More to Life

"Name?"

"Miko Kubo."

"Age?"

"Twenty-three."

"Nationality?"

"American."

"What is the purpose of your trip?"

"Pleasure," I replied as I removed the neon green Billabong cap for the photograph. The rest of my tour group preceded me or followed close behind, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. I also had a stuffed Bugs Bunny in my carryon luggage, just in case there was a random customs inspection. Doesn't everyone carry a bunny in their luggage?

The inspector at Almeria International Airport barely glanced at my passport as he went through his procedure. I was with a group of around thirty Americans, flying in from New York on a one-week package tour. A small melting pot of America, ambassadors to the rest of the world. My American passport had a few stamps in it, indicating a pattern of occasional international travel. Most every European would label the green Billabong cap as "so American." They might buy one, at four times the price tomorrow, but today they would put their nose in the air. He stamped my passport with a flourish and returned it to me, admitting me to Andalucia for thirty days.

I am not a smuggler. I'm a tourist, can't you tell? I'm twenty-three. I'm not carrying drugs from Columbia or cigarettes from Morocco. I'm not dealing in moving women across international boundaries. I'm here to see some sights, take lots of pictures, and maybe get a tan.

The afternoon sun still spread its warmth over the sleepy city. Pastel and whitewashed houses soaked up the warmth. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue. The traffic was European furious even though it was a time when many were seeking shelter from the sun. I couldn't help but gaze out the window of the bus as the old Moorish fortress came into view. Its reddish walls dominated the center of the city now as it had for hundreds of years.

After checking into the Hotel Torreluz with the group and getting my luggage taken to my room, I decided to get myself out and see something of this old city. My hotel was near the center of Almeria. Overlooked by the old Moorish fortress, the Alcazaba of Almeria, the Puerta de Purchena was the center of town, sending spokes out into the city. The afternoon sun was starting to head into evening, sending angled rays over the pastel buildings, making shadows in the narrow side streets, and making golden reflections off the water I could occasionally see down some street. I wasn't interested in La Plaza de Toros, killing bulls as a sport didn't do anything for me, and I'd probably wind up rooting for the bull. But there were a variety of attractions nearby and I was hungry!

I decided to head a couple blocks towards the port and visit Casa Gupa, a tapas bar. The bar had indoor and outdoor seating in the traditional style. I chose to sit outside and take in the evening sky of Andalusia as the sun was setting.

I was studying the menu, realizing that I really didn't know that much about Spanish food when I felt a presence behind me. I jumped up, kind of a reflex thing, and spun around, straight into the arms of someone I certainly didn't expect to see.

"Miko, wow...this is amazing," the blond guy with a scraggly beard grabbed hold of me in a warm bear hug. I think he grabbed my ass, with both hands. I caught the familiar scent of indigo dye.

The smell of the indigo dyed cotton took me back many years. I think his name was really Scott. We were both taken from an orphanage in Hawaii at around age seven, to a completely different life around Iga-Ueno, in Japan, as initiates in a centuries old Ninja Ryu. There he became Hiro and I became Miko. Hiro and I usually got stuck with the laundry as he was constantly screwing around. That meant we got to spend our free time washing the sweaty dark blue uniforms, forearm deep in the large wooden tubs. Outside, summer or winter, we sloshed the piles of stinky keigo-gi until the water in the tubs turned murky and the lines in our knuckles became dark blue on our shriveled up fingers. Even then, he didn't get the message and start taking things seriously. We usually wound up in a water fight and some instructor would wander by, frowning in our direction. Hiro, of course, would mimic the frown and the carriage of the instructor after he had moved on.

Hiro was a natural but he just didn't have the killer instinct. When it came to a contest I always came out on top even though I'm a five-foot, ninety pound girl. He would just laugh and try to kiss me. But, Hiro seemed to have this way of seeing clearly. I think the instructors tolerated a lot of his imperfections because of this uncanny ability to read a situation and act accordingly.

I pushed him off of me and stared at him in amazement. He seemed as relaxed as ever. He wore the indigo dyed peasant shirt in much the same nonchalant way he used to wear his practice gi. His hair had gotten a little out of hand and he had this little beard kind of thing going on.

"So, do you know what to order?" he directed me gently into my chair. "I might have some recommendations."

"Hiro, what are you doing here?"

"I'm studying guitar at the conservatory, what are you doing here?"

"I just arrived with a tourist group, came for some dinner," I replied.

