He was not so lucky once he was out of the building. Mr. Satsugai was walking toward Max's car from the opposite way, as if the minister had been walking down the hill, then had changed his mind.
"Captain," he said as they intersected, "I'm glad I caught you."
It was wearing to keep on a mask of civility right now. But somehow, Max managed. His driver opened the back door for him and he slipped through, one foot inside the running board, one foot still in the dust. "Something I can do for you, Mr. Satsugai?"
"Join me for tea."
"Now?"
"If you can. If not, this evening perhaps. I have a committee meeting but it isn't until --"
Max leaned out to grasp the door's inward handle. "Thank you for thinking of me, but my schedule won't allow. Another time, maybe."
He would have pulled the door closed, but the minister firmly curled his fingers around the window frame and came in close. "Captain. What possible harm could it do?"
Max drew his tongue between his upper lip and teeth, considering his reply. "What do you have in mind?"
"Just some conversation. Maybe we'll gain a little insight, if we're lucky."
"Meaning me," Max said.
"Meaning both of us."
Max was equally reluctant and intrigued. He didn't really understand what the minister was up to, because he didn't know just how much this preacher and Mrs. Tebbe shared. He didn't want to think about it either, and something competitive in him made him answer. "All right. Tonight?"
"What time?" the minister asked.
"Make it easy on yourself."
"5:00? I'm in the bachelor quarters of Block Four."
Bachelor quarters, was it.
"See you then."
/ / / /
Max stepped from the car and squinted in a useless attempt to see well. He assumed the man opening the last door on the barracks' north end was Mr. Satsugai. The man had the strong, upright stature of prime age. It was his voice, as Max approached, that confirmed who he was.
"Hello, again. I'm glad you could make it."
Max mounted the steps and accepted the minister's outstretched hand. Mr. Satsugai looked past him a moment and called to Max's driver, "Corporal, may I get you some tea while you wait?"
"No, thanks."
"Some water, perhaps."
"Naw."
Mr. Satsugai returned his attention to Max. "Come in, please."
Just inside, Max was asked to leave his shoes on the nubby little rug.
"It helps control the dust," the minister said.
Satsugai's own black wingtips were there along side a pair of blocky, wooden creations, obviously homemade. The minister himself wore a pair of house slippers.
"Sorry I can't offer you the same," he said. "My only pair."
Maxwell felt uneasy in stocking feet and uniform, but he tried to make light of it by joking, "How about if I wear these?"
He picked up one of the homemade jobs. A sturdy cord was set into a flat, uncomfortable-looking piece of oak bullied into an oval. The cord looped around to fit between the wearer's first and second toes. Max turned it upside down and ran a thumb across two cross pieces at toe and heel, which held the sole about two-inches above the ground.
"Getas," Mr. Satsugai said, naming the odd sandals. He was standing at the table, pulling a tin of Earl Grey from a set of shelves. "They're good for short trips, like to the lavatory. They're indispensable at the showers if you're going to avoid athlete's foot."
Max nodded, his brow raised, admiring the ingenuity. The minister was busy ladling water from a bucket near the stove. While he poured it into a kettle, Max set the geta down and looked around.
A snug place. With the woodburner beginning to stoke, though, Mr. Satsugai asked Max to open the door. Max did, then continued eyeing things up. Most of what he saw seemed standard equipment in the regulation space. A simple, mattressed cot, a home-made closet. A single light fixture over the little table that apparently doubled as the minister's study. A cross was suspended between cot and table.
Besides the cross and the one frame of shelves holding practicalities -the tea, some cocoa, cups, saucers, toiletries- the wall decor was exclusively books. Among them, Satsugai's copy of the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. A Bible, naturally. King James Version. Spengler's The Decline of the West. The Hound of the Baskervilles and, for godsake, The Collected Works of Poe. Mr. Satsugai had a morbid streak.
Max settled into one of the two chairs and watched the minister as he set a few shortbreads on a plate. "You've got your apartment nicely set up, Mr. Satsugai."
