The Falling Sun
Nihon -Japan (Origin
of the Sun)

When I awoke, my head had its own pulse, and the whitewashed room was not the expanse of rugged fields and barbed wire that I had come to expect. I looked up; the cerebral throbbing grew worse. A harsh bulb blinded me.
     A figure appeared there. They spoke, half-way through a conversation that I could not recall having: “Let’s see if you’ve learnt somethin’.”
     He turned the page of a hidden document as I raised myself from the table; swallowed the dry rocks in my throat. I focussed on the figure and the grotty wall behind him. I had been there before.
     “Question twenty-seven,” he said; “Are you willing to serve in the armed forces of the United States on combat duty, wherever ordered?”
     That question, I had been asked that question before. There was only one right answer.
     “Alright,” came the voice as I made no comment; “We’ll try the other one. Question twenty-eight. Will you swear allegiance to the US and defend the US from any foreign attack, and will you foreswear any allegiance to the emperor?”
     I could hardly keep myself awake. But I managed: “No.”
     There was a crash as the figure shoved the table; “You’re a real monster.”
     I wasn’t certain about that, for as he had spoken, he had come into the light. I was sure then that I’d come face-to-face with the devil. That this was purgatory.
     The devil looked just like Colonel John F. Thorbes.

                                                                                                                        I)
My parents came to America –

“Woah! Why have we gone this far back, Mr. Yamamoto?”
     “Because the past is how we got here today. It is all relevant, all linked.”
     Officer Lawrence supposed that made sense. It intrigued him at the very least.

My parents came to America in the spring of 1910 on a cramped steam trawler that stunk of smoke and rotting fish. The Unmei. The ship was designed for putting about the Sea of Japan catching tuna, not for pacing across the Pacific – but this was the journey it took. For it had a second purpose: immigration.
     Smuggled passengers posed as a fishing crew; they swayed listlessly on the ship's creaking rheumatisms, confined to the unsanitary deck, which was slick with sea spit, and vomit, and salt-encrusted nets. But the hopeful immigrants were oblivious to this. They were slaves to their aspirations.
     To them, the ragged Unmei was marinated in glorious visions of their destination. To see the halcyon-spun postcards that had been narrated to them back in Japan. Images of the United States: The Land of Opportunity.
     However, what my parents and the many others who had been bewitched by the tales did not realise was that the journey they embarked on was illegal.
     In 1907, a Gentlemen's Agreement had been made between the two nations. The Japanese government had ordered that low-skilled labourers have their passports confiscated if they were suspected of wanting to immigrate to the US. In return, the American continent had promised to end segregation between white and Asian children in schools, as well as staunch the many Californian newspapers that gushed with anti-Japanese ravings.
     Many people found loopholes, however. These included heading to Hawaii, where a ban on immigration was not in place. From Hawaii, a dreamer could then hop to the mainland. Family members could also immigrate to join other family members if they already lived in the United States. Picture brides became fashionable, where couples would pretend to be married so that they could immigrate to join their ‘other half’. The paper-trail was scandalous. To an immigration officer, all foreigners' names looked the same. No matter how much they resented opening their doors, they failed to see who snuck in through the cat-flap.
     For these were people desperate to better themselves. Nothing was going to keep them out. Thousands were heading to California monthly.
     The Unmei was part of this exodus. For a substantial sum of money, the fishermen of the spluttering trawler would smuggle their passengers to the west coast of the United States. They would land in San Francisco disguised as members of the crew, where they would then carry crates to a trading partner, only to be conveniently lost, mingling with the culturally fluent population. Once in America they could find work. (No-one ever complained if cheap labour was available.)
     That was the plan.
     My father relayed it in his mind, giddy with anticipation. His excitement mingled with the hard labour, amplifying his efforts into strong-will and strong arms, as he and another zealous immigrant carried a crate of sardines to the already cramped stern.
     At eighteen, my father had outgrown the small rural village where he had grown up, and he was desperate to travel to a land where his ambitions could be realised. The United States of America made such a promise. So that one day his father, my grandfather (a man I have never met), went up to him and pushed the family savings into his palm. My grandfather had also been preparing to take his family to the United States, for he, too, had heard the tales in his impressionable years. Grown old, he had realised that his time would never come; he was glad to pass the opportunity to his son. My father had been grateful beyond words to accept the gift.
