LITMIR.BIZ

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more than five thousand people died in and around Kobe. The public’s condemnation of every branch of government for their inefficiencies and hesitations was loud. Then after the 2011 Great East Earthquake and Tsunami, the evacuations intensified. Most of the islanders obeyed the evacuation order but thirty or so, all elderly, protested and refused to leave. The holdouts continued to resist any attempt to dislodge them.

      The front door opened. A man’s voice called out, “Hello?”

      He was about my age, maybe a couple of years older, and was dressed in a short-sleeve blue work shirt, faded jeans, and scuffed hiking boots.

      “I assumed all the islander residents were senior citizens,” I said.

      He shook his head slowly. “There are a couple of us. Three counting you.”

      We sat down in the front room, me behind my desk, he in the patient’s chair. One of my chair’s legs was shorter than the other, or the floor wasn’t level. Perhaps both. I shifted my weight to counter the imbalance and pin down the chair. Settled in, we introduced ourselves, he being Aki Ishikawa from Tokyo.

      “What brings you to Marui-jima?” I asked.

      “Earthquakes. I’m a research seismologist. My specialty, if you’re interested, is earthquake prediction in subduction zones.”

      “I’m very interested in subduction zones because I assume we’re in one, but you’ll have to educate me.”

      Ishikawa slid one hand under the other. “A subduction zone is the area seismically affected by one tectonic plate sliding under the other. Our island is near where the North American plate slides under the Asian. Not to mention the Philippine and Eurasian plates are close, which adds to the pressure. The problem is the sliding doesn’t go smoothly though.” He jerks his hands apart in a sudden snap of energy.

      “What I want to know is when is the next big one going to hit?”

      “I hope not for a long time. A few small ones are all I need for my research.”

      “But there could be a big one?”

      “You sound hopeful.”

      I didn’t know if “hopeful” was the right word. Anxious? Ambivalent? “I’m thinking if one hit that was big enough to destroy the place, I’ll get off the island sooner than four years.”

      “You mean, if it doesn’t kill you.”

      I shrugged and nodded at the same time.

      “Four years.” He drew out the words to make them seem infinite. “How’d you end up here for four years?”

      “Long story. To summarize, it was my own fault.” I chuckled. “Sorry about the pun.”

      “Huh? Oh, fault.” He sounded as if he hadn’t laughed for a long time and had forgotten how.

      “There was a mix-up with a patient. I took the blame and was assigned here in punishment. How about you?” I said quickly to change the subject. “Also banished to this remote, falling-apart, little corner of the world?”

      “My own fault, too. I asked for the assignment to do my research.”

      “How long will you be here?”

      “There’s no exact timetable, but I’ll be here off and on for at least two years is my guess. Depends on how it goes.”

      “At least you can get off the island. Not me. Got to be here every day of my sentence.” I looked toward the only window in the clinic. It was grimy with saltwater film, its aluminum frame pocked with corrosion. “How does earthquake prediction work?”

      “Not very well,” Aki said. “I would say it’s a lot like making a diagnosis, matching symptoms with diseases or trauma. I gather data and match it with historical patterns.”

      “I’m sure it’s a lot more complicated than that.”

      “Actually, yes—”

      I held up my hand like a traffic cop. “No need to go into details.”

      The seismologist looked a little hurt. I changed the subject again. “You mentioned there are three of us?”

      Ishikawa snorted a little laugh. I didn’t like the sound and it kicked up a dusting of irritation. “Three of us under the age of seventy? Yes. You, me, and Mari Sasaki. She’s a documentary filmmaker.” The seismologist leaned forward, causing his chair to creak. “I’d watch out for her.”

      His comment annoyed me for some reason. “Why? What’s the problem with her?”

      “Let’s just say she’s dealing with demons.” He glanced at his watch, stood up, and moved toward the door.

      “Wait, you can’t just say that about a person, especially the only woman under seventy, and leave.”

      “I have to get back to work to take some time-sensitive readings. You can find me in the old fishing cooperative building, just off the pier. Stop by later, I’ll show you around the island and buy you a beer.”

      “Buy me a beer? You can buy a beer on this godforsaken place?”

      going

      implies progress

      With a strangely dismissive nod, he left me alone in the clinic.

      3

      Dealing with demons? I hadn’t met her yet, but I believe I was the one dealing with demons. Ms. Sunada for one. Her mask of pain still haunted me in a way I didn’t believe anything could. But whatever his motive, the seismologist’s warning wasn’t going to scare me away from meeting Mari Sasaki.

      I spent the rest of the morning looking through the patients’ files. My patients’ files. I was struck with the irony that the only doctor on the island was a disgraced first-year resident intern. I pitied the poor residents of Marui-jima.

      In Mrs. Takahashi’s file I found only five entries during her seventy-eight years of life, and all were relatively minor illnesses or sprains. Apparently the innkeeper never had children, no births were noted. The last entry was four years ago: she injured her shoulder, a rotator cuff strain. The treatment recommended was alternating ice and heat, and rehabilitation exercises. No follow-up visit was indicated.

      I put away the files. The stuffy, mildewed air in the clinic was getting to me, and as I had no appointments, I went out for a walk.

      Because of the island’s small radius, the road curved quickly and only a tiny arc of the island could be seen in one view, making the island seem even smaller. Along the road, the buildings were built so close it was difficult to tell where one started and one stopped. Occasionally, the island’s slope was too steep to build a structure and there was a break in the continuous line of homes and other buildings. In other areas, with a less steep slope, more than one tier could be built. Those homes climbed up the hill like teetering mountain goats.

      I stopped at one of the island’s houses. Like the clinic, its siding was warped and split. I stepped closer and found I could peer through cracks into the house. The deep shadows and emptiness of the home made me shiver. I hurried away from the house and continued around the island.

      I walked a good while before I encountered one of the islanders: she was sitting on the stone entryway of a dilapidated home as neatly maintained as a department store in Ginza. “Hello, obâ-san,” I said, trying to sound friendly and affectionate by calling her “granny.” I assumed she wasn’t Mari Sasaki.

      The woman looked up at me but didn’t say anything. I said, “Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Mari Sasaki. Have you seen her perhaps?” The woman pointed ahead, in the clockwise direction.

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