The television crew was made up of men that Milo knew and one of them asked him if he and I would do an interview before the plane arrived. I had gone immediately to the desk of the airline and when they entered the building was checking on the time of the flight, checking the passenger manifest to see if I could find Ike's name. Milo walked up behind me.
“They'd like a word with us,” he said. “One of the crews from the station.”
“No,” I answered.
Well, the crew had followed Milo to the desk so there was no getting out of it, nothing I could do. They had turned on their lights and we were live, the nation was catching me turning around.
“It is incredible,” said the announcer, “that this latest of wartime stragglers should be of the Maki family, so much in the entertainment news these days.”
I looked at Milo in a disgusted way, but put a slight smile
on my face and said, “He's not of the Maki family, really, but of a family of his own.”
I saw myself in the monitor and as I was speaking I looked very tired, as if it were I who had just returned from the war. The reporter turned the microphone to my son.
“Milo Maki?” he asked.
“I've never known the man,” Milo told him. He frowned in his public way and tried to brush the hair from his eyes. But though the cameras were running it was clear that Milo could think of nothing more to say. When the pause grew too long the announcer began speaking, describing the scene at the airport, the government people, the family. And while he spoke the tea teacher came up behind him. Junichi and a member of the television crew stood with him, one to each side. The lights were bright in his eyes.
“Here's a man,” one of the crew members whispered to the announcer. “Lives with the Makis, remembers everything.”
The television announcer turned toward them and then back to his audience. Milo and I were still standing at his side but in a moment our images were replaced by that of the teacher on the monitor.
“After all, Milo,” I said. “Don't you think I have things to think about now? Why did you have to put me on TV?” But even in my obvious dismay it was a reproach much unlike anything I would have said in the past. I could not muster the energy for it. I had not slept, my neck was hurting, and I was worried about what the plane might bring.
The announcer was baffled by the quick presence of an old man on the tiny screen, but the teacher could see himself and was excited. “Teddy and Milo are on television all the time,” he said. “This is a first for me.”
“Did you know the man who is about to come back after all these years?” he was asked. “Do you remember him?”
“Either I don't remember him or he came to my house a
time or two,” the teacher said. “He may have come to fetch his sister home.”
The teacher smoothed the edges of his kimono and continued. “Whether I knew him or not isn't the point, though. This man's return should make us pause in our daily affairs to reflect upon what we have become.”
The airport crowd, which held a carnival air, hardly noticed the element of seriousness introduced by the old man. My brother-in-law's plane was due any moment. People were getting ready to cheer.
“Do you think the returning soldier will find Tokyo changed beyond recognition?” asked the announcer.
“He will find it so on the surface,” said the teacher. “But if he'd come back immediately after the fighting he'd have found it even more changed. Remember? Everything was knocked to the ground by the bombs.”
The announcer and the cameraman were both about Milo's age, younger than the aging memory of war. Junichi, who'd helped put the teacher on the air, still stood beside him and glared into the camera himself. The confusion of airport waiting had died down some.
“Have you been living with the Makis for a long time?” the announcer asked.
“Since the war,” said the teacher. “Since about the time this returning man died. Every time a soldier returns we tell ourselves that there can be no more, that this one must be the last. Personally, I wouldn't be surprised to see them all come back, one at a time, out of the jungles.”
The
sensei
was having such a fine time that it was a shame to have him cut off as abruptly as he was. But just as he spoke the airline announced that the flight had arrived and all cameras switched immediately to the runway. We could see the cool smiles of some official greeters; we saw the wet surface of the runway with the airliner's wheels upon it. The
sensei
looked at me and shrugged.
When we left the building Kazuko and I, bent to the winter breeze, walked before the teacher and my son. There were police cars around an area cordoned off by rope and there was more commotion, more activity over this thing, than I had expected. I watched the changing expressions on Kazuko's face, watched the seriousness of Milo. Such a short time had passed between our gaining knowledge of Ike's existence and his return. How had all these people found out about it? Was this the natural airport crowd on a Sunday morning?
