When Saburo finally arrived at the hotel, a bellboy shouted “Irasshaimase!” as the taxi pulled up in front of the lobby.

Opening the door, he said with a deep bow, “Welcome to the New Otani Los Angeles.”

Rolling a cart over to the trunk, he was surprised to find only an overnight bag.

“Is this all your luggage, sir?”

Saburo only planned to stay one night, long enough to stop the wedding and bring Yayoi home to Japan. He grabbed his bag and headed through the door to the front desk where he changed the reservation Yayoi had made from an entire week to a single night.

When he reached his room on the fifth floor, he was surprised to find tatami floors like a Japanese ryokan. He slipped off his shoes and stepped into the room. After eighteen hours of travel from Hiroshima, he was exhausted. He stretched out on the futon and fell into a deep sleep until a loud knock jerked him awake.

Opening the door, Yayoi stood on the other side, the first time to see her in the two years since his wife’s funeral. Her shiny black hair now sported blonde highlights and she wore a t-shirt of some rock band with jeans. Seeing his Americanized daughter made him a little sad.

“Papa!” she cried. He bowed. She grabbed him in a hug, kissing him on his stubbly cheek. Seeing his daughter overflowing with confidence made him feel old. If Keiko was here, she’d know how to convince her daughter. He could manage a factory of hundreds of employees but managing a daughter was so much more difficult.

As they sat on the armchairs by the window, she gushed, “I’m so glad you came, Papa. I was worried you wouldn’t approve.”

“Dame,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t approve.”

Yayoi’s expression darkened. “What are you talking about?”

“Everything. This marriage. Your life. It’s time to come home.”

“But, Papa, this is my home.”

“Your home is in Hiroshima. We’re flying back tomorrow. Your aunt will arrange an omiai to find you a husband from a respectable family.”

“But I’m getting married in three days.”

“To an American?”

“To Jim.”

Yayoi had always been stubborn, a trait he’d inherited from him. Growing up, he’d indulged her, treated her like the son he’d wanted, let her play at his factory where they stamped metal car parts instead of leaving her with her mother to learn ikebana, calligraphy, and tea ceremony. And how to take care of a husband. And a father. When she got married, he planned to buy her a house as a wedding gift five minutes away from him. The idea that she’d move 9000 km across the ocean, to a foreign country, never entered his mind.

“I can’t approve.”

“You’re meeting Jim’s parents this evening!”

He waved away her concern. “I’ll take care of the cancellation cost.”

“This isn’t about money.”

“I don’t approve of this marriage.”

Forty years earlier, Saburo had been drafted into the Imperial Army and sent to fight the Americans. After performing his duty to the nation, he’d returned to restart his father’s business and rebuild the city decimated in an instant by an American bomb. Through an arranged marriage, he’d met Keiko and they’d built a family. Keiko had taken care of his parents while raising little Yayoi. He and Keiko had done their duty. Now it was Yayoi’s turn. To sweep Keiko’s grave. To take care of him as he aged. To raise the next generation. Or would she turn her back on her ancestors and become an American?

Suddenly, Yayoi bent over to kiss the top of his bald head. “Papa?”

“Yes, Yatchan?”

She giggled. “You haven’t called that in years.”

“You’ll always be my little Yatchan.”

“But Papa, I’m not little Yatchan any longer. I’m a big girl now. I have to make my own decisions.”

“Our flight leaves tomorrow afternoon. Are you coming back with me?”

“No, Papa, this is my home.”

“Then you’re not my daughter.”

Yayoi nodded and stood, headed to the exit and opened the door. Saburo didn’t move, knowing he couldn’t stop her from leaving.

“Come on!” she called.

“What?”

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“The wedding venue.”

“I already told you I’m not attending the wedding.”

“Then this is your only chance to see the venue.” 

He turned to face the window. Down below were miles of low-slung, concrete buildings on a neat grid of asphalt stretching to the horizon. So different from the patchwork streets of Hiroshima, squeezed between green mountains and the sea.

