Characters
Welcome to the tale of Ishmael Chambers. His name echoes the biblical Ishmael, the illegitimate offspring of Abraham and Hagar, whose name translates to "the outcast" in Hebrew. Following the war, Ishmael resided in Seattle until his father's passing, after which he returned to Amity Harbor to helm his father's newspaper. As a journalist in his birthplace, Ishmael remained enigmatic, much like his biblical counterpart, a self-imposed exile. He bore "the face of a man willing to wait forever." His journey through life is marked by three pivotal moments, each steering him decisively in a unique direction. Yet, it is only in the final of these junctures that he realizes the power he holds over his destiny.
The First Turning Point: A Kiss
Ishmael's first significant moment dawns with a tender kiss exchanged with Hatsue when they were both merely fourteen. She fled from it; he "stood up only to watch her go..." In that instant, he resolved to love her eternally, come what may. This was less a conscious decision and more an acceptance of its inevitability. Though it soothed him, it also left him uneasy, haunted by the worry that this affection was somehow improper. Yet, from his fourteen-year-old perspective, their love was utterly inescapable.
The Second Turning Point: A Soldier's Solitude
Five years pass, and Ishmael's second turning point arrives as he recuperates from fever and dysentery at a Fort Benning hospital. It is here that he learns just how quickly human connections can dissolve.
He lay clad in nothing but his T-shirt and underwear, the scent of dying leaves and rain on upturned earth wafting through the open window. It struck him as curiously fitting to lie, so far from home, ensnared by his ailment. This was the suffering he'd yearned for throughout the five months since Hatsue's letter arrived. It was a lethargic, drowsy fever, and as long as he refrained from excessive movement, he could subsist in this state indefinitely. He enveloped himself in his illness, becoming one with it.
Few life changes are singular; most unravel as a series of interconnected events, steering life into new realms.
The Third Turning Point: War's Shadow
On the eve of his assault on Tarawa, alongside thousands of others, Ishmael pens a letter to Hatsue, revealing the grim task ahead—killing people who resembled her, as many as he could. He confesses his numbness, driven by an intense urge to annihilate "as many Japs as possible," fueled by anger and a consuming hatred. He tells her of his animosity, declaring her equally culpable. He no longer wants to hate her, yet he writes with brutal honesty, "I hate you with all my heart," capturing the cathartic release of this admission. After scrawling these words, he tears the paper, hurling it into the sea, watching it bob momentarily before casting his pad into the waters as well. Ishmael's heart has turned frigid. During battle, he suffers a wound to his left arm, which he ultimately loses on a ship's operating table due to an inexperienced pharmacist's mate. Like Ishmael's emotional scars, it heals slowly, leaving thick, rugged tissue behind. As he drifts into a morphine-induced slumber, he blames "that fucking goddamn Jap bitch" for his plight.
The Final Turning Point: A Trial's Revelation
Twelve years later, as Hatsue Miyomoto's husband faces trial for murder, Ishmael, covering the proceedings for his late father's newspaper, stumbles upon his third turning point. In the Coast Guard's logbook at Point White lighthouse, he uncovers the first hint of Kabuo Miyomoto's innocence. The lighthouse crew endeavors to safeguard sailors and vessels, yet accidents persist...
(This entire section contains 2387 words.)
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"despite everything." Islanders accept these events with a somber fatalism, believing them perhaps predestined by God or simply inevitable. Onlookers gather to witness the aftermath of these mishaps, engaging in fervent discussions and speculation. Lacking concrete evidence, they craft a tapestry of diverse conclusions.
