The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (19 page)

O
n
the commuter train to Oyama, Kuro took up his manga comic, but read less than a
page before stopping to stare out of the window, daydreaming as apartment
buildings and industrial complexes whizzed by.

Kuro had started to question recently whether something
might be amiss in his life, since fixating on the mundane backdrop while
listening to the hypnotic beat of the tracks was actually more enjoyable than
standing on the production line at Hitachi endlessly plugging components into
TV motherboards. He felt an overwhelming urge to exit the train at the next
stop and go and experience pastures new, but if he committed such a rebellious
act his future with the electronics giant would not be a long one.

The young man had aspirations, though. Minakuchi-san had worked
his way up from warehouse assistant to become operations manager. Last year he
flew his family to Mexico for a vacation – Cancún no less, the epitome of the
good life – where they swam with dolphins and saw Koichi Domyato, Japan’s J-pop
sensation, strolling hand in hand along the beach with Atsuko
Morigachi
from the hit soap opera
Love Exists
.

Kuro had never been abroad, as his mother and father were not
adventurous types. His grandfather, Sukiyabashi-san, who lived with the family,
had traveled to faraway places, although it was not something he talked about.
Known respectfully as
Itamae
–
“Chef” – he had been Japan’s
leading sushi master before the Second World War. Following the attack on Pearl
Harbor, the Japanese army commissioned Sukiyabashi-san, who, rising to the rank
of major, found himself in Burma overseeing construction of the infamous Death
Railway.

One time Kuro sneaked into his grandfather’s room to peek at
the contents of an aging ammunition canister kept with the modest possessions
in his closet. There were sepia-toned photographs of a determined young man and
a demure young woman dressed in kimonos and staring solemnly into the lens –
the latter, Kuro’s grandmother, killed during an American bombing raid shortly
before the war ended, the sortie leveling the restaurant and two square miles
of the surrounding area. A set of gold-lacquered
hashi
– chopsticks –
pinned to a base made from cherry tree were the only reminder of
Sukiyabashi-san’s glory days as chef supreme, this particular award bestowed
upon him by the Fishmongers Guild in 1932.

Particularly moving were hundreds of letters, bunched and
tied with brittle string dyed orange using wilted lawn clippings to symbolize
romance, each impeccably written in daintily inked characters and with a dried
blossom included in its folds. Kuro had thought of the beautiful Aiko, his
coworker at the factory.

Yet the most pertinent keepsake in his grandfather’s
collection was a yellowing page from
Stars and Stripes
featuring a
photograph taken in the Burmese jungle. A phalanx of Allied soldiers stood to
attention in a dusty clearing as a Japanese officer saluted a victorious
British colonel, the latter looking down at an exquisite sword held in his
upturned hands. A captain from the US Marine Corps stood next to the general, flown
in from an aircraft carrier in the Andaman Sea to organize the repatriation of
American prisoners of war.

Despite the sword’s military scabbard and remodeled hilt,
Kuro knew the
katana
blade had been in his family for generations,
forged from the purest carbon-tempered steel by Yoshi the Sword Maker in 1804.

To the stern-faced general in the photograph, the sword
represented humility in defeat, but to Kuro’s grandfather it signified the
death of a samurai and eternal shame and dishonor. Beneath the aging snapshot,
the caption read, “Following the Japanese surrender in Burma, Major
Sukiyabashi, Imperial Army, offers his sword to Colonel J. C. Douglas, 14th
Army, as Captain J. J. Larsson, US Marine Corps, looks on.”

P
enny
stoked the embers and threw more driftwood on the fire. The flames twisted and
curled, leaping like sprites into the night, ravishing the tinder-dry logs,
which crackled, popped and wheezed as the ocean crashed on the beach. Jessica
lay asleep on a blanket unfurled on the powdery yellow sand, the amber glow
dancing across her face, emphasizing the child’s perfect form.

“Look at her, Hans,” Penny whispered. “She’s so beautiful.”