     Nevertheless, now that he was on his way there, he missed home, Aisho Delta, a place where everyone had known everyone. He missed his parents, two brothers and sister. Work kept his mind off all that he had left behind. So, that as he put the crate of sardines down, nodded gratitude to the man who had helped him, and wiped his brow, he was ecstatic – for they were a day and a part away from landing.
     Then, Fate pushed him in the right direction. The Unmei struck a large wave and jumped, froth and spit slashing onto the deck. My father stumbled, and he knocked into one of the crates of salt-packed tunas. As he steadied himself, he swore that he heard a cry – it came from within the crates. My father investigated the sheet that covered them…
     Between the crates, in a cave that had been made in the concealed space, he found a woman. She was wrapped in a sodden grey shawl, her hair matted with brine and salt. A red kimono was visible beneath the shawl. The material was delicate and richly decorated with embroidered geishas in a golden lace; black shrines and minka, lined with cherry blossoms. My father had never seen anything so beautiful. In Aisho Delta, very few people could afford such luxury; they had lived in traditional, plain clothes, practical for labour. This woman had wealth, which made her presence there perplexing.
     As my father stared, astounded, the woman that would become my mother retreated. He was desperate not to lose her; “Hello,” he said in quick Japanese; “I can see you.” (He would later tell me that he regretted those as his first words, but, at the time, he had been awkward, and young, and very surprised to have found such a jewel amongst junk.)
     My mother scurried away, tugging at the sodden cloak that my father had peeled back; “Go away.”
     Advancing slightly, my father asked: “What are you doing down there?”
     “I said go away. You cannot see me.”
     “But I can.”
     She gave a desperate tug at the cloak as the boat jumped again on the turbulent waves. She said: “No – please, just go.” Paranoid glances flickered from her doe eyes to the crew members up the deck. They were oblivious to her, however.
     In those eyes, my father saw something unusual, something magnificent – a yellow flash, like a streak of lightning or a ray of sunshine. Whenever this woman was playful or terrified, one could see that flash, a pulse of rash ecstasy.
     My father crouched; “Are you alright? I can get the captain –”
     “No, don’t.” she clammed up; “I’m fine.” Then, contrastingly, she melted into a flurry of tears.
     The sight wrenched at my father. It occurred to him that this woman had possibly been hiding there since they had left Japan. She was around my father’s age, and just as afraid as he was. Broken porcelain best described her, and my father, unsure why, felt the need to help piece her together; a duty that came from his already bewitched heart.
     He shuffled towards the crates; the fetid stench was distant in his mind. “I’m Hamata.” he said, giving a slight bow.
     The woman returned a timid stare. She yielded: “Tenshi.”
     Angel. My mother’s name meant angel.
     Hamata smiled; “That’s pretty.”
     A gush of seawater engulfed him as the Unmei struck a ferocious wave. The force flattened his hair and nearly knocked him over. In the dripping aftermath, he gave a shocked grin. Not the first impression that he had intended. He laughed. A wet dog of a figure, and he was laughing.
     “Quiet.” my mother hissed; “Here – or they’ll find me.” She dragged him into her hiding place. An intimate space, made so by the compactness and the electric tension between them, for my father fell, pushed against Tenshi’s wet shawl; their heads crouched close beneath the sodden canopy; their breaths excited, shared. It was the exact medicine that my mother needed. She laughed at the state of this handsome man, as he attempted to dry himself with his hands – which failed horribly, for he wiped his wet digits down his wet clothes.
     Hamata put a finger to his lips. She stopped. But the childishness of the lair remained.
     “You’re really hiding, then?” my father whispered.
     “Yes.” My mother hid her face in her arms; “I was dishonest.”
     “I doubt that.”
     My mother stared hard at the greasy floor; “I fled from home. I had everything, but…” she trailed off.
     My father tried to comfort her, but he was awkward in the tight space; he went to put a hand on her shoulder, then decided not to; he went to say sorry, but thought that it was wrong – what did he have to be sorry for? So, in the end, he did neither of those two things. He sat there, looking tentatively at the shawled Tenshi, and, eventually, he found the right words.
     “Are we not all running away for a new start?”