"Well let's feed you then." He motioned the waitress over. I think he was here before. "We'll have this, Tortillitas de Camarones, Neko-chan, this is great, let me tell you about it. I have eaten these delicious shrimp fritters only in Andalusia. They are best when made with chickpea flour. Fry only a few fritters at a time. To make the batter, combine the flour, parsley, scallions and pimenton in a bowl. Add a pinch of salt and cooking water. Mix until you reach a texture slightly thicker than a pancake batter." He was so enthusiastic.

We ate, and I'll have to admit, it was delicious. He ordered a Killian's Irish Red for himself and a Raspberry Ice Tea for me. He was incorrigible, as always. How did he do that? How did he always know what I wanted? He hadn't changed a bit. I watched him, fascinated, but realized that I had to get back to my room.

"Hiro, I have to go."

"OK, no problem. I'm staying at the Hostal Maribel, a couple blocks from here, room 305."

I stood up and he tried to hug me again.

"Oh, stop it," I made my way out of the restaurant and back towards my hotel. The Alcazaba, up on the slopes, was lighted for the night now and the lights gave the red stone a kind of a golden glow. The evening breezes were rising off the Mediterranean. The restaurants in the area were starting to get going and I could smell the frying onions with paprika and chilies. The night sky was incredibly clear and constellations were starting to come out . I walked past the hotel taberna, where the flamenco was starting to the sound of castanets and guitars, and into the lobby of the hotel. I asked the girl at the desk if there was anything for Room 203. She gave me a long slender package.

I had to be back in my room for the 2200 contact. I logged onto the encrypted email program and downloaded any communications. I was expecting my instructions. I got more than I expected.

A picture of Hiro, with his stupid grin, slowly decrypted onto the screen. Detailed information, which I already knew, followed. Appending the communication were the words, "Signature Required Soonest."

I glanced over at the long, slender package, though I also knew what it contained. Nothing is a coincidence.

I slit the end of the box and pulled out the sword. It was a Japanese samurai sword, a katana in a black wooden saya with black silk wrapping around the hilt. I drew the sword out of the saya and marveled, once again, at the sharpness of the blade, essentially a three-foot razor. Then I looked back at the face of my only childhood friend...my only friend. I felt this strange kind of clenching under my ribcage.

We were on a freighter, approaching the port of Pusan, South Korea. We were wearing our black tactical gear and carrying the weapons and equipment required for the mission. The night was totally black. Hiro and I were alone on the deck. Suddenly, the clouds moved on and the moon broke through. The constellation Gemini was coming over the horizon. He was looking out over the rail towards the approaching city lights. Suddenly, he turned towards me and said, "Neko-chan, I can't do this, I wish you would come with me," he jumped onto the railing, balanced there a moment, blew me a kiss and then dove into the ocean, a perfect swan dive. Asshole. Could I have made a better exit? Stunned and feeling lost, I got onto the radio. I was told to abort the operation.

I didn't really change my dress much. My main intent was to be non-memorable, in a memorable sort of way. In the clear night sky I saw the constellation Gemini rise above the horizon. The sounds from the tapas and tabernas carried easily through the dry air and echoed through the narrow side streets. I made my way to the hostal and checked the interior. It was approaching midnight and the attendant was asleep at the entryway desk. I jimmied the lock on the front door. MasterCard is accepted worldwide. I eased through the door, slipped past him, and started to climb the stairs. Suddenly, I heard the beginning of Recuerdos de la Alhambra by Francisco Tarrega. The beautiful Spanish song with the famous tremolo floated down to me. I knew immediately who was playing but continued climbing. As I approached the landing, the music changed to Joaquín Rodrigo's Concierto de Aranjuez, the Adagio movement. Then I knew Hiro was playing for me. He knows I love the melancholy notes of that beautiful movement. At the landing, I noted a pair of worn leather slippers, about size 10, sitting in front of the door, Japanese style.

The door was unlocked so I pushed it open, drawing the sword as I entered, a sibilant sound of steel against wood. It was a small room. Hiro sat in the middle of the room with his back to the door, sitting very upright and disciplined, his foot on a foot stand, concentrating on his guitar. I saw him sitting there, the music and the memories engulfed me and I just stopped. The clenching in my ribcage was back. I jammed the sword into the wooden floor with a loud thunk. It vibrated there. Hiro turned to me with that lopsided grin. He wasn't Hiro and I wasn't Miko. We were two kids alone together again, and life was more than just death.