Endless Love 6,200, Romance, Fantasy. Adult. (standard:romance, 6318 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 16 2020	Views/Reads: 1189/857	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Despite many tries, a near immortal can’t seem to win at love.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

This is the earliest I've been here. I kind of wish I had a way to see
the base, how it looks before I've been stationed here.  Maybe later? 

After leaving through the front door of the administration building, I
stand at the edge of a two-lane main drag into the nearest town.  One 
lone taxi sits in harsh sunlight outside the building.  A native driver 
clad in green shorts, no shirt, sits with legs up on the dashboard -- 
dozing in the tropical heat.  The taxi is a beat-up Jeep painted bright 
orange. 

Gratefully absorbing that same heat -- after the cold of Chicago -- I
stand a moment in luxuriation.  Not so savory is the smell of raw 
sewage intermixed with odors of oriental cooking coming from a town 
called Tinogawa off to the side of a tall chain-link fence. 

I'm anxious to complete my mission, hoping this time for success. 
Please, God, I pray, let me win her love.  Eyes tearing from unbidden 
memories, I wipe my face with a hankie and pick up my bags before 
walking over to wake the taxi driver. 

"Take me to Shansabaru," I order him in Japanese as I throw both bags
onto a sun-baked back seat. 

"You don't want go there.  Nothing to do in Shansabaru, sir. I take you
to Blue Moon bar, maybe? Many girls an room to rent upstairs?" he 
answers, stretching arms before settling behind the wheel. 

"No. Shansabaru," I state emphatically.  Obviously he also thinks I'm in
the military.  Shrugging, he starts his Jeep and we leave for the 
village. 

I look around, trying to keep my mind off Amiko.  Even now, I imagine I
can sense the girl's presence.  Is it with mental radar, or as a dog in 
heat? 

Shansabaru exists as a small village halfway up a volcanic mountain that
dominates the island. Leaving the airport and its cool ocean breeze, we 
pull onto a paved road, the start of a long uphill journey.  At one 
point, we slow for road workers making repairs. They consist of not 
only men, but also women.  As the female workers swing picks and dig 
with shovels, their babies sleep peacefully, tied behind them with tiny 
legs swinging loose.  Many of the vehicles we pass are Japanese 
three-wheelers, only one wheel in front and guided by a steering lever 
looking like a rudder between the driver's legs. 

After a half mile, we turn onto a one-lane road, also paved.  From
there, we enter a dirt lane. Only four more miles, I think, as the 
tired-sounding Jeep struggles uphill over a winding path, forcing me to 
crouch down to avoid branches brushing around the windscreen. 

The smells and ambiance of the jungle remind me of Amiko; everything
reminds me of my lost love. Nearing the village on this 
all-too-familiar road, we pass a gray concrete-block building – former 
Jap artillery bunker -- that serves as a more than sturdy two-room 
schoolhouse. 

I jerk my head forward, almost touching the startled driver as I peer
between his hands and head. Maybe I can see her? But all the children 
are inside.  A few minutes later, worn springs protesting loudly, we 
jerk to a stop in the center of a clearing, a store made from sun-dried 
bricks and concrete blocks on one side, smaller homes circling the 
space. The path splits at that point, going off on two tangents, 
neither wide enough for the vehicle. 

"You owe sixty-cent." The driver reaches out a hand. With a village that
small, he doesn't bother to ask my final destination. After I pay him, 
he starts up again and backs until he finds a place between two 
bamboo-and-plank huts to turn around. 

I watch the Jeep disappear downward, melding into the jungle. Looking
around, I check the place out. It's both familiar and strange.  Many of 
the homes look the same, except for being newer than I'm used to. 

Seeing Grandma Yoshiko's store, the only one in the village, I pick up
my bags and walk toward it, trailing dust clouds behind myself. There's 
a woman, looking to be in her late-twenties, behind the counter, 
shapely posterior raised as she bends to search under a shelf. When she 
stands and turns, it takes me a few seconds to recognize her as Grandma 
Yoshi, herself. 

"Hello GI.... What you want?" 

Later, I would know her as a busybody and gossip who would never shut
up, in Japanese or English. 

