he following morning, Yuki said she wanted to go see her mother. She didn't know where she was, but she had her phone number. So I rang up, exchanged greetings, and got directions. Ame had rented a small cottage near Makaha, about forty-five minutes out of Honolulu.

We rented a Mitsubishi Lancer, turned the radio up loud, rolled down the windows, and were on our way. Everywhere we passed was filled with light and surf and the scent of flowers.

"Does your mother live alone?" I asked Yuki.

"Are you kidding?" Yuki curled her lip. "No way the old lady could get by in a foreign country on her own. She's the most impractical person you ever met. If she didn't have someone looking after her, she'd get lost. How much you want to bet she's got a boyfriend out there? Probably young and handsome. Just like Papa's."

"Huh?"

"Remember, at Papa's place, that pretty gay boy who lives with him? He's so-o clean."

"Gay?"

"Didn't you think so?"

"No, I didn't think anything."

"You're dense, you know that! You could tell just by looking at him," said Yuki. "I don't know if Papa's gay too, but that boy sure is. Absolutely, two hundred percent gay."

Roxy Music came on the radio and Yuki turned the volume up full blast.

"Anyway, Mama's weakness is for poets. Young poets, failed poets, any kind of poets. She makes them recite to her while she's developing film. That's her idea of a good time. Kind of nerdy if you ask me. Papa should've been a poet, but he couldn't write a poem if he got showered with flowers out of the clear blue sky."

What a family! Rough-and-tumble writer father with gay Boy Friday, genius photographer mother with poet boyfriends, and spiritual medium daughter with?Wait a minute. Was I supposed to be fitting into this psychedelic extended family? I remembered Boy Friday's friendly, attractive smile. Maybe, just maybe, he was saying, Welcome to the dub. Hold it right there. This gig with the family is strictly temporary. Understand? A short R&R before I go back to shoveling. At which point I won't have time for the likes of this craziness. At which point I go my own way. I like things less involved.

Following Ame's instructions, I turned right off the highway before Makaha and headed toward the hills. Houses with roofs half-ready to blow off in the next hurricane lined either side of the road, growing fewer and fewer until we reached the gate of a private resort community. The gatekeeper let us in at the mention of Ame's name.

Inside the grounds spread a vast, well-kept lawn. Gardeners transported themselves in golf carts, as they diligently attended to turf and trees. Yellow-billed birds fluttered about. Yuki's mother's place was beyond a swimming pool, trees, a further expanse of hill and lawn.

The cottage was tropical modern, surrounded by a mix of trees in fruit. We rang the doorbell. The drowsy, dry ring of the wind chime mingled pleasantly with strains of Vivaldi coming from the wide-open windows. After a few seconds the door opened, and we were met by a tall, well-tanned white man. He was solidly built, mustachioed, and wore a faded aloha shirt, jogging pants, and rubber thongs. He seemed to be about my age, decent-looking, if not exactly handsome, and a bit too tough to be a poet, though surely the world's got to have tough poets too. His most distinguished feature was the entire lack of a left arm from the shoulder down.

He looked at me, he looked at Yuki, he looked back at me, he cocked his jaw ever so slightly and smiled. "Hello," he greeted us quietly, then switched to Japanese, "Konnichiwa." He shook our hands, and said come on in. His Japanese was flawless.

"Ame's developing pictures right now. She'll be another ten minutes," he said. "Sorry for the wait. Let me introduce myself. I'm Dick. Dick North. I live here with Ame."

Dick showed us into the spacious living room. The room had large windows and a ceiling fan, like something out of a Somerset Maugham novel. Polynesian folkcrafts decorated the walls. He sat us on the sizable sofa, then he brought out two Primos and a coke. Dick and I drank our beers, but Yuki didn't touch her drink.

She stared out the window and said nothing. Between the fruit trees you could see the shimmering sea. Out on the horizon floated one lone cloud, the shape of a pithecanthropus skull. Stubbornly unmoving, a permanent fixture of the seascape. Bleached perfectly white, outlined sharp against the sky. Birds warbled as they darted past. Vivaldi crescendoed to a finish, whereupon Dick got up to slip the record back in its jacket and onto a rack. He was amazingly dexterous with his one arm.

"Where did you pick up such excellent Japanese?" I asked him for lack of anything else to say.

Dick raised an eyebrow and smiled. "I lived in Japan for ten years," he said, very slowly. "I first went there during the War — the Vietnam War. I liked it, and when I got out, I went to Sophia University. I studied Japanese poetry, haiku and tanka, which I translate now. It's not easy, but since I'm a poet myself, it's all for a good cause."

"I would imagine so," I said politely. Not young, not especially handsome, but a poet. One out of three.

"Strange, you know," he spoke as if resuming his train of thought, "you never hear of any one-armed poets. You hear of one-armed painters, one-armed pianists. Even one-armed pitchers. Why no one-armed poets?"

True enough.

"Let me know if you think of one," said Dick.

I shook my head. I wasn't versed in poets in general, even the two-armed variety.

