All quiet, save for the occasional ping of rain against the windowpanes and the soft shuffle of the rag sweeping across the counter. Grim was preening, wings tucked in, looking almost contemplative.
She was open in the middle of the day for once, though only serving drinks. Not that anyone was likely to come out for lunch in this weather—and certainly not her usual crowd, who preferred the hush of evening. Still, she wanted to see if it was worth doing more often.
So far, only one or two people had dropped in, new faces who had gotten caught in the storm and were now drinking nihonshu to stave off the cold.
The TV set was not on. There was no point, really, and besides, the reception was poor, the picture fuzzy, and the sound distorted.
Her radio was tuned in to Radio Tokyo this time. The sound flowed more smoothly than expected. Kazuya Kosaka was on with his rendition of Jailhouse Rock.
People called him Japan's Elvis. She could hear why. His version wasn't half bad and distinct enough from the King of Rock and Roll to make the song his.
The calendar on the back wall. October 2. Yesterday's date. She tore the page off. October 3. It was butsumetsu. Of course it was.
"Figures."
She stared at it just a second too long with a wry smile before resuming wiping the counter.
The bell above the door jingled, and Jerry strolled in like the rain outside was merely a light shower. His umbrella was dripping as he left it by the door, and his shoes were squeaking slightly as he walked, but he had the grin of someone who'd just won the lottery with odds of a hundred million to one. Or a pilot hearing 'mission accomplished' over the radio. Either way, the reason was easy to figure out. She'd heard the broadcast, too.
"Afternoon, Skipper."
She didn't look up right away. "You're early."
"You're open early."
"Don't get used to it. I may not always be open this early in the afternoon from now on. Just curious about how it goes."
He nodded, still smiling as he settled into his usual seat before the counter. Grim gave a slow blink in his direction, but didn't bother bristling.
"...You want something to warm you up? It's not on the menu, but I can make a decent coffee...unless you want your usual Coke...in this weather?"
"Y'know what, Skipper, that sounds nice. And hey, I didn't think I'd get lucky enough for you to offer it."
She smirked and went to work, the smell of ground beans and a hint of nutty sweetness filling the room. Steam curled up from the pot and condensed against the cool glass, to the tune of raindrops against the windows.
He hummed, his gaze lingering. She didn't meet it and focused on the drink, making sure everything was perfect.
"Well," she said, placing a steaming cup in front of him, "good news, hm?"
He sipped at the coffee and let out a contented sigh, but the grin soon crept back onto his face, one a kid may sport on Christmas mornings.
"That's fantastic, Skipper. Thank you," he said, taking another sip, then chuckled, shaking his head. "You know what else is fantastic? The Yankees are getting closer to the pennant. 5-2 against the Indians! 5-2! Whitey Ford's still got it. Lord above, that man could pitch through a hurricane."
He whistled. She, not really sharing his interest in baseball but nonetheless amused, couldn't help but snort.
"That so?"
"And they're not gonna lose to those bums from St. Louis, and I mean, they haven't lost a game since the 14th. They'll probably take it easy on the next couple of games, then mop the floor with the Cards."
Pride, like the one he showed after getting his first kill on his trusty Hellcat, was plain to see. It was as if he'd been there at Yankee Stadium, throwing the winning pitch himself.
She glanced up just as he took a slow sip of his coffee, the ends of his mustache twitching in that telltale way that meant he was about to say something very pleased with himself.
"You know what else happened on this day?" he said, his grin practically carved into that ridiculous facial hair.
She gave him a long, flat look. "If you say something about the Yankees again, I'm cutting that thing off."
"Perish the thought," he said, pretending to be offended, stroking the edge of his mustache like it was a small, furry pet. "This mustache has diplomatic immunity."
He leaned in close and lowered his voice, like a schoolboy about to share some particularly juicy bit of gossip.
"Well, Skipper," he started, "been thinkin' about this since I heard the date on the morning news. Figured you'd be too proud to bring it up yourself."
She blinked, her fingers pausing on the towel for just a moment too long. She'd known that, of course. How could she not?
"And...?"
"Today is the launch day of one of the greatest vessels ever to grace the oceans. Our ship."
Her face betrayed her before she could stop it—warmth bloomed across her cheeks like she'd walked too close to the fryer. She turned away, feigning interest in something else. But his grin was still there, and there was a warmth to how he spoke about "their ship."
"I...that ship wasn't commissioned until 1938, you know that."
He finished the coffee, then shook his head, still grinning. "Launch day was more important. It showed the world that you exist."
"The ship wasn't finished, Jerry."
