The Man in the High Castle (25 page)
“There is a chance here for you,” Paul said, “to become extremely wealthy.” He continued to gaze stoically ahead.
“The idea strikes me as bizarre,” Childan said. “Making good-luck charms out of such art objects; I can’t imagine it.”
“For it is not your natural line of business. You are devoted to the savored esoteric. Myself, I am the same. And so are those individuals who will shortly visit your store, those whom I mentioned.”
Childan said, “What would you do if you were me?”
“Don’t underevaluate the possibility suggested by the esteemed importer. He is a shrewd personage. You and I—we have no awareness of the vast number of uneducated. They can obtain from mold-produced identical objects a joy which would be denied to us. We must suppose that we have the only one of a kind, or at least something rare, possessed by a very few. And, of course, something truly authentic. Not a model or replica.” He continued to gaze past Childan, at empty space. “Not something cast by the tens of thousands.”
Has he stumbled onto correct notion, Childan wondered, that certain of the historic objects in stores such as mine (not to mention many items in his personal collection) are imitations? There seems a trace of hint in his words. As if in ironic undertone he is telling me a message quite different from what appears. Ambiguity, as one trips over in the oracle…quality, as they say, of the Oriental mind.
Childan thought, He’s actually saying: Which are you Robert? He whom the oracle calls “the inferior man,” or that other for whom all the good advice is meant? Must decide, here. You may trot on one way or the other, but not both. Moment of choice now.
And which way
will
the superior man go? Robert Childan inquired of himself. At least according to Paul Kasoura. And what we have before us here isn’t a many-thousand-year-old compilation of divinely inspired wisdom; this is merely the opinion of one mortal—one young Japanese businessman.
will
the superior man go? Robert Childan inquired of himself. At least according to Paul Kasoura. And what we have before us here isn’t a many-thousand-year-old compilation of divinely inspired wisdom; this is merely the opinion of one mortal—one young Japanese businessman.
Yet, there’s a kernel to it.
Wu,
as Paul would say. The
wu
of this situation is this: whatever our personal dislikes, there can be no doubt, the reality lies in the importer’s direction. Too bad for what we had intended; we must adapt, as the oracle states.
Wu,
as Paul would say. The
wu
of this situation is this: whatever our personal dislikes, there can be no doubt, the reality lies in the importer’s direction. Too bad for what we had intended; we must adapt, as the oracle states.
And after all, the originals can still be sold in my shop. To connoisseurs, as for example Paul’s friends.
“You wrestle with yourself,” Paul observed. “No doubt it is in such a situation that one prefers to be alone.” He had started toward the office door.
“I have already decided.”
Paul’s eyes flickered.
Bowing, Childan said, “I will follow your advice. Now I will leave to visit the importer.” He held up the folded slip of paper.
Oddly, Paul did not seem pleased; he merely grunted and returned to his desk. They contain their emotions to the last, Childan reflected.
“Many thanks for your business help,” Childan said as he made ready to depart. “Someday I will if possible reciprocate. I will remember.”
But still the young Japanese showed no reaction. Too true, Childan thought, what we used to say: they are inscrutable.
Accompanying him to the door, Paul seemed deep in thought. All at once he blurted, “American artisans made this piece hand by hand, correct? Labor of their personal bodies?”
“Yes, from initial design to final polish.”
“Sir! Will these artisans play along? I would imagine they dreamed otherwise for their work.”
“I’d hazard they could be persuaded,” Childan said; the problem, to him, appeared minor.
“Yes,” Paul said. “I suppose so.”
Something in his tone made Robert Childan take sudden note. A nebulous and peculiar emphasis, there. And then it swept over Childan. Without a doubt he had split the ambiguity—he
saw
.
saw
.
Of course. Whole affair a cruel dismissal of American efforts, taking place before his eyes. Cynicism, but God forbid, he had swallowed hook, line and sinker. Got me to agree, step by step, led me along the garden path to this conclusion: products of American hands good for nothing but to be models for junky good-luck charms.
