Naomi Hirahara - Gasa-Gasa Girl

“Hallo.”

“Mas-?”

“Hallo,” Mas repeated. The voice on the other line sounded familiar.

“Itsu Haruo.”

Haruo. Mas’s skinny friend with the fake eye. At first Mas was going to ask how he got Mari’s number, but then remembered that he had given Haruo the number in case of emergencies. “Whatsu the time?”

“Youzu just get up? Itsu four o’clock ova here. Izu at the Flower Market. Itsu a slow day today-just wanna make sure you got to New York orai.”

“Izu here,” Mas said. But nothing was all right. “Mari’s missin’. Son-in-law gone to find her.”

There was a pause on the other end. Haruo finally murmured, “Missin’. That makes no sense. You say sumptin’ to her, deshō?”

Mas didn’t like what Haruo was trying to say. “Haven’t even seen her. Or the grandson.” Mas didn’t want to get into Takeo’s health problems right now.

“You call the police?”

Mas couldn’t imagine getting them involved. “She left a message, Haruo. No funny business, Izu sure. Just a lot of stress right now, money and work.”

“I see,” said Haruo. Mas could imagine Haruo nodding his head, his shock of black and white overgrown hair barely covering the keloid scar on his face. Since going to a counselor in Little Tokyo for his gambling addiction, Haruo considered himself an expert on anything troubling somebody’s mind.

“I gotta go, Haruo.”

“You callsu me when they find her. You promise, Mas? You gotsu both my numbas, here at the Market and home.”

“Yah, yah. Got work to do, Haruo.”

Before Haruo could ask what kind of work, Mas hung up the phone. There was no sign that the son-in-law had returned to the underground apartment during the night. The heater had been left on, so the front room was now uncomfortably warm. The futon and the two blankets, apparently kicked off by Mas during the middle of the night, were crumpled on the brown rug beside the scratchy wool sweater he had been wearing-a hand-me-down from a customer’s teenage son.

Mas tore pieces of the French bread and balled up the soft insides for his breakfast meal. He noticed an old jar of Nescafé and warmed water in the teakettle over the stove. After sipping a strong cup of coffee (two heaping teaspoons of Nescafé) sweetened with another two teaspoons of sugar, Mas made a decision. He couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. Pulling on the wool sweater, he stumbled to the desk and waded through the papers. Beside the stack of photographs were some brochures of the Waxley Garden sponsored by the Ouchi Foundation. Taking a brochure and a map of Brooklyn, Mas headed out from the underground apartment in search of Lloyd’s garden.

Tug had told him that most New Yorkers survived without cars, and Mas believed him. It was barely eight o’clock and the sidewalks were filled with well-wrapped men and women holding briefcases, duffel bags, tabloid newspapers, and disposable cups of steaming coffee. Mas stopped by a sycamore tree growing in a dirt square and studied the map. There was a diamond of green labeled Prospect Park, where Takeo Shiota’s Japanese garden lived. A few blocks north was the Waxley House.

Before Mas could tackle any real work, he needed reinforcements. He walked across Flatbush Avenue toward a grocery store, its facade covered in thick plastic strips like those of a car wash. Bright orange and red gerber daisies were bunched up, their stems soaking in water next to a large open refrigerator holding plastic containers of cut-up cantaloupe and honeydew melon. Inside, the small market reminded him of his neighborhood liquor store back in Altadena. Boxes of cereal and cans of soup were stacked high up to the ceiling-no space was wasted. Behind the front counter were a young Asian girl and a man about Mas’s age, perhaps her grandfather. The man studied Mas for a moment, and Mas stared back. The man wore a light-blue button-down shirt and a puffy vest. His graying hair was parted to the side. He looked respectable. Mas figured that he was meant for better work than he was doing. “Marlboro,” Mas said to the man.

“Marlboro?” the man repeated as if he didn’t quite understand.

Mas nodded, and the man drew out a pack from a line of cigarette cartons organized against the wall.

“You Japanese?” the man finally asked, after Mas pushed a ten-dollar bill across the counter.

Mas didn’t know if it was a trick question. He knew that the Japanese weren’t much loved among other Asians, especially those straight from the Pacific. “Yah, but Izu born here.” Mas waited for his change. “ California.”

“Oh, California.” The man slid the change from the curved slots of the cash register. “My sister in California. Los Angeles.”

Mas nodded. “Me, too.”

“ Los Angeles a very good place.”

Mas agreed. It didn’t matter that L.A. had been hit by its share of riots, earthquakes, fires, and even tornadoes. Most city folks knew little of the tornadoes, but Mas knew enough nurserymen to have heard about the plastic roofs of their greenhouses flying off in the wind, leaving behind only a twisted metal frame. L.A. was for the toughest of the tough, and apparently this store owner’s sister qualified.

Mas shook the package of cigarettes over his head in appreciation and made his way through the plastic strips to the sidewalk. With a fresh cigarette finally in his fingers, Mas couldn’t help feeling a little optimistic. Mari, the baby, and the son-in-law had to be together by now.

The Waxley House was a strange blend of styles, looking a lot like a child who didn’t know how to dress. On the bottom, the house was all dark wood, simple and clean lines. But on the top, it was brightly painted with swirls of red, green, and yellow, reminding Mas of those Chinese-influenced temples in Japan. He thought he even spotted a wooden dragon where the peaks of the roof met.

The grass in front was freshly seeded, and the familiar smell of steer manure burned Mas’s nostrils. He was surprised that Lloyd didn’t use chemical fertilizer pellets-odorless and definitely high-technology. Mas didn’t want to admit it, but he was impressed that Lloyd had opted for the old way instead of the new. Stuck in the steer manure was a rectangular sign:

Waxley House and Garden

est. 1919

Operated by the Ouchi Foundation

The door to the front seemed to be ajar, but Mas felt funny about going through the house. Seeing a gate to the side, he chose instead to enter the garden through the back way, his favorite approach to a strange place.

A large, leafless oak stood on one side of the property, making it look nothing like a Japanese garden. A couple of dozen cherry blossom trees had been introduced to the property, but their branches drooped as if they were in mourning. Mas went forward for a closer look. What the hell? The trees had been massacred-the branches pulled down and broken.

Mas also noticed the outline of the koi pond for the first time. Undoubtedly because of the weather, the pond was dry, with no signs of either fish or water. It was, however, filled with debris and trash; the vandals had indeed hit again.

“The police were already here; you just missed them.”

Mas turned to face a woman who was the size of two Maris-at least widthwise. She had a round face and short reddish brown hair that was chopped at an angle. She must have been around forty but had at least three sets of earrings dangling from one earlobe. Something about her eyes seemed Japanese.

“You must be Mari’s father, right? Lloyd mentioned that you’d be coming-you look just like Mari. I’m Becca Ouchi. I work with Lloyd.” She reached out her hand, a heavy silver ring around her thumb. Mas tentatively squeezed the woman’s hand. It was soft yet firm, like a slightly overstuffed pillow.