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It wasn't a day I cared to remember.
So, while others were out and about celebrating it, I was at home sitting at my desk with a plate of wafers and cheese slices. A glass of wine cast shadows on the desk in front of me. The ambient lights from the building across shed their rays through the glass, creating a prism of dark and light shades. It played on my hands as they lay on the keyboard. What would I write about, and would anyone believe me once they read it? I was asked to audit the books in an office near the corner of University and South King. It was a nondescript building shaded in a light color that made you walk or drive past it if you didn't have any business there. The ground floor is a sleek garage for the cars of the people who work on the second floor. The vehicles were vintage types from the mid-1960s to the early 70s. To get to the second floor, you must ride in the birdcage elevator that takes you there. In it, you are attended by a bull of a Hawaiian man named Kealoha. He's dressed in a sharp suit and custom-made dress shoes because of the size of his feet. You reach the second floor, and you're let into a long, stark hallway with a single desk at the left end.A foot of space sits between the desk and the door behind it. The secretary is a dark-skinned Hawaiian woman of medium size. She has a stern look about her, eyes that can burn a hole through your brain if she chooses to do so. However, there is also compassion there, and a bit of the devil may care flirtatiousness. "My name is Rita Mokiao," she bows her head slightly. She takes a step to the side and pushes on the large door with no knob or handle, and it opens more as a revelation of sorts than any typical door would. The first thing to which my particular attention was directed was to the floor. The entirety of it is hand-set stones, smooth, porous, and round. I hesitated to step forward until I realized it sat under some sort of see-through flooring made from polycarbonate. Even now, I am not sure that's even what it was. A large koa wood desk sat at the opposite side of the room, directly facing the door. The spaces between windows and doors on all four walls were decorated with large bookshelves that reached floor to ceiling. Some books looked brand new, while others looked like they'd fall apart if you touched them. Many looked like the volumes of books one would find in a law library. The koa desk itself sat on a finely woven mat made from makaloa. Three Hawaiian men dressed in coats and ties are sitting, the youngest behind the wooden desk, the older two in tall smoking chairs. The third chair is filled by the secretary, who enters the room behind me and takes her place. "Mr. Omori," the younger man comes from behind the desk and offers his hand in greeting. "I'm Hanson Napualawa. These are my uncles, Ivan and Tiny. And my aunty Rita."
All three of the older stand and cordially introduce themselves. I return the salutation in like form. "Hello, everyone. As you know, I'm here for the audit. I know it seems uncomfortable, but we can make this as quick and painless as possible with your utmost co-operation." I tell them.
"Of course," Hanson assures me. "Our full co-operation is what we intend to give."
"I'm a different sort of auditor," I tell them as I raise my briefcase to show them. "Would you mind if I place this on your table, Mr. Napualawa?"
"How rude of me," he apologizes. He is very polite. I am impressed. He removes all items from his table as I respectfully place my briefcase on it. When I open it, I turn it towards them so they can see it. The four of them step forward and admire the components of what I begin to assemble. I build the Katana piece by piece from the tsuka to the tsuba and then to the habaki. The blade comes in two parts but joins together nicely once correctly put together. "I have a favor of honor, a request of you if permitted?" Hanson asked.
"If it is honorable, I will grant it," I returned.
"May I hold the weapon that will shortly take my life and that of my family?"
"An honorable request indeed!" I was stunned at how genuinely honorable this young Hawaiian man was. I handed the Katana to him, and he received it just as much reverently as it was given. In one open palm, he held the tsuka. In the other open palm, he had the flat part of the shinogi-Ji. He bowed to the Katana and then to me. I returned the bow, and soon we stood face to face. He then formed his hand into a fist and blew into it. After that, he opened his palm and uttered these strange Hawaiian words, "Kāʻaweʻawe, a make." Again, he blew into his open palm, and a pitched black cloud of smoke appeared in his hand and flew into my face, covering it entirely. I do not recall anything after.
Today is the fourth of July. It wasn't a day I cared to remember. So, while others were out and about celebrating it, I was at home sitting at my desk with a plate of wafers and cheese slices. A glass of wine cast shadows on the desk in front of me. The ambient lights from the building across shed their rays through the glass, creating a prism of dark and light shades. It played across the back of my hands as they lay on the keyboard. So what would I write about, and would anyone believe me once they read it? Hanson Napualawa was indeed an honorable warrior. He gave me a slow death, the kind that I would have given him and his elders had I gotten the chance. I was overconfident in telling the men who contracted me to kill him that it would be quick and easy. They warned me about him, how fast and deceptive he was. They warned me not to engage him in conversation or even the most minute small talk. They were right. I fooled myself into thinking I had the upper hand because I had the weapon, and they were unarmed. I sit here, slowly choking to death, until the veins on my forehead and eyes bulge and the breath that courses through my chest no longer functions. Iʻll collapse to the floor is more likely, and Iʻll pass water and waste once my body relaxes. An honorable warrior and an effective killer. The one they call Boy.
Photo credit: Art Station
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