Tsunami

Tsunami

The devastation robbed Asahi of words, but he wasn’t a writer, he was a painter.

This fishing town used to be his home. He’d left ten years ago to seek his fortune in Tokyo. For generations the men in his family had gone out in small boats to reap the bounty of the sea. He’d been the first to spurn the hard physical life to answer the yearning of his soul; to find meaning in existence.

Aspiring to be an artist, Asahi had begged his parents to forgive such a selfish desire. He had pleaded with his mother first, for she had always spoiled him, had recognized his talent and encouraged him. With her blessing, he had found the courage to ask his father.

His father had told him how silly his dream was. How impossible a boy from their small town could succeed against the men of big cities. For the first time in his life, Asahi had lost his temper at his father and shouted that yes he had a dream and was it so terrible to have one. His outburst had shocked his father into silence, had made him hang his head to the floor, to whisper that; no, it was wonderful to have a dream.

So, they had dug into their savings to send him to an art college in Tokyo.

Asahi had been determined to succeed, had striven to learn all the skills that his professors had shown lied in the art of the masters. His paintings improved, yet his paintings never sold; they hung on the walls of his relative’s homes. A critic remarked that though his paintings showed good technique they lacked personality. The overall effect was one of timidness. Once, he overheard one say a computer could have created the same thing.

Ironically, he found a job in a small advertising firm drawing on a computer.

He hadn’t painted in years.

Last summer his father had given him a tortoise. Asahi had laughed in surprise and asked him what it was for. His father had told him a tortoise never gave up, and would reach the top of a mountain with its determination. Asahi had vowed to renew his efforts.

Now, he was back. His boyhood town was gone. Smashed to bits and pieces. Piled high among the debris or sucked out to sea. His parents among the missing. Somewhere. Everywhere.

Walking on the partially cleared street, occasionally climbing the rubble, he moved debris in search of any clues to the location of his parent’s home. He searched for hours until he heard his name shouted. Turning, he saw a neighbor Mr. Ishibashi hobbling toward him, a large knapsack on his back. Asahi rushed to embrace him. He told his former neighbor how happy he was to see him alive. The old man mumbled a few words of thanks, wiped his eyes with a cloth, then smiled and said how grateful he was that Asahi had returned.

Asahi asked him if he’d heard anything concerning his parents. The old man replied he hadn’t, but that it was too early to give up hope. Ishibashi then told him that he knew where the house was, or rather the remnants were, that it wasn’t far and he would take him there.

Asahi gratefully accepted the offer and followed the man as he took a muddy route toward a mass of jumbled shapes and angles. Finally, he stopped. Told him this was the place. In front of them, on top of planks and tree trunks, was the frame of a roof with a car lodged under it. Asahi didn’t recognize anything. He asked his neighbor how he knew this had been his father’s home. Ishibashi took off his knapsack and extracted a flashlight. Handing it to Asahi, he pointed to the space beyond the car.

Asahi climbed over the car and shone the flashlight into the shadows. At first, he saw nothing familiar then he saw the painting. It used to hang on the wall of the living room. It showed the town in spring from the hill on which the junior high school sat. His mother often said it was his best. He jumped off the car, thanked the old man, and returned the flashlight. He mentioned that he’d sketched the scene from the junior high school the first summer he came back from Tokyo.

Ishibashi slapped his head, then told him that he’d heard that someone had found a photo album of Asahi’s family. It was on a table at the junior high school with a couple dozen other albums. Asahi thanked him and headed at a brisk pace for the hill.

It took him an hour and he was sweating in the chilly March wind when he arrived at the school. It had been turned into an evacuation center with dozens of families sleeping on thin mattresses over the cold floor of the gym. Most survivors had left to stay with relatives far away. These were still waiting for a place to go. Besides food and water, there were school supplies lying on tables for children to use: story books, origami, crayons and pencils, sketch books...

He found the albums in a classroom. Recognizing one, he opened it. There was a screech as the moist cellophane pages resisted. The photos showed his family at a campground in the mountains one summer twenty years ago. That was the only time they had gone camping. He remembered how they couldn’t sleep in the small tent, the burnt meat at the barbecue, the insects, and hiking up steep hills. He wished he could do it again. He looked at all the pictures. He laughed. He cried.

Asahi returned to the gym for a pencil and sketch book. He strode to the edge of the playground where he had a clear view of the devastated valley and the gray sea. He opened the sketch book to the first page. His strokes were bold and powerful.