"Have you always gone to Rainier?" she asked.
He noticed how cool her voice sounded. Clear and simple. Her English was much better than that of most of the Chinese girls he knew.
He shook his head. "Just since September. My parents want me to get a Western education--university--instead of going back to Canton for my Chinese schooling like all the other kids in my neighborhood."
"Why?"
He didn't know how to say it.
"Because of people like you." As the words came out, he felt bad for venting the day's frustrations. But part of it was true, wasn't it? Out of the corner of his eye he watched her undo the ribbon in her hair. Long black strands fell around her face, bangs almost covering her chestnut eyes.
"I'm sorry. It's not your fault. It's because the Japanese army has invaded the northeastern provinces. The fighting is a long way from Canton, but they still won't let me go. Most of the kids on my side of town all go to the Chinese school, then finish back in China. That's what my father always planned for me. Until last fall anyway." Henry didn't know what else to say.
"So you weren't born in China?"
He shook his head again, pointing to First Hill, where Columbus Hospital stood on the outskirts of Chinatown. "I was born right up there."
She smiled. "That's where I was born too. I'm Japanese. But American first."
"Did your parents teach you to say that?" He bit his words as they came out, afraid of hurting her feelings again. After all, his parents told him to say the same thing.
"Yes. They did. My grandfather came over right after the great fire in 'eighty-nine. I'm second generation."
"Is that why they sent you to Rainier?"
They had walked past the black iron arches of Chinatown all the way to Nihonmachi. Henry lived seven blocks over, and had been here only once, when his father had to meet someone for lunch at the Northern Pacific Hotel, at the edge of the Japanese marketplace. Even then, Father had insisted they leave once he found out the place had been built by Niroku "Frank" Shitamae, a local Japanese businessman. They were gone before their food even arrived.
"No." She stopped and looked around. "This is why they send me." Everywhere he looked he saw American flags, in every shopwindow and hanging from every door.
Yet many more shops had broken windows, and a few were boarded up completely. In front of them an orange public works lift truck blocked three parking spaces. A bearded man in the bucket was taking down the sign for Mikado Street and replacing it with one that read "Dearborn Street."
Henry remembered the button his father had given him and touched the torn fabric over his heart where it had been. He looked at Keiko, and for the first time all day, the first time all week, she looked afraid.
Nihonmachi
(1942)
Saturdays were special to Henry. While other kids tuned in to the radio to listen to The Adventures of Superman on the Mutual Broadcasting System, Henry did his chores as fast as he could and ran down to the corner of Jackson and Maynard. Oh, sure, he liked the Man of Steel--what twelve-year-old didn't? But during the war years, the adventures were, well, less than adventurous. Instead of smashing robots from another planet, the son of Krypton spent his days uncovering fifth columnists and Japanese spy rings, which hardly interested Henry.
Although he did wonder about Superman himself. The actor playing the voice of Superman was a mystery in 1942. No one knew who he was. No one. And kids everywhere obsessed over finding his true identity. So as Henry ran down the street, he'd look at the mild-mannered folks who wore suits and glasses, like Clark Kent, wondering if they just might be the voice of Superman. He even looked at Chinese and Japanese men-- because you never knew.
He wondered if Keiko listened to Superman on Saturday mornings as well. He thought about wandering over to the Nihonmachi side of town, just to poke around.
Maybe he'd run into her. How big could it be?
Then he heard Sheldon playing in the distance and followed the music.
Saturday was the only time of the week he could listen to Sheldon play. Most days when Henry came by after school, Sheldon's instrument case had little more than two or three dollars in change, and by that time, he was usually packing up for the day.
But Saturdays were different. With all the impressionable tourists, seamen, and even the crowds of locals who came and strolled down Jackson Street, Saturday was "payday," as Sheldon called it.
That morning, when Henry arrived, there was a crowd, maybe twenty people, swaying and smiling while his friend played some smooth jazz number. Henry squeezed to the front and sat on the sidewalk, enjoying the surprisingly sunny weather. Sheldon saw him and winked, not missing a note.
As he finished, the applause came and went, and the crowd dispersed, leaving behind almost three dollars in pocket change. Sheldon put a small handwritten sign in his case that read "Next Performance in 15 Minutes," and caught his breath. As he inhaled deeply, his wide chest seemed to be testing the limits of his satin vest. A button was already missing from the bottom.
"Good crowd," Henry said.
"Not bad, not bad at all. But, boy you just look at that, there's a lot of clubs these days--stiff competition." Sheldon pointed with his sax to where rows of signs and sandwich boards marked the nightclubs up and down both sides of Jackson.
Henry had once wandered the whole area, counting thirty-four clubs in all--including the Black & Tan, the Rocking Chair, the Ubangi, the Colony Club, and the Jungle Temple. And those were just the official clubs--ones that had glittering neon signs for the world to see. There were countless others tucked away in basements and backroom parlors. His father constantly complained about the racket they made.
On Saturday nights, Henry would look out his window and watch the changing landscape of people walking past. By day, Asian faces were everywhere. But by night, the crowds doubled, mostly white folks in their evening best, heading for an evening of jazz and dancing. On some Saturdays, Henry could hear faint music in the distance, but his mother didn't like him sleeping with the window open, afraid he'd catch his death with a cold or pneumonia.
"How's the tryouts?" Henry asked, knowing Sheldon had been auditioning for a regular job in the evening.
Sheldon handed him a card. It read "Negro Local 493."
"What's
this?"
"Can you believe it? I joined the union. The white musicians formed a union to try and get more work, but the black players formed their own, and now we're getting more gigs than we can handle."
Henry didn't quite understand what a union card meant, but Sheldon seemed excited, so he knew it must be good news.
"I even got a cancellation gig at the Black Elks Club--tonight. The regular sax player got thrown in jail for something, so they call the union and the union called me.