"There are a number of one-armed surfers," he continued. "They paddle with their feet. And they do all right too. I surf a little."

Yuki stood up and knocked about the room. She pulled down records from the rack, but apparently finding nothing to her liking, she frowned. With no music, the surroundings were so quiet they could lull you into drowsiness. In the distance there was the occasional rumble of a lawn mower, someone's voice, the ring of a wind chime, birds singing.

"Quiet here," I remarked.

Dick North peered down thoughtfully into the palm of his one hand.

"Yes. Silence. That's the most important thing. Especially for people in Ame's line of work. In my work too, silence is essential. I can't handle hustle and bustle. Noise, didn't you find Honolulu noisy?"

I didn't especially, but I agreed so as to move the conversation along. Yuki was again looking out the window with her what-a-drag sneer in place.

"I'd rather live on Kauai. Really, a wonderful place. Quieter, fewer people. Oahu's not the kind of place I like to live in. Too touristy, too many cars, too much crime. But Ame has to stay here for her work. She goes into Honolulu two or three times a week for equipment and supplies. Also, of course, it's easier to do business and to meet people here. She's been taking photos of fishermen and gardeners and farmers and cooks and road workers, you name it. She's a fantastic photographer."

I'd never looked that carefully at Ame's photographic works, but again, for convenience sake, I agreed. Yuki made an indistinct toot through her nose.

He asked me what sort of work I did.

A free-lance writer, I told him. He seemed to show interest, thinking probably I was a kindred spirit. He asked me what sort of things I wrote.

Whatever, I write to order. Like shoveling snow, I said, trying the line now on him.

Shoveling snow, he repeated gravely. He didn't seem to understand. I was about to explain when Ame came into the room.

Ame was dressed in a denim shirt and white shorts. She wore no makeup and her hair was unkempt, as if she'd just woken up. Even so, she was exceedingly attractive, exuding the dignity and presence that impressed me about her at the Dolphin Hotel. The moment she walked into the room, she drew everyone's attention to her. Instantaneously, without explanation, without show.

And without a word of greeting, she walked over to Yuki, mussed her hair lovingly, then pressed the tip of her nose to the girl's temple. Yuki clearly didn't enjoy this, but she put up with it. She shook her head briskly, which got her hair more or less back into place, then cast a cool eye at a vase on a shelf. This was not the utter contempt she showed her father, however. Here, she was displaying her awkwardness, composing herself.

There was some unspoken communication going on between mother and daughter. There was no "How are you?" or "You doing okay?" Just the mussing of hair and the touch of the nose. Then Ame came over and sat down next to me, pulled out a pack of Salems and lit up. The poet ferreted out an ashtray and placed it ceremoniously on the table. Ame deposited the matchstick in it, exhaled a puff of smoke, wrinkled up her nose, then put her cigarette to rest.

"Sorry. I couldn't get away from my work," she began. "You know how it is with pictures. Impossible to stop midway."

The poet brought Ame a beer and a glass, and poured for her.

"How long are you going to be in Hawaii?" Ame turned to me and asked.

"About a week," I said. "We don't have a fixed schedule. I'm on a break right now, but I'm going to have to get back to work one of these days."

"You should stay as long as you can. It's nice here."

"Yes, I'm sure it's nice here," I responded, but her mind was already somewhere else.

"Have you eaten?" she then asked.

"I had a sandwich along the way," I answered, "but not Yuki."

"What are we doing for lunch?" she directed her question toward the poet.

"I seem to remember us fixing spaghetti an hour ago," he spoke slowly and deliberately. "An hour ago would have been twelve-fifteen, so that probably would qualify as what we did for lunch."

"Is that right?" she commented vaguely.

"Yes, indeed," said the poet, smiling in my direction. "When Ame gets wrapped up in her work, she loses all track of everything. She forgets whether she's eaten or not, what she'd been doing where. Her mind goes blank from concentrating so intensely."

I smiled politely. But intense concentration? This seemed more in the realm of psychopathology.

Ame eyed her beer glass absently for a while before picking it up. "That may be so, but I'm still hungry. After all, we didn't eat any breakfast," she said. "Or did we?"

"Let me relate the facts as I remember them. At seven-thirty this morning you had a fairly large breakfast of grape- fruit and toast and yogurt," Dick recounted. "In fact, you were rather enthusiastic about it, saying how a good breakfast is one of the pleasures in life."

"Did I?" said Ame, scratching the side of her nose. She stared off into space thinking it over, like a scene out of Hitchcock. Reality recedes until you can't tell who's sane and who's not.

"Well, it doesn't matter. I'm incredibly hungry," she said. "You don't mind if I've already eaten, do you?"

"No, I don't mind," laughed her poet lover. "It's your stomach, not mine. And if you want to eat, I say you should eat as much as you want. Appetite's a good thing. It's always that way with you. When your work's going well, you get an appetite. Shall I fix you a sandwich?"

"Thanks. And could you get me another beer?"

"Certainly," he said, disappearing into the kitchen.

"And you, have you had lunch?" Ame asked me.

