Part 2 (2/2)
She turned toward the voice, surprised to see that her patient had rolled to his uninjured side and was looking at her. ”For what?” she replied.
”My leg.”
Annie wasn't sure what to say and so she said nothing. Finally, she glanced at his eyes. ”In the water . . . you knew my name. May I ask yours?”
”Of course,” he answered, bowing his head. ”I am Akira.”
She tried to silently repeat his name and found that it was easy. ”May I ask another question?”
”Please do.”
”What . . . were you reaching for? At the end, when we made it to the beach. You were reaching for something.”
Akira turned toward the water. He suddenly remembered his vision of the little girl. He felt chilled without her before him and longed to see her again. ”So sorry, but I do not know for certain,” he replied quietly. ”But perhaps . . . perhaps I saw a spirit. Or as you might say . . . an angel.”
”An angel?”
”Hai. I . . . I mean, yes.”
Annie had spoken to many dying men and had heard many such things. She'd been told of angels and darkness and tunnels of light, and believed in these visions. ”Did she . . . did this angel save us?”
Akira nodded. ”She saved me.”
”And why . . . why did you save me?”
He smiled briefly. ”You ask many questions, yes?”
”I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry.”
”Please do not worry,” he said kindly. Though once highly proficient in English, Akira spoke slowly, as more than five years had pa.s.sed since he'd tried to think in the language he adored-to him the language of Shakespeare and d.i.c.kens and Yeats. ”I like questions,” he added. ”Very much. But no one has asked me such things for a long time.” He paused to stretch his leg, grimacing in pain.
”Don't move it. You should keep it still until I rest.i.tch it.”
He bowed slightly. ”A pity that . . . they broke. You did an excellent job on your first attempt.”
”Thank you,” Annie replied, looking around, wondering when the others would return, nervous about being alone with the prisoner. She wished she had something to give him for his pain, which she knew must be considerable. ”And thank you for saving me,” she added. ”Thank you very much for that, and for being so . . . brave. I'm sorry I was weak. Sorry that you had to carry me.”
”There is no need to be sorry.”
”I wanted to swim. I tried. I really did. But I'm still recovering from malaria. And I just . . . I just didn't have the strength.”
”I did not carry you far. And you do not have to thank me. You helped me, yes? I merely helped you.”
”You almost died helping me.”
He shrugged. ”Such a death . . . would have been honorable.”
Annie wasn't sure what to think of his words. ”So why . . . why did you do it? Why didn't you just save yourself?”
Akira looked upward, searching for a trace of the little girl. Finally, he replied, ”Once, I saved myself. And once was . . . a mistake. A terrible mistake. It is much better to save others.”
”Are you a doctor? How do you save people?”
”A doctor? No. Once I was teacher. But . . . so sorry to say, not now. I have fought in this war for five years. Five years too long.”
Annie wondered if he'd killed Americans. She wondered if she should be talking to him in this manner. Perhaps she should simply leave him alone. He was a prisoner, after all. He was j.a.panese and foreign and seemed so different from anyone she knew. However, in light of the fact that he'd almost died saving her, she decided that leaving him would be an act of betrayal. Also, as a nurse she was accustomed to chatting with her patients and believed that such conversations did them a great deal of good. ”Sorry,” she finally replied, ”I think you told me that before.”
”I think you were almost drowning at that time.”
”And what was it you taught?” she asked, no longer wanting to speak about the previous night.
He smiled, happy that he'd saved this kind nurse who had treated him so gently. ”I was most fortunate,” he said. ”I taught Western history and advanced English to university students. And, of course, haiku.”
”Haiku? What's that?”
Akira wanted to ask her to sit and, after hesitating for a moment, politely motioned for her to do so. Though his leg ached, the sudden thought of teaching someone something other than the art of war was immensely appealing. For the first time in five years, he didn't have soldiers to direct, didn't have to focus his mind on creating plans that would maim and kill. And not thinking of death, even for this single moment, was completely liberating. ”Do you like poems?” he asked.
She shrugged, wiping sweat from her eye. ”I don't know, really. I suppose so.”
”In j.a.pan, haikus have been told for centuries. They are our most famous kind of poems.”
”Isn't a poem . . . a poem?”
Akira smiled again, pleased by what he sensed was her growing interest in the subject. ”You would like, yes, to know more?”
Unsure, she looked around and saw no one. Her eyes drifted back to his ugly wound. Certain that it ached, and believing that he wanted to talk and presumably take his mind off the pain, she nodded. ”Yes, please.”
He bowed slightly. ”I am honored to tell you.” When she didn't respond, he continued, ”Though many different forms of haikus exist, usually a haiku has three lines. And usually the first line has five syllables. The second has seven. And the third has five.”
”Why in that form?”
”A haiku poem has a rhythm-five, seven, five.”
”A rhythm like a song?”
”Sometimes yes. Sometimes no.”
”What else?”
Not used to being so quickly questioned but enjoying her inquisitiveness, he smiled. ”A haiku often has one word that describes a season. That way, the listener can imagine what the scene looks like.”
”So many rules,” Annie replied. ”I didn't know that poems had so many rules.”
”Yes. And one more. A haiku has two lines that are connected, and one that is . . . how do you say? . . . independent. But each thought gives the other deeper meaning.”
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