"Do you know where I can find Kenji ... Matsu?" I ask in Japanese, not
catching myself in time. It's hard to realize I haven't officially met 
my old pal yet in this lifetime. 

"You know Matsu?" She gives me a cute nose-crunching frown, eyes fixated
on my face as though something about me puzzles her. 

"Well, in a way.  We have met.  Do you know where I can find him?" 

"I think Matsu's in his field ... Yo – You go left for--" 

"I know the field. Thank you, Miss...."  I have to leave it at that. I
never have known her surname. 

I leave my bags in the dusty street alongside the store and turn left. 
There's no crime in Shansabaru. 

It's a hundred yards up a winding narrow path to Matsu's cane field and
vegetable gardens. As I walk closer, I can smell composted piles of 
human shit. Fermented with native leaves and garbage, it will be used 
as fertilizer. 

I find Kenji kneeling in the stagnant water of a small taro patch,
pulling weeds, when I approach. I have to remind myself we are once 
again strangers. 

"Ke – Mr. Matsu? Could I talk to you a minute?" 

He glances at me, straightens up, and stretches. He's wearing only a wet
orange loincloth. 

"Yes. I am Kenji Matsu." 

"I would like to know if you have any houses to rent?" 

Kenji owns half the village and rents or leases many of the homes. I
remember him telling me of hard times during and after the war.  During 
the Japanese occupation, most of the natives left the island.  It was 
either that or risk conscription into their army or heavy labor 
building defenses. 

Kenji ran a sake business before the war.  That business saved him from
forced labor building a military airfield. It had been a hard life 
since the Japanese paid little for the product but wouldn't let him 
quit making it.  "Hey, it built up my muscles," he would brag, flexing 
them. 

"I have houses, several, GI. But no inside water, no electric.  Maybe
not for you?" 

Damn, I think.  I haven't considered that point.  The village hasn't
gotten electricity yet, and won't for several years. Well, I have 
money.  Maybe I can get power up here, expedite it?  Anything to make 
Amiko comfortable. 

"No matter, Mr. Matsu." 

"You speak good Japanese for such a young American." 

"I studied the language for a long time. Don't worry.  I won't cause
trouble." 

I've known him long enough to almost read his mind. He will have visions
of me making noise, having parties with other GIs and disturbing 
village life. "I'm a civilian, here to study your customs," I lie. 

Kenji rents me the house I ask for. I'm surprised it's even here at this
early date. The two-room building is constructed from bamboo and 
roughly-planed softwood planks.  The thatch-roofed structure looked new 
when I owned it, a lifetime ago in the future.  It stands between 
Amiko's parents' home and the school, where I can watch her on her way 
back and forth to classes. 

I never have been close to her parents, having lived on the army base
the first two times around. On the third swing, a civilian, I came with 
enough money to not only buy this house but make an ass of myself with 
drunken parties. 

That time, between parties and coming to expect another swing back to
yet another childhood, I'd made a point to study ongoing history. I 
memorized financial statistics and winning sports scores.  It's that 
retained knowledge which makes me a millionaire this time around. Yes. 
I fondly recall this particular house.... 

*** 

"Johnnnnny."  Amiko's  lovely head turns, dark eyes taking in the close
primitive  quarters, sunlight flowing in easily through cracks between 
wall planks. "Why don' we live in town?  Why here?  I don' wan live 
always here.  Please, Johnny."  < It was my first romance with her, our 
first two-room rented hut.> 

"Baby. I'm only a corporal," I explain once again, "and I'll lose that
if my CO finds out.  It's against army rules for lower enlisted men to 
'shack up'.  Sergeants can get away with it." 

She shakes that lovely head, crinkling thick eyebrows while turning
misty eyes toward mine. "You don' really love me."  Then she turns away 
to look out a glassless window, the only one in the room. 

I put my arms around Amiko from behind, absorbing odors of sweat, harsh
lye soap used on her shirt ... and delicious nubile girl flesh.  
"Darling.  Course I do, more than you'll ever, ever, know." Her neck 
smells of tropical flowers and sweaty nights, a heavenly 
combination.... 

*** 

"Ohhh."  Back to reality, I shake my head at the memory, unbidden tears
misting both eyes. 