Guterson excels at weaving an engaging narrative that keeps readers entranced. For example, when Ishmael finds himself at the lighthouse, sifting through historical weather records to uncover ties between the sudden blizzard and the past, the story could easily stagnate with scenes of him perusing old maritime logs. However, Guterson skillfully injects vivid memories—richer than any coast guard documentation—into the narrative. "The room smelled of salt water, snow, and the essence of history—it was drenched in the fragrance of lost moments. Ishmael fought to focus on his task, yet the memory of Hatsue's eyes catching his in the rearview mirror pulled him back into his past." He recalls encountering Hatsue at a San Piedro market after the war. "In silence, he loathed her, while she turned toward him, a baby on her shoulder, and expressed a detached apology for his arm lost in the war." Ishmael, grappling with illness and fever, lashes out. "The Japs did it," he utters bitterly. "They shot my arm off. Japs." Though he retracts his words immediately, she departs. In the present, Ishmael, still buried in maritime records at the lighthouse, remembers his late-night visit to Hatsue's home to apologize and express his longing to hold her once more. As a married woman with children, she could only refuse. "I hurt for you. Truthfully, I do," she confesses. "I feel deeply for your suffering, but I will not embrace you, Ishmael. You must find a way to live without me. Now, please, leave me." At this juncture, Ishmael realizes "that perhaps something vital to Kabuo's case lay hidden within these files." In just two sentences and fifteen minutes later, Ishmael unearths the records compiled by Coast Guardsman Philip Milholland, which might exonerate Kabuo Miyomoto. An unforeseen accident—an Act of God—had claimed Carl Heine, a fellow fisherman's life. Ishmael discovers the truth was known to none... except himself. This revelation is the crux of the matter.
A Journey of Reflection
Suspense thrives on delay, and Ishmael's hesitance to let this newfound truth emerge is palpable. Instead, he embarks on an island odyssey, visiting his mother, "a capable widow accustomed to solitude" at San Piedro Island's far edge, to see how she fares in the storm. When she presses him, Ishmael admits he doesn't "feel what God is... I don't feel anything either way. It's beyond my control... Perhaps God selects a few, leaving the rest of us unable to sense Him." To Ishmael, God's presence is as elusive as his missing arm. He spends the night at his mother’s home. Inquiring about the trial he's investigating, he "felt a familiar chill, unsurprised by its depth, and wrapped his fingers around Milholland’s notes." He deceives her; "I must believe he's guilty. The evidence is compelling—the prosecutor has a strong case." He iterates the mounting circumstantial evidence against the Japanese fisherman. His mother challenges him, "You have the prosecutor’s version, but it’s seldom the full story—Ishmael. Facts, in their starkness, are cold—horribly so—can we rely solely on them?" She suggests he harbors "an imbalance," akin to that of a man with a missing arm. She worries whether he has succumbed to perpetual coldness.
The Coldness in Question
Ishmael’s transgression—his icy detachment—is unforgivable, yet it propels the narrative to its climax. Guterson understands that readers, having walked in step with Hatsue and Kabuo, are outraged by this clear injustice. It seems unlikely Ishmael will unveil his discovery; readers yearn for his downfall... or his redemption. The outcome must remain unpredictable to sustain our interest, and Guterson keeps us breathlessly racing forward.
Kabuo Miyomoto: A Portrait of Pride
Kabuo Miyomoto, the accused, remains his own fiercest adversary. His pride, rigidity, and detachment stand starkly against the seventy-seven lonely days spent in a windowless county jail cell. He is taken aback by the snowfall witnessed from the courtroom; he "had no inkling of the storm outside." Isolated by his own emotional frost, intensely masking his inner turmoil, he remains oblivious to his perception by the community placing him on trial. As he takes the stand, he "rose in the witness box, presenting himself fully—a Japanese man standing with unwavering pride, solid through the torso." The people of San Piedro Island "were reminded of images of Japanese soldiers. The man before them seemed noble... his demeanor exuded dignity... They concluded, he was unlike them, and his distant, aloof observation of the snowfall rendered this truth clear and indisputable." Thus, the prosecutor paints Kabuo as "a cold-blooded killer," allegedly "driven by hatred and icy desperation," claiming "this strong, cold, unfeeling man chose to resolve his issues" through calculated murder in the first degree.
Though Kabuo Miyomoto is driven by ambition, strength, and an unwavering work ethic, the realm of fishing has denied him both triumph and joy. "With each failed night on the waters, his dreams seemed to drift further beyond reach, the strawberry farm he longed for slipping further into the horizon. In his frustration, he turned his ire inward and unleashed it upon her, deepening the rifts in their marriage. Hatsue believed that coddling his self-pity only fueled his resentment. She struggled to separate these bursts of anger from the deep-seated pain of his wartime memories." Hatsue clung to the hope that their three children might soothe his troubled heart. "She wished they might tether him more to the life they had, rather than the life he yearned for. She had already tamed her own yearning." Despite daydreams of a brighter existence, she accepted that "this house and this life were what she had, and there was no point in perpetually grasping for something other."
