noodles for lunch.”
“With shrimp tempura on top?”
“Yes, with shrimp tempura on top.”
“Your packages, Mr. Tanaka, will be rewrapped in approximately two minutes.”
After lunch I dropped Mariko off and drove over to the Culver City address for Mrs. Okada given to me by Mrs. Kawashiri.
Naomi Okada was a small woman. I judged that she couldn’t be more than 4’9” tall, but osteoporosis had curved her spine till she seemed even tinier. She met me at the door of her modest Culver City home wearing a dark purple dress with thin black stripes. Her face was remarkably free of lines for her age, which I judged to be at least in the late sixties. Her gray hair was neatly pulled back into a bun, and her deep brown eyes had a bright sparkle of intelligence.
“Mrs. Okada?”
“Yes.”
“My name’s Ken Tanaka. Mrs. Kawashiri said she talked to you about me.”
“Oh, Mr. Tanaka. Please come in. My grandson’s not here yet.”
She stood aside and let me enter the small, neat living room of her house. A comfortable looking flower print couch, a matching chair, and a maple coffee table made it look like a showroom at an Ethan Allen furniture store. On the coffee table was a book and an arrangement of irises. In one corner of the room was a lacquered wood glass doll case, with a Japanese doll in it. Japanese style, the case stood on the floor, instead of up on a table. The doll was dressed in a miniature print kimono. Its painted face looked up at me with solemn dignity.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said.
“Oh, it’s no bother. I’m happy to introduce you to my grandson, Evan.”
“Well, I know it’s a big inconvenience.”
“It’s no inconvenience. Please sit down.” She indicated the couch. “Would you like some green tea?”
“No, I don’t want to bother you or put you out.”
“It’s absolutely no bother. Why don’t you have some tea?”
“Well, if you’re sure it’s not a bother, I would like some. Thank you.”
“Good.”
The complicated dance of apology and refusal, offer and denial was carried out in traditional Japanese fashion, and I could see that Mrs. Okada was pleased that I knew my proper role in the elaborate social interplay. It showed I was “raised right.”
Mrs. Okada had the tea things ready in the kitchen, and she returned with them on a tray almost immediately. Of course I was expected to accept the tea, despite all the protestations, so she already had it prepared. If I had either accepted too readily or refused she would have been hurt and put out by my lack of manners. On the tray was a spectacular satsuma platter with characteristic gold and colored enamel designs. It held Japanese arare rice crackers, and it seemed a shame to use such a lovely piece for such plebeian purposes.
“This platter is beautiful,” I said, touching the edge of the dish.
“It’s a very poor thing,” Mrs. Okada said, even though obviously it wasn’t.
When all the social preliminaries had been dispensed with, we sat back in our seats. Mrs. Okada sort of perched on her chair with her legs barely touching the ground. Her curved spine forced her to look up to see me, but her face had an expression of expectation.
“My grandson should be here soon,” she said.
“Okay. Do you know what he covers for the Times?”
“I’m not totally sure. My eyes are bad so I don’t read much anymore. I used to love to read, but now I have a hard time. My daughter sometimes reads stories to me that my grandson wrote. They all seem to do with Asian business.”
“You must be proud of him.”
She waved that thought away with her hand, but I could see she was pleased. Floundering to make polite small talk until her grandson appeared, I noticed that the book on her coffee table bore the picture of a dark mountain jutting out of a high desert landscape. The book was titled Heart Mountain. I pointed to the book.
“Is that book about the Heart Mountain Relocation
“With shrimp tempura on top?”
“Yes, with shrimp tempura on top.”
“Your packages, Mr. Tanaka, will be rewrapped in approximately two minutes.”
After lunch I dropped Mariko off and drove over to the Culver City address for Mrs. Okada given to me by Mrs. Kawashiri.
Naomi Okada was a small woman. I judged that she couldn’t be more than 4’9” tall, but osteoporosis had curved her spine till she seemed even tinier. She met me at the door of her modest Culver City home wearing a dark purple dress with thin black stripes. Her face was remarkably free of lines for her age, which I judged to be at least in the late sixties. Her gray hair was neatly pulled back into a bun, and her deep brown eyes had a bright sparkle of intelligence.
“Mrs. Okada?”
“Yes.”
“My name’s Ken Tanaka. Mrs. Kawashiri said she talked to you about me.”
“Oh, Mr. Tanaka. Please come in. My grandson’s not here yet.”
She stood aside and let me enter the small, neat living room of her house. A comfortable looking flower print couch, a matching chair, and a maple coffee table made it look like a showroom at an Ethan Allen furniture store. On the coffee table was a book and an arrangement of irises. In one corner of the room was a lacquered wood glass doll case, with a Japanese doll in it. Japanese style, the case stood on the floor, instead of up on a table. The doll was dressed in a miniature print kimono. Its painted face looked up at me with solemn dignity.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said.
“Oh, it’s no bother. I’m happy to introduce you to my grandson, Evan.”
“Well, I know it’s a big inconvenience.”
“It’s no inconvenience. Please sit down.” She indicated the couch. “Would you like some green tea?”
“No, I don’t want to bother you or put you out.”
“It’s absolutely no bother. Why don’t you have some tea?”
“Well, if you’re sure it’s not a bother, I would like some. Thank you.”
“Good.”
The complicated dance of apology and refusal, offer and denial was carried out in traditional Japanese fashion, and I could see that Mrs. Okada was pleased that I knew my proper role in the elaborate social interplay. It showed I was “raised right.”
Mrs. Okada had the tea things ready in the kitchen, and she returned with them on a tray almost immediately. Of course I was expected to accept the tea, despite all the protestations, so she already had it prepared. If I had either accepted too readily or refused she would have been hurt and put out by my lack of manners. On the tray was a spectacular satsuma platter with characteristic gold and colored enamel designs. It held Japanese arare rice crackers, and it seemed a shame to use such a lovely piece for such plebeian purposes.
“This platter is beautiful,” I said, touching the edge of the dish.
“It’s a very poor thing,” Mrs. Okada said, even though obviously it wasn’t.
When all the social preliminaries had been dispensed with, we sat back in our seats. Mrs. Okada sort of perched on her chair with her legs barely touching the ground. Her curved spine forced her to look up to see me, but her face had an expression of expectation.
“My grandson should be here soon,” she said.
“Okay. Do you know what he covers for the Times?”
“I’m not totally sure. My eyes are bad so I don’t read much anymore. I used to love to read, but now I have a hard time. My daughter sometimes reads stories to me that my grandson wrote. They all seem to do with Asian business.”
“You must be proud of him.”
She waved that thought away with her hand, but I could see she was pleased. Floundering to make polite small talk until her grandson appeared, I noticed that the book on her coffee table bore the picture of a dark mountain jutting out of a high desert landscape. The book was titled Heart Mountain. I pointed to the book.
“Is that book about the Heart Mountain Relocation
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