The codebreakers secret, p.9
The Codebreaker's Secret, page 9
Russi asked Jerry for some peanuts, then said, “Don’t waste your time trying to change my mind. I’m not the story here, remember that. You got heaps of other things to write about.”
“That’s the thing. It seems like I would, but everything I’ve written just feels like a laundry list of descriptions. The mountains of Mexican flagstone, miles of narra wood and art from all corners of the Pacific.”
Why she was telling him this, she had no idea.
“Those aren’t story,” he said.
“I know that.”
“So, what are you asking me for?”
“I wasn’t asking you. I was just stating a fact.”
He gave her a hard look, then surprised her. “Maybe try getting out of your head and just be here at this bar eating peanuts and drinking your fancy drink.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “Observe the subjects in their natural habitat.”
Lu laughed. “You sound like a zoologist.”
“I think you mean anthropologist, kid.”
“Either way.”
“Have you looked into the lives of the employees? Elije Junte is a sommelier, for chrissakes. How many women in this country can say that?”
He was throwing her a bone, and she wasn’t sure why.
“I suppose I could.”
“This hotel and its people have their stories to tell, and I guarantee they are more interesting than the guests. All you gotta do is listen,” Russi said, looking down at her oversize notepad. “You could start with your uncle.”
It wasn’t actually a bad idea.
“Would you mind?” she asked Jerry, who had been listening in.
“Ask away.”
She felt self-conscious with Russi breathing over her shoulder. “You mentioned meeting Mr. Rockefeller on the beach one day. Tell us more.”
“Like I said, he was on the beach. We’d had a big storm a few days back and Billy Santos and I came down the coast in his boat looking for glass fishing balls. Just off Ka‘aha Point, we hit the mother lode. They were still in nets, big ones, little ones, long ones, green ones. Some even had Japanese characters still visible. There were too many to fit in the boat, so we drove in and dragged a bunch up the beach and hid ’em in the bushes. Then along comes this haole, out of nowhere. He wanted to know what we were doing, and Billy Santos, you know him, he wanted to know what a haole in a suit and tie was doing down there in the middle of nowhere. He got a little territorial, but Mr. Rockefeller seemed to know a lot about the area and had so many questions for us. This was before they’d even broken ground on the golf course. After talking story, he finally told us who he was and what he had planned and gave us his business card. Said to call him in a few years if we wanted jobs, and here I am,” he said with a smile.
Click. Russi had pulled out his camera without her even noticing.
She went on. “Did he remember you when you called him?”
“Oh, yeah. I was sure he wouldn’t, but he did. We gave him one of the glass balls and he has it in his office. Told me he’d been hoping I would call.”
“And how has it been so far? Working here.”
“So far so good. One thing he got right was hiring the locals. Only a handful not from here, and it already feels like ‘ohana.”
Family.
Russi added, “The man is no dummy.”
A couple came up to the bar, the woman wearing a kukui nut lei, and Jerry turned his attention to them. Lu could ask him more later, but it was a good start. Maybe Russi was onto something.
“See? And do yourself a favor, lose the big notepad. You want to blend in,” he said.
“I need to take notes.”
“Relax, kid. Train your brain.” He tapped his temple. “When you’re taking notes, you’re missing out on half the information and most of the experience. This isn’t some big investigative job...it’s culture, lifestyle.”
“Accuracy is important to me, and I haven’t been doing this for a hundred years like some people.”
Russi laughed. “Easy there. I’ve been at it awhile, but maybe not that long.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Affirmative. Now, tell me how you managed to get in with Joni Diaz?”
A gust of wind fluffed up her hair, and she twisted it in a big knot on her head. “She found out I’m from Kona and I was telling her about the ocean and she asked if I’d take her swimming. For all that fame, she seems pretty genuine.”
“She can be sweet, but she has her demons.” Russi threw down some bills and said, “See you at the lū‘au.”
