"Look at that!" The plane was banking over a large crater with a grassy
center and steep green sides.
"Diamond Head," she said. She wiped away a tear.
"Diamond Head? I didn't know it was a crater. I never saw a crater
before."
"It nice and green, this time year," she said in a different voice,
intense and musical. The tires jerked and the plane slowed with a rush
of engines. They taxied to the terminal. Passengers unlatched overhead
bins and waited in the aisle for the door to open.
"Goodbye," Oliver said to the woman.
"Aloha," she said, "good luck, huh."
"Aloha," Oliver said, for the first time without irony. The word felt
good in his mouth.
He stepped through the door into a perfume of flowers and burnt jet
fuel. White clouds ballooned over green mountain ridges. Heat waves
eddied on the tarmac. The passengers moved quickly into the terminal
and dispersed.
A young woman with brown skin and black hair, dressed in shorts and
halter top, held a sign that read: Polynesian Paradise Adventures. She
put a lei around Oliver's neck and directed him to a bus where he
waited half an hour while other vacationers collected their luggage and
boarded in small groups. The flowers in his lei were white with yellow
centers. They had the same sweet smell that had greeted him at the
airplane door. "Plumeria," the hostess told him.
The bus passed through an industrial area and then along the shore by
several blocks of downtown business buildings, a marina, a park, and a
large shopping mall. They entered an avenue congested with high-rise
hotels and condominiums. "Waikiki," the hostess announced. The bus
stopped in front of a nondescript hotel, and the hostess wished them a
good vacation. "You have your discount coupons," she said.
"Where's the beach?" someone called.
"Over there." She pointed across an avenue choked with cars, taxis, and
buses. "Two blocks."
Oliver's room was spare. The walls were made of concrete blocks painted
a light aqua color. Sliding glass doors opened on a tiny porch. He went
out and sat in a white plastic lawn chair for a moment. He was on the
tenth floor, overlooking a side street. There was a building directly
in front of him and more buildings in the direction of the beach. In
the other direction, he could see a strip of mountain and what appeared
to be a canal a few blocks away. It wasn't Paradise, and it wasn't
particularly Polynesian, though there were palm trees by the canal.
The map that he had been given showed tourist attractions and how to
get to them. He bought a decent map in the lobby and walked over to
Kalakaua Avenue and down to the beach. It was a pretty beach, a gentle
crescent that curved along a green park. In the other direction, back
the way he had come, the sand fronted a strip of hotels. The waves were
quiet, though larger than they had been in Atlantic City. Diamond Head
guarded the far end of the beach. He felt differently about the
postcard view now that he knew its secret. There's a crater in there.
He took off his shoes and socks and walked to the Diamond Head end of
the beach, turning back at a small cluster of expensive houses and
condominiums. The sand underfoot made him feel like a little kid. He
retraced his steps and stopped by the first hotel that he reached on
the beach side of Kalakaua. It was older than the others. A huge tree
shaded a polygonal bar and a courtyard paved with stone. He ordered a
Glenlivet.
"Some tree! What kind is it?"
"Banyan," the bartender said.
"Oh." Hanging roots, dense green leaves, and thick nearly horizontal
branches created an inviting world. Oliver imagined a tree house. He
took a table in the shade and looked out over the ocean. Maybe he
should just be a tourist and forget the whole thing. He'd gotten along
without his father this long; what difference would it make to meet him
now? He didn't know. That was the problem. That was why he had to look
up Kenso Nakano--Ken--on Alewa Heights. Chances were good that Ken was
his uncle.
Oliver rolled the whiskey around in his glass. A very tall man in
shorts trudged past on the sand. He was a foot taller than a tall man.
Long legs held his upper body high in the air. Like a heron, Oliver
thought. Holy shit! Wilt Chamberlain! Wilt looked patient, proud, and
tired. A sports king, still holding his head up. He scored a hundred
points once. No one could take _that_ away from him. A familiar pang
squeezed Oliver. The nothing pang. What have you done? Nothing.
Scotch trickled down Oliver's throat. Wilt kept a steady pace down the
beach. Oliver thought of getting a ticket to another world--the
Philippines, say--and disappearing. He could go to a village on a
remote island and live until he ran out of money. It would be perfect
for a while, and then, to hell with it, he would get kidnapped or lost
in the jungle; it wouldn't matter.
No use. A force inside him would not let go. His spirit assumed a stone
face. Forward.
He awoke the next morning at 4 a.m., out of synch from jet lag. Half an
hour later he gave up trying to get back to sleep. He dressed and
walked toward the shopping mall, stopping at a Tops Restaurant busy
with cab drivers, early risers, and night owls winding down. He had
half a papaya, served with a piece of lemon. Delicious. Eggs came with
two scoops of rice. Eggs and rice? Not bad. Full daylight came as he
finished a second cup of coffee and looked at his map.
