Into the Forbidden Zone by William T. Vollmann Read Free Book Online Page A

never read it anyway,” he laughed, leaving it for others. I found a field now prettily sown with scallop shells, a bamboo grove hung with garbage.
    We met a fisherman in an orange jacket; he thought that a third of the island’s inhabitants had died on March 11. He said: “First they ran, then they returned to fetch something important; they didn’t survive.”
    “Radiation?” he cried. “No, that’s Fukushima. We have nothing to do with that.”
    Walking past him to the end of the concrete jetty was nearly pleasant, the gulls calling from their low islet, the sea wind smelling so delicious that I could not make myself wear a mask, my dosimeter still at 2.1. The setting sun cast a white trail on the water, and a helicopter, probably from the Self-Defense Forces, hummed out behind a cloud. As the day failed, the sad tokens of the tsunami withdrew into the shadow, until Oshima appeared nearly whole.
    Takuto said to me: “I would like to do everything I can for this island. I would like to grow up and be a human being and help.”
    Although our clothes were getting quite dirty (we expected to discard them after entering the hot zone), that kind and hospitable family refused to let us use our sleeping bags. Father and son laid out futons for the two women, and a bed for me in the adjacent chamber. That meant that the rest of them slept downstairs in those chilly rooms that stank of muck. Our host’s flashlight wavered slow and white around his belly, Professor Morimoto’s cell phone glowing as she and her student giggled over some stupid display, the interpreter switching on her headlamp, which illuminated her face, and I writing notes with the aid of my American flashlight, which was more yellow than anyone else’s.
    Although the Murakamis accepted half a dozen cans of American food, they insisted on cooking us dinner. Ashamed and grateful, we came downstairs to the table, where Mr. Murakami’s stubbled, mustached face gleamed in the light of the Coleman lantern. He was the assistant headmaster of an elementary school. After the earthquake, he had permitted some students to depart in the care of their parents. I could tell that he felt guilty about what could have taken place; as it happened, however, they survived the tidal wave. He pressed on me a satellite-photograph disaster map of Oshima. With his spectacles high on his forehead, he showed me the family home on the map. He said: “Far too optimistic.”
    The mother, Mrs. Murakami Kaoru, in her checked apron, stayed nearly always on her feet, her pale arms and cheekbones shining, the other grandmother slowly nodding her heavy head at the two of her three grandsons who were present, while bananas and aluminum foil shone softly in the dark. Mrs. Murakami invariably bowed to the grandmother when offering her food, with a polite “hai, dozo.” Given the absence of refrigeration I cannot imagine how she managed so well to make that ad hoc stew, many of its ingredients perishable. Mr. Murakami said: “For the first five days, we got only one rice ball per day, so I became thinner.”
    An hour before dinner he had already been promising me treasure: a bottle of sake rescued from the first floor after the ocean departed. The sodden label was nearly invisible in the darkness. Again and again he filled my water glass to the brim, meanwhile offering it around to the other guests. Embarrassed to take so much from him, I finally pleaded tipsiness, at which he happily continued to fill his own glass, not least, he remarked, because it was Saturday night. He kept saying to his wife in English: “I love you.” She smiled with pleasure. I am happy to report that on the following drizzly sober morning, he said it again.
    In the midst of dinner the electricity came back on, and they happily shouted, “Surprise!”, the grandsons grinningly illuminated. I assured our two hostesses that they were even more beautiful by electric light, and the grandmother clapped her hand over