"I had a sandwich en route," I repeated.

"Yuki?"

No, was Yuki's terse reply.

"Dick and I met in Tokyo," Ame spoke to me as she crossed her legs. But she could have as well been explaining things to Yuki. "He's the one who suggested I go to Kathmandu. He said it would inspire me. Kathmandu was wonderful, really. Dick lost his arm in Vietnam. It was a land mine. A 'Bouncing Betty,' the ones that fly up into the air and explode. Boom! The guy next to him stepped on it and Dick lost his arm. Dick's a poet. He speaks good Japanese too, don't you think? We stayed in Kathmandu a while, then we came here to Hawaii. After Kathmandu, we wanted somewhere warm. That's when Dick found this place. The cottage belongs to a friend of his. I use the guest bathroom as a darkroom. Nice place, don't you think?"

Then she exhaled deeply, as if she'd said all there was to say. She stretched and was quiet. The afternoon silence deepened, particles of light flickered like dust, drifting freely in all directions. The white pithecanthropus skull cloud still floated above the horizon. Obstinate as ever. Ame's Salem lay burning in the ashtray, hardly touched.

How did Dick manage to make sandwiches with just one arm? I found myself wondering. How did he slice the bread? How did he keep the bread in place? Was it a matter of meter and rhyme?

When the poet emerged bearing a tray of beautiful ham sandwiches, well-made, well-cut, there was no end to my admiration. Then he opened a beer and poured it for Ame.

"Thanks, Dick," she said, then turned to me. "Dick's a great cook."

"If there were a cooking competition for one-armed poets, I'd win hands down," he said with a wink. And then he was back in the kitchen, making coffee. Despite his lack of an arm, Dick was far from helpless.

Ame offered me a sandwich. It was delicious, and somehow lyrical in composition. Dick's coffee was good too.

"It's no problem, you with Yuki, just the two of you?" Ame picked up the conversation again.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm talking about the music, of course. That rock stuff. It doesn't give you a headache?"

"No, not especially," I said.

"I can't listen to that stuff for more than thirty seconds before I get a splitting headache. Being with Yuki is fine, but the music is intolerable," she said, screwing her index finger into her temple. "The kinds of music I can put up with are very limited. Some baroque, certain kinds of jazz. Ethnic music. Sounds that put you at ease. That's what I like. I also like poetry. Harmony and peace."

She lit up another cigarette, took one puff, then set it down in the ashtray. I was sure she would forget about it too, and she did. Amazing that she hadn't set the house on fire. I was beginning to understand what Hiraku Makimura meant about Ame's wearing him down. Ame didn't give any- thing. She only took. She consumed those around her to sustain herself. And those around her always gave. Her talent was manifested in a powerful gravitational pull. She believed it was her privilege, her right. Harmony and peace. In order for her to have that, she had everyone waiting on her hand and foot.

Not that it made any difference to me, I wanted to shout. I was here on vacation. I had my own life, even if it was doing you-know-what. Let all this weirdness reach its natural level. But maybe it didn't matter what I thought? I was a member of the supporting cast.

Ame finished her sandwich and walked over to Yuki, slowly running her fingers through the girl's hair again. Yuki stared at the coffee cups on the table, expressionless. "Beautiful hair," said Ame. "The hair I always wanted. So shiny and silky straight. My hair's so unmanageable. Isn't that right, Princess?" Again she touched the tip of her nose to Yuki's temple.

Dick cleared away the dishes. Then he put on some Mozart chamber music. He asked me if I wanted another beer, but I told him I'd already had enough.

"Dick, I'd like to discuss some family matters with Yuki," Ame spoke with a snap in her voice. "Mother and daughter talk. Why don't you show this gentleman the beach? We should be about an hour."

"Sure," the poet answered, rising to his feet. He gave Ame a loving peck on the forehead, donned a white canvas hat and green Ray-Bans. "See you in an hour. Have a nice chat." Then he took me by the arm and led me out. "We've got a great beach here," he said.

Yuki shrugged and gave me a blank look. Ame was about to light up another Salem. Leaving the women on their own, we stepped out into the afternoon sun.

As I drove the Lancer down to the beach, Dick mentioned that with a prosthetic arm, driving would be no problem. Still, he preferred not to wear one. "It's unnatural," he explained. "I wouldn't feel at ease. It might be more convenient having one, but I'd be so self-conscious with it. It wouldn't be me. I'm trying to train myself to live one-armed. I'm limited in what I can do, but I do okay."

"How do you slice bread?"

"Bread?" He thought it over a second, as if he didn't know what I was talking about. Then it dawned on him. "Oh, slicing bread? Why sure, that's a reasonable question. It's not so hard. I use one hand, of course, but I don't hold the knife the usual way. I'd be useless if I did that. The trick is to keep the bread in place with your fingers while you move the blade. Like this."

Dick demonstrated with his hand, but for the life of me I couldn't imagine how it would actually work. Yet I'd seen his handiwork. His slices were cleaner than most people with two hands could cut.