* * *
Lu barely had time to brush out her hair, change into a long fitted mu‘umu‘u and apply her favorite coral lipstick. She rarely wore lipstick, but the splash of color on her coffee-toned skin made her feel more sophisticated, less like someone’s kid sister tagging along. She’d taken Russi’s advice and left her notebook in the room. She hoped she’d be able to commit all the details about the night to memory. Walking down the floating staircase, she felt empty-handed.
Out near the point, in a wide grassy lawn, tables had been set up for a much smaller group than the earlier ceremony. Right away, she realized this was no ordinary lū‘au. It wasn’t overdone, and reminded her of a Matson steamer menu, with the low tables, red and orange hibiscus, koa bowls full of poi and ripe pineapples.
Women wore mu‘umu‘u, and the men appeared as a rainbow of aloha shirts and linen pants. Many of them were old enough to be her grandparents, but they were well preserved. Money had that tendency. Russi stood out all in black, looking like he was attending a funeral. The one thing that tied everyone together was the sheen of tropical sweat on their skin. Clothes should have been optional, especially at this time of year.
Waitresses in orange were floating around, offering cold drinks, and Lu took a ginger ale. She wanted her wits about her when she sat down to write later. Mr. Rockefeller graciously came over and pointed out who was who. Most she recognized, but a few she didn’t. When it came time to sit, she and Russi were on the end of a table with Joni, her manager, Stanley, Senator Fuchs and his wife and the Dixons. They were all in various degrees of comfort and discomfort, sitting cross-legged on lauhala mats.
The ocean had glassed off and waited patiently for the sun to set. Lu wished she could slip away and take a swim. People were feeling good—it was hard not to here—and chattering about the beauty of the place and what a fine job Mr. Rockefeller had done. Outstanding. Groundbreaking. Mind-blowing.
Mrs. Dixon and Mrs. Fuchs obviously knew each other and started up a conversation, and Stanley began picking Mr. Dixon’s brain about the media and how to use it to Joni’s advantage, which left the senator to turn his attention toward Russi and Lu.
“I’ll wager getting assigned here sure beats ’Nam,” he said with that famous smile.
Russi answered coolly, “I did my time, so, yeah, it does.”
A moment of awkwardness fell around the table, and Lu jumped in. “I was born and raised on the island, so this assignment is special to me.”
Fuchs ignored her and zeroed in on Russi. “Maybe with a reputation like yours, you pick and choose?”
“Something like that,” Russi said.
A look of annoyance flashed over Fuchs’s face. Wasn’t it usually the reporter questioning the politician?
Russi shoved a handful of mac nuts in his mouth, chewed them slowly, then turned to Fuchs. “What are your thoughts on the hotel, Senator? Is it everything you expected?”
“To tell the truth, I was leery when I heard the plans. If it had been anyone else, I would have tried to talk him out of it. But Laurance is a visionary, and I knew that if anyone could pull something off in this remote of a location, it would be him.”
“So, you’ve been to Hawai‘i?” Russi asked.
“Once or twice.”
Joni leaned in. “The more remote, the better. When I first went to his Caneel Bay, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. No annoying press to hide from, no television, no nothing. Just sand and water and cocktails,” she said, before covering her mouth with her hand. “You don’t fall into the annoying press category, Luana, so please don’t take offense.”
Lu looked to Russi, who only seemed amused.
“And how about that Hawaiian temple that Mr. Rockefeller helped restore. Impressive feat of engineering if I do say so,” Fuchs said.
Russi shrugged. “Haven’t seen it yet.”
Lu couldn’t help but jump in. “Pu‘ukohola-Heiau. It stands over Pelekane Bay, just up the coast. Rumor had it that the heiau overlooked a smaller heiau, now underwater, that had once been dedicated to the shark gods.”
“Don’t ask any of us to repeat that name,” Fuchs said.
Joni eyed Lu. “I think my favorite tour guide forgot to mention a shark temple in the vicinity.”