We got to the arrival zone just as the plane came to a steady stop and its wheels were blocked. It took a few more moments for the workmen to push a staircase up to the opening door, but once everything was secure the door was braced and all of the other passengers were brought off first. Most of them were Japanese or Filipino businessmen, and some were reluctant to move too far away from the airplane after they'd got their feet on the ground. “What's up?” we could hear them asking each other.
When everyone else was off the plane the pilot gave us a sign and an odd-looking man walked over to the foot of the stairs. He was wearing an old soldier's uniform and I suddenly found myself wishing that all of this was not happening. The man carried a boxy hat in his hands and had, on a small shaft, an old Japanese battle flag. The pain I had been bothered by moved quickly out of my neck and down my arms. It was Nakamura! The man standing there was Major Nakamura himself! A television announcer waiting near us confirmed it for me. He was a retired elementary school principal, a pharmacist named Nakamura. It was he who had given the order which kept Ike bottled up all those years.
Kazuko took the
sensei
's arm and the
sensei
took mine. The mayor of Tokyo was there, standing just next to us, and when he gave a little nod Nakamura went slowly up the steps and disappeared into the cabin of the plane. We could see the faces of the crew in the windows of the cockpit, but Ike, if he was truly alive, was alone in the body of the aircraft, waiting for his commanding officer. Everyone became extraordinarily quiet, as if listening,
trying to hear what was being said on the inside. Who knew what the man had been through? Probably he was afraid and this old commander of his was coaxing him, telling him that everything would be fine.
After ten minutes had passed those of us down below began having a little trouble maintaining ourselves. The sight of Nakamura had undone me as much as the news of Ike, yet I could not concentrate. I was in pain and was getting cold. Was I having an attack of some kind? The
sensei
, as if directing everything, was sitting in his canvas chair again, and I wanted to ask him for it, to sit down myself.
When Nakamura finally did reappear I expected him to have another man wearing another old uniform by his side, but I was wrong. Nakamura was followed by a man who was heavy, not gaunt. The man was dressed in a fine Filipino shirt and was followed by a woman and by three pretty children, all of them wearing the same stylish clothes. Was this Ike? If so, he'd been darkened by the sun until he no longer looked Japanese at all. He didn't have a sword to surrender as one of the other returnees had had. Rather he carried two large coconuts. He smiled and held the coconuts high above him when he saw the crowd that had gathered. The tea teacher poked me in the ribs with his finger and sat up straight. “Surely this is the beginning of a new trend,” he said.
The crowd had been ready to applaud but when they saw this man coming down the stairs they all stood still. His robustness, his clothes, and his obvious well-being, made the major standing next to him look old and silly. The woman and children stayed close to the man, looking out at us with a little fear. And when they got to the dignitaries who stood at the bottom of the stairs, he, Ike, peered boldly into each face, giving one of the coconuts to the most important-looking of the group. For the first time in hours I felt the need to smile, but Kazuko began to tremble at my side and I could see that, as yet, none of
the irony of the way her brother looked had hit her. In a moment she stepped forward, placing herself directly in his view.
“You are my brother,” she told him. “My name is Kazuko. Do you remember me?”
The man looked at Kazuko carefully, but kept his remaining coconut between them.
“Mother and grandfather are dead,” Kazuko said. “Jimmy is dead too. Teddy Maki and I are married now. We have a little boy named Milo.”
Ike frowned, I thought, when Kazuko mentioned me. He looked back at Nakamura and forward into the crowd. Finally I raised my hand a little, catching his eye, and for a moment he lost some of his robust tropicalness. When I stepped forward the tea teacher and Milo did too.
“Hello, Ike,” I said.
“I thought you were dead,” said my wife's brother.