"Works perfectly well," he declared with a smile. "Most things I can manage with one hand. I can't clap, but I can do push-ups. Chin-ups too. It takes practice, but it's not impossible. How did you think I sliced bread?"

"I don't know, maybe with your feet?"

That drew a laugh from him. "Clever," he said. "I'll have to write a poem about that. The one-armed poet making sandwiches with his feet. Very clever."

I didn't know whether to agree or not.

A little ways down the coast highway, we pulled over and bought a six-pack, then walked to a deserted area of the beach. We lay down and drank beer after beer, but it was so hot the beer didn't seem to go to my head.

The beach was very un-Hawaiian. Unsightly scrub bushes, uneven sands, somehow rocky, but at least it was off the tourist track. A few pickup trucks were parked nearby, local families hanging out, veteran surfers doing their stuff. The pithecanthropus cloud was still pinned in place, sea gulls going around like washing-machine suds.

We talked in spurts. Dick had nothing but awe and respect for Ame. She was a true artist, he repeated several times. When he spoke about her, his Japanese trailed off into English. He said he couldn't express his feelings in Japanese.

"Since meeting her, my own thinking about poetry has changed. Her photographs — how can I put it? — strip poetry bare. I mean, here we are, choosing our words, braiding strands to cut a figure. But with her photos it's immediate, the embodiment. Out of thin air, out of light, in the gap between moments, she grabs things just like that. She gives physical presence to the depths of the human psyche. Do you know what I mean?"

Kind of, I allowed.

"Sometimes it frightens me, looking at her photos. My whole being is thrown into question. It's that overwhelming. She's a genius. Not like me and not like you?Forgive me, that's awfully presumptuous of me. I don't even know a thing about you."

I shook my head. "That's okay, I understand what you're saying."

"Genius is rare. I'm not talking about talent, or even first-rate talent. With genius, you're lucky just to encounter it, to see it right there before your eyes. And yet —," he paused, opening his hand up in a gesture of helplessness. "And yet, in some sense, the experience can be pretty upsetting. Sometimes it's like a needle piercing straight through my ego."

I gazed out at the ocean as I listened. The surf was rough, the waves breaking hard. I buried my fingers in the hot sand, scooped some up and let it drizzle down. Over and over again. Meanwhile, the surfers caught the waves they'd been waiting for and paddled back out.

"But you know," Dick went on, "even with my ego sacrificed, her talent attracts me. It makes me love her even more. Sometimes I think I've been drawn into a whirlpool. I already have a wife — she's Japanese too — and we have a child. I love them, I love them very much. Even now I love them. But from the first time I met Ame, I was drawn right in to her. I couldn't resist her. And I knew it was happening. I knew it wasn't going to come my way again, not in this life. That's when I decided — if I go with her, there'll come a time that I'll regret it. But if I don't go with her, I'll be losing the key to my existence. Have you ever felt that way about something?"

Never, I told him.

"Odd," Dick continued. "I'd struggled so hard to have a quiet, stable life. A wife and kid, a small house, my own work. I didn't make a lot of money, but the work was worth doing. I was writing and translating, and it was a good life, I thought. I'd lost my arm in the war, and that was pretty traumatic, but I worked hard at getting my head together and I found some peace and I was doing all right. Life was all right. And then — " He lifted his palm in a broad flat sweep. "In an instant it was lost. Just like that. I have no place to go. I have no home in Japan anymore, I have no home in America. I've been away too long."

I wanted to offer him some words of comfort, but didn't know what to say. I continued scooping up sand and letting it fall. Dick stood up, walked over to a bush and took a leak, then walked slowly back.

"Confession time," he said, then smiled. "I wanted to tell someone. What do you think?"

What was I supposed to think? We weren't kids. You choose who you sleep with, and whirlpool or tornado or sandstorm, you make a go of what you choose. This Dick made a good impression on me. I respected him for all the difficulties he overcame with only one arm. But this difficulty probably cut deeper.

"I'm afraid I'm not an artist," I said. "So I can't really understand what it means to have an artistically inspiring relationship. It's beyond me. I'm sorry."

Dick seemed saddened by my response and looked out to sea. I shut my eyes. And the next thing I knew, I was waking up. I'd dozed off. Maybe the beer after all. The heat made my head feel light. My watch read half past two. I shook my head from side to side and sat up. Dick was playing with a dog at the edge of the surf. I felt bad. I hoped I hadn't offended him.

But what was I supposed to have said?

Was I cold? Of course I could appreciate his feelings. One arm or two, poet or not, it's a tough world. We all have to live with our problems. But weren't we adults? Hadn't we come this far already? At the very least, you don't go asking impossible questions of someone you've just met. That wasn't courteous.

Cold.

Dick rang the doorbell when we got back, and Yuki opened the door with a totally unamused look on her face. Ame was seated on the sofa, cigarette at her lips, eyes peering off into space as if she were in Zen meditation. Dick walked over and planted a kiss on her forehead.

"Finished talking?" he asked.

"Mmm," she said, cigarette still in her mouth. Affirmative, I assumed.

