Jack Du Brul: Vulcan's forge

Ohnishi did not look like an industrialist. He was thin and frail, with a voice made tenuous by the years. His snowy hair was sparse, revealing red blotches of scalp. His face was cadaverous, sallow and drawn. His hands were darkly liver-spotted and bony, like the claws of a small bird.

“Miss Tzu, I did not invite you, I merely caved in to your persistence. One hundred and fourteen calls and seventy-eight letters are enough to make any man capitulate.” Jill believed the comment was meant to be charming, but his flat delivery made her uncomfortable. In fact, Ohnishi made her uncomfortable. He looked like a corpse that refused to stop moving.

She smiled her best reporter’s smile. “I’m glad you did. Any longer and the station was going to make me pay for the stamps I was using.”

A servant appeared and poured coffee into her cup, adding one spoonful of sugar. Jill looked at him queerly, wondered how he knew she took her coffee this way.

“I know much more than that, Miss Tzu, otherwise I would have never let you on the grounds,” Ohnishi said, reading her expression, possibly her mind, for all she knew.

“Is that why no one asked to see my ID or search me when I came here?” She meant the question to be friendly, but it sounded almost defensive.

“I had you followed from your home at 1123 Blossom Tree Court in the Muani Condominium development. In fact, I’ve had you followed every day since granting this interview,” Ohnishi said so casually that Jill could not respond for a moment.

“Did you learn anything interesting?” she said sarcastically, her anger now beginning to rise.

“Yes, a lovely successful woman like you needs to get out more.”

Jill’s anger evaporated at his reply. “That’s the same thing my mother tells me.”

Much later, Jill realized his use of her mother’s exact words was no coincidence.

“I am sorry if my actions make you uncomfortable, but a man in my position must be cautious.”

“I understand. I don’t particularly like it, but I understand.”

The servant reappeared and placed a bowl of fruit in front of Jill. Again he gave nothing to Ohnishi.

“As my aide Kenji told you on the phone, I do not allow cameras on my property nor is this conversation to be recorded.”

“It won’t be, I assure you,” Jill said, setting her coffee cup into its saucer, fearful of spilling anything on the crisp linen cloth or cracking the translucent porcelain. She did not realize that she had been x-rayed twice since entering Ohnishi’s home, once at the front door and again in the elevator. Her verbal assurances were superfluous.

“I must say this is an amazing home,” Jill remarked to break the silence.

“Believe it or not, this structure was designed in 1867 by an obscure Tokyo architect, long before the technology was available for its construction. He took his own life only a few months after completing the drawings, knowing that his genius would never be appreciated in his time. It is supposition on my part, but I believe he thought his suicide would give his work the immortality it would never receive through construction.”

“I did not know that you were such a student of history.”

“Everything we know, Miss Tzu, is history. Just because it is not taught in schools from dusty texts does not lessen any information’s importance.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“Allow me to explain. The latest piece of information, no matter how current, is already history. I can look at a stock ticker as the trading goes on and already the information I’m seeing is history. Maybe it’s only a second old, but the events have already happened and nothing in my power can change them. If I decide to buy or sell based on that information, I would be basing that choice on history. All knowledge is like that and all decisions are made that way.”

“What if I decide to do something on a whim?”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, say, quit my job.”

“In that case, you would have a history of job dissatisfaction, a knowledge based on past performance that you could find another job, and confidence that you have put sufficient money in a bank to ensure security until you begin working again. All of these factors make your decision not whimsical at all, but rather calculating in fact.”

“I never thought about it in that way,” Jill said, intrigued.

“That is why you are not worth eight billion dollars and I am,” Ohnishi remarked, not boastful, just stating the truth.

“I asked your assistant if there were any taboo subjects for this interview and he assured me that you would be candid about anything I asked.”

“That is true.” The servant cleared Jill’s fruit plate and brought a silver salver of raw fish and thinly sliced beef. He placed some on her plate along with rice and several varieties of seaweed.

“Aren’t you eating, Mr. Ohnishi?” Jill asked after the servant vanished, again leaving his plate empty.

“My stomach and some of my small intestine were removed several years ago after I was diagnosed with cancer, Miss Tzu. I’m afraid I must eat intravenously. I may sample some of these dishes later, but I can’t swallow them. It is an unpleasant sight I assure you.”

Jill was thankful he did not get more graphic.

“I know your basic biography, Mr. Ohnishi,” Jill began the formal interview, a Waterman pen poised over her notebook. “You were born in Osaka, but your parents immigrated to the United States with your two older sisters when you were an infant. Your father was a chemical engineer working for UC at San Diego.”

“Correct,” Ohnishi interrupted. “My family all died during World War Two when Roosevelt imprisoned all Japanese nationals. My sisters died of typhus; they were barely into their teens. My mother died soon afterward of the same disease. The day he took his own life, my father told me to never forget them. I was seventeen years old.”

“You had an uncle who became your legal ward?”

“Yes, his name was Chuichi Genda.”

“If I read this correctly,” Jill said looking through her notes, “he was released from an internment camp in January 1943, arrested one week later, released again at the end of the war and spent the remainder of his life in and out of prisons on various charges.”

“Yes, my uncle had very strong beliefs about America and her treatment of our people both during the war and after. He often led violent campaigns against various policies. He was charged with inciting riots three times and convicted twice. He was, without a doubt, the most influential person in my life.”

“In what way?”

“His ideas on race, principally.”

“And what are those?” Jill asked, uncrossing her long legs. She knew that this was the most important part of her interview.

“You are a journalist — surely you are aware of my views.”

“I know you’ve been called a racist by nearly every social group in the United States and that your hiring policies resemble Nazi purity laws.”

Ohnishi laughed, a high thin note that startled Jill. “For lack of a better word, Miss Tzu, you are very naive. There is no such thing as racism.” Before Jill could voice a protest, Ohnishi continued. “According to anthropologists, there are only four races on this planet: Asian, negro, caucasian, and aboriginal. Yet there is tension and fighting between hundreds of different groups. Correct?”

He did not wait for a reply. “If race is a motivating factor as you in the press imply, why is there so much fighting in the nations of Africa, why do the English and Irish bomb each other on a regular basis, why did the Nazis gas six million Jews? The answer is not racism, it’s tribalism.

“There may be only four races, but there are hundreds of different tribes, maybe thousands. Many groups still maintain a tribal name, such as the Apache or Zulu. But numerous groups no longer have distinct names, the white Anglo-Saxon here in America, the Northern Irish Protestants, or the upper class of Brazil.