The Pearl Diver by Jeff Talarigo Read Free Book Online Page B

first came up here a couple of years ago, I thought of cleaning the overgrowth, but I realized that this place is special because you can’t see anything. Sit down.”
    She does, and takes notice of the moss growing on the small red shrine, not much taller than she is. The wooden roof, too, has some moss on the north slope, sprigs of grass poking out of its head. There is even a wooden money box to toss in an offering. A couple of dirty one-yen coins lie there. Not their black oval-shaped money, but that of the rest of the country. A churning in her stomach. She hasn’t seen or touched this money since her first day here, when it, along with everything else, was taken.
    “I don’t know whose it is. Maybe belonged to one of the staff.”
    “Maybe,” she answers. There could be a hundred of those coins sitting there, a thousand, and they would be as useful to her as the rocks on the shore. They sit there, two soiled coins, no bigger than a fingernail, and they taunt her. This Mr. Shirayama knows, for they taunted him the first time he saw them.
    “What do you think about getting rid of them?”
    “Of what?” she asks.
    “The coins. You take one and I’ll take one and we’ll throw them as far as we can.”
    She regards him, this man, less than five years older than she is, but the disease has taken away much from her image of what he must have looked like before getting sick. He looks back at her; they exchange a strange look, something between agreement and disagreement.
    “What’s Buddha going to say about us stealing from him?” she asks finally with a light smile. Mr. Shirayama studies her, thinks that she is quite beautiful, the disease hardly touching her, and if he didn’t know why she was here, he would not notice anything wrong.
    “I think Buddha, or any other god, would understand. We’ll replace them with two of our coins. They have more value here. Then it’s more contributing than stealing.”
    She picks up one of the old coins, hands it to him. He takes it, throws it off into the trees. Not much of a throw, but at least it is out of sight. He hands her the other coin. She holds it a short while before placing it in her pocket.
    “Go ahead and throw it. You’ll feel better.”
    “I want to drown it in the sea.”
    They both laugh. It feels good to laugh, makes Mr. Shirayama feel good to share this place.
    “What’s the name of this island?” she asks.
    “Don’t know if it has one.”
    “It should.”
    “I’ll let you give it one, Miss Fuji. I’ve chosen enough names. What’s that you’ve drawn?”
    “A map of this island. Not a very good one, I’m afraid.”
    “May I see it? I love maps.”
    “Sure.”
    She stands up and turns full circle.
    “Where’s your wheelbarrow?”
    “Too difficult to bring up here.”
    “I can’t remember you without it.”
    “It’s good to get away from it for a while.”
    “What do you grow in your garden, Mr. Shirayama?”
    “Mostly squash and beans, some tomatoes.”
    “Do you like it?”
    “I like the fact that I can nurture, bring something into this world. Sort of the same thing that you do, Miss Fuji.”
    “I don’t farm.”
    “Yes, I know. But when you massage the patients, you bring their bodies back to life for a while. If only in their minds. Sort of the same as farming.”
    “I guess maybe it is.”
    She takes back the map, places it on the steps, and puts another piece of paper atop it. She traces another map of the island and gives it to him.
    “Thank you, Miss Fuji. I think it’s a good map.”
    “Come on, we must get going before the sea erases our path back.”
    ARTIFACT Number 0214
A rough, yellowing hand-drawn map
of the small island
    She places the sketch of the island on the wall of the room she shares with six other patients.
Twists and turns it fortyfive degrees every few days until she discovers the shape of it. For many days she thinks, finally deciding on the name: “Key of the Hand Island.”
    ARTIFACT Number