushed.
“It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Someone else,” she replied, but the blush gave away the lie.
“Someone with brains would be better!”
Anger surged up in Yukino, I’ll tell her about Tomo, she thought . That’ll shut
her smart mouth.
“Tadaima. I’m back,” came a voice from the shop.
The interruption stopped Yukino’s anger from exploding.
“Okaeri. Welcome back,” both girls said together.
Kumiko pushed back the noren (a short door curtain that gave privacy to an
adjoining room.) “Something smells nice,” she said, taking off her shoes and putting the
shopping bags on the table. “It’s so nice to see you two together.”
Both girls smiled and nodded innocently.
“Could you give your grandpa a hand? We have to open the shop soon,” she
said, taking rice and vegetables from the bags.
“But the window is broken,” said Yukino.
“That’s OK. We will leave that shutter down today. Mr. Fuji is coming to fix it
tomorrow.”
“OK,” said Yukino.
“I’ll be upstairs getting things ready for your father’s return,” she said to Sachie.
Yukino glared at Sachie, but her cousin met her glare mouthing the silent words,
“No brains.”
Yukino face turned scarlet with rage, but she controlled it. She wasn’t ready to
let her cousin know the secret – the dark secret about Tomo. Instead she forced a smiled
and entered the store.
Sachie a little disappointed Yukino hadn’t erupted with rage followed.
“Grandpa, what can we help you with?” asked Yukino.
“I’ve just about finished. Just need to stack those things on the shelves,” he said,
pointing to the packets of instant noodles on the floor.
Sachie stopped and stared out the door. She could hear her mother in the room
above the shop. Her thoughts went back to the day of her father’s accident. It was two
years ago, January 1st, the Japanese New Year and national holiday. Everything had
started out as usual; her parents and older sister had eaten a traditional New Year’s
breakfast together: rice cakes grilled and wrapped in dried seaweed or mixed in soup.
They had even had a cup of sake—this custom traditionally from China. On the night of
December 31, they soaked ten powdered Chinese medicines in sake and mirin (rice wine
used as flavoring in cookery). This was drunk after prayers the next morning and
represented a long life and the expulsion of bad spirits from the body. The powders were
also good for preventing hangovers that were certain to follow the binge drinking and
eating that would continue for the next three days. In fact, the Japanese consume more
alcohol in those three days than any other festival in the world, including the German beer
festival. After breakfast, Sachie and her sister helped their mother prepare Osechi Mono, a
square lacquered tray, decorated with various traditional foods, such as boiled seaweed,
fish cakes, mashed sweet potato with chestnuts, simmered burdock root, sweetened black
soybeans, sashimi, and others delicacies. They had then prepared Otoshidama, a custom
of giving ones relatives’ children money in decorated envelopes. Soon after, her cousins,
uncles, and aunts had arrived, and the drinking, eating, stories, jokes, and gossip had
started. Yukino arrived around three in the afternoon with her parents, and that’s when
things began to go wrong. Damn, she thought, I wish it had never happened. A tear spilt
from her eye and slid down her cheek.
“Aren’t you going to give Yukino a hand?” called her grandfather.
“Of course,” she replied. She wiped the tear from her cheek and walked over to
Yukino and began helping her stack the noodles on the shelf.
Yukino noticed her watery eyes but said nothing.
Their grandfather opened the shop door and placed a few boxes of locally grown
vegetables outside.
“Ohayo. Morning,” came a voice.
He looked up to see Hiro, a teacher at Nakamaru School buying a can of iced
coffee from the vending machine. “Ohayo, I thought the school was cancelled because of
the earthquake.”
Hiro was in his early twenties, good-looking and polite, fresh out of college. He
had moved to Otsuchi from Sapporo a year ago and often shopped at their store, but their
grandfather was suspicious about his motives, as Hiro always seemed to turn up when
Sachie was working the cash register—not that she paid him any attention. “Just rumors.
It has to be something extremely terrible for school–”
Just then the chime of the town speakers echoed through the streets followed by
some announcements, one of which confirmed school was not cancelled.
“It’s better for the children. It will take their minds off the quakes we’ve been
having,” said the teacher, opening the coffee and knocking it down in two gulps. He
threw the empty can in the trashcan and then bowed and got on his motorbike and
disappeared down the lane.
Mr. Yahata went back in the shop. “Yukino, could you work the cash register until
Mrs. Watenabe comes? She said she will be a few hours late because of the earthquake.”
“Yes, but I don’t know how to work it.”
Turning to Sachie, their grandfather said, “Would you mind showing Yukino?”
Sachie looked at her watch impatiently. “No,” she grunted. “But you’d better be a
quick learner.”
Their grandfather chuckled. “Going to meet someone, are you?”