Later, we'd fixed up these rooms into a love-nest with a combination of
Japanese, native, and army PX purchases.  To me, it was a slice of 
paradise. To Amiko, a prison.  She'd yearned to live in a modern 
concrete building downtown, close to stores that featured "real" 
products, rather than the small selection at Grandma Yoshiko's store.  
While I lived for her love, she preferred status and luxury a corporal 
couldn't give her. 

It was at least partially my fault.  I worked hard at the base and
finally made sergeant.  Looking back, and God knows I've had plenty of 
time for that, I've realized the lack of attention to HER needs. 

Much of it was necessary, since before making sergeant, which gave me
more control of my life, I depended on three-hour and overnight passes 
to even see her ... my Amiko.  Daytime passes were simple, freely 
available between working hours and midnight, but overnight ones 
relatively rare.  Most days I'd get to the village for only a couple 
hours before having to return for bedcheck.  I can understand her being 
lonely at night with me gone. 

Lonely except, that is, for Air Force Master Sergeant Davis ... the
bastard.  I hope he isn't stationed here yet.  I even introduced them 
at one of my frequent drunken parties.  He had both the money and 
freedom from those damned midnight bedchecks. I didn't, and eventually 
lost the girl.  The son-a-bitch. 

Well, that was one time out of three, the first. 

Eventually, I finished my tour on the island, going back to the States
to a life without Amiko.  I couldn't forget her. Separation only 
increased strange urges ... increased my love.  Three failed marriages 
later, I still loved her, couldn't forget those seemingly endless 
tropical nights under an Asian moon.  We'd lie behind the house on a 
tatami mat cushioning crushed elephant grass, mountain breezes drying 
hot sweating bodies, sweaty from making love. 

Then came the time, a few days past my 80th birthday, when while taking
a nap I felt a monster sitting on my chest.  Struggling did no good.  
The heart attack took me out of that existence. 

You can't imagine my surprise to wake in a strange bed, in a strange
room of an equally strange house.  Also in a strange young body -- that 
of myself at the age of ten.  Eventually, long dormant memories came to 
the fore, me recognizing bits of furniture though not the young lady 
working in the kitchen ... my mother. 

That was the first time. It has happened twice more, making this my
fourth -- fourth lifetime. 

What is stranger, much stranger, is that each time I've retained
suppressed memories along with finding that special magazine photo of 
myself and Amiko; taken many years in the future. An act of God? I have 
no idea. 

Between those oddities, my love for lovely Amiko has not faded, rather
gained momentum over the ages.  Endless nights have been spent sobbing 
over her memory, endless days of regret.  Now, I hope beyond 
expectation that this will be the last.  That she'll finally be mine, 
all ... "Sob!" ... mine. 

*** 

I sit at a window of the rented house, smelling thatch on the roof and
other odors of a rural jungle countryside. Small critters buzz around 
my head and scurry through high grass out front while I wait for my 
love to pass by.  I look down and casually brush a large spider from my 
hand, back to a wall where it can catch insects.  Living flyswatters. 

So far, I have only seen three old men and a huge water buffalo led by a
small child barely coming up to its knees.  I've been waiting for only 
a couple of hours or seventy years. 

Kenji dropped in earlier, insisting I have a few drinks of homemade sake
before leaving me to my own devices, including an unaccustomed buzz in 
my head from his product.  Knowing I'm an alcoholic, I rarely drink in 
this present life.  So the alcohol hits me particularly hard, making me 
even more sentimental than otherwise. 

The afternoon is generally silent, most preditors quiet until nightfall,
the exception being an occasional flutter or chirping of birds in trees 
overhead.  Familiar jungle sounds far from the excitement of 
civilization. 

As I've said, I once owned this house.  It contains two rooms, each with
a glassless window on alternate sides to let in tropical mountain 
breezes. When the roof starts to leak -- and it will in another 
seventeen years -- you simply add another layer.  Rats tunnel in the 
thatch, knocking shards down onto bed and furniture at night.  
Occasionally one will fall onto the bed or floor.  I've learned to live 
with them.  I keep gecko lizards and spiders inside to eat flies and 
mosquitoes.  Yes. I well know this house, a paradise lost.  Time is 
really subjective when you live the same period over and over again, ad 
infinitum. 