     That sentiment came from his heart, for he felt the same thing of himself.
     He had left Aisho Delta to start anew; had left because the tiny fishing village had changed – not for the better. The modernisation of Meiji Japan had reached them. Tradition had been demolished. The day when the village had been given its westernised, slang name by the international visitors – Delta, pronounced Deruta and written in katakana; so that my father could no longer remember its original title – was the day that the village had died. When his home of forest and water had become an urban fishing port, absorbed into the widening sprawl of the booming Yokohama. When the traditional feudal system was brushed aside for monopolised conglomerates (called Zaibatsu) that ruled in Western stead. Soon, the village had become over-populated, over-fished, and a zone with total disregard to sanitation or substantial living conditions.
     If that brutal new world had left Aisho Delta alone, then my father might never have fled. But in the ash of sentimentality, which rose in great columns from the village’s expanding rubble, he had seen a world that he had not wanted to be a part of.
     Perhaps he should have stayed. Should have helped his family battle the monopolies that threatened the local fishing companies. Maybe he was selfish for leaving – but what could he do when his heart was elsewhere?
     My mother stirred. She twisted to face my father once again, those smudged features of tears and muck, still golden, still gorgeous, even in that state; “Yes,” she trembled, as water slipped down her face to her lips; “but I – I didn’t want to leave, not… not really. I made a mistake.”
     “What happened?”
     She gave in. There was something in this Hamata that she liked. Something that made her feel safe for the first time since she had scurried onto the boat.
     My mother’s story was the antithesis to my father’s.
     Tenshi had lived in the city of Yokohama, the bustling port where the Unmei had begun its journey, and a place entangled with America ever since Commodore Matthew Perry’s landing fifty years before, which had opened Japan to the West.
     Tenshi’s father, Mr. Tomiyama, a wealthy industrialist who had benefited from Meiji policy and the rapid expansion of the city, was included in the 1% of people who were allowed to vote in Japan for the House of Representatives. He had made his wealth from factory ownership, an empire of industrial posts in most of the major cities in Japan. Mr. Tomiyama was the sort of man who had devoured Aisho Delta – the men whom Hamata had been running from.
     Tenshi’s family was completed with her mother, grandmother, and two brothers. They had lived in a large house that anyone in Aisho Delta would have perceived as a palace. How could anyone have wanted to leave that life of luxury behind? – my father questioned.
     How, indeed? There was the tragic twist.
     Marriage.
     Mr. Tomiyama had tried to marry his daughter off to various eligible suitors, all of whom owned businesses. As with all his money-making ideas, Mr. Tomiyama had conjured the plan alone in his office. No input from my mother. No consent. He had decided upon it, and that was final. And when Mr. Tomiyama got fixed on an idea, he was like a dog with a bone. Father and daughter clashed. The argument had led directly to Tenshi’s immigration.
     She had recalled overhearing talk in the market of a land of riches, where anyone was welcome; where anyone was free – for someone who felt suffocated, freedom was a beacon that could not be ignored.
     In her anger, my mother had fled from home; had stumbled onto the Unmei, aware that it was heading to America. By the time she had calmed, it had been too late – there was no going back. Each night, she had cried herself to sleep.
     My father listened to the story with the deepest of sympathy. It was a shame that his powers of comfort were so adolescent. He said: “I worry that I made the wrong decision, too.”
     My mother turned to him with wet eyes; “Really?”
     “Yeah. I think of all that I left behind. My sister got married. I will never be an uncle to her children.” It was a worthy sacrifice.
     My mother was more defiant, however (or perhaps delusional.) She nodded: “I’ll see my family again. I will.”
     “What are you going to do?”
     My mother had not thought that far ahead. She improvised: “I will buy a ride back to Japan and apologise to my parents.”
     “With what money will that be?”
     “I’ll get a job and save up.”
     My father could not hide the scepticism from his features.
     “What are you going to do?” my mother responded.
     Hamata was bursting to answer that question. Yet, he had never told anyone before – not even his parents. Tenshi would be the first. He grinned: “My dream – no – my plan – because it is going to happen – is this…”
     And he told her all that he desired from the stories of America:
     The farm.