She turned away, grabbing another glass to polish. Her hands moved automatically, but her mind was elsewhere.
She remembered the hull, bereft of all the things that made her a carrier. Not sinking right away was the only proof that she was worth all the time and money poured into her.
Yet she also remembered the workers' cheer cutting through the fog, the bottle of champagne against the steel, a seagull wheeling overhead as if saluting.
Nobody would've known that the ship would carve a legend for herself in the Pacific, but they celebrated anyway.
In a way, it was also for the KANSEN that served as its soul, who watched from among the crowd.
His smile grew ever softer, and his eyes gleamed with understanding.
"...Just like you today, eh?"
Pause. Silence. Grim was solemn. Even the rain and the voice carried by the airwaves seemed to fade, and the clinking and tapping of her dishware was the loudest sound in the room. Her reflection stared back from the polished glass. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Instead, she reached for a towel and polished a glass that was already spotless.
"And what are you getting at, exactly?"
"What I mean is..."
His face had turned serious, a reminder of the aviator he once was, flying through the storm with surgical focus.
"Yes?"
He tapped his finger against the glass, a slow rhythm to the music, and the sound of rain.
"It means it's alright not to know everything, or to get lost in the dark sometimes. You don't have to feel you need to be, ah, complete right now. It's okay to take your time. I'm a friend. And I'm not the only one in this city."
The rain softened into a drizzle, and the music continued, the announcer's voice fading in and out. Kyu Sakamoto was singing now, the tune that, against all odds, had made it to American charts and was the toast of the town.
Look up so that the tears won't fall when you remember the days that passed.
He coughed, laughed quietly—nervously—and then looked at her with the same earnest eyes she remembered from long ago. The eyes of a young man about to fly into fire over the Marianas and Santa Cruz.
The same eyes, steady and familiar.
"…The rain's letting up."
She didn't answer. She just looked out the window, past the glass, past the drizzle, to where the sky was starting to clear. A single beam of sunlight filtered through the clouds.
"Thanks for the coffee, Skipper."
He remained in his seat despite finishing his coffee. It was as if the words weren't quite done with him yet. Perhaps he needed a minute or two to think about what he wanted to say. He fiddled with the handle of the empty cup. The silence stretched. A truck rumbled by, its engine roaring like a fighter plane.
"...Do you think...you can close up shop for now? Just for a bit, before the usual folks get here?" he asked, voice hushed, as if telling a secret.
She gave him a sidelong glance and a raised brow.
"Why? Something come up?"
He smiled. "Nothin' that can't wait. We have somewhere to go, is all. Gotta spread those wings."
A beat. Then, another. She couldn't continue polishing the same glass forever. Grim nuzzled against her arm and nudged her toward the door. A soft laugh escaped her, and she finally put the glass down.
"Fine."
She grabbed a haori and her scarf, then paused. "Are we going far? You know I have things to do before I open."
"Far enough. We'll take my car. It's just a short drive to Ueno and Ginza, but I'm not going to let your sandals get holes from walking. I promise, I'll have you back before your sentō time. It's only 1 pm after all. All I want is for a certain friend of mine to...well, celebrate a little."
She frowned, but the frown didn't reach her eyes. She smiled, and the smile did.
"If...that's what you want. Grim...please watch over the place while I'm gone."
Grim raised a wing in acknowledgment and gave a nod.
She could've sworn he looked years younger as she followed him outside, umbrella in hand, the sky slowly clearing.
The bell jingled as the door swung shut.
***
He walked her toward a curb where a long, lean car was parked—silver-grey, a little boxy, a little sleek. He boasted about it every so often. This was the first time she'd seen it.
The first-generation Prince Skyline wasn't brand-new, but it was shiny and well-kept. The driver's seat was noticeably worn, and the upholstery smelled faintly of tobacco. In the backseat, there were dog-eared maps and a G-1 flight jacket from his stint with the Fighting Six.
He opened the passenger side and bowed, like a chauffeur, grinning the entire time.
"Your carriage, madam."
She rolled her eyes but got inside anyway and buckled up. He followed suit and turned the key. The engine turned over with a rumble and a cough, then purred like it was just a little annoyed at being woken up.
He let the comfortable silence be as the car cruised past the bustling streets. The drizzle had turned into a light shower.
"Where are we going?"
"First, Ueno. Figured you would appreciate some quiet spectacle, maybe a little fresh air."
That didn't sound bad at all. She leaned back and watched the world pass by, the buildings and the people and the puddle-strewn sidewalks.