"We had a nice relaxing time on the beach, looked off the edge of the earth, and caught some rays," Dick reported.

"We have to be going," said Yuki flatly.

My thoughts exactly. Time we were getting back to the real world of tourist-town Honolulu.

Ame stood up. "Well, come visit again. I'd like to see you," she said, giving her daughter a tweak on the cheek.

I thanked Dick for his hospitality and had just helped Yuki into the car when Ame hooked me by the elbow. "I have something to tell you," she said. She led me to a small playground a bit up the road. Leaning against the jungle gym, she put a cigarette to her mouth and seemed almost bothered that she'd have to strike a match to light it.

"You're a decent fellow, I can tell," she began earnestly. "So I know I can ask a favor of you. I want you to bring the child here as often as you can. I don't have to tell you that ] love her. She's my child. I want to see more of her. Understand? I want to talk with her. I want to become friends with her. I think we can become friends, good friends, even before being parent and child. So while she's here, I want to talk with her a lot."

Ame gave me a meaningful look.

I couldn't think of an appropriate reply. But I had to say something. "That's between you and her."

"Of course," she said.

"So if she wants to see you, certainly, I'll be happy to bring her around," I said. "Or if you, as her parent, tell me to bring her here, I'll do that. One way or the other. But other than that, I have no say in this. Friends don't need the intervention of a third party. Friendship's a voluntary thing. At least that's the way I know it."

Ame pondered over what I'd said.

I got started again: "You say you want to be her friend. That's very good. But before being Yuki's friend, you're her mother, whether you like it or not. Yuki's thirteen. She needs a mother. She needs someone who will love her and hold her and be with her. I know I'm way out of line shooting my mouth off like this. But Yuki doesn't need a part-time friend; she needs a situation that accepts her one hundred percent. That's what she needs first."

"You don't understand," said Ame.

"Exactly. I don't understand," I said. "But let's get this straight. Yuki's still a child and she's been hurt. Someone needs to protect her. It's a lot of trouble, but somebody's got to do it. That's responsibility. Can't you understand that?"

"I'm not asking you to bring her here every day," she said. "Just when she wants to come. I'll be calling regularly too. Because I don't want to lose that child. The way things are going, she's going to move away from me as she grows up. I understand that, so what I want are psychological ties. I want a bond. I know I probably haven't been a great mother. But I have so much to do before being a mother. There's nothing I can do about it. The child knows that. That's why what I want is a relationship beyond mother and daughter. Maybe you could call it blood friends."

On the drive back, we listened to the radio. We didn't talk. Occasionally I'd whistle, but otherwise silence prevailed. Yuki gazed out the window, face turned away from me. For fifteen minutes. But I knew something was coming. I told myself, very plainly: You'd better stop the car somewhere.

So that's what I did. I pulled over into a beach parking lot. I asked Yuki how she was feeling. I asked her if she wanted something to drink. Yuki said nothing.

Two girls wearing identical swimsuits walked slowly under the palms, across my field of vision, stepping like cats balancing on a fence. Their swimsuits were a skimpy patchwork of tiny handkerchiefs that any gust of wind might easily blow away. The whole scene had this wild, too-real unreality of a suppressed dream.

I looked up at the sky. A mother wants to make friends with her daughter. The daughter wants a mother more than a friend. Ships passing in broad daylight. Mother has a boyfriend. A homeless, one-armed poet. Father also has a boyfriend. A gay Boy Friday. What does the daughter have?

Ten minutes later it began. Soft sobs at first, but then the dam burst. Her hands neatly folded in her lap, her nose buried in my shoulder, her slim body trembling. Cry, go ahead and cry. If I were in your position I'd cry too. You better believe I'd cry.

I put my arm around her. And she cried. She cried until my shirt sleeve was sopping. She cried and cried and cried.

Two policemen in sunglasses crossed the parking lot flashing revolvers. A German shepherd wandered by, panting in the heat. Palm trees swayed. A huge Samoan climbed out of a pickup truck and walked his girlfriend to the beach. The radio was playing. "Don't ever call me Princess again," she said, head still resting in my shoulder.

"Did I do that?" I asked.

"Yes, you did."

"I don't remember."

"Driving back from Tsujido, that night. Don't say it again."

"I won't. I promise I won't. I swear on Boy George and Duran Duran. Never, never, never again."

"That's what Mama always calls me. Princess."

"I won't call you that again."

"Mama, she's always hurting me. She's just got no idea. And yet she loves me. I know she does."

"Yes, she does."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"The only thing you can. Grow up."

"I don't want to."

"No other way," I said. "Everyone does, like it or not. People get older. That's how they deal with it. They deal with it till the day they die. It's always been this way. Always will be. It's not just you."

She looked up at me, her face streaked with tears. "Don't you believe in comforting people?"

"I was comforting you."

She brushed my arm from her shoulder and took a tissue from her bag. "There's something really abnormal about you, you know," she said.

We went back to the hotel. We swam. We showered. We went to the supermarket and bought fixings for dinner. We grilled the steak with onions and soy sauce, we tossed a salad, we had miso soup with tofu and scallions. A pleasant supper. Yuki even had half a glass of California wine.

