Snakeskin Shamisen by Naomi Hirahara Page A

eyeglasses and large earrings that shimmered like the inside of an abalone shell. In a strange way, she resembled Chizuko, and Mas was surprised to feel the top of his head go
piri-piri
.
    “Thanks again for meeting with us, Pro…Genessee.” Juanita quickly corrected herself as they joined her at her table.
    “Any excuse to eat at Bruddah’s.” She smiled, revealing a small space in between her front teeth—also just like Chizuko, Mas noted.
    Genessee had already ordered, so Juanita and Mas quickly looked over the menu. Something called Loco Moco for Juanita and Hawaiian French toast for Mas.
    “I ordered the French toast too,” Genessee said. “Theirs is the best, even better than a lot of places in Hawaii.” She went on to explain that she had lived in Hawaii as a child. “I was actually born in Okinawa. My father was in the service; my mother’s Okinawan.”
    So-ka
, Mas mouthed silently.
    “You were probably wondering why this
kokujin
woman has such an interest in Okinawa,” Genessee said.
    Mas shook his head, and Juanita just looked puzzled.
    “You really do need a translator, don’t you?” Genessee said to Juanita. “
Kokujin
means black person. African American in my case.”
    They waited as a waitress in T-shirt and jeans served them all coffee. “So how can I help you?” Genessee, putting some cream in her cup, asked Juanita.
    “Well, as I explained to you over the phone, I’m a private investigator. I’m helping a friend with an unusual case. We’re trying to get some information about this.” Juanita took out a copy of the snakeskin
shamisen
photograph from her back pocket.
    “A
sanshin
—what happened to it?” Genessee traced a finger over the
shamisen
image as if it had once breathed air.
    “It was found at a scene of a crime.” Juanita was obviously not going to get into Randy’s death. “Does this instrument have any significance?”
    “It’s hard to tell from this photo—the resolution isn’t that good.” Genessee adjusted her bifocals so that she could get a better look at the battered
shamisen
. “It certainly looks like pre–World War Two. Real python skin. Look—the pegs are animal bone. It may even date back to the early eighteen hundreds. The
sanshin
actually originated in China and then was developed in Okinawa, before eventually making it over to mainland Japan. The Okinawans used to use python skin from India, until it became too rare and expensive. After World War Two, when Okinawa was struggling to recover from all the destruction, they made them from tin cans and parachute strings. Now they use python skin again, but from Southeast Asia.” Genessee placed the photo back on the table and studied Juanita’s face.
    “You don’t know much about Okinawa, do you?”
    Juanita shook her head. “My parents are actually from Peru.”
    “So many left for Latin America. Couldn’t blame them, with all the high taxes and limited economy.”
    Before Genessee could complete her thoughts, their food arrived. Juanita’s was a mess of runny eggs over two hamburger patties and rice, all soaked in brown sticky gravy. The French toast, in contrast, was majestic, thick slices of sweet Hawaiian bread cooked golden brown, cut diagonally and resting so that its powdered-sugar-sprinkled crusts looked like snow-covered peaks.
    “I was actually reading something about Okinawa over the Internet.” Juanita cut into her eggs and skillfully placed a bite of yolk, rice, and patty on her fork. “Read something about these Japanese warriors taking over Okinawa in the sixteen hundreds. I think they even kidnaped the king and held him hostage in Japan?”
    Genessee poured maple syrup on her French toast. “Yes, that’s true. They were from the Satsuma clan. Japan at that time was divided into different territories led by these lords, or
daimyo
. The Satsuma leaders saw invading Okinawa, then an independent kingdom, as an opportunity to expand their territory and their wealth without