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7 Manidoo Envoy Ronin Ainoko Browne beat on my door at the Hotel Manidoo in Nogales, Arizona. There was no cause to answer because the sign in the lobby made it perfectly clear that the residents of the hotel were never at home to strangers or solicitors. Ronin was persistent that morning. I watched him through the eyehole in the door. His moves were theatrical, a measured strut, and his manner cocksure. Open this door, he shouted. Who are you? Where is my father? Not here. Who are you? Who is your father? Sergeant Orion Browne. Nightbreaker? Ronin, at first sight, could have been mistaken for Toshiro Mifune. He bounded into the room as if he were on the set of the movie Rashomon. He looked around, gestured to the chairs and furniture. Then he turned toward me. My father lives here, he said, over an empty theatrical smile. Ronin dressed for his father. He wore beaded moccasins, loose black trousers, a pleated shirt shrewdly decorated with puffy white chrysanthemums, and a dark blue cravat. Sadly, he was seven days too late. Nightbreaker, my best friend, died in his wicker chair near the window. His last gesture was to the raucous ravens perched in the cottonwoods. Ravens inspire natural memories, he told me, and then continued his stories about the tricky imperial ravens in occupied Japan. Ravens create stories of survivance in our perfect memories. Nightbreaker invited me to move into his room, one of the best in the hotel. We cared for each other as brothers and veterans. That awkward admission soon turned to humor and personal trust. Ronin told me he would stay with his father, late or not, for a few days. Nightbreaker never mentioned a son, but he told many stories about his lover, Okichi. The name has a grievous history. Japanese authorities, more than a century ago, provided an adolescent by that 8 name as a consort for Townsend Harris, the first consul of the United States. Some prostitutes now bear the same name. Okichi was a boogie, or bugi, dancer. ‘‘Tokyo Bugi’’ was the most popular song in the early occupation. Nightbreaker said they first met at a rodeo sponsored by the military and later danced at the Ernie Pyle Canteen in Tokyo. They saw No Regrets for Our Youth, directed by Akira Kurosawa, one of the first Japanese films produced after the war. Okichi was not interested in heroic, political stories that were not celebrations of the emperor. Nightbreaker told me she learned how to kiss in romantic movies and was infatuated by Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. Her favorite song was ‘‘Sentimental Journey.’’ Nightbreaker never knew she was pregnant. Okichi disappeared one night and never returned to their regular meeting place at the moat near the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. Nightbreaker lost his war with cancer, the mortal wounds of his military service. He had been exposed several times to nuclear radiation . If only he had known about his son. Ronin lived with me, and the memories of his father, for more than a month. The corner room on the second floor overlooked three giant cottonwood trees and the border between Mexico and the United States. He sat in silence for three days in the wicker chair and wrote notes to his father. Then he wore his father’s dress uniform and signature cravat every night to dinner and imagined his moves. Ronin learned about the tender manner and sensibilities of his father from the many stories told by other native veterans at the hotel. Nightbreaker wore the same blue cravat. Naturally, the flourish was familiar, and so was the story. Ronin told us, as his father had years earlier, that their ancestors in the fur trade wore blue to entice women, a practice learned from stories about the wise bower birds who decorate their elaborate nests with something blue. The color is an avian aphrodisiac. Fur traders sold blue cravats to natives, and the myth endures. Handy Fairbanks founded the Hotel Manidoo some twenty years ago. He is native, a decorated veteran, and once a great hunter on the reservation. Handy lost both of his legs on a land mine, and then the last of his close relatives died in an automobile accident. Handy created a hotel of perfect memories for wounded veterans. Nightbreaker, who earned his nickname for amorous adventures on the reservation, had lived in the hotel for the past nine years. [3.145.47.253] Project MUSE (2024-04...

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