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Subduction
Автор: Todd Shimoda и L.J.C. Shimoda
Активность, связанная с книгой
Начать чтение- Издатель:
- Chin Music Press Inc.
- Издано:
- May 29, 2012
- ISBN:
- 9780984457687
- Формат:
- Книге
Описание
Todd Shimoda was the winner of the 2010 Elliot Cades Award for Literature, given to Hawaii's top writer. Past winners include Paul Theroux & Ian MacMillan.
Shimoda's 2009 novel Oh! was picked as a summer best read by NPR's Morning Edition & a notable book by the Asian Art Museum of San Francisco.
The Fourth Treasure (2002) was translated into six languages and was named a notable book by the Kiriyama Prize. 100,000 copies in print worldwide.
The novel contains a book within a book of 16-page, 4-color art by Linda Shimoda which tells the ancient story of Kashima, a god who controls a thrashing catfish said to be the cause of Japan's earthquakes. The inserted book offers clues to the contemporary thriller surrounding it.
Linda Shimoda's 2-color calligraphic art throughout the novel adds depth of meaning to the story, as her artwork in Oh! did. NPR called that book "a kick in the pants to anyone who doubts the future of paper-and-ink books."
The first anniversary of the 3/11/11 earthquake and tsunami in Japan will bring renewed attention to this subject in spring 2012.
Participating in the CBSD January 2012 Galley Box
Активность, связанная с книгой
Начать чтениеСведения о книге
Subduction
Автор: Todd Shimoda и L.J.C. Shimoda
Описание
Todd Shimoda was the winner of the 2010 Elliot Cades Award for Literature, given to Hawaii's top writer. Past winners include Paul Theroux & Ian MacMillan.
Shimoda's 2009 novel Oh! was picked as a summer best read by NPR's Morning Edition & a notable book by the Asian Art Museum of San Francisco.
The Fourth Treasure (2002) was translated into six languages and was named a notable book by the Kiriyama Prize. 100,000 copies in print worldwide.
The novel contains a book within a book of 16-page, 4-color art by Linda Shimoda which tells the ancient story of Kashima, a god who controls a thrashing catfish said to be the cause of Japan's earthquakes. The inserted book offers clues to the contemporary thriller surrounding it.
Linda Shimoda's 2-color calligraphic art throughout the novel adds depth of meaning to the story, as her artwork in Oh! did. NPR called that book "a kick in the pants to anyone who doubts the future of paper-and-ink books."
The first anniversary of the 3/11/11 earthquake and tsunami in Japan will bring renewed attention to this subject in spring 2012.
Participating in the CBSD January 2012 Galley Box
- Издатель:
- Chin Music Press Inc.
- Издано:
- May 29, 2012
- ISBN:
- 9780984457687
- Формат:
- Книге
Об авторе
Связано с Subduction
Отрывок книги
Subduction - Todd Shimoda
SUBDUCTION
a novel
Todd Shimoda
art by
L.J.C. Shimoda
Chin Music Press
Seattle
Copyright © 2012
By Todd and L.J.C. Shimoda
Publisher:
Chin Music Press
2621 24th Ave. W.
Seattle, WA 98199
USA
http://www.chinmusicpress.com
First [1] edition
Cover and interior art by L.J.C. Shimoda
Book design by L.J.C. Shimoda
Production by Linda Ronan
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA is available.
ISBN: 9780984457670
Also by the author and artist:
Oh! A Mystery of 'Mono no Aware'
The Fourth Treasure
365 Views of Mt. Fuji
Also by the artist:
Glyphix for Visual Journaling
Front cover art: important to question
Back cover art: question all answers
1
The patient, a healthy woman aged thirty-two recovering from a simple knee operation, suffered a fever spiking at 103 degrees. She moaned and rasped when, at the dragging end of a second consecutive day making rounds, I fought off a yawn and asked her where it hurt. Only a first-year resident, I was well on my way to becoming a brilliant diagnostician.
She could only wave a hand as if fanning herself from head to toe. Non-localized pain, I wrote in her file. Her surgery wound appeared clean from infection. There were no rashes or unusual skin discoloration. She moaned when I pressed lightly on her abdomen.
What’s going on here, Endo?
My supervisor, the knife-eyed Head Resident, peered over my shoulder.
Fever, some pain, some sensitivity in the abdomen. No sign of infection but we should do a blood test.