Still standing, Satsugai had the advantage. He looked down at Max a moment before sitting as well. "Shortbread, Captain?"
"I'll wait for the tea." The kettle cried out almost before Max had finished.
The minister rose, and Max wished he had never agreed to come. Why had he, anyway? A myriad of reasons had convinced him earlier. Mr. Satsugai was the head of the internee police. It was good politics to make an effort at civility with the camp leadership. Max might gain some insight into the average evacuee mind.
He sincerely wanted to make life as easy as possible for these people. Satsugai's invitation helped him realize that, since the murders, that original objective had faded into the background. He had hoped to recoup some of that core intention.
But now all that seemed superficial, as if he recognized that those reasons were just excuses. Deep down, he was after something else but he couldn't say exactly what. Arthur Satsugai made him feel wary, like that joker Alma Curar had. Come to think of it, the two of them shared the same manner. Kind of smug, as if they held a higher knowledge than other people.
The minister returned with the kettle, set it on a knitted potholder and spooned the tea into the hot water. As he sat down again, Max turned the tea tin to read it.
"Earl Grey," he said. "To be honest, this wasn't what I was expecting."
"Green tea, perhaps, or jasmine?"
"I'm not sure. I suppose."
"Complete with the Ceremony." Mr. Satsugai reached for Max's cup and poured the tea, then turned it methodically in his hands before setting it in front of Max again. "A short and distant variation. Just for you."
Max knew he was being mocked. He didn't touch the cup.
The minister said, "I'm not pretending to be American for you, Captain."
"I don't doubt your citizenship."
"Someone does." Mr. Satsugai glanced at Max's steaming cup. "Don't you like Earl Grey?"
Max reached for it at last. "It's fine," he said before sipping.
"Sugar?"
"No. Thanks."
The minister drank his tea without sugar as well. He picked up a shortbread, but abruptly set it back on the plate. "I'm sorry, Captain," he said. "I'm being a poor host."
"How so?"
"I should be putting you at ease. Instead, I'm posturing. That's not very worthy of my calling, either."
Max appreciated the frankness and repaid it with an attempt at small talk. "Do you have a congregation here in the camp, sir?"
"Yes, I do." Satsugai smiled. "Ito Matsura and I have quite a competition going."
That would be a reference to the Buddhist priest.
"Competition?" Max dared to lighten his voice again. "That doesn't sound very Christian."
Apparently the clergyman accepted the gesture. Still smiling, he nodded. "Christians have been competing since the lion arenas of Rome."
Something about that image made Max uneasy and he changed the subject. "So what's the sermon about this Sunday?"
"I'm still hammering it out. But a conversation I had early last week has inspired me."
"Oh?"
"Living consciously. It seems to me it's more important in these times than ever."
Max was ready to move to another topic now, but before he could swallow his tea, the minister continued.
"What do you think, Captain? Do most of us live consciously?"
Max blotted a moist corner of his mouth with one knuckle. "Well, I'm not sure what you mean."
"Fully aware. Absolutely clear about what motivates us. Or, at least, attempting to be so."
"I'm not sure that's possible."
"Maybe not. But how many of us even try? How many of us think about why we're angry with a loved one or why we concern our prayers with shallow matters."
Mr. Satsugai paused as if to give Max a chance to comment. But Max didn't and was surprised that he hadn't seen what was coming next.
"Or why we react with such fear, collectively, without considering the consequences to our souls."
Now Mr. Satsugai shut up entirely, his face set in conviction, waiting to hear his guest out. Max watched the minister a moment.
"Sir," he began, then paused so he might clearly see just where to place his words. "If you're wondering where my sympathies lie regarding the relocation, they lie with you. They lie with all the good residents of this camp. It chills me, what had to be done. No. It sickens me. Every night, I try to imagine how I would feel if it was me sitting where you are now. Or if I was sitting in a federal prison, knowing my wife and children were here. Wondering when, or even if, I was going to be released to the camp so I could be with them again. It scares the hell out of me to think about what you'll have to go back to when this is all over. And, so, I asked for this duty. I asked for it. It's everything I can do.