The official government greeters smiled at this exchange, but quickly called us to a set of standing microphones when it occurred to them that there would be no nationally televised embrace. Everyone was in shock. The mayor of Tokyo spoke, but so briefly that I missed what he said entirely until he looked at Ike and asked, “Would you like to say something? All of Tokyo welcomes you home.”
Ike was standing between Kazuko and me but when he realized that the mayor was talking to him he stepped right up to the microphone. The coconut that he carried made him look like a foreign dignitary, an ambassador, an emissary of some kind.
“No, thank you,” he said, slowly and clearly. “Though thank you very much for asking.”
Among the dignitaries was another recently returned soldier and I realized that what the television company had hoped for was a kind of panel discussion, an instant exchange of views between these two men. But though Ike smiled at the mayor he would not talk and soon the television commentators resorted to interviewing people from the general public, asking randomly
for opinions. I don't know about the others but it was clear to me, even in my weakened condition, that Ike's appearance was really too surprising. If this was truly Ike, what had he been doing down there? What had been going on? I saw Milo's black car edging its way toward us and when I pointed it out to the mayor he was relieved to be able to order the way cleared so that Junichi could come to our rescue. The mayor was waving his hands around above everyone. Good old Junichi, I felt like saying.
When it finally became apparent that there would be no more ceremony, a large group of reporters surged from behind the restraining ropes, their hands and voices raised. But Junichi was too quick for them. He opened the doors from the inside and we were able to slide into the car, locking the doors before the reporters had a chance to ask even one question. It was crowded in there, with the unexpected addition of the woman and children, but we managed. Ike's unhappy wife was forced to sit on my lap, and the
sensei
kept grabbing at the children, pushing them closer and closer in around their father. I couldn't see much of anything, but I could feel, from Junichi's acceleration, that we had passed through the gate and were on the road outside. Kazuko began sobbing quietly next to me. Her brother's coconut was in her lap and was changing color in spots as her tears hit it. Everyone tried to adjust themselves for comfort. My body was betraying me but I was glad, for the moment, to be sitting down. Soon we were joined by a police escort and traffic was stopped, leaving the reporters even farther behind.
This was very ironic! Here we were, riding in from the airport, a whole foreign family on our laps! I could see Ike's wife's face by then and it wasn't happy. She kept her eyes on her husband and was trying, unsuccessfully, to keep at least part of her weight off my thin legs. Several times I thought I would speak, since the silence was becoming unbearable, but it was my son's new uncle who finally broke the ice. I could see him clearly after the shifting of bodies. He leaned forward and lit a cigarette, a roll or two of belly riding up over his tightly buckled belt. He spoke in
a language I didn't understand and then said in Japanese, “Teddy Maki and I were in a fierce battle in the middle of the jungle in the middle of the night. We were being fired upon from above. Guerrillas were hiding in the trees, so we all dove for the underbrush and began shooting back.”
“I thought you were dead then,” said my voice, but Ike waved his hand.
“I stayed where I was, digging myself into the dirt, all night long. When daylight came I could hear the guerrillas walking over me, firing occasionally into the immobile bodies that they found. I thought Teddy Maki was among them. I am here today because I chose not to return their fire. I dug as far down into the earth as I could, that's all.”
When he spoke of immobile bodies I tried to shift mine, but the woman on top of me would have none of it. She was pretending I wasn't there.
“I thought you were dead when the firing stopped,” I said.
“I waited in the ground until I could hear nothing of the guerrillas and until darkness fell once more,” said Ike. “I remember it was very difficult to get back out of the ground and I had the ironic thought that I would die by my own quick hands, that I would not be able to free myself from the vines and foliage above. When I was able to stand, however, I didn't know which way to turn, didn't know which way was back or which way the guerrillas had gone. I found bodies, but they had been stripped of their weapons and rations. I was afraid to cry over them for fear that the sound would bring the enemy back. So I simply walked away from the scene of the battle without having fired a shot. I stayed in the jungle for nearly six years after that. I'm not proud of it, but I wanted to tell you the truth.”