“Exhausted too.”

Hans took a gulp of rum from the bottle and washed it down
with beer.

“That was probably the skinny-dipping.” Penny elbowed him in
the ribs. “If there’s such a thing as utopia, this must be it.”

“Agreed.” Hans kissed the top of her head as she lay against
him. “But with a fire like that, I think it’s
you
Tarzan,
me
Jane.”

“A girl’s gotta know her stuff, Jane.”

“I loved those movies as a kid. You’re probably too young to
remember.”

“I think we just got the cartoon.”

“Saturday mornings . . . in black and white.” Hans smiled in
the darkness. “Johnny Weissmuller. Hell, he was my hero.”

“Johnny . . . ?”

“Weissmuller – a German immigrant. Real good swimmer. Won
five Olympic golds, so MGM signed him to play the part. Man!”

“What?”

“Ah, he was just the greatest role model a kid could have – handsome,
muscular, fearless and loyal, and
boy
could he swim! Used to do these
underwater sequences in crystal-clear African rivers. So beautiful – the
scenery, sunken logs and weeds and gigantic fish. Tarzan and Jane would swim
along holding their breath like they didn’t have a care in the world. And there’d
always be a crocodile attack. Tarzan loved all the animals except crocodiles. Used
to stab them with his bush knife – especially when they tried to eat Jane.”

“He kind of reminds me of someone.” Penny wriggled against Hans’
chest.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

“No, I’m serious when I say I developed a love of the water
from this guy. When I snorkeled off Maine looking for lobster and crab and
spearing fish, I
was
Tarzan. I wanted to live like him.”

“Hans, I don’t think a girl’s ever told you this, but you do
live like him! Don’t you see it? You got a daughter who thinks you can do no
wrong – you’d fight crocodiles for her. Anybody can see that.”

“It’s funny, because you know the best thing about this guy?”

“He . . . cooked a wicked jungle omelet?” Penny noticed a
slight slur in Hans’ speech.

“Ha, no. He had an adopted son, called him Boy. Tarzan loved
this kid – would do anything for him – and the kid loved Tarzan. It was like
the meaning of life playing out before your eyes. Hell, I woulda named my son
Tarzan.”

“Why didn’t y—?” Penny froze.

Hans kissed her cheek. “He was named after his great grandpa.
Jacob Johan Larsson. If there was ever a real-life Tarzan, he was it.”

“Go on.” Penny felt like reaching for another beer but didn’t
want to ruin the moment.

“He was an officer in the Marine Corps. Fought in the Far
East campaign and Korea. Real character. Always up at five and out running
along the shore. Swam in the sea every day without fail. I asked him why once and
he said, ‘It makes me feel good, son.’”

“Sounds more of a father figure.”

“And the rest, Penny. I stayed with him a lot as a kid – kinda
beat being at home. He lived to eighty-three. Doctors said he woulda lasted
longer if it wasn’t for the liquor.”

“He liked a drink?”

“Up at dawn and the first thing he did was take a shot of
rum.” Hans lifted the bottle and swirled the inch of amber liquid around. “He
was old school.
Marine
Corps! No such thing as an alcohol problem.
Nothing you can’t fix with jogging pants and a good ol’ sweat session.”

“Did he want you to join the military?”

“No, just the opposite. He’d have these reunions. Like every
year his old Marine buddies would turn up at the house. They’d spoil me rotten,
tell me stories about my grandpa’s heroics, like the time he carried one of his
injured corporals twelve miles back to base at the Chosin Reservoir.”

“Bet he got a medal for that.”

“He had medals all right.”

Hans stopped talking and took a swig of rum.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

They listened to the sound of waves raking the beach and
spits coming from the fire.

“The reunions,” Hans continued, “always started the same.
Busting out the beers and ‘Hey, what about the time we took that ridge?’ or such
and such a place. And loads of ‘Oorah!’ Then as the evening went on it would be
‘Do you remember Hanson . . . and Kowolski . . . and Bradsell?’ and the tears
would start.”