Sachie didn’t reply, just went over to the cash register and pressed a button and
the drawer rang open.
Their grandfather raised the shutter of the unbroken window and said, “All right,
let’s open shall we!”
“OK,” both girls replied together.
There was a clang, clang, clang, and an old red fire engine that looked like it was
out of the sixties, polished and in immaculate condition, pulled up in front of the store.
A young man swung from the driver’s cabin. “Morning.”
“Morning,” replied Mr. Yahata. “How old is that fire engine?”
“It was manufactured in 1968,” he replied proudly.
“It looks brand new,” said Mr. Yahata, walking over and running his hand along the
side.
“As good as the day it was made.”
The Japanese fire department still kept a lot of their vintage vehicles—more for show
than firefighting. Their real fire trucks were the most up-to-date in the world.
“That was quite a big earthquake, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and I see your shop has been damaged,” he said, eyeing the heap of broken
glass and bottles stacked up against the closed shutter.
“Well, at least no one was hurt.”
“That’s right,” the young firefighter said. His name was Tatsuya, a local lad who
had grown up in the town. Taller than usual for Japanese and married with two young
daughters, he had recently been promoted to second in command of the Otsuchi fire
station.
“Did the tsunami gates close properly?”
“Yes, they automatically closed,” replied Tatsuya.
“How about the manual ones?”
“No problems. All the volunteers closed them in time,” said Tatsuya.
“That’s good.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t like to have to manually close the automatic gates if there was a
power outage; they are incredibly big and heavy.
“I hope that day never comes.”
“Me too.”
After World War II, the Japanese built cement breakwater walls along one-third of
their coast. The Japanese coastal defense is longer than the Great Wall of China and was
constructed because of the huge shift of population from the inner farmlands to urban
coastal areas after the war. Of the 125 million Japanese, nearly 80 percent, or 100 million,
live in or near coastal urban areas. Almost 45 percent of Japan’s land area, mostly in the
interior, is now considered ‘depopulated’ and is eligible for special funding.
“The store is open,” Mr. Yahata said, gesturing to the door.
“ Yes, but I have come to ask you something.”
“Yes, what it is?”
“You are a friend of Nemoto-san, aren’t you?
“Yes. Why?”
“He hasn’t returned to port.”
Mr. Yahata eyed the firefighter seriously. “When was he due to return?”
“This morning.”
“Did he tell you where he was planning to go?”
Mr. Yahata thought for a moment and then looked at his watch, twenty past ten. “Yes,
he said that his grandson had agreed to go fishing with him. He was very excited because
the boy usually refused. The old bugger has some foolish notion that the boy wants to
become a fisherman like him.” He paused and thought for a moment. “He said they would
trawl just off the coast. I wouldn’t worry about him too much; he probably headed out to
sea after the quake to escape the possibility of a tsunami. He’ll be back soon.”
“I guess you’re right,”
“Of course I am. He’s going to keep his grandson out at sea as long as he can.”
Tatsuya took off his cap and bowed deeply. “Thank you very much.”
Mr. Yahata returned the bow but not as deep to confirm his authority as the elder.
“You’re welcome.”
Tatsuya climbed back into the driver’s cabin and closed the door and drove off.
“Morning, Grandpa,” called a boy from behind him.
The Mr. Yahata turned to face the boy. “Good morning Ryo-kun,” he said, smiling.
Ryo wasn’t his grandson but a neighborhood boy who often stopped by the store and
had become friends with Mr. Yahata. Japanese often call people who they are close to by
family titles, such as older and younger brother or sister, father or mother, or grandfather
or grandmother. The suffix ‘san’ is added at the end of a person’s name to add respect,
but if the people are close, then it is replaced with the suffix ‘chan’, usually for woman,
but can be used for men instead of the more masculine term ‘kun’, as in Ryo-kun.
“That was a big earthquake earlier,” said Ryo.
“Yes, it was,” replied Mr. Yahata.
Lined up behind Ryo were six other children, three boys and three girls, all younger
than him. Japanese elementary children don’t use school buses but instead walk to school
in groups—except in rare circumstances when the distance is too far. They meet at a
designated place—a shop, corner, or bus stop. One of the elder children, usually a sixth
grader, is appointed leader and is responsible for the group.
Ryo was leader of his group and was proud of the discipline he had instilled. He
turned and eyed his troops, who stood at attention in a straight line. “Who needs to buy a
notebook?” he asked.
A small hand rose from the middle of the line. “Watashi. Me,” said Erica, a cute third
grade girl.
“To the front now,” ordered Ryo.