Alewa Heights was on the other side of the city. He could find a bus
that would get him close, no doubt, but it was early to be visiting.
Should he call? No. That was too much of a commitment. He wanted to
walk to the address and see how he felt when he got there, leaving open
the chance for a last-minute escape.
He decided to wait a day. Look up Kenso Nakano tomorrow, he told
himself. He walked back to the hotel by a different route and fell
asleep easily.
Later that morning, he walked to Tops again and on to the Ala Moana
Shopping Center. Acres of parking lot surrounded two decks of
stores--mainland chains and local names. There were fountains and
sculptures, a mix of tourists and islanders, and, at one end, a
Japanese department store named, "Shirokya." He spent an hour in
Shirokya admiring the packaging and design, listening to Japanese
music, and feeling proud of the evident care taken with details. _If
you're going to do something, do it well._
He crossed Ala Moana Boulevard to the yacht harbor where rows of large
sailboats were moored behind a stone breakwater. "Salty boats," he said
to a guy who was smoking at the end of a long dock.
"Better be. It's a mile deep right out there." He looked down at
Oliver, amused. Oliver was evidently too short for the Pacific.
He spent the rest of the day poking around Waikiki and considering his
visit to Kenso Nakano. The next morning, he caught a bus to the other
side of the city.
He walked up Alewa Drive in bright sunshine, enjoying the view of the
city and the ocean which grew in immensity as he climbed. The higher he
got, the more vast the ocean became and the smaller the island, until
he began to sense that he was standing on a happy accident, a green
miracle in a marine world. The planes taking off from the airport below
him looked puny. It was an added pleasure to turn away from the Pacific
to the street, to the plumeria, the bougainvillea, and the different
shades of green. Doves called. There was little traffic.
The street bent higher around a switchback curve. A pickup was parked
in front of a wall and a gate which bore the number Oliver was seeking.
Two heavyset men wearing shorts, T-shirts, and baseball caps were
easing a boulder from the truck bed onto an impromptu ramp of
two-by-sixes. A woman with trim graying hair and tanned cheeks watched.
The planks sagged ominously.
"She hold?"
"Plenty strong."
"Damn--stuck. Excuse me, Mrs. Nakano."
"I've heard worse," she said. Oliver approached and braced one shoulder
against the rock.
"What is this?" one man said. "Who you?"
"Superman," Oliver said.
"You shrunk." There was a cracking noise from one of the planks. "Watch
it!" The other man got both hands under one edge of the boulder, bent
his knees, and heaved. The boulder rocked and began to slide down the
planks. They bowed farther but held as the three of them guided the
boulder to the street.
"One good moss-rock, Mrs. Nakano. Kind of small, though."
"I know you guys like a challenge," she said.
"Where you want it?"
She pointed through the gate.
"We better do it. This start down the road, it end up in somebody's
living room." They walked the boulder through the gate and to one end
of a flower bed. It took three of them to move it without using
crowbars; Oliver helped until it was in place.
"Hard to find a good moss-rock these days," Mrs. Nakano said. "How
about a soda?"
"Too early for anything else," one said. "Sure."
"Thank you so much for helping," she said to Oliver. "Are you thirsty?"
"Yes. I was looking for you. I think. Actually, I'm looking for Muni
Nakano who has a brother--Ken?"
"Oh," she said. "Muni is my brother-in-law."
"My name is Oliver, Oliver Prescott."
"How do you do, Oliver. This is Jimmy. This is Kapono." The others
nodded, and she went inside.
"Superman without a license--serious offense," Jimmy said.
"Batman worse," Kapono said.
"Still--he pretty strong for a midget."
Oliver grinned and brushed the dirt off his hands. There were times to
keep your mouth shut. Mrs. Nakano returned and handed out cans of
Pepsi. "This was good of you guys." She turned to Oliver. "I'm sorry.
Ken is on a trip. Can I help you?"
"Oh." Oliver thought. "I need to find Muni."
"Ken will be back the day after tomorrow. He is coming in tomorrow
night--late."
"I'll call on the phone, then, the day after tomorrow? Maybe around
nine in the morning?"
"That will be fine."
"Thanks," Oliver said. He drained his soda and gave the can back to
Mrs. Nakano. "Good," he said. He waved and started out the gate.
"You want a ride down the hill?" Jimmy asked.
"No need," Oliver said.
"He fly," Kapono said.
When Oliver got back to Waikiki, he had lunch at the banyan bar and
thought about what had happened. Mrs. Nakano was nice. The moss-rock
delivery duo had been most respectful. The house was in an upscale
neighborhood. Ken Nakano was well established, for sure. You couldn't
tell much from the house; like the other houses near it, the side
facing the street was simple, almost anonymous. What was individual was
out of sight. He was glad that he hadn't given Mrs. Nakano his middle
name. Who knows what Jimmy and Kapono would have thought? They were
pretty sharp.
