Harry Turtledove - Days of Infamy

JIRO TAKAHASHI WANTED to spend as much time out on the ocean as he could. When he was on the Pacific, he wasn’t in that miserable tent in the botanical garden. When he was out there, he didn’t quarrel so much with his sons, either. They talked about things that had to do with the Oshima Maru, not so much about politics and what it meant to be a Japanese or an American. That was all to the good, because he didn’t see eye to eye with Hiroshi and Kenzo.

And he found he liked sailing the sampan. He’d put to sea with her with the diesel for so long, he’d come to take it for granted. You pointed her bow in the direction you wanted to go, started the engine, and away you went. It took about as much skill as drawing a straight line with a pencil. (Knowing where you wanted to go was a different story. That took skill.)

When you sailed, though, every move you made depended on something outside the sampan. If the breeze shifted and you wanted to keep going in the same direction, you had to shift the sails to account for the change. If the wind died, you couldn’t go anywhere. If you were running against it, you had to go like a drunken crab, zigzagging now one way, now the other, traveling ever so much farther-and slower-than you would in a straight line.

His sons had got the hang of handling the sails as fast as he could have wanted. He remained better at it than they did, though. He knew it, and so did they. After one long tack closer to the wind than the beamy sampan had any business getting, Kenzo said, “That was very pretty, Father.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Jiro found himself smiling. He called back to Hiroshi at the rudder: “We’re going to come about. Are you ready?”

His older son nodded. “ Hai, Father.”

“All right then-now!” Jiro swung the sails from one side of the mast to the other. He and his sons ducked as the boom slid by, then quickly straightened again. Hiroshi shifted the rudder to help guide the Oshima Maru onto her new course. The sails filled with wind. They were off on the other tack. Jiro’s smile got broader.

“You couldn’t have done that better if you tried for a week,” Kenzo said admiringly. Jiro bowed slightly at the praise. It warmed and embarrassed him at the same time. He knew he’d done well, too. But a proper Japanese would have said something more on the order of, Not bad. Kenzo’s extravagant compliment was much more American.

One bad thing about even the most perfect tack: it brought the sampan closer to Kewalo Basin. However crabwise she traveled, the Oshima Maru neared land each passing minute. Jiro didn’t want to come ashore. But there wasn’t much point to fishing if you didn’t bring the catch home.

He cut another strip of dark pink meat from the fat belly of an ahi. He and his sons ate better on the Pacific than they did on land-one more reason to want to stay at sea. The tuna’s flesh was almost as rich as beef.

Kenzo also cut himself some ahi. As he chewed, he said, “We’ll have Doi paid off before too long.”

“Well, yes.” Jiro nodded. “The way things are now, though, it doesn’t matter that much. So we get a little more money. So what? What can we buy with money these days?”

“Not much.” But Kenzo couldn’t help adding, “That’s because we’re cut off from the mainland-the mainland of the United States. That’s where we got everything we needed, and that’s why we’re in the mess we’re in.”

“Before long, the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere will make up for the things we can’t get from the USA,” Jiro said stubbornly.

His younger son rolled his eyes. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Even on the Pacific, politics reared its ugly head. “We’ll see,” was all Jiro said; he didn’t feel like fighting. For a wonder, Kenzo took it no further, either. But the silence as they glided into the basin had the charged quality of the air just before a thunderstorm.

When they tied up at one of the quays, work kept them too busy to quarrel. The Japanese soldiers in charge of taking the fish weighed the catch and paid the Takahashis. As usual, the sergeant in charge of the detail asked, “Personal use?” when the fisherman took fish off the Oshima Maru.

“ Hai,” Jiro said. “And I have some for the honorable Japanese consul, too.”

The sergeant bowed to him. “Yes, you’ve done that before-I remember. It shows a true Japanese spirit and feeling.” Delighted, Jiro bowed back. Whatever his sons were thinking, none of it showed on their faces. The sergeant waved them all away from the sampan harbor.

Their first stop, as usual these days, was Eizo Doi’s shop. As they were going in, a tall, suntanned haole came out. He saw the fish they were carrying and started to laugh. He said something in English. Kenzo nodded and answered in the same language. They went back and forth for a little while. Then the white man walked off with a smile and a wave. “What was that all about?” Jiro asked.

“He said he’s paying Doi off for putting a sail on his surfboard, of all the crazy things,” Kenzo answered.

“That is peculiar,” Jiro agreed. “But he could go out a lot farther with the sail than without it. If he doesn’t have a boat, I suppose it would be the next best thing.”

Kenzo nodded. “That’s what he said.”

Jiro talked about it with the handyman after they gave him his fish. “Yeah, I thought the haole was a baka yaro,” Eizo Doi said. “Who besides a prime jerk would come up with something that weird? But he says it works pretty well, and he gave me some good mackerel. These days, you don’t complain about any food you get.”

“ Hai. Honto,” Jiro said, and then, “You’re getting so much fish from so many people, you could do some dealing on your own.”

“It’s against occupation regulations,” Doi said. For a moment, Jiro thought that meant he wasn’t doing it. Then the fisherman realized Doi hadn’t said any such thing. If he was dealing on the side, keeping quiet about it was a good idea.

After they left the handyman’s, Jiro and his sons went their separate ways. They headed back to the tent while he went on up Nuuanu Avenue to the consulate. Hiroshi and Kenzo wanted nothing to do with that. Jiro hadn’t tried to persuade them to join him, even if that might have looked good to the occupying authorities. He knew he would have got nowhere.

By now, the sentries outside the compound recognized him. They nudged one another as he came up the street. “Hey, it’s the fisherman,” one of them said. “What have you got today, fisherman- sama?” He and his pals laughed. Jiro smiled, too. Lord Fisherman sounded ridiculous. With Oahu so hungry these days, though, the fancy title was less absurd than it might have been.

“See for yourselves.” Jiro held up a good-sized fish with a long, high dorsal fin and a body blue and green above and golden below. The soldiers exclaimed-its like hardly ever got up into Japanese waters. “They call this a mahimahi here,” Jiro said. “It’s very good eating, as good as any tuna.”

“If it tastes as good as it looks, it’ll be wonderful,” said the sentry who’d called him Lord Fisherman. “But you can’t tell by looks. The fugu ’s the ugliest fish in the world, near enough, but it’s the best eating-if you live through it, anyway.”

Jiro nodded. “That’s the truth.” The fugu was a puffer fish that blew itself up into a huge, spiny ball to keep other fish from eating it. Its flesh was uniquely delicious-and deadly dangerous, for the puffer also produced a paralyzing poison. Skilled chefs knew how to cut away the dangerous entrails and leave only the safer meat behind. Dozens of Japanese fishermen killed themselves every year trying to prove they knew how to do the same thing.