Erica quickly shuffled to the front and stood at attention. She was wearing a yellow
hat, a pink jacket with Mickey Mouse embossed on the right chest, denim shorts, long
pink and white polka dot socks, and white running shoes. On her back she carried a red
leather rucksack. Most Japanese public elementary schools don’t have uniforms except
for a yellow hat and leather rucksacks, usually red for girls and black for boys.
Ryo spoke with authority. “You know we are not supposed to enter any shops on the
way to school.”
“I’m sorry,” Erica said. Her head bowed toward the ground.
“You know I could lose my position if anyone finds out.”
“I’m sorry,” she muttered.
The other children stood in silence, eyes cast down, listening to the unfolding drama.
“What do you think I should do?” His voice was stern.
“What?” she asked uncertainly.
“Ryo-kun,” interrupted Mr. Yahata, “speak kindly; you’re scaring her.”
Embarrassed, Ryo bowed deeply and then it was his turn to say, “I’m sorry.”
Mr. Yahata smiled and said, “It’s OK.”
Ryo bowed again. “Excuse me.”
“Erica, go and get your notebook. I’ll keep it secret that you came to the shop,” said
Mr. Yahata, gesturing to the door.
She bowed and then entered the shop.
Mr. Yahata looked at the other children, who were now watching, with wide eyes, the
sudden change in authority. “Everyone go and get a drink; they’re on me!” he said
cheerfully.
“Great!” The children yelled in unison and rushed past him into the shop.
“You too!” he said to Ryo.
“Thank you,” he said, bowing and then racing into the shop. The children were
pushing and shoving at the cooler. “Line up!” Ryo ordered, taking charge again.
The children quickly formed a line.
“When you’ve got a drink, take it to the counter.”
Yukino and Sachie watched with amusement from the counter.
The first boy came to the counter holding a can of soda. Sachie took the can and
punched in the price and handed it back to him. He was seven years old and as skinny as
a stick. He wore a blue jacket, brown trousers, and red sneakers; his big brown eyes
stared out from black-framed glasses.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” asked Yukino.
The boy looked up and said without hesitation, “A policeman.”
“That would be nice,” said Yukino.
The boy didn’t answer, just stared back as if he was more superior than the girls, and
then walked out of the shop. The idea that women are inferior to men is ingrained into the
Japanese male from a very young age. However, the mothers and grandmothers do most
of the instilling, and one must step back and put the picture into perspective. Japanese
women may play the role of the inferior, but the facts must be considered; Japanese
women control the household and the money, thus controlling the men. There are two
types of Japanese men: one who finds it convenient and appreciates his wife looking after
the household and finances and the other who is completely ignorant to this fact and
thinks he is in control.
The two other boys came to the counter and Yukino and Sachie had trouble not
laughing. The boys were perhaps ten and eleven. The older one was fat, wearing a white
PlayStation long-sleeved shirt, complete with breakfast stains, baggy black shorts that
hung too low because of his protruding tummy, and bright green Crocs. His brother, also
overweight, wore a purple long-sleeved shirt with a picture of a tyrannosaurus, white
grubby shorts, and purple Crocs.
Sachie took the two cans of Diet Coke and smiled. She showed Yukino how to use
the cash register and then handed the drinks back to the boys.
“What do you to want to be when you grow up?” Yukino asked.
Sachie sighed. “Are you going to ask them all the same question.”
Yukino ignored her cousin. “What do want to be when you grow up?”
They looked at her as if she was an alien, speaking an unknown language.
She repeated the question again and the two brothers stared at her as if she was some
sort of freak. They then looked at each other, as if trying to make some sense of her
idiocy, gave up such a burdensome task immediately, shrugged their shoulders, and left
the shop.
“Bit too much for the intellectual males,” said Sachie, grinning.
Yukino nodded reluctantly and watched the two fat brothers scarf down the drinks
outside the shop.
Next came two girls aged around nine. One had short straight hair and was wearing a
white jacket, a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, a flower-patterned skirt, short pink socks, and
white running shoes. The other wore a yellow jacket, an identical Mickey Mouse T-shirt,
brown shorts, white socks, and black shoes. Her hair was plaited, and she was twirling
one with her finger.
“Welcome,” said Yukino.
“We will take these,” the girls said in unison, putting the cans of orange juice on the
counter.
Sachie took the cans and punched the prices in.
Yukino put the same question to the girls.
“Not again,” said Sachie scowling.
The one twirling the plait said, “I want to be a vet.”
“Do you have any pets?” asked Yukino.
“Yes, I have a dog.”
“What’s his name?”
“Chibi.”
“How about you? What do you want to be?” she asked, turning her attention to the
other girl.
“I want to own my own flower shop,” she replied.
“That’s what I wanted to do when I was your age.”
The girl stared up at her as if to say, so now what do you want to be?