The Head Resident grabbed the file and scanned it. "We should not do a blood test. Clearly it’s gastroenteritis. Give her a dose of morphine for the pain. For the other, fluids and something for nausea."
But—
The Head Resident’s face turned red as his eyes widened then narrowed to mere slits. He shoved the file into my hands and left me with the patient. I wrote up his diagnosis and treatment. A first-year resident never challenges a head resident. Not without consequences.
The case wasn’t the first time the Head Resident forced a diagnosis and treatment on me, but it was the first time I couldn’t sleep thinking about it. My usual reaction was to acknowledge my limitations, accept his superior diagnostic ability. I have to admit I wasn’t the best student in my medical school class. Okay, I was near the bottom, although I don’t believe I was less intelligent than my classmates; most were as average as eggs. The main trouble plaguing my performance was poor cognitive attention. In class I would listen to the professor until my mind wandered to some other thought. For instance, the professor might be talking about muscle tissue and I might wonder what causes cramps. I would think about that for a few minutes, not listening to the lecture. When my attention returned, I’d be lost and would spend another few minutes figuring out what the professor was talking about. Of course, as soon as I caught up, my mind would wander again. I simply couldn’t help it.
Then there were the tests. Success on medical school exams is robustly correlated with gross memorization. As you can imagine, a med student with a wandering mind will have trouble trying to focus long enough to memorize all the facts. As in a lecture, I’d read a fact which would take me off on a different path from the topic at hand. I’d browse through reference books, trying to answer this question or that.
Back to the patient with the post-surgery fever. A simple blood test might have pointed to a possible cause of her fever and pain, but the Head Resident’s look told me it was an inefficient use of time and resources. Anyway, the Head Resident probably was correct in his diagnosis. So, no, it wasn’t the diagnosis keeping me awake; it was the image of the pain congealed around the patient’s eyes and mouth like a death mask.
up
to me
I told her there was nothing to be alarmed about.
The doorbell to my hospital dorm room rang, waking me after what seemed a short nap, but the clock retorted it had been a solid seven-hour sleep. Still dressed from the day before, I groggily shuffled to the door and opened it to find the Head Resident and a senior hospital administrator.
I made spaces for them to sit down in my room, then opened the window to freshen the room’s stuffy air. Thinking an offer of something to drink would be appropriate, I started to mention it, but they didn’t look to be in the mood for refreshments. The hospital administrator rested her hands on her lap, properly and professionally. Contrasting with her, the tirelessly rigid Head Resident lounged casually as if bored.
After a brief apology for interrupting my downtime, the administrator said, We regret to inform you that your patient, Ms. Sunada passed away.
Ms. Sunada? The knee operation patient?
ability
of one
The Head Resident spoke so quietly I barely recognized his voice. She died, Endo, of a burst appendix.
That’s severe but treatable.
I barely recognized my own squeaky voice.
She passed out from the morphine. No one checked on her until the morning.
By then it was too late,
added the administrator, her head bowed.
We were quiet for a moment, as if in respect for the dead. But I was reeling from the shock, my mind roiling and my heart thumping as if I’d sprinted up Mt. Fuji. I wanted to vomit violently.
The Head Resident broke the silence. If only you’d done a simple blood test.
My head whirled in his direction. His expression was as blank as the wall he was staring at, the wall of my dingy tiny room, my dingy tiny life. I knew then what was going to happen. And it was not good.
2
I took the fall for the Head Resident, admitting I failed to take a blood test. It would have been his word against mine. In the end it really was my fault. Defying the Head Resident, I could have tested for a high white blood cell count indicating an infection, which would have pointed to the appendix. Yes, I would have lost my job going behind his back, but Ms. Sunada would likely be alive. As it was, I was immediately suspended from seeing patients pending a hearing. Two months later—long and stressful months—I had my hearing. The whole thing lasted less than an hour, the conclusion pre-determined. In exchange for accepting blame, I was offered a new posting through the government agency, Physicians in Service to Rural Japan, with an added perk: my medical school loans would be paid after four years of service.
A few weeks after the sentencing, I arrived at my assigned post—Marui-jima, a dust mote of an island, one of a chain dribbling off Japan far into the Pacific. The trip involved flying in a small plane from Tokyo to the largest of the islands, where I got on a hydrofoil ferry. Except for an older couple who disembarked at the first stop, the other passengers were in their late twenties or early thirties. By age alone, I could have been one of them. But they were on their way to scuba diving excursions, while I was heading toward banishment in one of the most remote corners of Japan. A visceral grip of envy made me woozy. Or was it the beginning of seasickness?