This was how the Japanese ruled, not crudely but with subtlety, ingenuity, timeless cunning.
Christ! We’re barbarians compared to them, Childan realized. We’re no more than boobs against such pitiless reasoning. Paul did not say—did not tell me—that our art was worthless; he got me to say it for him. And, as a final irony, he regretted my utterance. Faint, civilized gesture of sorrow as he heard the truth out of me.
He’s broken me, Childan almost said aloud—fortunately, however, he managed to keep it only a thought; as before, he held it in his interior world, apart and secret, for himself alone. Humiliated me and my race. And I’m helpless. There’s no avenging this; we are defeated and our defeats are like this, so tenuous, so delicate, that we’re hardly able to perceive them. In fact, we have to rise a notch in our evolution to know it ever happened.
What more proof could be presented, as to the Japanese fitness to rule? He felt like laughing, possibly with appreciation. Yes, he thought, that’s what it is, as when one hears a choice anecdote. I’ve got to recall it, savor it later on, even relate it. But to whom? Problem, there. Too personal for narration.
In the corner of Paul’s office a wastebasket. Into it! Robert Childan said to himself, with this blob, this
wu
-ridden piece of jewelry.
wu
-ridden piece of jewelry.
Could I do it? Toss it away? End the situation before Paul’s eyes?
Can’t even toss it away, he discovered as he gripped the piece. Must not—if you anticipate facing your Japanese fellowman again.
Damn them, I can’t free myself of their influence, can’t give in to impulse. All spontaneity crushed…Paul scrutinized him, needing to say nothing; the man’s very presence enough. Got my conscience snared, has run an invisible string from this blob in my hands up my arm to my soul.
Guess I’ve lived around them too long. Too late now to flee, to get back among whites and white ways.
Robert Childan said, “Paul—” His voice, he noted, croaked in sickly escape; no control, no modulation.
“Yes, Robert.”
“Paul, I…am…humiliated.”
The room reeled.
“Why so, Robert?” Tones of concern, but detached. Above involvement.
“Paul. One moment.” He fingered the bit of jewelry; it had become slimy with sweat. “I—am proud of this work. There can be no consideration of trashy good-luck charms. I reject.”
Once more he could not make out the young Japanese man’s reaction, only the listening ear, the mere awareness.
“Thank you, however,” Robert Childan said.
Paul bowed.
Robert Childan bowed.
“The men who made this,” Childan said, “are American proud artists. Myself included. To suggest trashy good-luck charms therefore insults us and I ask for apology.”
Incredible prolonged silence.
Paul surveyed him. One eyebrow lifted slightly and his thin lips twitched. A smile?
“I demand,” Childan said. That was all; he could carry it no further. He now merely waited.
Nothing occurred.
Please, he thought. Help me.
Paul said, “Forgive my arrogant imposition.” He held out his hand.
“All right,” Robert Childan said.
They shook hands.
Calmness descended in Childan’s heart. I have lived through and out, he knew. All over. Grace of God; it existed at the exact moment for me. Another time—otherwise. Could I ever dare once more, press my luck? Probably not.
He felt melancholy. Brief instant, as if I rose to the surface and saw unencumbered.
Life is short, he thought. Art, or something not life, is long, stretching out endless, like concrete worm. Flat, white, unsmoothed by any passage over or across it. Here I stand. But no longer. Taking the small box, he put the Edfrank jewelry piece away in his coat pocket.
TWELVE
Mr. Ramsey said, “Mr. Tagomi, this is Mr. Yatabe.” He retired to a corner of the office, and the slender elderly gentleman came forward.
Holding out his hand, Mr. Tagomi said, “I am glad to meet you in person, sir.” The light, fragile old hand slipped into his own; he shook without pressing and released at once. Nothing broken I hope, he thought. He examined the old gentleman’s features, finding himself pleased. Such a stern, coherent spirit there. No fogging of wits. Certainly lucid transmission of all the stable ancient traditions. Best quality which the old could represent…and then he discovered that he was facing General Tedeki, the former Imperial Chief of Staff.