Sachie, picking up on the girl’s expression, handed the drinks back and whispered,
“She’s working here to save money to start her own flower shop.”
The girls smiled and said, “One-chan ganbatte ne. Try your best, older sister.”
The girls took their drinks and left the shop.
“Thank you,” said Yukino.
Sachie rolled her eyes back in an exasperated look. “You’re welcome.”
The last girl, a notebook clutched in one hand and a can of Sprite in the other, came to
the counter.
The troublemaker,” whispered Sachie.
“Be quiet,” Yukino whispered back.
“You do the till this time,” said Sachie.
The girl handed her the book and drink.
“What’s your name?” asked Yukino.
“Erica,” replied the girl shyly.
“Don’t forget to charge her for the notebook,” said Sachie.
“I’ll pay for it,” said Yukino.
Erica took out some coins and put them on the counter.
Yukino shook her head. “It’s all right,” she said, pushing the coins back.
Erica took a chocolate bar from the box on the counter and pushed the coins back.
Sachie broke out laughing and then asked, “What do you want to be when you grow
up?”
Erica smiled innocently. “I want to be a rich woman.”
Sachie laughed again. “I think you will be.”
Yukino grinned awkwardly and handed the notebook and the drink back to her.
Their grandfather entered the shop. “What lovely children,” he said, smiling gleefully.
“Very cute,” said Sachie with a note of sarcasm in her voice.
Their grandfather looked at the cash register. “That’s a big bill for six juices.”
Sachie looked at Yukino. “Baka. Idiot,” she said. “You pushed the wrong button.”
“Show her again,” said their grandfather. I have to go to the post office.
I will be back shortly.
Sachie scowled at Yukino. “It’s probably better that you date a no-brainer.”
**
Captain Mackeller and his copilot left the morning briefing. They were to fly a routine
training mission to Sendai airbase in Miyagi prefecture; about one hundred kilometers
north of Fukushima nuclear power station.
“Strange that we’ve been ordered north today, don’t you think?” said his copilot.
“Very,” Mackeller replied.
Minutes later, the blades of the chopper were thumping overhead. Mackeller
eased the joystick back and the chopper lifted from the deck. He banked the craft left and
flew north towards Sendai.
Forty minutes later, Mackeller pointed down. “That’s the Daiichi power plant.”
His copilot looked down. There were four reactors building in the northern end
of the plant and two in the southern part. “What’s Daichi mean?”
“Number One plant.”
“What’s that one?” he asked, pointing to the two reactor buildings in the southern
part of the plant.
“That the Daini, Number Two plant.”
“Six reactors,” he said.
“Yeah, I know. They have a total of fifty-four reactors in Japan.”
“Doesn’t sound like such a good idea considering the countless earthquakes
Japan has every year.”
Mackeller nodded. “And they’re all built on the coastline; very prone to
tsunamis.”
“Which plant gets damaged in your dream?”
“The Daiichi plant,” said Mackeller, banking the chopper out to sea.
“Did you know during World War II, the New Zealand military initiated a project
named Project Seal. The purpose was to create a tsunami using explosives—its primary
target was Japan. They called it the Tsunami Bomb and between1944 and 1945, they did
4,000 tests, but it was closed down because they failed to generate sufficient force to
create a tsunami.”
“Interesting,” said the copilot.
**
Sachie pushed the buttons one more time and the cash drawer sprang open. “Do you
understand?” she asked irritably.
“Yes, I’ve got it,” Yukino replied.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Sachie’s phone rang.
“Him,” Yukino said mockingly.
Sachie gave her a wicked look and flipped open her phone and went outside.
Yukino went over near the door and pretended to arrange some goods on the
shelf.
“I’m fine. What’s up?”
Pause.
“Really?”
“It’s OK,” she replied. But she couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice.
Pause.
“What time?”
Pause.
“I’ll be waiting.”
Pause.
“Me too,” she said softly and hung up. She turned and glared at Yukino.
Yukino flinched at the hostile glare.
Sachie stomped back into the shop. “Idiot,” she blurted. “If I hadn’t had to teach
you how to use this dumb cash register, he wouldn’t have postponed our date.”
“Who?” asked Yukino.
Sachie’s eyes narrowed and Yukino took a step back.
“Good day,” came a voice from the door.
Mrs. Sasaki stood in the doorway. She was at least eighty, perhaps ninety; no
one really knew her age—probably not even her. She was a widow and lived by herself
on a farm a few kilometers inland. Her face was tanned and weathered, but a beauty still
shone in her brown eyes. She was dressed in a dark blue, long sleeve top, baggy pants,
and black rain boots. Her head was covered by a tenugui, a piece of cloth wrapped around
her head. On her back she carried an empty bamboo woven basket. She was hunched