When Marui-jima finally poked out of the horizon, it looked too small to be inhabited. And as the ferry skimmed closer, the island repeatedly grew large, then shrank. Perhaps some mid-ocean optical illusion was disrupting my perception. Focusing on the horizon past the island, I discovered the action of the waves raised and lowered my perspective. The sensation increased when the ferry slowed and its hull lowered onto the sea. We were then at the mercy of the smallest waves, and the island became a restless bobbing cork.
Four derelict fishing boats were in the island’s pocket of a harbor. Two had foundered against the rocks of the jetty, one of them completely submerged except for the tip of its prow and a peek of its rotted decking. The other foundered boat leaned on the rocks; a jagged hole gaped in its hull. A seagull balancing on the edge of the prow squawked aimlessly. Of the two boats still floating, one had apparently been stripped of all usable parts and was now merely a hull and deck. The fourth boat appeared to be complete but floated low in the water.
As the ferry skirted around the boats and pulled up to the pier, the captain announced we would be docked for only a quarter of an hour. Passengers continuing on were welcome to go ashore but were warned to be back on time. I was the only passenger who stood to get off. The others stared at me, undoubtedly wondering why I’d be so foolish to risk being left on this wreck of an island. I wanted them to put me out of my misery.
Standing on the decaying wood-and-concrete pier on the brink of collapsing and sinking into the water, I watched the sweating crew toss out boxes and bags from the cargo hold. When I regained some of my equilibrium, I found my bags on the pile of cargo and hoisted them over my shoulders. I walked with a slight wobble down the pier to a ramp leading up to a ridge etched into the steep, eroded slope of the extinct volcano that formed the island. Cut into the slope was a rough-looking road. Both upper and lower sides of the road were crowded with houses and shops, most clearly abandoned.
A compact delivery truck with rust-pocked doors bounced down the road, then skidded to a stop at the bottom of the ramp. I guessed the driver, an elderly man wearing a stained and frayed floppy hat, was waiting for me to pass. Obliging him, I hurried off the pier as quickly as I could with my heavy bags and sea legs. When I reached the truck, I gave the driver a nod. I could now see another elderly man in the truck. Both men returned my greeting with stiff-necked nods.
At the open window of the cab, I said, Sorry to hold you up, but could you tell me how to get to the inn?
The driver mumbled something I didn’t catch. Whatever the driver said made the passenger hack dryly in a laugh. I apologized for not understanding and repeated my question. This time the driver leaned out the window and pointed to a building straight ahead, not more than forty or fifty steps away.
I thanked him then stepped aside. The little truck made an inelegant, jerky U-turn and backed down the pier, weaving from side to side so much I watched in fear that it would crash over the side. When the truck safely reached the pile of cargo, the two men crawled out of the cab so laboriously it looked like they’d been driving for days.
The truck driver talked with the ferry crew members while the other man, who had an extreme case of genu varum—bowed legs—marked a piece of paper as he inspected the cargo. Apparently satisfied, the two men began loading the boxes onto the bed of the truck.
I turned away from the pier and walked toward the inn. The fresh tropical air and solid ground dissipated my residual seasickness, only to be replaced by the crush of claustrophobia.
The ferry engines roared when I reached the inn. I nearly dropped my bags and ran after it. Instead, I watched it pull out of the harbor like a spurned lover driving away. With a sigh, I stepped inside the cool, shadowy quiet of the old inn. Like an old Buddhist temple, the inn smelled of desiccated cedar and incense.
comfort and coercion
to continue
A tiny elderly woman appeared out of the shadows. She glanced at me, then looked behind me for a long moment as if expecting someone else. I told her I was Endo, the new doctor. She didn’t acknowledge my pronouncement, perhaps already knowing who I was. Or maybe she simply didn’t care.
Carrying one of my bags despite my vehement objections, the inn’s owner, Yoko Takahashi, led me across plank floors worn to a dull smoothness that chirped like crickets with each step. She told me the four-room dormitory her grandfather built at the turn of the twentieth century housed itinerant fishing boat crews when the island was a popular stop for the Pacific fleets. As the ships became larger and more powerful, they bypassed the island, and the inn rarely had visitors until the years before and during the war when the island assumed some strategic importance.
At least that’s what I pieced together. She spoke in the same rough dialect as the truck driver.