The Weight of Silence
In many ways, Kabuo Miyomoto orchestrates his own undoing. As Ishmael Chambers confides to his mother, the Japanese military "could have used his face for one of their propaganda films—he's that inscrutable." But Kabuo's faith in his compatriots has shattered. When his own lawyer, Nels Gudmundsson, remarks, "You figure because you're from Japanese folks nobody will believe you anyway," Kabuo concurs. "I've got a right to think that way. Or maybe you've forgotten that a few years back the government decided it couldn't trust any of us and shipped us out of here." When questioned about his silence after Carl Heine's body washed ashore, his wife, Hatsue, explained, "We were afraid... Silence seemed better. To come forward seemed like a mistake."
The Bonds of Brotherhood
Guterson suggests that silence festering within the heart sows discord. This is where friends and family have their roles. Even those solitary guardians of the ocean, the fishermen, understand this truth. "We're good men through and through," declares Josiah Gillanders, president of the San Piedro Gill-Netters Association, to the assembled courtroom. "It doesn't matter what disagreements have occurred, we help each other—it's our way of doing things. A man will even aid his adversary because we all know the tides might turn against us one day; we are all vulnerable to sorrow. Regardless of how aggravated you become with another, you don't abandon him—that would be truly bitter, wouldn't it?" These seafaring men are of a unique ilk. When Kabuo and Carl struck a deal on the fateful night of Carl's demise, "They didn't shake so much as they clasped hands like fishermen who understand that words have limits and sometimes a grip must communicate what words cannot. They stood there, adrift in the fog, hands locked firmly. Their hold meant not to speak volumes overtly, yet they yearned for it to say everything."
The Shadow of Prejudice
Yet, Kabuo's suspicions of his community's latent fears are not unfounded. Racial prejudice lingers stubbornly, even after the war's end. The prosecutor's final plea to the jury is stark: "Look into his eyes, consider his face, and ask yourselves what your duty is as citizens of this community." In contrast, the defense attorney urges enlightenment. "Your task, as you deliberate, is to ensure that you do not bow to a world where randomness reigns. Allow fate, coincidence, and accident to conspire; humans must act with reason. The shape of Kabuo Miyomoto's eyes, the birthplace of his parents—these must not sway your judgment. You must judge him solely as an American, equal under our legal system to any other American. That is your calling. That is your duty."
Characters in Contrast
Guterson's characters emerge with precision and depth. Notably, he masterfully explores parallelisms in various forms. The legal skirmish resembles a chess match between adversaries; a time-honored tradition. Alvin Hooks, the prosecutor, presents himself as "fresh-looking and clean-shaven, neat in his serge suit with exaggerated shoulders," with shoes that gleam with polish; to him, justice is merely an unending sequence of cases. To him, image eclipses justice. In stark contrast, Nels Gudmundsson, the defense attorney, is seventy-nine, battling lumbago and prostate issues, an elder with one eye and trembling hands, uninterested in checkmate, whether in chess or court. His strategy involves sacrificing points for position, forfeiting men early to secure an impregnable stance. To Gudmundsson, Guterson assigns the tirade, a term describing a volley of rifle fire, capturing the author's vehement stance. Gudmundsson commences his closing statement to the jury by reflecting, "I am akin to a traveler descended from Mars, observing in astonishment the events transpiring here. What I witness is the same human frailty, a legacy passed through generations. We harbor hatred; we fall prey to irrational fears. There is no indication in the tapestry of human history that suggests we are on the cusp of change." Behind his words, Guterson's voice resonates.
Vivid Portraits of Marginal Characters
Guterson masterfully sketches even his peripheral characters with an immediate and striking presence. Dr. Sterling Whitman, the towering hematologist, looms at a formidable six foot five, his imposing frame straining against the confines of a suit that barely contains him. Meanwhile, Ole Jurgensen, the frail and lanky current owner of the coveted land, ambles to the witness stand like an injured crab, shuffling sideways in the wake of a recent stroke. His cane dances precariously from hand to hand until finally, it dangles from his wrist with weary practicality.
The judge presiding over these proceedings exudes the aura of a man burdened by fatigue. His eyes, half-lidded with reluctance, suggest he is enduring wakefulness against his will. Perpetually apathetic, he embodies the dispassion of the American judicial system that he serves.