When the door slammed shut, it felt like an explosion in his heart. Was that the last time he’d ever see his daughter? With his wife dead and his daughter gone, he was alone in this world. Then he heard her footsteps, turned to see her stomping towards him, her face an angry pout.

“Come on, you stubborn old geezer,” she said, grabbing Saburo’s arm. 

He laughed. Only Keiko ever called him that.

He let his daughter lead him out of the room and up to the top floor of the hotel. When the elevator doors slid open, they were standing in front of a Japanese garden. The sun was blindingly bright in an azure sky, the air warm and dry. They strode past manicured pines and azalea bushes, the ground swept of every stray leaf, and followed the path around a boulder-filled pond where koi glinted in the sunlight. The sound of splashing water grew louder until they reached a beautiful waterfall in front of a white gazebo on a wide lawn.

“The ceremony will be here,” Yayoi said. “We’re having a joint ceremony in English and Japanese, with a rabbi and a priest from Shusse Inari Jinja.”

“A rabbi?”

“Jim’s family is Jewish. We want to honor both families and both cultures.”

“You can cancel the priest. I won’t be here.” 

She made a sour face but did not reply. She led him back to the Thousand Cranes restaurant on the other side of the garden. In front of the entrance was a large flower arrangement. “What do you think of this, Papa?”

Seeing the branches and flowers rise out of a tall celadon vase reminded him of Keiko. “It looks like ikebana.”

“That’s my arrangement,” Yayoi said proudly.

“Yours?”

“Well, Hisako-sensei made it, but she let me assist.”

“You’re studying ikebana? In Los Angeles?”

“Yes, Papa. After Mama died, I was really sad. I remembered how much she loved ikebana. I found an Ohara-ryu class at the Japanese-American Community Center.” She pointed to a large white building in the distance visible through the trees.

“Oh,” was all he could answer. Growing up, Keiko had tried to teach Yayoi ikebana, but she’d gravitated toward English and Math instead. It was ironic that it had taken Keiko’s death to spark an interest in Japanese culture.

Yayoi pointed inside the restaurant. “We’re having the reception here.”

Through the wide windows, he spied kimono-clad women scurrying between tables, delivering the many courses of a kaiseki meal.

“You’ll miss a wonderful dinner.”

“Hmm…” The yeasty smell of miso wafting out the door was making him hungry. It smelled like home when Keiko had still been strong enough to prepare the nightly meal. Now that he was alone, he mostly survived on bento meals that he picked up at the convenience store. “Let’s have dinner here.”

Yayoi grabbed his arm. “What are you talking about? We’re meeting Jim and his parents in a few minutes.”

He didn’t want to meet the boy who was stealing his daughter, nor speak to the parents he wouldn’t understand.

“Go without me,” he said. “I’ll eat here.” He raised a finger to the maitre d’. “One for dinner,” he said.

Yayoi pulled his hand down. “Come on, Papa. Why are you being so stubborn?” 

“Being stubborn is the only way I survived. If I wasn’t stubborn, I would’ve been dead in the war. And you never would’ve been born.”

Yayoi thought for a moment.

“Okay, Papa, how about this: if you meet Jim and his parents and you still don’t approve, I’ll go back to Hiroshima with you.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“I won’t get married without your approval.”

“You’ll cancel the wedding?”

“Only if you meet Jim first.”

He didn’t completely believe her, but she left him no choice but to go with her.

Outside, a hot, dry, Santa Ana wind was blowing. They passed a row of small Japanese shops, their windows filled with posters advertising Nisei Week, a sumo tournament, an Obon festival.

When they reached a wooden post marked Japanese Village Plaza, they turned into a square of traditional Japanese buildings. Their white walls and blue tile roofs reminded Saburo of the small villages that dotted the mountains surrounding Hiroshima.

They pushed through the crowd of people speaking a cacophony of languages, walking past knick-knack shops, conveyor belt sushi, a Yamazaki bakery, a Japanese supermarket. Then he caught a whiff of something sweet—batter and beans—saw the man in a happi coat flipping imagawa-yaki pastries with a practiced hand, reminding Saburo of his childhood. 