Hearing the gong of a school bell, a sharp and distinctive sound in the
distance, I jerk erect in a squeaky bamboo chair.  SHE will soon be 
walking by on the dusty one-lane dirt road. My knees go into an 
uncontrollable spasm as sweating hands clasp the windowsill tightly, 
unconscious of splinters from fragrant softwood. I fight to control 
wildly vacillating emotions. 

Not having seen my love for such a long time and her being so much
younger than the last time, then middle-aged, I briefly wonder if I'll 
even recognize her.  I have the magazine photograph propped up on the 
windowsill.  Is this the reason I find it every time I cycle back to 
the past?  For this specific moment? God's way of helping me on this 
crucial day?  A token of eventual success?  It's a village shot taken 
in front of the little store, we two, a dozen children, a few 
villagers, and Grandma Yoshiko in a white apron -- all smiling at the 
camera. 

After an interminable wait, I see school children filtering down the
dirt lane toward me. There are some in groups playing grabass, and 
others walking by themselves.  As they come closer, I search each young 
face for recognizable features. 

There! One of the girls, walking alone on an edge of the dusty path,
inky-black hair shining in occasional darting rays of sunlight filtered 
through wide green banana leaves. As she approaches, I peer intensely, 
trying to see through a veil of tears. 

Could it be my love? Wiping liquid from nervous tiring eyes ... I – I
can't be certain. 

When she's almost abreast of my open window, I recognize familiar
features, the shape of the head, tilt of her ears.  I can't miss the 
lovely nose that I so long to touch.  It lies beneath beautiful dark 
slanted eyes and lips that have smiled at me both in the past and in 
endless dreams -- those lips I long to taste again. 

This time around, since I chose to try early, she's only fourteen. My
own body is eighteen with mind and memories those of a very old man, an 
ancient and frustrated old man. 

The feeling is never all that bad at first, but at the onset of puberty
those feelings become steadily stronger, and stronger yet as years and 
decades roll by, influenced by both memory and anticipation. 

My curse is that I have yet to win her love. Although I know her every
nuance and thought through constant study and repetition, have even 
married her once, I cannot seem to earn that love.  That one time, I 
believe she only married me for my money. 

That was on my third cycle.  During the second, in anticipation of a
possible third, I'd inadvertently remembered enough statistics and 
changes in technology to become wealthy at the age of forty.  After 
buying a small estate across the island, I'd gone looking for Amiko.  
Waiting wasn't easy, but after all that time I was used to it. 

Inquiring, I found she'd left the village, was living somewhere in town.
 Eventually I found lovely Amiko selling sexual services as a 
bargirl.... 

*** 

From the entrance, the "Sunset Lounge" appeared typical for the island. 
A Formica-covered bar spread across one side of a 15' x 20' room.  
Behind it, in dim lighting, a girl dressed in a see-through blouse 
busily wiped beer glasses with a white rag. 

The opposite wall held several small booths, with four round tables in
the center of the room.  There was barely space for a colorful jukebox 
playing a Johnny Cash song and two restroom doors along a third wall. 

Although in her thirties and a little chubby, I recognized Amiko sitting
with a soldier.   My own middle-aged heart beating fast, I had to sit 
down, so I took one of six stools at the bar itself. 

When the bartender put down her rag and came over, I ordered a beer,
then couldn't help swinging back to look at Amiko.  When her eyes met 
mine, I damn near fainted -- though she showed no reaction.  Why should 
she?  At that point, she had yet to meet me.  My smile did bring one in 
return, one I'd waited a long, long time to see again.  Though older, 
with that nose and those eyes, it was my Amiko -- could be no other. 

Later, after what seemed an eternity, the soldier left to go back to the
barracks and his bedcheck.  Amiko came over to hug me from behind.  
"You buy drinks today, soldier?  I need man, gen'us man." 

She wasn't the sweet young thing I'm looking at right now, but was still
my love. Still my love. 

I bought her several glasses of cold tea touted as whiskey and drank
beer for only an hour before it was she who suggested we leave for a 
"short time." 

