This Scorching Earth (19 page)

She had often seen this problem in the movies and been moved to tears. In the Kabuki the problem was actually the same, though abstracted, and the unfortunate lady nearly always killed herself. In Western novels it was the same, and if the girl didn't end like Madame Bovary, she ended like Sister Carrie, and to Haruko there didn't seem much choice between the two.

What one didn't read about or see in the films was what eventually happened to the many young Japanese ladies who had chosen the romantic way. Presumably nothing too violent occurred, or else the papers would carry it. Lacking information, Haruko had no clear idea of what to expect if she married the soldier. The only hint she could think of from literature was that she would be relatively unhappy—as in
Madame Butterfly,
that most beautiful of all operas, through which she was sure to weep tonight, seeing herself on the stage, feeling the dagger in her own vitals. The thought thrilled her most pleasantly. Still, whatever the fate of the expatriated Japanese maidens, nothing could be as bad as what she saw occurring to them in Japan.

All this thought had inspired her. She decided to write in her diary. Like all her friends, Haruko too kept a diary, very elaborately locked up and filled with her most precious thoughts. She often stole away to the corner of her room to read it, for it was better than a novel—which it greatly resembled.

She could always cry at the entries she'd written upon receiving word that her elder brother had been killed at Saipan, and there was one beautiful page devoted to the death of their old cat. She shed tears indiscrimately over both—not the events but the extreme beauty of her style caused her to weep. Her diary was in English, and that was what helped make it so beautiful

She stood up, for now she had enough material for a long and beautifully pathetic entry. Quickly she went to her room, opened the bottom drawer of the chest, and after feeling through her folded summer kimono, discovered the volume. Fountain pen in hand, she composed herself; then, one hand shading her eyes, she began to write, giving voice to all the beautiful thoughts which were welling up from within her.

"O, horrid dillema of Japanese girl," she wrote. "O, immortal confrict of will and idea. My head grows numm at thought. Can I choice wise between my true Japanese way and new American way? Yes. I can wisely choice. But. How? When He (Private Michael Richardson, US Army at Shinjuku, Tokyo) kiss my heart burn with love and admiration. My breast pulpitate. My blood rush in mighty river and my sense grow dumm."

She stopped and reread the paragraph. Of course that last part was not quite true, but it was not truth that made her diary so interesting. Now she must have a contrast to that.

"But, when the Other (Ichiro Ohara, student only) touch my hand nothing happen my heart, my breast, my blood, my sense. I do not reaction to him. Therefore I have fatal love—like Romeo and Juliet, like Tristan and Isolde, like Miss Greer Garson in Dusty Blossoms. Soon I must decide my mind. If not I die. I fade away."

She decided the latter was not becoming and crossed out "fade away," substituting "linger slow like autumnal flower, perish like Japan's lovely clisanthemum." That was very poetic—and also very true. In the next room the flowers were slowly dying.

"But action is expected from heroine (Myself) and soon comes time for eternal and important choose. Which shall I be? O, horrid dillema of Japanese girl. O, that I was ever born to suffer sharp tooth of sorrow so much."

Haruko quickly placed a blotter on the words lest her falling tears blur them. Then, shielding the diary from the falling drops with her hand, she read the entire entry. It was very beautiful.

At the end she suddenly jotted down, in hurried Japanese, a poem which had just occurred to her:

Tokyo's windy sky
Bears the aspect of winter
And the radio
Is intermittently heard
Through the noises of the wind.

To be sure, this was not nearly so beautiful, just a perfectly traditional waka. The Japanese characters looked all crabbed when compared with the easy-flowing, open, and friendly English letters. Besides, her American thought was so much more satisfying than her Japanese.

She was about to cross out the waka, when it occurred to her that the idea of a radio in a waka was nicely anomalous—and very modern sounding. She closed the

THE OFFICE CLOSED AT NOON ON SATURDAYS, AND
Gloria occupied herself with a copy of
Vogue
she had in the desk until time for the Major, who had returned to his quarters to change, to pick her up. After half an hour Gloria looked at the clock, examined her teeth in the mirror, combed her hair, pulled on her coat, and walked down the corridor.

At the bottom of the stairs she turned to the MP's and said appealingly: "Look, you both know me. Do I
have
to dig out that stupid pass?"

"I'm sorry, lady—we got to see it."

With a gesture of exaggerated impatience she opened a large suede purse and began pushing about the contents. From time to time she threw objects onto the floor—half a stick of gum, a name card, an empty book of matches, and, inadvertently, two hairpins. These last she picked up. Eventually she found the pass, ran it under the MP's noses, and flounced through the doors.

One MP turned to the other: "And who the hell was that?"

"Her name's Gloria and she works in one of the offices here for some colonel or other. She's a secretary—a sexatary, if you get me."

"Christ, I thought she was the Queen of Sheba. What ya mean—sexatary?"

"Well, she's the Queen of Special Services—distributes her favors right royally."

"And how do
you
know—she ever distribute in your direction?"

"Nah—she's the officer type. Nothing lower than looies."

"Is there anything lower?"