     In Japan, farming was a respectable industry, but not a huge one. Contrastingly, the United States was home to fields of innumerable acres. One plain three-times the size of Aisho Delta. Of fertile land and boundless opportunity. He had never farmed in his life. But he was willing to learn. Willing to work hard to succeed.
     What a new life it would be! What an American life.
     So, he told her of his land. Told her of the settlement: he imagined a cosy but spacious homesteader’s cabin. It would embarrass the minka that he had lived in at Aisho Delta. It would have a fire for winter and a large porch for summer, where he could stand and admire his territory – golden reaps of wheat and other cereals, potatoes and sugar beet, cabbage and orange and leek; amalgamated into a charming, cross-stitched pattern, twenty shades of green.
     The house would be decorated in rich furniture, hand-carved by himself from his own forest timber. He would have his own bedroom: a bed with clean sheets which he could hang in the morning breeze to dry; a wardrobe full of new, pristine clothes in many colours; boots caked in soft earth.
     He told her about the barn; warm, woollen sheep which bleated in his presence; cows plump with milk as thick as cream; pigs rolling playfully in the mud; clucking chickens roaming the fields of grain.
     Walking the fields, he would scythe down golden bundles, pick handfuls of fruit and vegetables, and admire the sun setting in the far reaches of his domain. He would hear his horse calling from the stable. A thoroughbred: fast and handsome. Feeding the beast an apple; my father's hands rested comfortably on its muscular body, patting, brushing the brute with devotion. He would ride along his grounds. A postcard of life at its best.
     This was his dream of freedom. Of a life worth living. Of abundance, and wealth, and sun, and heart – a dream of America!
     The Unmei leapt on another, more violent wave, and the sodden cloak covering their hiding place nearly flew off.
     My mother had never heard something so powerful, so vivid, so… excessive. That someone her own age had imagined it, had created it… she was envious.
     “You have really thought this through.”
     “You really haven’t.”
     They laughed. Then hushed themselves, remembering that they had to avoid detection. As they settled, they faced each-other, compressed once again. The boat smoothed, and they rocked close to one-another, their glistening faces and tentative breathing felt on the flesh.
     Mesmerised, my father asked: “Why are you hiding?”
     “The captain is a brute.”
     My father knew what that meant. “We should be there soon.” he said.
     “The sooner I can go home.” Tenshi pulled away from him. She covered the red kimono and crawled back to her hiding place.
     This hurt my father. He found that he did not want to leave Tenshi’s company. He had just shared his deepest desire with her; she now possessed a part of him. Either way, it would not be easy for them to disentangle – would it?
     “I should go,” Hamata started; “Before people wonder where I am.” Ensuring that the coast was clear, he made a start; “Don’t worry, I will not tell anyone that you are here.” He lingered for a moment, as if hopeful that he would be called back, or afraid that if he left, he would wake to find that she had been a dream. Eventually, he shuffled towards the exit – “Oh, and can I get you anything? Food? Drink? I will smuggle something later.”
     Tenshi took my father’s hands as he went to leave, those sore eyes searching him; “Thank you.”
     My father smiled, then reluctantly pulled away.


                                                                                                                   II)
In the hold, the passengers slept alongside crates of salt. There was no door, but the walls kept trapped the sweat and sordid heat that groaned from the men who had spent days down there. Many led on the floor, wrapped in blankets that had been soaked by the flay from the sea. Some used bundles of what possessions they had brought with them as pillows.
     Whilst he had slept, replaying the strange encounter with Tenshi, adamant that it had all been a dream, my father had sensed the boat slow. A faint flicker of amber had then roused him. The fiery morsel danced in the deck beyond.
     An altercation approached with it. Two voices cushioned by the crash of the sea. My father could not make out what they said, but the sensationalism of the night sent anxiety into his heart, and he pressed himself against his pillow, listening. He held his breath; his heart thumped in his ears and throat.
     Terrible afflictions tore at his mind. Had the crew found Tenshi or gotten word that there was a stowaway onboard? Or had they arrived? If so, then San Francisco was not as impressive as he had imagined – the coast beyond shapeless. No buildings. No wealth. Just a swamp of darkness and a few matchstick trees.
     Surely, that was not the United States of America?