The white tip sharks were still there; Lu had seen them, fins cutting through the water. “They’re nothing to worry about. Sharks were believed to be protectors of certain Hawaiian families. Every family had—or has—what was called an ‘aumakua, a guardian animal, and that animal would protect the people, and in turn the people would protect the animal. In Kawaihae, the king had his own special sharks.”
Bobby Dean Dixon, who was now listening in, chuckled. “Makes a good case for sticking to golf.”
“Reef sharks are generally harmless to humans.”
“Still, Rockefeller was wise to leave that out of the brochures,” Russi said.
The music started up then, a loud drumbeat, and mountainous plates of food appeared on the table. Glasses were topped off every few minutes. Joni, Lu noted, was throwing them down fast.
“Slow down there, Jo,” she heard Stanley say.
“Don’t call me that. I’ve told you,” she said.
His nostrils flared, and for a split second Lu thought he might snap back, but instead he carefully unwrapped his steaming laulau leaf. It had been far too long since she’d eaten Hawaiian food and her mouth had been watering just thinking about it. Chicken long rice, lomi lomi salmon, squid lū‘au.
“Hey, Luana, what’s the brown paste in the bowl?” Joni asked.
“It’s poi. Mashed taro root. The staple of the Hawaiian diet.”
Joni tried a tiny spoonful and made a face, but Russi was eating his with both fingers, the way it was meant to be eaten. She tried to picture him on O‘ahu twenty years ago, young and cocky and unaware that, in just a few months’ time, his life would be changed forever. Lu was well aware of his reputation with the ladies, but she didn’t get that vibe from him at all. The fact that he called her kid said everything.
Hula dancers came on, wearing red cloth tops and green ti leaf skirts, hair loose and flowing. They danced Hawaiian and Tahitian and knew their stuff. It made Lu homesick to see, even though she was already home. The guests sat transfixed. When they finished, Mrs. Rockefeller came up and asked the crowd for any volunteers. Everyone glanced around at everyone else. You go. No, you go. Husbands nudged wives and wives nudged friends.
“Get up there,” Lu said to Russi.
He made a face. “I’d rather go swimming.”
The next thing she knew, Joni was gliding across the grass. A tall woman with strong hands positioned her next to a few other women and an old guy in a cowboy hat and wrapped hula skirts around their waists. Even Mrs. Rockefeller joined in. The dancer demonstrated how to move their hips. The cowboy and two of the older women had trouble getting the moves, but Joni surprised her by being pretty good. She reminded Lu of a little girl playing dress-up. Then, when the hula was over, someone yelled out for Joni to sing a song. Someone else whistled, and a moment later she was behind the mic.
She swayed and then caught herself, almost as though she was trying not to tip over. But her soulful, husky voice still hit each note and the song sounded just like it was meant to. Lu had to admit that Joni was innocent and sexy and mysterious all at once. The men had all put down their forks and were watching.
The next song was one Lu hadn’t heard before. Halfway through the first verse, Joni tripped on the words. On the top of the mountain, looking down on the sea—um.
“Excuse me,” she said, obviously drunk.
Lu glanced over at Stanley, who was perched on the edge of his chair. This was not the kind of crowd you wanted to embarrass yourself in. Joni tried to make it through a couple more lines, before bursting into tears. She handed the mic to Mrs. Rockefeller and said, “Sorry, everyone, I can’t do this.”
A hush fell as Joni ran off into the night.
12
THE EXPEDITION
O‘ahu, 1943
Isabel and Gloria readied themselves for an outing with Matteo Russi. Isabel had begged Gloria to come along for moral support. When asked where they were going, all he’d said was, “Wear a swimsuit, shoes you don’t mind getting muddy, and bring some bug juice.”
“Bug juice?” she’d asked.
“Mosquito repellent. You’re going to need it where we’re going.”