It was indeed a relatively short ride. She looked at the sky and the clouds rolling in. A flock of birds took off. Free.
He parked on a side street near the Ueno Zoo. It wasn't a particularly busy day, so there was no line at the ticket booth.
She didn't mind being led for once. He held an umbrella over her as they walked, and the rain continued its soft, pitter-patter. The trees had changed, their leaves red and gold and brown.
Hanako the elephant was the most popular attraction. Children ran around her enclosure, laughing, pointing, and waving. The massive pachyderm waved back with her trunk.
They stopped near the fence.
"So," he started, "how are ya liking the zoo?"
"It's nice. Quiet. Peaceful."
"Yeah."
He looked out to the elephant, then the rest of the enclosure, his hands in his pockets. He looked like he was at ease, his posture loose, but his eyes were still sharp.
"Helped heal the country, this gal."
She didn't doubt it. She could see it. Old, young, men and women, children, and their parents came here in droves to see the elephant. Maybe Hanako will remember them all.
Maybe she would even remember the former warrior standing by the fence.
The chimpanzees, though she wouldn't say it out loud, reminded her of him as a young man, striking up a conversation out of nowhere when others kept their distance. Goofy and gregarious and always ready with a grin.
"Look, the tiger had just had cubs. Little things. Not sure if they are males, females, or both. Either way, she reminds me of you."
He pointed at the small orange-and-black bundles being watched over by the tiger mother. She, a majestic beast that could strike fear in the hearts of any who would dare harm her kin, looked at her cubs like they were her most precious treasures.
"...How so?"
"Strong, dignified, and...soft, somehow."
"Soft, huh?"
That warranted a smile, really. Not a word she would associate herself with, but coming from him, it was surprisingly...not a bad thing at all.
"Don't be too offended. It's not a bad thing. The soft part, I mean. You have always looked after us. That's the part of you that's soft. And that's fine. It's good, even. Makes it easy to care about you."
She couldn't really say anything, so she watched the cubs tumbling and play-fighting, as their parents looked on.
"Hey, Jerry?"
"Yes, Skipper?"
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me just yet. We're not done."
She didn't bother asking what he meant.
After the zoo, he invited her to the Ameyoko Market, with its crowded alleyways, bustling stalls, and vendors selling everything from groceries and household items to cheap souvenirs and kitsch.
The scent of grilled meat and fresh produce, the aroma of cooked food mingled with the smell of rain and wet pavement.
No longer a black market for American products (though she suspected they must still be somewhere) as Jerry mentioned, it was now an assault on the senses, and yet, oddly comforting. Thriving. Alive.
Passersby sometimes nodded and bowed at them, and she found herself nodding back. It was unthinkable, really, that she would blend in and become one with the crowd.
Even if she were a foreigner.
Even if she was a—
"Hey."
His voice was gentle. She didn't realize she was drifting until he tapped her shoulder and smiled. He was offering a sweet potato, the skin golden-brown, the scent an inviting hint of sweetness and earthiness.
She took it. The heat seeped into her fingers.
"Here."
He handed her a small paper napkin. She took it, and the heat, though still pleasant, was a bit more bearable.
The flavor was rich, and her belly was warm and full when she finished.
He offered a second one. She didn't refuse, and not only because she hadn't eaten much that morning.
"You were thinking of visiting the museum, weren't you?" She remarked as they strolled down the winding lanes. A kid bumped into her. Before he could bow and apologize, she reached out and patted him on the head. He grinned, thanked her, and scampered off to rejoin his family.
"How did you even..."
"You were looking at it when we passed by earlier. A little too long."
"Huh, observant."
"I have to be."
"Well...yeah, I guess so. But not today. No history. We're living in the now."
He stopped at one of the stalls selling ornaments, whose owner seemed overjoyed to meet an American. They talked, and he seemed to be haggling for a moment before shaking hands with the man and leaving with a box and a big grin.
"Got you a gift. A bit late, but it's better late than never."
"I don't even have anything for you."
"Ah, it's no trouble at all. Like I said, don't thank me just yet. Still, a gift is a gift. Don't let it sit around."
"Alright."
She opened the box and found windchimes, made of glass and silver, gleaming in the sunlight, with koi and carp painted on the glass.
"For your izakaya," he explained. "I recall you seem to enjoy their sound. Also, for good luck. Hope that your place does well."
While she did enjoy the sound, she couldn't even remember when she'd first mentioned her appreciation for windchimes. But perhaps it didn't matter, and perhaps that was why she appreciated him.
"They are beautiful. Thank you, Jerry."
"No problem, Skipper. Shall we? The city won't explore itself, after all."