     As he lay there, remaining as still as possible, he recognised that the amber was a lantern, held by a shadowed hand. The other passengers stirred. Some found his puzzled features and shared their concern. More roused. With safety in numbers, they grew bolder. Sat upright and peeled back their blankets.
     The light beckoned for them to follow. No-one did, however. They whispered amongst themselves, whilst the silent few gathered their belongings as if they knew something that everybody else didn’t.
     All heads turned, however, when a wave crashed against the ship. Spray rained on the deck; the droplets sparked like fire, illuminated by the lantern – sparks that alit the master of the light. The sodden seadog powered through the raining froth. He wore a perpetual frown, as if the Unmei’s anchor had been weighed from his chin, and he sustained a pickled quality.
     The crewman stood before the immigrants, barked: “Gather yer stuff. Follow me.” his Japanese was sake-eroded, but the startled mass got the message. It was just as well, for that was all he said – before he staggered away.
     My father bundled the sodden rag that he had been using as a bed into his sack (his father’s, who had used it on long fishing trips), and then stuffed it under his arm. He joined the train of passengers already ambling after the miserable crewman.
     The lantern stopped starboard, and the seadog stood at the edge, staring expectantly back at the mass. What did he want? For them to jump overboard and swim to the coast?
     Another man was waiting for them; he sparked as sea spray rained upon the lantern.
     My father looked overboard.
     There was a rowing boat attached to a spaghetti of ropes. This was the fine line that prevented the suspended boat from crashing into the Ocean.
     “Get in.” the man said.
     There were many murmurs of dissent.
     “I thought we were going to San Francisco!”
     “Change of plan.” the crewman barked; he thrust a chewed thumb in the direction of the spaghetti ropes; “Get in the boat.”
     Someone else piped up: “There’s not enough room.”
     There were forty or so looking to immigrate to the United States. There was only the one boat.
     The one with the lantern stabbed: “Get in. Or be left behind.”
     The immigrants were frightened and confused. They realised, however, that they had no choice. They boarded the boat. The process was one of throwing down what belongings they had (cautious not to toss them into the Pacific), and then to clamber down. Not an easy feat when the tangle of ropes caught around their legs, and they were shouted at by the seadog to hurry. Other crewmen emerged from the shadows to help hoist the rope. They prevented the boat from buckling to the weight of the passengers.
     A thought then struck my father: if they were leaving, he needed to find Tenshi. There had to be a way to smuggle her off the ship. So many faces were passing, each one hardly registered, that she might have been able to go with them, undetected.
     But he had to be quick. Or else the boat would be gone, and he would be stranded.
     Slinging his bundle over his shoulder, he turned and waded through the queue. There were only a few people left; they glanced at him with startled expressions – not because he was crashing into them but startled that anyone could turn their back on America. It wasn’t the only attention that my father received, for, as he headed towards Tenshi’s hiding place, his path was blocked by a crewman who had the characteristics of driftwood.
     “Where are you going?” he jabbed.
     My father should probably have been afraid. If he had been in Aisho Delta, faced with one of the village elders, he would have buckled into an apology. But he was driven by the urge to find Tenshi. One randomly placed goon was not going to stop him.
     “I have a friend.” he flashed; “They are missing.”
     “They’re in the boat. Go. Or you’ll be left behind.”
     “No, they’re not.”
     “Board the boat. Or stay behind.”
     “My friend is not on the boat. Where are they?”
     A scream! The answer to my father’s question.
     Stunned and embarrassed, the driftwood let my father pass. Hamata acted, drawn to the noise, certain that it was Tenshi.
     As he reached the quarterdeck and crates came into view, a surly voice crept from the heavy midnight; “If you haven’t got money, I’m sure we can come to some other arrangement.”
     “No.” came a female cry.
     It was Tenshi. My father was close.
     He arrived to see a greasy creature paw Tenshi. It pulled her close to its pickled flesh, where it slobbered with a kiss – or something like that (for the creature was panting so heavily, its mouth wide open, that it also looked to be trying to devour my mother.) That creature was the captain, Hamata recognised.
     “Let me go!” My mother lashed out with a weak fist, which padded against the captain’s chest.
     Heady in the heat of the moment, my father charged forwards, unnoticed by the scuffling pair; “How much?” he rifled.
