The Remembering by Steve Cash

Sailor believed the Americans would be compelled to help us leave Japan out of sheer goodwill.
    Katsuo turned to Ichiro and nodded once, as if giving him permission to begin the translation. Ichiro said nothing. Several awkward seconds passed, yet Ichiro never started translating. There was no need.
    “You may speak directly to me, sir,” the captain said suddenly in perfect, measured Japanese. They were the first words he had spoken and I knew immediately that Sailor’s “plan” could be in trouble. He waited a few more moments. Katsuo wiped a single drop of sweat from his forehead and remained calm and composed in his chair. “Katsuo,” the captain said. “That is your name, is it not, sir?”
    Katsuo nodded slowly.
    “You say you and the others in your village never had contact with the authorities. Is that correct, sir?”
    Katsuo nodded again.
    “And no one came for the children or their parents. No one inquired. Is that correct, sir?”
    Katsuo nodded once more.
    The captain looked in our direction, focusing on Sailor and holding his gaze, but never changing expression. He looked back at Katsuo and stood up, acting as if he were about to leave. “Katsuo,” he said, “what is the name of your village?”
    Katsuo never hesitated and gave him the name Hakata.
    “I see, and this village is near Nagano. Is that correct, sir?”
    “Yes,” Katsuo answered.
    “Then why, sir, do you speak in the distinctive Osaka-ben dialect?”
    Katsuo said nothing for a moment, then came up with a rambling explanation, saying he had been born physically in Osaka and spiritually in Hakata. I watched the captain and realized he wasn’t buying Katsuo’s story.
    “I’m not at all sure who you are, sir, and I do not know who these children are or why they are in Japan, but whatever the truth, I believe this is a Japanese problem.” The captain paused, then continued talking as he moved toward the door. He was still speaking Japanese. “The correct channels will be found and the matter shall be turned over to them. Come back tomorrow and see the lieutenant for the information. The children will receive proper care and attention and then you may return to whatever it is you do.” He paused again and stared down at Katsuo with a thin smile. “Do I make myself clear, sir?” The captain didn’t wait for an answer. He glanced once at us and reached for the door.
    I have never known exactly why I said what I said next, but the “plan” had unraveled and we were out of time. The odds were long and it was a complete shot in the dark. I spoke in Spanish using the best Cuban accent I could remember, the one I had always heard spoken by Ciela. Just as the captain opened the door, I blurted out, “Where is Señor Jack Flowers?”
    Captain Blaine Harrington froze in his tracks. He spun around and looked at me with a piercing stare. I could feel everyone in the room turn in my direction.
    Speaking Spanish, the captain asked, “What did you say, son? Did you say ‘Jack Flowers’?”
    “ Sí  … Señor Jack Flowers.”
    “Solomon Jack Flowers?”
    “ Sí, sí  … Señor Jack Flowers and Señora Carolina from St. Louis, America. They save my brother and me as ninos . Señor Jack Flowers will help us.”
    The captain closed the door and paused, then took two steps in my direction. I was standing next to Sheela and Sailor off to the side of Katsuo. He stopped and studied me up and down, slowly taking in every detail. He bent over and leaned in closer. I could see his wire-rimmed glasses pressing into the skin of his temples and around his ears. His blue eyes were huge behind the lenses, and he smelled of American soap and shaving lotion. There was something slightly ominous about his total lack of expression or emotion. I felt like a butterfly being pinned into place and observed with cold and careful precision by its collector. “Es verdad?” he said.
    “Es verdad,” I answered.
    The captain straightened up and let his