Oliver fell into step beside her.
"I haven't seen you in ages," she said.
"I know. How are the girls?"
"Maria has an earache, but it's getting better. They're fine." She gave
him an encouraging look.
"I made something for you--a present."
"Oooo . . ."
"I was going to mail it, but I didn't want to embarrass you."
"It's been a long time since I was embarrassed."
"It's a valentine."
"Now I'm really curious," she said. What am I doing? he asked himself.
Too late now. Francesca rubbed the end of her nose with her palm. "You
could bring it to me next Sunday."
"Yes. Oh, damn! I'm leaving on Thursday; I won't be here."
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to Hawaii. I'm going to try and find my father. I've never
met him. He's Japanese. I am too, I guess. Half."
"Caramba!" Francesca said.
"So I can't be here, Sunday. I wish . . ."
"Mail it," she said. "I could use a valentine."
"O.K. Will just 'Cape Elizabeth' get to you?"
"Old Toll Road, 420," she said. A lobster boat started its engine in
the distance.
"How tall are you?" Oliver asked.
"Six feet, even."
"I'm five, two. Funny thing is--I don't feel short around you. I did
when I first saw you in Becky's, but now I don't." A quick smile
crossed her face. She turned her head toward the water.
"Careful," she said quietly. He barely heard her. "When will you be
back?" she asked more loudly.
"Don't know. Couple of weeks, I think. Maybe I'll see you out here?"
"Until the snow gets too deep," she said.
"I'll see you, then," Oliver said, stopping. "I'll leave you to your
peace and quiet."
"Be safe," she said. Oliver waved and walked back the way they had
come. The sun was clear of the horizon, promising warmth.
"Yes!" he said. The Early People had an air of being off duty. They had
waited for the sun, welcomed it, and were now free to enjoy it.
9.
Oliver changed planes in Chicago and landed in Oregon at one o'clock,
Pacific time. "Funny thing," he said to a cab driver. "I always thought
Portland was on the ocean. It's a river port."
"The Columbia," the driver said. "Where you from?"
"The other Portland--in Maine."
"Back east. I'm from Worcester, Mass, myself. Long time ago."
"You like it out here?"
"It's all right. Beats shoveling snow."
"It feels a lot milder," Oliver said. "We could get snow anytime in
Maine."
"Friggin snow," the driver said. "Here you go."
"You want to wait a couple of minutes--off the meter? I'll need another
ride."
"Where to?"
"There's supposed to be a big Japanese garden up on a hill. . ."
"I'll wait."
"Be right out." Oliver checked in, left his bag in his room, and came
out feeling light-footed. He had a map in one pocket of his bush
jacket. He unfolded it in the cab. "So--where is it?"
"Washington Park, Kingston Avenue."
"I see it. Great. Let's go." They drove into the city and climbed
through a residential district. The driver stopped at the entrance to
the garden.
"You can get a bus downtown on that corner over there," he said,
pointing.
"Thanks." The cab rolled away down the hill. It was quiet. The
neighborhood trees and hedges were lush. A layer of cloud imparted a
soft gray tone to the buildings and the streets stretched out below.
Oliver entered the park and strolled along paths that were nearly
deserted. He walked up and down through trees, past tiny ponds, mossy
rock faces, handmade bamboo fountains, patches of flowers, and
unexpected views. The effect was both wild and intensely cultivated.
The garden was an homage to nature, a carefully tended frame within
which blossoms fell and birds flitted in their own time.
A light drizzle began to fall. Oliver sat on his heels, warm enough in
his jacket and his canvas hat. The live silence of the garden gradually
entered him, replacing an inner deafness. When he stood, his knees were
stiff, but he had become otherwise more flexible. His plans were not so
important--they mattered, but not to the exclusion of what was around
him.
He caught a bus downtown and wandered through an area of mixed
industry, galleries, and restaurants. He spent time in a leather shop
that sold skins and hides. Oliver had never seen an elk hide. He bought
a rattlesnake skin, five feet long, that had intricate brown and black
diamond-shaped markings. The clerk rolled it in a tight coil and put a
rubber band around it.
Oliver ate in a Japanese restaurant. A scroll hung in an illuminated
recess at one end of the room. The characters were bold, the brush
strokes fresh and immediate. Stringed music twanged of duty,
consequence, and the inevitable flow of time. The waitress, middle-aged
and respectful, brought him dinner with a minimum of talk. Oliver ate
slowly, feeling no need for conversation. He _was_ conversing, he
realized, with each move of his chopsticks, each glance around the room.
The cab ride and the hotel seemed loud in comparison. He turned the TV
on and turned it off. It was better to lie in bed and revisit the
garden. Tomorrow was coming. Another long flight.
In the morning, Oliver's spirits rose as the jet cleared the coast,
high above the ocean. "Here we go," he said to the slim woman seated
next to him. She smiled and resumed reading what appeared to be a
textbook. He had a glass of Chardonnay with lunch, but he was too wide
awake to sleep afterwards. The plane passed above slabs of cloud and
intermittent vistas of empty ocean. Once, a jet slid by below them,
several miles away, flying in the opposite direction.
Hours later, as they descended toward the islands, a general excitement
spread through the plane and the student became talkative. "There is
tourist Hawaii," she said, "and military Hawaii, and everywhere
else--the real Hawaii."
"I'm staying in Waikiki," Oliver said. "I guess that's tourist Hawaii."
"Yes," she said. "But the buses are good. You can get out, go around
the island."
"I will. I'm going to try and look up family I've never met."
"Where do they live?" Oliver had found a listing for Kenso Nakano in a
phone book at the airport.
"Alewa Heights," he said.