Isabel did not own a swimsuit that wasn’t ten years old, but thankfully Gloria had lent her an extra. No matter she looked like a ghost in it. Gloria had set her hair the night before, and she was unrolling the wide curlers at the kitchen table, setting them in a bowl. “Do you think he’ll bring a friend?”
“Who knows. But didn’t you tell me yesterday that you have no interest in dating a pilot? I would venture a guess that all his friends fly airplanes,” Isabel said.
“I said I don’t want to marry a pilot. Marry and date are two different things.”
Isabel’s logical mind sometimes got her into trouble. “In order to marry, you have to date. And after a certain amount of dating, you fall in love. It’s the being in love part that could break your heart if he leaves or dies. So, maybe it’s that you don’t want to fall in love with a pilot?”
Gloria twirled a lock of hair in her fingers. “That is far too much supposing for me.”
Russi arrived right on time, with a back seat full of coconuts and a wicked grin. “Dang, looks like double trouble,” he said, jumping out. He moved the coconuts into the trunk so Gloria had room to sit.
They set out on the same route they’d taken to the Pali lookout, but they kept on going, snaking down the side of the cliff on the most hair-raising road Isabel had ever been on. Gloria suddenly quieted, and when Isabel turned around to check on her, she was bone white.
Russi turned around, too, and she yelled, “Keep your eyes on the road!”
He laughed. “You know, Walt and I said this should be a prerequisite for flight school. If you could handle this road, you were in.” He glanced over at Isabel, who was enjoying the fresh air and the view. “I guess you’da passed,” he said, causing just the tiniest flitter along her skin.
The weather was different today, with mounds of gray clouds hanging out along the horizon. The air was warm and sticky and Isabel was now wishing she’d worn shorts instead of long pants. Gloria had warned her that it took time to figure out how to dress here, and boy, was she right.
As soon as they reached the bottom of the mountain, Gloria became her usual chatty self. “What were the Solomons like? I’ve heard a few horror stories about the snakes and crocodiles and man-eating sharks. My friend’s husband, Bob, came back half his usual size and full of some kind of parasite. And on top of all that, you had the enemy lurking in the jungle and flying night raids every night. It sounds like my version of hell.”
Russi nodded. “That they were. But they were also heaven on earth. Sandy blue lagoons with a heck of a lot more coral than here, colorful birds you’ve never seen the likes of and sand the color of snow. Half the time I was terrified out of my mind, and the other half, in love.”
“Well, that’s a new perspective,” Gloria said.
Isabel rather appreciated his optimism.
“Just because there’s a war going on doesn’t mean beauty disappears. I take my camera everywhere I go for that reason. I can show you my albums one of these days,” he said.
“Walt said you don’t like your picture taken. Why is that?” Isabel said.
“I like to be behind the camera, not in front of it. Oh, and I brought her along, hope you ladies don’t mind.”
“Brought who along?” Gloria said.
“My camera.”
Where the land began to level out, they turned off the main road and followed a rutted dirt road through vine-draped trees and mud puddles. Light shone through in thin crisscrosses. The forest was so thick you’d need a machete to get through.
“Are there snakes here?” Isabel asked, a creep running up her spine.
“No snakes, no crocs, no big cats. Hawai‘i is as benign a place as they come—if you don’t count man,” he said.
“How did you and Walt find this place?” she asked.
“You know Walt, he made friends with everyone. A group of girls from Shafter came down here one day and we tagged along. A few of them were locals, and they knew all the ins and outs,” he said.
“In all his letters, Walt never mentioned any girls. Was he seeing anyone?”
He shook his head. “We were too busy training and exploring and being boys. He went on a date now and then, but nothing serious.”
“How about you?” she asked, wanting to get it out in the open and not have any awkwardness between them. Russi was Walt’s friend, and that made him family.
“How about me what?” he said, looking out the window.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
A nervous laugh. “Me? Sure, I’ve taken a few girls out, but I’m not looking to get attached. Winning this war is my one and only.”
Isabel could relate.
* * *