Several years after the war, she told me, the islanders attempted to attract tourists. But with the spotty transportation to the island and not much in the way of activities and amenities, especially the lack of a good beach, not many came. The last tourist visited in 1989, she said with a lilt of reminiscence. A swarm of earthquakes which began a decade ago scared away anyone else thinking about the island as a vacation spot. Now only government officials visit, she said in a thin, suspicious voice.
I was about to tell her I wasn’t a government official and really was a doctor, when she entered one of the rooms and hefted my bag onto a stand. She gave me a nod then left me alone in the room, the scent of incense trailing after her. After I unpacked my bag and hung up my clothes in the free-standing closet, I stared out the window. The room overlooked the harbor and the southeastern arc of the island. A dull haze obscured the horizon making it impossible to tell where the ocean ended and the sky began.
The stale, inert air in the room depressed me and caused a relapse of my claustrophobia. I tried to open the window but the panel stuck, probably jammed closed by a window frame out of square. I pulled harder and the flimsy frame splintered in my hands.
The poor old innkeeper, still standing in the doorway, cried out as if I’d stabbed her.
The island’s two-room health clinic overlooked the pier. Its wood siding was cracked, insect-ravaged, and weathered in some spots as thin as paper. The building leaned visibly toward the ocean-side of the ledge on which it was built. Inside, the clinic was permeated with a lingering odor of mildew, maybe severe foot fungus.
Squeezed in the front room were two chairs, a desk, a filing cabinet, and a small table. On the table sat a bulky, obsolete combination phone and fax machine. On the wall near the door someone had thumb-tacked a calendar advertising easy-to-swallow heartburn tablets. Posters from pharmaceutical companies added splashes of color to the room: one advertised iron supplements, one a cream for skin rash, another an asthma inhaler. Each poster was illustrated with a photograph of a smiling young model holding the company’s product or in a relaxed pose on a stylish sofa. The previous doctor must have desperately needed something to remind him of civilization. I imagined relationships with the models. All ended badly.
In the tiny examination room, I rested on the exam table and waited for a patient to visit me. What I knew about the Marui-jima residents was that they were ordered to relocate when the earthquakes grew more intense. The official sensitivity to the plight of the islanders was largely due to the government’s poor response to the Great Hanshin Earthquake of 1995, when more than five thousand people died in and around Kobe. The public’s condemnation of every branch of government for their inefficiencies and hesitations was loud. Then after the 2011 Great East Earthquake and Tsunami, the evacuations intensified. Most of the islanders obeyed the evacuation order but thirty or so, all elderly, protested and refused to leave. The holdouts continued to resist any attempt to dislodge them.
The front door opened. A man’s voice called out, Hello?
He was about my age, maybe a couple of years older, and was dressed in a short-sleeve blue work shirt, faded jeans, and scuffed hiking boots.
I assumed all the islander residents were senior citizens,
I said.
He shook his head slowly. There are a couple of us. Three counting you.
We sat down in the front room, me behind my desk, he in the patient’s chair. One of my chair’s legs was shorter than the other, or the floor wasn’t level. Perhaps both. I shifted my weight to counter the imbalance and pin down the chair. Settled in, we introduced ourselves, he being Aki Ishikawa from Tokyo.
What brings you to Marui-jima?
I asked.
Earthquakes. I’m a research seismologist. My specialty, if you’re interested, is earthquake prediction in subduction zones.
I’m very interested in subduction zones because I assume we’re in one, but you’ll have to educate me.
Ishikawa slid one hand under the other. A subduction zone is the area seismically affected by one tectonic plate sliding under the other. Our island is near where the North American plate slides under the Asian. Not to mention the Philippine and Eurasian plates are close, which adds to the pressure. The problem is the sliding doesn’t go smoothly though.
He jerks his hands apart in a sudden snap of energy.
What I want to know is when is the next big one going to hit?
I hope not for a long time. A few small ones are all I need for my research.
But there could be a big one?
You sound hopeful.
I didn’t know if hopeful
was the right word. Anxious? Ambivalent? I’m thinking if one hit that was big enough to destroy the place, I’ll get off the island sooner than four years.
You mean, if it doesn’t kill you.
I shrugged and nodded at the same time.
Four years.
He drew out the words to make them seem infinite. How’d you end up here for four years?
Long story. To summarize, it was my own fault.
I chuckled. Sorry about the pun.
"Huh? Oh, fault." He sounded as if he hadn’t laughed for a long time