"Come, Johnny," she stated, not asked, "we go my place. Drink my
whiskey.  Bar close soon, Maybe make love?  You have money?" 

Instead, I drove her to my newly-purchased American-style home, much
better than her small room.  Her finding I was wealthy, we were soon 
married.  I thought I had her, that time, but found I was wrong.  Both 
of us being alcoholics, we fought constantly and she soon left with an 
army colonel.  Again, as with the master-sergeant, I had introduced 
them at a party. 

I did, through a local attorney, make certain she had all the money she
needed for the rest of her life.  It was the least, all, I could do.  
Realizing I hadn't earned her love, only rented her body, I sold the 
house and left for the States.  After all, by that time I expected to 
die at eighty, and another chance.... 

*** 

This time around, I'm starting when she's younger and, hopefully, more
impressionable. This time, having money and again being a civilian, I 
intend to back her father in his dream business -- one she's often 
mentioned. He labors on a fishing boat and has always dreamed of owning 
his own vessel.  Hell, I can buy him a dozen. 

I've tried many other methods, in the process learning the language and
customs.  Finally, in this life I've given up drinking except for a few 
occasions, such as with Kenji. Maybe that, along with an early start, 
will make a difference?  I'll do anything to show my eternal devotion. 

Now, I can only wipe tears as I watch that gorgeous eminently desirable
young girl wearing a school uniform strolling unconcernedly down a 
narrow dirt lane. As I see her stop to pick a foot-long chunk of cut 
sugarcane from a pile in a nearby field, sucking the nectar as she 
passes my window, I wonder if I am in my own personal brand of hell?  
Am I doomed to reach out for her love, in vain, throughout eternity? 

The next day, I have a talk with Miss Yoshiko at the store.  For a few
dollars, she agrees to introduce me to Mr. Akio Yoshiro,  Amiko's 
father.  The reason is for a possible business deal that may interest 
him. 

*** 

"So, Mr. Yoshiro, sir," I explain while we sit on the edge of his porch.
I can hear Amiko and her mother inside the house, arguing over 
something, "I came here to invest. I think this island has a great 
potential in the fishing industry."  I lie like a pro. "I've paid for 
studies that show that since the war aquatic animals and fish are 
proliferating far offshore, gradually spreading nearer to this island. 
I'm here to check that matter out and decided to invest in a boat.  One 
large and modern enough to reach those far expanses. 

"Because of current and projected International laws, along with
limitations on foreign investment due to postwar agreements," blah, 
blah, blah, I continue, "the craft would be in your name, with me as a 
silent partner." I lay it on thick. 

Of course, it's exactly what he wants to hear. "You don't have to pay me
anything up front. You have only to repay me, along with slight 
interest of course, from your profits. As far as anyone else knows, 
you're the boss." 

While he's considering the offer, one he can hardly refuse, I see lovely
young Amiko peering from a window, dark eyes observing us. I force 
myself not to stare back. Sweating profusely, I look over and smile, 
secretly taking a mental snapshot for posterity. 

"Whe ... When would ... will this begin, Mr. Adams?" he asks. 

"Immediately," I answer. "You can quit your job right away, if you
prefer. If you take my offer, I'll write you a check right now, today.  
You can start the ordering process tomorrow and pay when the check 
clears.  I'd like a new and large vessel, but only if you think that 
best?" 

Although he tries to hold to oriental inscrutability, it's a lost cause.
I see in his face that he's picturing his fondest dreams coming true. 
We shake hands and I write him a check, huge by his standards but 
chicken feed from my point of view. 

Of course, Mr. Yoshiro has to take me inside and introduce me to his
family, Michiko his wife and, of course, the beauteous Amiko. 

The four of us squat at a low polished-wood table and drink tea that
Michiko brews. I have almost forgotten how delicious real Japanese 
green-tea tastes. In the US, we get a pale imitation. Maybe I clasp 
Amiko's hand too long, I don't know, but she jerks it away. I can see 
some sort of emotion in her young eyes.  After all, at fourteen, a tall 
good-looking boy of eighteen might well interest her.  I sincerely hope 
so.  God, how I hope so. 

I'm happy -- hell, elated -- as I walk home at the dusky end of a good
day. 