     The captain’s advances on my mother stalled, but he remained in firm grip of her. He stood panting, his mask screwed at my father. He spat: “Who are you?” He yanked my mother close to him. Snarling, he added: “Get lost.”
     My father was not deterred; “I said, how much?”
     Silence endured as the captain masticated on the proposal. The cogs turned in his waterlogged head, awoken from their patina of salt rust. Here was a man who helped immigrants smuggle into America – not because he was nice and wanted their dreams to come true, but – because he was paid. My father had not asked ‘how much for the trip?’, but how much the captain thought my mother’s life was worth.
     Stroking Tenshi’s hair, the captain growled: “Ten American dollars.” He grinned: it was a number that he never expected my father to be able to pay.
     “It was only five on the way down.”
     “It’s compensation for what I lose.”
     My mother squirmed.
     It sent a pain through my father. He rifled in his bundle and produced something wrapped in cloth. This, he tossed to the captain’s feet.
     “Here.”
     Surprise and scepticism crossed the captain’s features. He swooped down to collect the item, tore through it with his fishhook fingers, and revealed the green of chewed American money. He rubbed the paper between his fingers. Reluctantly, he released my mother. She stumbled; straightened her torn shawl, which the red kimono bled through.
     Pocketing the money, the captain stared at Tenshi, want in his yellow eyes; “The boat is about to leave.” He gave a dry smirk, then slouched into the shadows.
     That was their dismissal, and my father didn’t need reminding that his dream was in jeopardy. He took my mother’s hand and led her to starboard, where the train of hopeful immigrants had become a stub – the last two boarding into the cramped little rowboat.
     Tenshi began: “You didn’t have to do –”
     “No time to talk. We need to get in the boat.” Hamata launched one leg over the edge. It was a wonder how he was supposed to enter without standing on anyone’s head.
     Tenshi, however, was shaken by the experience; she started: “The captain, he…” But she trailed off when the thought was too hard and the crewman next to her was barking at her to hurry.
     She followed my father down into the rowboat, where he took her hand as guidance and forced room on the stall next to him. Her progress was slow and frightening however, for the boat rocked under the shifting weight of the passengers. Their hysteria increased as a result, only making the boat rock more. Fortunately, my mother made it.
     Just as they thought the ordeal was over, that they would be lowered into the water and sent off to their destination, the pickled crewman with the lantern swung his leg over the edge. He was to join them. Rather than hand his lantern to one of the many hands below, he held it in his chipped teeth. As he lowered himself, he grunted at the lack of room and the precariousness of the situation, as if it was the immigrants’ fault and not his own. Through persistence, a space opened, and the man thumped in.
     There was an ironic jeer from the passengers.
     It wasn’t over yet.
     The overloaded boat was too heavy for the pulley system. It lowered in jolts. Everyone screamed. The ropes became so knotted that the process stopped. The boat dangled about two feet from the water. Above, another crewman produced a knife. He used it to chew through the thick knots.
     The sound of tearing rope startled the passengers, and some rose to their feet. They tried to climb back to the Unmei. The Ocean was aggravated, and a tumultuous wave came their way. It rocked the rowboat, slashing spray and salt in their faces. After the crewman cut the knots to his left, the boat tilted. The passengers screamed for as long as the boat fell. Before they settled into a collective whimper, hanging there.
     My parents squeezed each-other's hands, huddled close.
     The man with the lantern produced his own knife and hacked at the other rope lines. No coordination, no safety or regard for anyone – just the absolute madness of the moment.
     It was not the start that any of the immigrants had imagined. Or perhaps it was the last chapter of their old lives…
     Too much weight. Two men slicing ropes like Francisco de Orellana through vegetation. Both were factors that caused the boat to crash, nearly sending its contents into the bottom of the Pacific. It was a miracle that the little rowboat did not sink on impact – the crash was greeted by a fiery ring of waves, but that was the extent of its violence.
     With the boat settled, the crewman passed the lantern to a random man next to him. They indicated for the light to be moved along. The immigrants were too traumatised to move. But with a slap from the crewman, they did as was commanded. The lantern was put to rest at the prow. Its amber light shimmered off the rise and fall of the waves. The crewman then signalled for the immigrants to row the boat for him.
     Slowly, they slipped away from the Unmei. All calmed. As before, they bloated with anticipation at what the New World would bring.