Hotel at the Corner of Bitter and Sweet

I was saddened to read about the death of ‘Masa’ Murakami in yesterday’s Seattle Times. The Murakami family ran the Higo general store on Jackson Street in the neighborhood that used to be called Nihonmachi, or Japan Town. Before Higo became the design conscious place it is today, it was a complete hodge podge of a place, selling flip flops and kitchen ware — there were hat mannequins that looked to be from the 40s on high shelves on the west wall. We used to go in there to browse the chopstick rests and soup bowls and dish scrubbers and giant metal woks.

I still drop into the fancified Kobo at Higo, it’s a gallery of a different kind with Asian inspired artwork, coffee table books on Japanese design, both elegant and funny, graceful tschotkes that cost 12 times anything that Higo ever sold. Last time I was there, I read the history of the store from sheet in a plexiglass stand that tells how the Murakami family handed the keys to a Jewish optometrist who looked after the place until they returned from their imprisonment in an interment camp in Idaho.

Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet is Jamie Ford’s novel about a Chinese boy and a Japanese girl who become friends. It’s set at the start of that shameful period in history when we interned our citizens, patriots who went on to fight for the US in WWII, because we were afraid. It also takes place in my home town, in places I know well and Ford’s portrayal of these locations made this story real for me.

The Panama Hotel plays a critical role in the plot, it’s where Henry, one of the primary characters, finds objects left behind by Keiko’s family — she’s the girl that becomes Henry’s friend. When you visit the Panama Hotel — which is a lovely tea house now — you can look down through a thick glass panel in the floor to the basement, where Japanese families did indeed stash their stuff in hopes they would one day return to reclaim it. The dusty record store where Henry flips through old albums is real, but sadly, Bud’s closed a few years ago — I always loved walking by there to hear jazz wafting up the stairwell. The fairgrounds that served as a transit station for local Japanese families is real too — I’ve gone to there to eat deep fried twinkies and pet award winning llamas without knowing that the barns were once holding pens for humans. Jazz master Quincy Jones once called Seattle home, so Henry’s sax playing street musician friend walked out of local history too.

You know this story, we all do. Henry and Keiko are strangers in a strange land — Henry’s family clings to a traditional Chinese past, Keiko’s family are forward looking immigrants, and the backdrop is a time of change. Henry is devoted to Keiko, colorblind for the time, trying to be a modern American and still appease his traditional parents. When Keiko’s family is relocated, Henry’s outrage causes him to break with his family and follow his heart. And as an old man with a grown son, he finally reconciles with his past. You know the story. You’ve heard it before.

I’d probably have given up on this book had the places not been so real. Ford’s detail in recreating Seattle — I KNOW these places — is so perfect that I can stand in Seattle’s International District, on the line between what used to be Nihonmachi and Chinatown, and see Henry and Keiko’s story unfolding. I was unsurprised by the plot, but I couldn’t look away from what was happening — what had happened — in my home town. We were so awful to the Japanese and it’s important that the story be told. The family that ran Higo is gone, the horse stalls at the fairgrounds hold show horses — I’ve never seen any signage that mentions the fairgrounds’ inglorious past. It would be easy to forget. Ford’s book doesn’t let us. I was both sad and grateful for the reminder.

Bon Odori dancers in Seattle’s Japantown

Want a copy? Leave a comment, I’ll draw a winner at random and get it sent out. US/Canada only, sorry. I’ll close comments on Friday.