*** 

Returning to the almost-empty rented house, I realize I have to go to
town in the morning. I came here directly from the airport and Grandma 
-- excuse me -- Miss Yoshiko's store carries very few items.  No bread, 
ketchup, or furniture at all. 

The next morning, after sleeping on bare tatami mats, comforted by
pleasant dreams, I step into the store. 

"Mornin', Johnny." She hurries around the counter to greet me with a
smile. 

I have to shake my head slightly.  A really nice-looking and friendly
woman in her late twenties, she presents a pretty picture -- hardly a 
grandmotherly image as in the last cycle, when I was, myself, in my 
forties, her even older. 

It doesn't take long for word to get around that a rich American lives
here. The entire village will know by now. I imagine that when she 
first saw me she thought I was only another GI -- one that would 
purchase beer and snacks, then return to base. 

I grin back. "Good morning, Miss Yoshiko.  Can you call me a taxi,
please?"  Hers was the only phone in the village. 

"Course. You wish soda while you wait? I have Coca Cola, Pepsi Cola and
Nehi?" she asks. "Your Japanese is good." 

"Maybe a Coca Cola?  Yoshi means luck?” 

"Yes, Mr. Adams. Much luck for the war. To live, you know?  Better now
than then." 

While I wait for the taxi, I do what shopping I can at the store.  It's
no doubt more expensive than in town but good public relations. Finally 
the taxi arrives, another rebuilt and painted Jeep. 

"Thank you, Johnny. Don' worry for this," she says, pointing to my goods
piled on a counter.  "I take to your home." 

While in the town of  Tairabaru, I stop to buy my own vehicle, also a
rebuilt Jeep.  After purchasing necessities, such as a couple of 
sleeping futons, I drive myself home.  On the way, I see Mr. Yoshiro in 
one of the open-fronted stores as I pass. He doesn't notice me, but 
looks to be very happy, gesturing and grinning at friends. 

After parking among bushes behind the hut, I carry my purchases inside.
It's much cooler there, with a breeze from open windows. On the floor 
in a corner of the bedroom, I see a vase I haven't  noticed before. It 
contains three freshly-cut Higo Camellias in different colors: red, 
white, and blue. Very distinctive. During my third cycle, I had become 
enamored of them after Amiko had brought me the same combination, 
inspired by the colors of the American flag.... 

*** 

"Why, thanks, Darling," I told her, watching a smiling face half-hidden
behind colorful blossoms.  "I'll always treasure the sight, along with 
their supplier, of course." 

"Like fairy tale, uh? We fuck with flowers." Unexpected by myself, she
jumped my bones, dropping both of us to the floor amid flying stems and 
flowery petals. 

"Wait, hold it." I laughed while pretending to battle a raging banshee,
one with six arms and an all-encompassing mouth. 

"Wait, hell.  Fuck now."  She was all over me, tearing at my clothing. 

After a bout of crazy violent love while lying amid crushed but
gratifyingly fragrant blossoms, there was nothing much left of them.  
While Amiko fixed a meal, I walked over to Grandma Yoshi's to buy 
another bouquet in anticipation of coming nighttime activities... 

*** . That period was perhaps the happiest in my many lives.  Although
we drank often, we rarely argued.  Since I was already a sergeant  that 
time, we eventually did move to town.  After my tour on the island, I'd 
been sent to Germany, girlfriend Amiko choosing to wait on the island. 

Once again a civilian, I'd married an American woman and never did make
it back. Not from lack of trying, it just never happened that way.  
With a wife and children to support, then divorce and child support, I 
never accumulated enough money to return. 

*** 

Now, after finding the flowers, I have to wonder?  Was Amiko in my house
while I was gone? It must be, since who else knows my favorites? But 
then, at the moment, how the hell does even she know?  We've barely met 
in this lifetime. 

Confused, mind spinning in circles, I store away my purchases, both from
town and the small village store.  Miss. Yoshiko kept her promise and 
left them in the front room.  My furniture won't be delivered for days 
yet. 

Desperately, I hope it was Amiko and that she will return.  The very
thought keeps me awake most of the night, waiting.  Nobody should know 
about that combination of flowering Higo Camellias. Nobody in this 
lifetime. 