***
Ginza was a whole different affair. Ameyoko had a rustic, local feel, but Ginza was a cosmopolitan, modern playground.
Tall buildings, new cars, and stylish stores. Shops, restaurants, and boutiques that sold the latest fashions and gadgets. Mitsukoshi, Matsuya, and the venerable Wako enticing the new and old money with their displays.
But even more than the stores, the people.
Fashionable, sophisticated, and well-to-do, the kind of people who didn't have to worry about where the next meal would come from—it all reminded her of the Gilded Age.
They took time browsing the windows, but she wasn't really interested in any of the clothes, and the price tags didn't inspire her to even consider getting anything. No need to spend money on a pretty dress she'd never wear.
Instead, they stopped for lunch at a fancy Western restaurant owned by a Nisei, the kind probably frequented by diplomats and big names.
He ordered something not too expensive, but not frugal either, and they shared a bottle of red wine. The steak was succulent and perfectly cooked, and the potatoes were roasted and seasoned to perfection.
And he told her not to worry about the bill, because "he got this."
"How can I repay you?" she asked. "This is...too much. More than too much."
"Live," he replied simply, raising his glass. "Live your life for yourself, and others."
He seemed to mumble something after that, but declined to repeat it when she asked him to speak up. The wine must have been stronger than he'd anticipated, for he was flushed.
Then again, so was she.
"Well," she said, trying to focus despite the warmth spreading from her chest by dabbing the napkin against her lips, "if that's what you want, I'll try, Jerry."
Fingers steepled, he stared at her, a knowing smile playing on his face.
"It's a start. Now, are you ready?"
"Ready for what, exactly?"
"Well," he said, gesturing to the door, "there is one last thing we can do, and then we'll be done for today. I promise, Skipper."
"Fine, fine."
They didn't linger for long.
***
They crossed the intersection and the Nihonbashi, pausing to shake their heads at the overpass that had been getting locals agitated, then found themselves before a photo studio nestled among the boutiques and high-end department stores.
Yamaguchi Shashinkan was, despite being small and inconspicuous, probably catered to the upper-crust and the well-to-do, judging from the photos decorating the wood-paneled wall. They depicted people—Westerners and Easterners—in suits and dresses, all dressed to the nines, their postures confident and their expressions relaxed, smiling for the camera. There were also samples of photos that fit legal documents and the like.
The faint scent of developer chemicals and the smell of paper and ink became more apparent when the photographer, an elderly man holding a Leica, appeared from the back room.
"Oh, welcome! Welcome! How can I help you?"
"My friend and I were hoping to get our photos taken. Well, mostly her."
"Jerry...!"
"Come on now, Skipper. It's alright. My treat."
"I don't want to...be photographed!"
He stroked his chin as he observed them, eyes bright with understanding.
"I see...I see...not exactly dressed for a photoshoot, but not a problem. Not a problem. Oku-san, your garments are fine. They go well with your features. A...unique, yet charming look. Very natural, very real."
She didn't know what was worse—being complimented or the way he called her. Jerry seemed amused by it all, his smirk practically carved into his face.
"Oku-san, eh?"
"Quiet, Jerry."
He shrugged and raised his hands in a placating gesture, but his expression made it clear he was enjoying every bit of it.
"Now, now, oku-san, he has paid for a proper studio shoot, so you should not waste his generosity."
"Oh, alright, alright, fine. Fine."
She followed them to the back, where the photographer prepared the equipment. He placed the tripod and positioned the reflectors.
"Now, now, don't look so grumpy, oku-san! Don't be like the late Prime Minister Tojo. That man always looked like he ate a sour persimmon."
That did elicit a smile, however reluctant.
"There, that's much better. Now, oku-san, please sit here, and lean forward just a little, yes. That's right."
It was a strange thing, posing for the camera. Wasn't she always awkward and stiff—not the kind of person that deserved the attention of...well, pretty much anyone?
"Yes, smile, smile, just like that. Hold the pose. Don't forget to breathe, oku-san. The last time I saw someone this tense, it was on the Missouri."
She laughed, and the Leica flashed.
Once, then some more.
"And now, danna-san, if you would, stand behind her. Yes, like that. Now, hold her hand, please. Like that."
This time, the smile did disappear from his face, and he even seemed mortified. That was more relieving than she'd imagined.
"Uh, Yamaguchi-san, we're not—"
"Ah, modesty. No need to be so modest, danna-san. I'm not going to judge you. We're past those times. Now, if you please."
Her face felt like it was about to burst from the heat. He didn't look much better, his cheeks turning pink.