The following day, he took TheBus around most of the island. That's
what it said in big letters on the side: "TheBus." Mountains three
thousand feet high separated the leeward and windward sides. The
windward side was cooler, breezier, and less touristy. Steep sharp
ridges radiated out to a coastal plain. Deep valleys disappeared into
mysterious shade, wilder than he would have thought, so close to a
city. TheBus returned across a central highland between two mountain
groups. They passed a pineapple plantation, long rows of spiky bushes
in red dirt, and a military base, Schofield Barracks. Pearl Harbor
spread out before them--large, calm, and silver, warships moored at
docks, small boats moving about. Then they were back in traffic, back
in the city. He got out at the shopping center and walked to Waikiki.
It had been cloudy most of the day. The wind had begun to blow hard.
Gusts caught the hair of young women and whipped ebony parabolas three
feet over their heads. The women turned their heads like wild mustangs,
laughing--counterpoint to their Asian composure and perfect make-up.
This is it, Oliver thought. I could die right here. I'll never see
anything more beautiful.
He ate dinner in a Thai restaurant. His waitress was another knockout.
Across the room, someone who looked like Gomer Pyle was eating and
joking. It _was_ Gomer Pyle--Jim Nabors. Wilt. Gomer. Gorgeous women.
Oliver began to feel that this was the way things should be, that it
was his due. He was Oliver. He had family on Alewa Heights, he was sure
of it. Tomorrow would tell.
At nine the next morning, Oliver called the Nakano's number.
"Hello?" A quiet male voice. Island.
"Hello, this is Oliver Prescott. Are you Ken?"
"Yes."
"I'm trying to find Muni."
"Michiko told me you helped with the moss-rock."
"Not much. Those guys were pretty big . . ."
"They my football coaches, phys-ed teachers," Ken said.
"Aha."
"Do you have business with my brother?"
"Not business, exactly. My mother knew him a long time ago. Did he ever
mention Dior Del'Unzio?"
"Mmmm . . ." Silence. "That _was_ a long time ago."
"My middle name is Muni. My mother told me that Muni was my father and
that he had a brother named Ken. I think you are my uncle." Ken made a
sound deep in his throat.
"Mmmm . . . What year were you born? Do you have identification?"
"1958. Yes, I have I.D."
"Mmmm . . . Muni lives in Japan, but he is in California, now. I will
try and contact him. I will give him your number."
"Thank you." Oliver gave him the hotel and room number and the name of
the hotel in Eugene where he would be staying for a few days the
following week. "I live in Maine. He could reach me there, after that."
He gave Ken the address.
"I'll see what I can do," Ken said.
"Thank you."
"It may take a while. Muni unpredictable sometimes."
"I'll wait," Oliver said.
"O.K. . . . Maybe we get together sometime."
"I'd like that," Oliver said.
When Ken hung up, Oliver felt truly disconnected. Ken had sounded like
a decent guy. Made sense, with a wife like that. My coaches . . . He
must be a principal or a superintendent in the school system. Having
finally made contact, Oliver wanted more.
But no one called the next day. Or the next. Oliver thought about
visiting another island, but he didn't want to be away from the hotel
that long. He couldn't sit by the phone for four days, so he explored
the city, checking back for messages at least once during the day.
Honolulu was interesting. With the exception of Waikiki and the
downtown district, it was a residential city. There were distinctly
different neighborhoods in each of the narrow valleys that stretched
two and three miles back into the mountains. Other areas, like Alewa
Heights, were built on the faces of the ridges; at night their lights
reached with sparkling fingers high into the dark. He found formal
gardens, temples, and a red light district with hustlers of every race
and description. He found a dirt alley with mud puddles, wandering
chickens, barefoot children, and a grandmother with two gold teeth. He
discovered small factories and, incredibly, in the middle of the city,
a watercress farm.
He read _The Advertiser_ every morning in Tops. He got to know the city
as well as he could in a few days. But no one called.
At the end of the week, he took a city bus to the airport, preferring
not to travel with the vacation group. He was sad when he boarded the
plane. He sat next to the small oval window and buckled his seat belt.
The buckle clicked together with a finality that seemed to say: that's
it; you did what you could.
The tour package had originated in Eugene. Oliver had chosen to return
there instead of Portland. The cost was the same, and he could see
another part of Oregon. He slept most of the way to the mainland. As he
rode to his hotel in a light rain, shivering a bit, he thought, Hawaii
made me soft. Good place, though. "Aloha," he said, thinking of Ken and
Michiko.
10.
The hotel registration clerk reached under the counter. "Message for
you, Mr. Prescott." He handed Oliver an envelope.
"Thanks." Oliver took his bag to his room and sat on the bed.