*** 

Having forgotten beer, I walk to the little store the next morning,
finding the front door closed and locked.  Something might be wrong, 
since Grandma ... Miss Yoshiko is always open at this hour.  I've never 
known her to fail. Even when sick, she'd be there.  Maybe another 
clerk, but she'd be there to supervise. 

Remembering that there has never been a lock on the back door, I stop my
knocking and hurry around the building to make certain nothings wrong. 
The original owner, her father, only feared thieves from out of town 
and kept losing keys, so the only lock he installed was inside the 
front door. The unlock-able back door is common knowledge in the 
village. 

I find Miss Yoshiko slumped on a stool, head and upper-torso sprawled
across the counter. An empty Suntory whiskey bottle balances on its 
side at the outer edge of the surface.  As I raise a hand to check her 
pulse, the bottle overbalances, dropping to the wooden floor with a 
dull "clunk." 

It's hard to find her heartbeat with my own beating so fast. Her face is
now uncovered and turned to the side. Mixed odors of whiskey and 
perfume reach my nostrils, quickly replaced by a sour smell as foul 
fluids gush from her mouth, over my hand and the counter. Obviously, 
the woman is alive. 

Looking around, I find a shallow pan for her to vomit in.  Holding pan
and head until she finishes, I wipe her face with one of a display of 
dish towels. To my practiced eye, she's obviously only dead drunk, I 
decide, having been in that condition often enough myself. 

Since she can't sit up and I don't want to lay her back on the
nasty-looking floor or cluttered counter, I prop her upright with one 
hand while pulling another stool over. I then sit, holding the woman 
erect in my arms to keep her from choking on vomit or swallowing her 
tongue. 

I'm worried about her.  In all these years it's the first time I've
known her to drink. Grandma Yoshi has always been a stabilizing 
influence to us all, the entire village.  My face inches from the side 
of her head, she turns -- eyes glassy -- looks at me, and throws her 
arms around my neck, wiping tears and residual juices onto my cheek. 

"Johnny! It is you, after all this time. You really are here again." She
mumbles something else, incoherently, then kisses me full on the lips, 
forcing alcoholic breath into my mouth. 

As the words penetrate my mind, I fear I go into shock. All this time?
Really here AGAIN? 

"What are you talking about?  What do you mean?" I shake her, gently. 

"I ... I ... I don't know, Johnny ... my Johnny. I die. I die, and come
back ... as a little girl," she tells me. "I don't understand.  I ... I 
die.  Always, I die." 

I'm frozen, literally frozen between drunken sobs and both our flowing
tears. I can't fully understand sudden feelings of fear, weariness, 
relief -- so damned many emotions and all together -- as she continues. 


"I fell in love with you ... many years ... many times ago. But you only
want the young girl, that damned  Amiko. Never look at me. You won't 
look. You wouldn't look. Then I did. I die and come back, why?  Why 
does God do this?  This horrible thing.” 

"Now, take it easy, Yoshiko. I'm here. Take it easy. Please.  I ... I
must think.  What is happening, what ... what to ...  think."  If 
anyone were watching, we would have been one hell of a sight. 

"Why?  I hate God.  I hate Him, do this to me. Now ... how can He be so
heartless.  Now you're back, still chase that same girl. Lemme have 
'nother 'wisky.  The ... the same girl, the SAME DAMNED GIRL." 

Jerking forward, she pounds both fists on the counter, splashing vomit
around the room. Head twisting, dark hair and tears flying as in a 
violent rainstorm, she stops abruptly and collapses into my arms -- 
asleep. 

I hold her for hours as she nods and whimpers in drunken slumber.  My
mind is in a muddle, until, until that illusionary light-bulb flashes.  
I finally understand. 

I now know why, though still not how. The ways of the Lord are strange
and often beyond our understanding.  I recall that she's also in the 
photo.  For that matter, front and center. 

A week later, I sign my share of the coming vessel over to Akio and,
holding Amiko tightly for the last time, kiss the little girl on the 
forehead. Yoshiko and I have to hurry to catch a flight. She wants to 
be married in Japan. Maybe this will be the last time around for both 
of us?  But then, that's up to the Supreme Being, not I. 

The End.


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