"You're not such a bad cook," Yuki said.

"No, not true. I just put my heart into it. That's the difference. It's a question of attitude. If you really work at something, you can do it, up to a point. If you really work at being happy, you can do it, up to a point."

"But anything more than that, you can't."

"Anything more than that is luck," I said.

"You really know how to depress people, don't you? Is that what you call being adult?"

We washed the dishes, then went out walking on Kalakaua Avenue as the lights were blinking on. We critiqued the merchandise of different offbeat shops, eyed the outfits of the passersby, took a rest stop at the crowded Royal Hawaiian Hotel garden bar. I got my requisite pina colada; Yuki asked for fruit punch. I thought of Dick North and how he would hate the noisy city night. I didn't mind it so much myself.

"What do you think of my mother?" Yuki asked when our drinks arrived.

"Honestly, I don't know what to think," I said after a moment. "It takes me a while to consider everything and pass judgment. Afraid I'm not very bright."

"But she did get you a little mad, right?"

"Oh yeah?"

"It was all over your face," said Yuki.

"Maybe so," I said, taking a sip and looking out on the night sea. "I guess I did get a little annoyed."

"At what?"

"At the total lack of responsibility of the people who should be looking after you. But what's the use? Who am I to get mad? As if it does any good."

Yuki nibbled at a pretzel from a dish on the table. "I guess nobody knows what to do. They want to do something, but they don't know how."

"Nobody seems to know how."

"And you do?"

"I'm waiting for hints to take shape, then I'll know what action to take." Yuki fingered the neck of her T-shirt. "I don't get it," she said.

"All you have to do is wait," I explained. "Sit tight and wait for the right moment. Not try to change anything by force, just watch the drift of things. Make an effort to cast a fair eye on everything. If you do that, you just naturally know what to do. But everyone's always too busy. They're too talented, their schedules are too full. They're too interested in themselves to think about what's fair."

Yuki planted an elbow on the table, then swept the pretzel crumbs from the tablecloth. A retired couple in matching aloha shirt and muumuu at the next table sipped out of a big, brash tropical drink. They looked so happy. In the torch-lit courtyard, a woman was playing the electric piano. Her singing was less than wonderful, but two or three pairs of hands clapped when her vocal stylings were over. And then Yuki grabbed my pina colada and took a quick sip.

"Yum," she exclaimed.

"Two votes yum," I said. "Motion passed."

Yuki stared at me. "What is with you? I can't figure you out. One minute you're Mister Cool, the next you're bonkers from the toes up."

"If you're sane, that means you're off your rocker. So don't worry about it," I replied, then ordered another pina colada from a frighteningly cheerful waitress. She wiggled off, trotted back with the drink, then vanished leaving behind a mile-wide Cheshire grin.

"Okay, so what am I supposed to do?" said Yuki.

"Your mother wants to see more of you," I said. "I don't know any more than that. She's not my family, and she's as unusual as they come. As I understand her, she wants to get out of the rut of a mother-daughter relationship and become friends with you."

"Making friends isn't so easy."

"Agreed," I said. "Two votes not so easy."

With both elbows now on the table, Yuki gave me a dubious look. "And what do you think? About Mama's way of thinking."

"What I think doesn't matter. The question is, what do you think? You could think it's wishful thinking on her part. Or you could think it's a constructive stance worth considering. It all depends on you. But don't make any rush decisions. You should take your time thinking it over."

Yuki propped her chin up on her hands. There was a loud guffaw from the counter. The pianist launched into "Blue Hawaii." Heavy breathing to a tinkling of high notes. The night is young and so are we.?

"We're not doing so well right now," said Yuki. "Before going to Sapporo was the worst. She was on my case about not going to school. It was real messy. We hardly spoke to each other. I never wanted to see her. That dragged on and on. But then Mama doesn't think like normal people do. She says whatever comes into her head and then she forgets it right after she's said it. She's serious when she says it, but after that she might as well have never said a thing. And then out of nowhere, she wants to play mother again. That's what really pisses me off."

"But —," I tried to interrupt.

"But she is interesting. She isn't like anybody else in the world. She may be the pits as a mother and she's really screwed me up, but she is interesting. Not like Papa. I don't really know what to think, though. Now she says she wants to be friends. She's so?overwhelming, so powerful, and I'm just a kid. Anyone can see that, right? But no-o, not her. Mama says she wants to be friends, but the harder she tries, the more it hurts me. That's how it was in Sapporo. She tried to get close to me, she actually tried. So I started to get closer to her. I tried, honest. But her head's always so full of stuff, she just spaces out. And the next thing I know, she's gone." Yuki sent her half-nibbled pretzel out over the sand. "Now if that's not loopy, what is? I like Mama. I guess I like her. And I guess I wouldn't mind if we were friends. I just don't want to have everything dumped back on me again like that. I hate that." "Everything you say is right," I said. "Completely understandable."

"Not for Mama. She wouldn't understand if you spelled it all out for her."

