CHAPTER 55 – Ue wo Muite Arukō (2)

She spent the afternoon wandering around Central Park, returning to Henry now and then. When she came back at sundown, however, the artist was gone.

Eppie made plans to keep digging into her mysterious artist tomorrow, then walked the forty-eight blocks to the Four Seasons, soaking in the city’s atmosphere. After the first five blocks, Fifth Avenue melded into a rhythm of shopfronts, neighbourhoods and milling bodies. Places both familiar and unfamiliar faded in and out of view, teasing the memory of another life.

At the Four Seasons, the staff welcomed her back and informed her very respectfully that Dr Vaughan’s man had come by and dropped off her luggage. She thanked them, then ordered room service for dinner.

She ordered a double cheeseburger and fries. Walking for nine hours made a girl hungry.

After that, she very carefully changed out of her only good clothes, showered, lay on the silken sheets, indecently dressed in the softest bathrobe, and then examined her loot for the day.

The first drawing was the one Henry had gifted her for feeding the cats.

Kimi. It was a ballpoint drawing on cardboard, with bold black outlines; the orange tabby was caught mid-chew. There was this specific warm tangerine she’d watched him mix from two ballpoint pens. There were parts of the cereal box underneath, the imprint visible through Kimi’s belly if she held it up to the reading lamp.

“H. Kiritani, 2007. FOR A GIRL WHO FED CATS.” Eppie marvelled at Henry’s professionalism.

She carefully squared it away and took out the second drawing. She recognised the rounder body, sitting with both front paws tucked under its body in the classic loaf formation, eyes like sharp tacks. The Cat had the dignity of a Samurai, and Henry-san had captured it perfectly. Below the drawing, in small, meticulous letters: Tanaka.

“How cute,” Eppie said softly, reading the signature, “H. Kiritani, 2007, TANAKA PREFERS BLONDES.”

“Aww…” She set Tanaka beside Kimi on the duvet. The aesthetic of the drawings on cardboard was genuinely impressive. She wondered for a second if Vaughan might like them.

The third item.

“What the hell…” Eppie leaned in.

This one she hadn’t expected. Tucked behind the second cat drawing, folded twice. It was old. A very old piece of work. Henry had simply pulled them out of his bag. He didn’t even look.

It was a landscape, horizontal, on a truly ancient slab of cardboard. It showed a grid of low buildings against flat scrubland, a watchtower in the upper right, and a fence line that ran from one edge to the other in a brutalist way. The sky above was blank, pressed down, heavy. In the foreground, small figures stood in a queue, their backs to the viewer, shapeless in winter clothes.

No cats.
No colour at all. Black ink only.

“H. Kiritani, 1954. TULE LAKE CONCENTRATION CAMP. NO-NO BOY BORN IN SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA. 1920.”

She sat up. The robe slipped off her shoulders. What the fuck?

Her hands were shaking. Her [Sublime] was shaking. What was it that the [System] said? You may sometimes enter a trance that delivers hypercritical appreciation of artwork with a high [Karmic Resonance] trait.

“HOLY SHIT,” Eppie stared at the cardboard. “Don’t tell me…”

She took out her iPhone.
She typed Tule Lake.

She typed Tule Lake Concentration Camp.
Did you mean Tule Lake Internment Camp? Google asked. She clicked yes.

And there it was.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
American history. The worst kind.
The internment of 120,000 Japanese-Americans, American Citizens, incarcerated by nationalism and paranoia.

The perspective of the drawing wasn’t from outside the camp. It was from… the inside?
The kids… the kids in the drawings were the worst part.

Eppie gulped.

The fourth item.

This one was actually newer. But it was damaged. The paper must have come from an old print factory roll, because it was thick and textured.

Her eyes knew what she saw before her body registered it. The shape was too iconic not to recognise. The geometry was too permanently etched into the 20th century psyche.