"...May I?" He looked down at her.
"I don't...really mind."
She tried her best not to think too hard about what was going on. He placed a hand over hers. A soldier's hand, just like her own.
The photographer gave them a thumbs-up and started snapping more photos.
"Oku-san, please smile! You look like you are about to attend a funeral. Come on now, you're not that bad, are you? Now, danna-san, look at her. Look at her! Smile, smile! This is not the time to look gloomy. This is a day of celebration!"
Somehow, they managed.
The flash of the camera, the clicking of the shutter, the encouragement of an overeager photographer, and the warmth of his hand.
A day of celebration, indeed.
***
The lights and flashes ceased. The photographer wiped the sweat from his brow.
"A splendid shoot! Splendid. And a pleasure. I haven't had a model like you in a while. Earnest ones, I mean. Most people are all stiff and proper, and their smiles are plastic. You two are very much real."
"Thanks."
"I'm glad."
The photographer sighed as he set his Leica down.
"Nothing good will come from fake ones," he muttered. "Fake ones."
He was now looking at one side of the wall, and she followed his gaze. There were photos of a smiling Japanese officer with a crowd. China, by the looks if it. A column of soldiers saluting. Rows of armored cars and trains. The Emperor giving a speech. Isoroku Yamamoto on the bridge of a ship. Imperial Navy's Air Service pilots, grim and determined.
It was only then that it hit her—who he was.
"You were...a war photographer, weren't you?"
He didn't look surprised.
"I was with the Dōmei, but sometimes I worked for the Ministry of Communications. All you see there was carefully curated, after all. Or staged. Fake ones, oku-san. I'm not proud of them. But what I do now...I can sleep at night. Thank you. The photos will be ready in two days. Come back and pick them up."
"We will. Thank you."
"No, thank you."
***
"Sorry...didn't think that old man would be that enthusiastic."
The car was cruising the streets of Ginza once more, its engine humming a steady rhythm. The world beyond the window kept going. Cars, pedestrians, signs sliding past.
"I...didn't mind. It was embarrassing, but I didn't mind, Jerry. Don't worry about it."
"...Your face says otherwise."
"Maybe, but still."
He dropped her in front of the izakaya and walked her to the entrance. Grim greeted them with a nod and a flap of the wing.
"Thank you for today."
"Ah, it's no trouble at all."
"Are you sure there's nothing I can give you in return?"
"You can give me a free Coke, and that's enough."
"That's hardly enough."
"For a year."
"Don't push your luck, Jerry."
"A week."
"You are pushing it."
"Okay, okay. One day. And remember what I said. Live."
"I...will."
"Good."
The car roared and then disappeared around the corner.
She hung the windchimes, and the sound was pleasant, a breezy caress.
She went upstairs to get her bathing supplies, and when she passed by the window, the wind was cool against her skin, and the sun was warm and golden.
Her steps were light for the first time in a while.
***
The sign on the door had been flipped. The izakaya was now open for business again.
Jerry was the first to arrive. She served him the free Coke she'd promised him before getting herself ready for a busy weekend evening.
She was about to check the inventory when Atago burst through the door to pull her into a hug that almost squeezed the life out of her.
"Hug...can't...breathe..."
"I just found out from your gentleman friend! It's your birthday! Oh, happy birthday, Enty-chan!"
"We don't...usually celebrate..."
"It doesn't matter. We need to make it a tradition among us! Launch days are birthdays!"
Jerry was calmly sipping his Coke, despite her glare. At least Atago had let her go.
"Amen to that, Miss."
Yamatani and Saejima-san arrived just after that.
"Okami-san, congratulations!"
"Happy birthday, Boss."
"Thanks...but it's not—"
"Well, I'll whip up something fancier than your usual fare later on," Saejima-san said before returning to his station. "Can't let a day like this pass by, can we?"
"But, wait, no, I can't—"
"Aww, I'll get you something tomorrow," Yamatani declared.
"It's not—"
"Let them be, Skipper," Jerry cut in, a slight smile on his face. "I'm not about to argue with folks who are eager to make your birthday special."
"You set them up to this, didn't you?"
"Me? Never. I am innocent."
"Jerry..."
"Happy birthday, Skipper," he said simply. "Now, how about some music?"
"Fine, fine," she turned the radio on. Kyu Sakamoto again.
The windchimes and the bells signaled the arrival of more customers for the evening.
Sakamoto was crooning about being all alone tonight.
But she didn't really feel like it.
"I'm not alone..."
She barely meant to say it out loud.
"No, Skipper. You're not."