Mr. Tagomi bowed low.
“General,” he said.
“Where is the third party?” General Tedeki said.
“On the double, he nears,” Mr. Tagomi said. “Informed by self at hotel room.” His mind utterly rattled, he retreated several steps in the bowing position, scarcely able to regain an erect posture.
The general seated himself. Mr. Ramsey, no doubt still ignorant of the old man’s identity, assisted with the chair but showed no particular deference. Mr. Tagomi hesitantly took a chair facing.
“We loiter,” the general said. “Regrettably but unavoidably.”
“True,” Mr. Tagomi said.
Ten minutes passed. Neither man spoke.
“Excuse me, sir,” Mr. Ramsey said at last, fidgeting. “I will depart unless needed.”
Mr. Tagomi nodded, and Mr. Ramsey departed.
“Tea, General?” Mr. Tagomi said.
“No, sir.”
“Sir,” Mr. Tagomi said, “I admit to fear. I sense in this encounter something terrible.”
The general inclined his head.
“Mr. Baynes, whom I have met,” Mr. Tagomi said, “and entertained in my home, declares himself a Swede. Yet perusal persuades one that he is in fact a highly placed German of some sort. I say this because—”
“Please continue.”
“Thank you. General, his agitation regarding this meeting causes me to infer a connection with the political upheavals in the Reich.” Mr. Tagomi did not mention another fact: his awareness of the general’s failure to appear at the time anticipated.
The general said, “Sir, now you are fishing. Not informing.” His gray eyes twinkled in fatherly manner. No malice, there.
Mr. Tagomi accepted the rebuke. “Sir, is my presence in this meeting merely a formality to baffle the Nazi snoops?”
“Naturally,” the general said, “we are interested in maintaining a certain fiction. Mr. Baynes is representative for TorAm industries of Stockholm, purely businessman. And I am Shinjiro Yatabe.”
Mr. Tagomi thought, And I am Tagomi. That part is so.
“No doubt the Nazis have scrutinized Mr. Baynes’ comings and goings,” the general said. He rested his hands on his knees, sitting bolt upright…as if, Mr. Tagomi thought, he were sniffing far-off beef tea odor. “But to demolish the fiction they must resort to legalities. That is the genuine purpose; not to deceive, but to require the formalities in case of exposure. You see for instance that to apprehend Mr. Baynes they must do more than merely shoot him down…which they could do, were he to travel as—well, travel without his verbal umbrella.”
“I see,” Mr. Tagomi said. Sounds like a game, he decided. But they know the Nazi mentality. So I suppose it is of use.
The desk intercom buzzed. Mr. Ramsey’s voice. “Sir, Mr. Baynes is here. Shall I send him on in?”
“Yes!” Mr. Tagomi cried.
The door opened and Mr. Baynes, sleekly dressed, his clothes all quite pressed and masterfully tailored, his features composed, appeared.
General Tedeki rose to face him. Mr. Tagomi also rose. All three men bowed.
“Sir,” Mr. Baynes said to the general, “I am Captain R. Wegener of the Reichs Naval Counter-Intelligence. As understood, I represent no one but myself and certain private unnamed individuals, no departments or bureaus of the Reich Government of any sort.”
The general said, “Herr Wegener, I understand that you in no way officially allege representation of any branch of the Reich Government. I am here as an unofficial private party who by virtue of former position with the Imperial Army can be said to have access to circles in Tokyo who desire to hear whatever you have to say.”
Weird discourse, Mr. Tagomi thought. But not unpleasant. Certain near-musical quality to it. Refreshing relief, in fact.
They sat down.
“Without preamble,” Mr. Baynes said, “I would like to inform you and those you have access to that there is in advance stage in the Reich a program called Lowenzahn. Dandelion.”
“Yes,” the general said, nodding as if he had heard this before; but, Mr. Tagomi thought, he seemed quite eager for Mr. Baynes to go on.
“Dandelion,” Mr. Baynes said, “consists of an incident on the border between the Rocky Mountain States and the United States.”
The general nodded, smiling slightly.
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