"No, I don't think so either."

The next day dawned with another glorious Hawaiian sunrise. We ate breakfast, then went to the beach in front of the Sheraton. We rented boards and tried to surf. Yuki enjoyed herself so much that afterward we went to a surf shop near the Ala Moana Shopping Center and bought two used boards. The salesclerk asked if we were brother and sister. I said yes. I was glad we didn't look like father and daughter.

At two o'clock we were back on the beach, lazing. Sunbathing, swimming, napping, listening to the radio and tuning out, thumbing through paperbacks, people-watching, listening to the wind in the palms. The sun slowly traveled its prescribed path. When it went down, we returned to our rooms, showered, ate some spaghetti and salad, then we went to see a Spielberg movie. After the movie we took a walk and ended up at the Halekulani poolside bar, where I had a pina colada again and Yuki her usual fruit punch.

A dance band was playing "Frenesi." An elderly clarinetist took a long solo, reminiscent of Artie Shaw, while a dozen retired couples in silks and satins danced around the pool, faces illuminated by the rippling blue light from below. A hallucinatory vision. After how many years, these people had finally made it to Hawaii. They glided gracefully, their steps learned and true. The men moved with their backs straight, chins tucked in, the women with their evening dresses swirling, drawing cheek-to-cheek as the band played "Moon Glow."

"I'm getting sleepy again," said Yuki. But this time, she walked back alone. Progress. Returning to my room, I opened a bottle of wine and watched Clint Eastwood's Hang 'Em High on the tube. By the time I was on my third glass, I was so sleepy I gave up on the whole thing and got ready to knock off. It'd been another perfect Hawaiian day. And it wasn't over yet.

Five minutes after I'd crawled into bed, the doorbell rang. A little before midnight. Terrific. What did Yuki want now? I got myself decent and got to the door as the bell sounded another time. I flung the door open — only to find that it wasn't Yuki at all. It was an attractive young woman. "Hi," said the attractive young woman. "Hi," I said back.

"My name is June," she said with a slight accent. She seemed to be Southeast Asian, maybe Thai or Filipino or Vietnamese. Petite and dark, big eyes. Wearing a sleek dress of some lustrous pink material. Her purse and shoes were pink too. Tied on her left wrist was a large pink ribbon. Gift-wrapped. She placed a hand on the door and smiled. "Hi, June," I said.

"I come in?" she asked, pointing behind me. "Just a minute. You must have the wrong party. Which room do you want?"

"Umm, wait second," she said and pulled a piece of paper from her purse. "Mmm, Mistah? She showed me the note.

"That's me."

"No mistake?"

"No mistake. But not so fast," I said. "I'm the fellow you want, but I don't know who you are. What's going on?"

"I come in first? Here people listen. People think strange things. Everything relax, no problem. No gun, no holdup.

Okay?"

True, we'd wake Yuki up if we continued talking in the corridor. I let June in. I asked her if she wanted something to drink. She'd have what I'd have. I mixed two gin-and-tonics, which I placed on the low table between us. She boldly crossed her legs as she brought the drink to her lips. Beautiful legs.

"Okay, June, why are you here and what do you want?"

"I come make you happy," she said naturally.

"Who told you to come?"

She shrugged. "Gentleman friend who not want say. He already pay. He pay from Japan. He pay for you. Understand?"

Makimura. It had to be Makimura. The way that man's mind worked! What a world! Everyone wanting to buy me women.

"He pay for all night. So we can enjoy. I very good," June said, lifting her legs to remove her pink high heels. She then lay down on the floor, very provocatively.

"I'm sorry, but I can't go through with this," I interrupted her.

"Why? You gay?"

"No, I'm not gay. It's a difference of opinion between me and the gentleman who paid for you. I'm afraid I can't accept, June."

"But I get money. I cannot pay back. He care whether we fuck or not fuck? I don't call overseas and say, 'Yessir, we fuck three times.'"

I sighed.

"Let's do it," she said simply. "It feel good."

I didn't know what to think. One foot in dreamland after a long day, then someone you don't know shows up and says "Let's fuck." Good grief.

"We drink one more gin tonic, okay?"

I agreed somehow. June fixed our drinks, then switched the radio on. "Saiko!" June said, throwing in some Japanese for effect, relaxing as if she were at home. "Great." Then sipping her drink, she leaned against me. "Don't think too much," she said, reading my mind. "I very good. I know very much. Don't try do nothing, I do everything. Gentle- man in Japan out of picture. Now just you and me."

June ran her fingers across my chest. My resolve was weakening steadily. This was beginning to seem quite easy. If I could just live with the fact that Makimura had bought me a prostitute. But it was only sex. Erection, insertion, ejaculation, that's all folks.

"Okay," I said, "Let's do it."

"Thatta boy!" exclaimed June, downing her gin-and-tonic.

"But tonight I'm very tired. So no special stunts." "I do everything. But you do two things." "Which are?"

"Turn off light, untie ribbon."