When they reached the corner, Yayoi squealed, “Jim!” She rushed over to a boy dressed in a tie and ill-fitting jacket and leapt into his arms. He held Yayoi tight and kissed her. Embarrassed, Saburo turned away.

She pushed the boy at him. “Papa, this is Jim.”

“Hajimemashite,” the boy said through a barely understandable accent. He was short, with dark brown hair and a long face, not what Saburo expected.

“Watashi no namae wa Jim desu. Yoroshiku onegai itashimasu.” Without waiting for Saburo to reply, he turned to Yayoi. “How did I do?”

“Great!” she said, clapping her hands. “Isn’t that great, Papa? Jim is learning Japanese.”

“Bedi goddo,” Saburo tried, but his English was even worse than Jim’s Japanese.

“And these are Jim’s parents.”

“Sorry I don’t speak Japanese,” the father said.

The mother reached out and hugged him. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

Holding hands, his daughter and her boyfriend led them into a small restaurant. Saburo smelled a familiar sauce. When he sat down, he stared at the menu in disbelief. “Okonomiyaki?” 

“Yes, Papa. We picked this place just for you. Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki!”

“In America?”

“It’s Little Tokyo.”

While the okonomiyaki sizzled in front of them, Yayoi told him the boy’s father was a chemist at GM, developing plastics. “Did you fight in the war?” Saburo asked.

“I was sent to Germany.”

It wasn’t long ago they’d been enemies. Maybe they were against the marriage, too. “What do you think—Japanese with American?”

“Papa!”

The mother gushed, “Oh, Yayoi is just so sweet, isn’t she? We love her to death. We’re so glad Jim and Yayoi found each other.”

“I’m surprised how much we have in common,” the father added. “Both working in the automotive industry.”

“Still enemies,” Saburo answered, banging his fist on the table.

“The war ended long ago, Papa.”

“A new war now between steel and plastic.”

The father laughed. “I hate to tell you, but plastic is winning.”

“Stop talking about war already,” Yayoi said. “It’s time to eat!”

She showed the Americans how to eat the okonomiyaki, authentic Hiroshima style with layers of batter, cabbage, and soba noodles. After a single bite, Yayoi looked at Jim and laughed. She wiped a smear of brown sauce from the side of Jim’s mouth, just as Keiko used to do to him.

When they finished eating, Jim asked, “Can I say something?” He looked at his parents, then took Yayoi’s hand. “Can you translate for me?” he asked, then turned to Saburo.

“Mr. Takayama. I love your daughter. But I know that’s not enough. Marriage isn’t just two people. It’s a connection between two families. I promise not only to cherish your daughter, but to honor you, too. Yayoi and I agreed we won’t marry without your blessing. Will you do me the honor of letting me become your new son?”

She looked at him, her face aglow with excitement. “What do you say, Papa?” The boy was frozen with nervousness.

What could he say? Then he heard Keiko’s voice. “Look at our daughter, you stubborn geezer,” she said. “Look how happy she is. She’s already found her home. Don’t try bringing her back to Hiroshima.”

His wife was right, of course, she was the one who’d raised her. He stood up and turned to leave.

“Where are you going, Papa?” Yayoi said in a panic.

“I have to get back to the hotel,” he said. “I need to extend my reservation. After the wedding, I’ll need time to buy a house as your wedding present.”

The two kids jumped up to hug him. “Make sure it has an extra room so you can stay with us.”

He’d find a house with an extra room, not for him but for the next generation, a boy who’d take over the business when he retired. For himself, he’d find his own place to stay, right here in Little Tokyo, where he could enjoy imagawa-yaki with his grandson.

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Actor Ayumi Ito reads “New Otani Wedding” by DC & Satsuki Palter. From the 11th Annual Imagine Little Tokyo Short Story Contest Awards Ceremony on June 1, 2024. Organized by the Little Tokyo Historical Society in partnership with JANM’s Discover Nikkei project.

* * * * *

*This is the winning story in the Japanese category of the Little Tokyo Historical Society’s 11th Imagine Little Tokyo Short Story Contest.

© 2024 DC Palter & Satsuki Palter