"But if you're asking me if I think the relocation must be done, I won't lie to you. I do. We were deceived, Mr. Satsugai, and attacked, even as Japan's own officials were in dialogue with ours. Our Navy is obliterated. Hundreds are dead. With Pearl Harbor gone, the entire west coast of the continent is as bare as a baby's ass and Japan can have us any time she wants. We cannot take chances now. It's galling, but I swear to God, I don't know what else we can do."
The words settled into the air. Mr. Satsugai was looking at him, surprisingly enough, as if he understood.
But he said, "You see, that's my point. ou speak from and about the fear, without questioning it."
"There's a reason to be afraid."
"Yes, there is. And we're all afraid. Our country has been attacked. More than merely attacked, it's just as you said, Captain. We were sucker punched. So, as a nation, we're terrified. But...we've stopped there, haven't we? At the fear. We don't even realize that we're not controlling the terror. The terror is controlling us."
This wasn't going anywhere, Max could see that now. Besides, that goddamned buzzing was threatening like a hornet, creeping behind his right ear. He drained his cup, left his shortbread uneaten.
"Mr. Satsugai, I think you and I are at an impasse. It's just as well that I get back to duty."
The minister sighed, but smiled courteously. "Certainly, Captain. You were game to come. I appreciate that."
They both stood and Satsugai extended his hand. Max clasped it.
"Is that why you invited me here?" Max asked. "To convince me not to be afraid? You've got several million Americans to go."
"Just like I said this morning, to help us both gain a little insight." As the minister eased his grip, he looked curiously at Max's palm. "What's that, Captain, an old tattoo?"
Chapter 21
Tulenar Internment Camp
Sunset. Third Quarter Moon.
Sitting in her living room, gazing at the old newspapers, Doris wondered if she were beginning to slip into an early dementia. No, she comforted herself, it was just the lack of sleep. If she could just get more than a few hours in at night...
Beside the clippings was the telephone, the late day sun spotlighting it through the window. She was going to do it. As if logic and common sense were being beaten into submission by stress and fatigue, she was keenly aware that she was going to do it. Still gazing down at the old front pages, she lifted the receiver and placed the call to Bellingham, Washington.
A gentle, aged woman's voice came on the line. "Good evening, Spinners'."
"Mim?" Doris wondered if her voice sounded strained in its pleasantness. "This is Doris Tebbe..."
"Doris?" The thin voice gained some volume. "Why, good heavens, Doris! How are you, sweetheart?"
"Dazed and confused," Doris replied with a laugh. The old, joking reply brought a relief of nostalgia to her as Mim chortled back.
"It's good to hear your voice, sweetheart. What ever have you been doing with yourself, we thought you'd been swallowed up."
It wasn't like Mim not to read the papers. She let it pass. "I have been swallowed up. I'm working for the War Relocation Authority. I oversee the Tulenar camp."
Mim gave a little gasp, the way she always did just before doling out judgment or approval. "A center administrator?"
"Yep --"
"Doris, how impressive! Oh! I am speechless!" But apparently Doris's dear old friend wasn't, because she gushed on. "Oh! Thank the Lord for my years with the Women's Suffrage, the strides we've made! Oh, you do your gender proud, sweetheart."
"Well. The jury's still out on that, Mim." It was difficult, warm as the conversation was, to go on as if this were simply a social call. But Doris managed to ask casually, "So how are you? And Al?"
"Wrinkled, gray and shrinking. But you know, once you get used to it, it's not so bad, this shrinking away from the world. You're allowed to be eccentric and Al and I abuse the privilege. Even -of course, I could only say this to someone like you, Doris- even this horrible war and its consequences can't seem to pain us like the Great One did. We have the perspective of the ancients, sweetheart. We're on our way out of the cycle. We'll leave this one to the young people."