Done. We headed into the bedroom. June had her dress off in a flash, then set about undressing me. She may not have been Mei, but she was skilled at her job and she took pride in her skills. She was fingers and tongue all over me. She got me hard and then she made me come to the beat of Foreigner on the radio. The night had just begun. "Was that good?" "V-very," I panted.

We treated ourselves to another round of drinks. Suddenly I had a thought. "June, last month you wouldn't have had a 'Mei' here, would you?"

"Funny man!" June burst out laughing. "I like jokes. And next month she is July, right?"

I tried to tell her that it wasn't a joke, but it didn't do any good. So I shut up. And when I did, June did another professional job on me. I didn't have to do a thing, exactly like she said. I just lay there.

She was as fast and efficient as a service station attendant. You pull up and hand over the keys. She takes care of everything else: fill up the tank, wash and wax, check the oil, empty the ashes. Could you call it sex? Well, whatever it was, we kept at it until past two when we finally ran out of gas and conked out. It was already light out when we awoke. We'd left the radio on. June was curled up naked next to me, her pink dress and pink shoes and pink ribbon lying on the floor.

"Hey, get up," I said, trying to rouse her. "You've got to get out of here. There's a little girl coming over for breakfast."

"Okay, okay," she muttered, grabbing up her bag and walking naked into the bathroom to brush her teeth and comb her hair.

When she was ready to leave, she tossed her lipstick into her bag and closed it with a snap. "So when I come next?"

"Next?"

"I get money for three nights. We fuck last night, we fuck two more nights. Maybe you want different girl? I no mind. Men like sleep with lots girls."

"No, you're who I want, of course," I said, at a loss for what else to say. Three nights? Did Makimura want me milked dry?

"You very nice. You no regret. I do wild next time. Okay? You count on me. Night after tomorrow, okay? I have free night. I do whole works."

"Okay," I told her, handing her ten dollars for carfare.

"Thank you, you very nice. Bye-bye."

I cleaned the place up before Yuki arrived, got rid of all the telltale signs, including the pink ribbon. But the moment Yuki stepped into the room a stern expression came over her face. She knew right away. I pretended not to notice her demeanor, whistling as I prepared the coffee and toast and brought them to the table.

She didn't say a word through breakfast, refused to respond to my attempts at conversation.

Finally she placed both hands on the table and glared at me. "You had a woman here last night, didn't you?" she said.

"You really pick up on things, don't you?" I tried to make light of the situation. "Who was she? Some girl you picked up somewhere?" "Oh c'mon. I'm not that good. She came here of her own doing."

"Don't lie to me! Nothing happens like that." "I'm not lying, I promise. The woman really did come here on her own," I said. I tried to explain: The woman suddenly showed up and turned out to be a gift from her father. Maybe it was his idea of giving me a good time, or maybe he was worried and figured if I was sexually sated, I'd stay out of his daughter's bed.

"That's exactly the kind of garbage he'd pull," said Yuki, resigned but angry. "Why does he always operate on the lowest level? He never understands anything, anything important. Mama's screwy, but Papa's head is on ass backwards."

"Yeah, he's totally off the mark."

"So then why'd you let her in? That woman."

"I didn't know what was coming off. I had to talk with her."

"But don't tell me you?

"It wasn't so simple, I — "

"You didn't!" Yuki flew into a huff. Then, at a loss for what to say, she blushed.

"Well, yes. It's a long story. But the truth of the matter is,

I couldn't say no."

She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her cheeks. "I don't believe this!" Yuki screamed, her voice breaking. "I can't believe you'd do such a thing!"

"Of course, I refused at first," I tried to defend myself. "But in the end — what can I say? — I gave in. It wasn't just the woman, though of course it was the woman. It was your father and your mother and the way they have this influence on everybody they meet. So I figured what the hell. Also, the woman didn't seem like such a bad deal."

"I can't believe you're saying this!" Yuki cried. "You let Papa buy a woman for you? And you think nothing of it? That's so shameless, that's wrong. How could you?" She had a point.

"You have a point," I said.

"That's really, really shameless."

"I admit it. It's really, really shameless.'

We repaired to the beach and surfed until noon. During which time Yuki didn't speak a single word to me. When I asked if she wanted to have lunch, she nodded. Did she want to eat back at the hotel? She shook her head. Did she want to eat out? She nodded. After a bit more nonverbal conversation, we settled for hot dogs, sitting out on the grass by Fort DeRussy. Three hours and still not a peep out of her.

So I said, "Next time I'll just say no."

She removed her sunglasses and stared at me as if I were a rip in the sky. For a full thirty seconds. Then she brushed back her bangs. "Next time?!" she enunciated, incredulous. "What do you mean, next time!"

So I did my best to explain how her father had prepaid for two more nights. Yuki pounded the ground with her fist. "I don't believe this. This is really barfbag."

"I don't mean to upset you, Yuki, but think of it this way. Your father is at least showing concern. I mean, I am a male of the species and you are a young, very pretty female."

"Really and truly barfbag," Yuki screamed, holding back tears. She stormed off back to the hotel and I didn't see her until evening.