Sujata Massey - Shimura Trouble

“What am I smelling on you-cologne?” I teased as we separated.

“No. It’s joy.”

What a romantic. “I’m happy too, but I smell something-a kind of citrus aroma.”

“No, it’s Joy. You know, the dishwashing soap? We mix it with seawater to clean ourselves.” Michael laughed. “Speaking of cleaning up, I can’t wait to get off this boat and get a real shower, not to mention shave this thing off.” Michael rubbed at his chin.

“Sure,” I said rashly, since the family dinner was still two and a half hours away. “I’d be happy to drive all of you to the hotel.”

That opened the floodgates for me with his three crewmates, all of whom had been quietly watching and smiling. I could understand the interest: their good friend had been without female companionship for years, so the appearance of a real woman was a curiosity. Michael introduced me to the Afghanistan and Iraq returnee, Kurt Schaefer, a deeply tanned, muscular man with white-blond hair cut military-short like Michael’s, and green eyes that looked as if they’d seen too much. It was easier for me to connect with the softer-faced crew captain, Parker Drummond, who was a real-estate investor in Southern California. Finally, I met the fourth man in the group: Eric Levine, an engineer at Goddard Space Center, who had terrible-looking sunburn. He didn’t say more than a quick hello, because he was on his cell phone trying to help his wife, who was lost somewhere in Los Angeles trying to meet Parker’s wife, Karen, for the next flight to Honolulu.

The customs inspector arrived and Michael and Parker followed him as he went below deck looking for contraband. Kurt lounged on the side of the boat, giving interviews to sports reporters. When Michael emerged from the cabin a few minutes later, he steered me around to the side of the boat that wasn’t facing the harbor, so that we could talk.

“Don’t count on taking the guys back to the hotel; they already said they plan to stay around the yacht club for a few hours to get their land legs back,” Michael said. “Frankly, I think they don’t mind being showered with free drinks and adulation.”

“A little adulation is in order for the fastest finishers in your class.”

“We don’t know yet if we’re the fastest-and I don’t really care, to tell the truth.”

“Come on.”

“I’m just glad I did the race, and it got me out here, with you. I have to say, though, that I’m more than ready to be on land and get a full night’s sleep.”

Michael didn’t just need sleep, he needed help walking. After the customs official finally cleared the boat, Michael hopped off, then nearly collapsed on the deck. Two men from the yacht club steadied him until I’d made my own precarious, high-heeled way off the boat and could walk him up to the yacht club, where I left him with his bags while I walked back to the mall for the car. I decided I didn’t want to risk Michael collapsing as he crossed Ala Moana Boulevard.

“Once again, you’re taking care of me,” Michael said as we continued by car from Ala Moana toward the Waikiki district. “Though I can’t say this vehicle has the Rei Shimura style to which I’m accustomed.”

“Yes, I know it. But what can I do? My Hawaiian uncle chose it for us,” I said, more aware than ever of the shiny new vehicles around me, the tour buses, convertibles, and luxury sedans streaming with us toward Waikiki.

“No offense meant, but I’ll see about renting my own car tomorrow. So, tell me about your newfound relatives. You were so nervous before you left.”

“Most of them are pleasant. But there’s a complicated agenda-just like I expected.” I began telling the story in a more or less chronological fashion, with Michael listening quietly. It was complicated enough that by the time we’d parked in the garage around the corner from the Hale Koa hotel, I was only halfway through Uncle Yoshitsune’s story, at the point where he’d been interned.

“I wonder if it’s true about his tampering with military mail,” Michael said as we stepped up a curving stairway and then entered a large, breezy open-air lobby, where ceiling fans whirred and a military population lounged on rattan furniture with crisply striped cushions.

“Apparently he was suspected, but never formally charged, which makes it seem quite unfair.”

Michael paused by the check-in desk, waving a family with four small children to go ahead of him. “We’ll have to pick up on this conversation later, but should I look for corroborating records at the Pearl Harbor archives? You could probably get in yourself with the Freedom of Information act, but it’d take longer.”

“That would be great.” I shouldn’t have been so happily surprised by his interest, but I was, especially since he must have been exhausted. “And another thing-I hope to see Harue and Yoshitsune’s old cottage, which can be reached by a road that runs through the old Barbers Point naval air station. If I give you the address, can you look up the route to get there?”

“Sure, and once I get a military access sticker, we can drive there together.” Michael leaned on the counter, and I wondered if he was suffering a balance problem again, or just exhaustion. Probably both. Now I was thinking I’d requested too much.

“That’s awfully generous of you, and I don’t expect you to do a bit more, honestly. It’s your week off, and you have Kurt, Parker and Eric to gad about with, and sailing honors to accept-”

“Twelve days and eleven nights are about all I can take of that crew.” Michael reached over with his free hand and squeezed mine with it. “Come on, Rei, let me help you with your family research. It’ll give us more time together.”

MICHAEL WAS A man of routine. Before he even opened the door to his room, he’d located a laundry and had dumped almost the entire contents of his duffel bag into a coin-operated washer. After that we went up to his room, which was quite small, but functional, with two double beds, a dresser, and a closet-sized bathroom.

“Maybe I should go down to the lobby to give you some privacy,” I said as Michael unzipped a small case containing clean, non-sailing clothes and toiletries.

“No, no. Just kick back for a few minutes. I’ll be really fast,” Michael promised.

He wasn’t fast at all-and I could understand why, not having had a hot shower for a week. But after a while he came out with a towel wrapped around his waist, got some shaving supplies out of his duffel, and set himself up in a narrow galley space with a fluorescent light and a sink, just outside the bathroom.

I spent a pleasant minute looking at his hard chest, lightly furred with hair that had turned more silvery from the time at sea. Michael glanced back at me, in the mirror, and nicked his neck.

“You cut yourself, and it’s my fault because I distracted you.” I went closer to examine him.

“No, it’s just that I can barely keep my eyes open to see what I’m doing.”

“Let me do it then.” I rinsed the razor, and pressed a hot, wet facecloth to his neck and face, holding it there for a half-minute.

“This could be dangerous,” Michael said.

“It’s a bit tricky, when you have this much growth,” I said while lathering his face and neck with Barbasol. I shaved his neck first, and then seated myself on the edge of the vanity to be closer to his face. He closed his eyes, and they stayed closed as I finished and pressed a warm cloth across his face again.

“You’re an excellent barber,” Michael said, opening his eyes and turning to the mirror to survey the results. “I wish you could do this on a regular basis.”