That’s so sad.” Penny locked fingers with his.

“Grown men crying like babies.”

“Hans, it’s . . . just awful.”

“One time, after his buddies left I heard my grandpa weeping,
so I went into his room. He just hugged me – like
really
hugged me. Then
he pulled an old trunk full of military paraphernalia from under his bed and handed
me this sword – a Japanese sword. I remember it like yesterday: seeing my
reflection in the buffed steel, little clouds scrolling down it, so sharp after
forty years my grandpa made sure I didn’t touch the blade. He asked me what I
saw. I said, ‘A sword, Grandpa.’ He said, ‘I watched Colonel Douglas take this
from a Jap at a camp in Burma – men suffering all kind of hideous diseases, festering
wounds, animal bites and malnutrition so bad you could circle their thighs with
your thumb and forefinger.’”

Penny shuddered. Her late grandfather served in the war as a
civil engineer on the London docks, but other than stepping over the body of a
dead firefighter during the Blitz, he certainly hadn’t experienced such trauma.

“He said, ‘That sword is every life ever ruined by war, son.
Souls so haunted they can’t never be repaired. Old men seeing faces of dead
comrades in their sleep, laughing and acting the fool, then blown to
smithereens, guts wrapped around trees. That Jap officer, he was this sword. Losing
it was worse than losing his legs – and for what, son?”

“Wow, heavy stuff for a kid.”

“Yeah, but the crazy thing is, somewhere over there in Japan
there’s probably a grandson telling the other side of the story.”

W
hen
they met Al Mohzerer outside Old Man Ali’s carpet shop, the majority of the
hashish still sat under the tarp on the pickup’s cargo bed. Driving through the
city’s hectic traffic, Al Mohzerer gripped the steering wheel like a maniac, hunching
forward and scowling at the other road users. Unusually stressed, he maintained
his normal silence and let the truck’s horn do the talking.

Without warning the boss wrenched the wheel over, leaving the
thoroughfare to shoot up a slip road marked “Harbor.”

A feeling of dread descended on the boys.

Al Mohzerer must have a contact in the port authority.

Their exploits were about to be exposed.

Ahmed pictured the scene in his mind:
the Grower
bundling them into an office, men in uniform sat around leering. “Yes, these
are the boys,
sayyid
. They’ve been coming here every month to learn
about sailing and making a damn nuisance of themselves.”

The young Moroccan racked his brain trying to remember if
either of them had mentioned their escape plan to any of the yacht crews they
had met. He felt sure he hadn’t but couldn’t be certain about Mohamed.
You
idiot!
he cursed silently, his mind in turmoil, not for a moment
considering Mohamed was thinking the same thing.

In the small of his back, Ahmed could feel his sheath knife.
The second Al Mohzerer tried to get smart with them he would whip it out and
stab it into the Grower’s neck as fast as humanly possible and not stop
stabbing until the life drained from the evil pig’s eyes.

He began nudging Mohamed, but his friend did not acknowledge
him, and Ahmed worried the little fool was oblivious to their predicament.

Unbeknown to Ahmed, Mohamed was all too aware their lives
might be about to end. He was just petrified their hawklike boss would spot any
signal passed between them and remained frozen in his seat.

Approaching the harbor office, they both felt certain this
was it, but Al Mohzerer drove right past without so much as a glance, his eyes
fixed on the far end of the T-shaped dock. He pulled to a stop a foot from the
edge of the concrete, yanked the parking brake and cut the engine. Then the
Grower got out, lit a cigarette and began staring out to sea.

The boys breathed a small sigh of relief.

“What’s going on?” Mohamed whispered.

“I don’t know. He must be waiting for a boat.”

Sure enough a yacht approached the harbor wall the likes of
which the boys had never seen, timbers shining like the setting sun and sails
the color of emeralds – and then it hit them!