They both looked out of the window at Gloria, who was standing by the curb gazing affectionately at a small child playing on the sidewalk. She picked it up, tickled it under the chin, and set it against the building, out of harm's way. A sedan drove up, the driver in front; the rear door opened.

"Hop right in, Miss Wilson. Hope I didn't keep you waiting long."

"Not long, Major—just waiting." She climbed in, carrying the end of her coat over one arm, then waved to the child before closing the door.

"O. K., Joe—American Club."

The driver turned around and looked inquiring.

"American Club! American Club!" shouted the Major, loudly.

The driver frowned apologetically.

"Tokyo Kaikan," said Gloria quickly and pleasantly.

"Gee," said the Major, shaking his head with admiration. "I didn't know you could talk Jap."

"Why, Major, I talked Jap since but a child."

"Well, is that so, Miss Wilson? What d'ya know! And here I thought you were just another DAC. Born here, I guess?"

"Yes, I'm part Formosan, you know."

"No, I didn't."

"Oh, heavens, yes. You see, my father was from Tierra del Fuego and my mother was Laplandish, but they settled in the Pacific. Both so disliked the cold, of course."

"I guess I can understand that, being from Texas and all. Why, we—"

"Oh, no, it's not the same at all. You can never realize the intense cold of a good old Lapland winter. Even the Laplanders have difficulty believing it. So a Texan . .."

"I guess that's so .... Gee, I never knew that. Makes me think I'm out with somebody real important."

"What an extraordinarily sweet thing to say."

She turned and looked at the approaching park, green in the distance. The Major, always cordial in the office, became positively overpowering on their "dates." On each one he behaved precisely as though he had never met her before.

This was what he called "not letting the office get in the way." In this way he was able to forget how Gloria often glared at him and always took Private Richardson's side during any of their many arguments. The Major had his eye on Gloria. He was constantly on what he called his "good behavior" with her, even when he sometimes half-suspected she was making fun of him.

Now he said: "Well, it's Saturday again. What'd you do last Saturday night? Really live it up?"

"Me? Heavens, what on earth makes you think that? I hope I don't appear to be
that
kind of girl, Major. Why, I stayed in my room and wrote my dear old mother, and then I washed my hair, and then I went to bed."

"It's a shame more people don't follow your example, Miss Wilson," the Major said seriously.

"I suppose there's always a great deal of drinking and such—Saturday and all."

"Altogether uncalled for, I must say." He paused, then quickly added: "But I was out Tachikawa way last Saturday—business, you know. Us PIO's got to keep good contacts with all the boys. . . and, well, I won't sully your ears, Miss Wilson, but the things I saw weren't fit for no American woman to see."

"I can just imagine.... Were many there?"

"Women? Oh, lots."

"And... the others?"

"Men? Oh, yeah, lots of men, all drunk and lying around, just not caring what happened to them. Like Babylon in the movies. I bet I saw a regiment stretched out."

Gloria turned and looked out of the window. "Well, it's doubtless not loyal of me," she went on after a minute, "but I've noticed that the morals of some Americans over here seem rather low."

The Major turned to her and leaned forward. "You know, Miss Wilson, I feel exactly the same way. You and I agree on that."

Gloria skilfully slid her hand across the seat, out of reach of the Major's.

"Isn't it beautiful?" said the Major, indicating the park, though at the moment they were again in the midst of blackened ruins.

"Gorgeous," murmured Gloria. She waved her hand toward the window. "Particularly that portion." A woman had come from one of the board huts nearby and was squatting on the ground, her bagging trousers around her ankles.

The Major quickly averted his eyes, then caught a glimpse of distant green. "Oh, yes, the trees you mean. Isn't that a nice shade of green though? You know, I just love nature. Nature in everything."

The Major was edging closer.

"Look, isn't the sky lovely—so blue—for November, that is."

Just as his hand touched hers she reached for her purse, drew forth her handkerchief, and daintily blew her nose. Then she put both hands securely in her lap.

She looked at the neck of the driver. His hair had been recently cut and lay short on the back of his head. His ears, nicely shaped, were flat on either side of his head. Whenever he turned his head, his profile, seen against the moving background of traffic, was of a wonderful regularity, his nose meeting his forehead with complete lack of bridge, his mouth firm, and his chin square. He was quite handsome, and just in time Gloria realized she had been about to lay her hand upon the newly cut hair at the back of his neck.

The Major followed her gaze. "These Japanese are good drivers, aren't they?"

"Extremely good. Good at most mechanical things."

"But not quite good enough, eh, Miss Wilson?" and the Major laughed heavily.

Gloria smiled and turned to him. "Not quite, Major. . . . Tell me, what did you do during the war?"

He smiled ruefully and dug his fist into the car seat. "Aw, I was one of those poor guys that got stuck in the States. Boy, I tried everything and just couldn't get into the game. They really had me stuck there—responsible position, you know—couldn't replace me. Got a game leg, you know, playing basketball in my high-school days."

"How unfortunate."

"Don't hurt none but can't go in much for athletics, you know. Course, I'm a bit out of that age group now." He shrugged his shoulders, laughed, and slapped his thigh, then winced painfully. "It's nothing, nothing," he murmured, but Gloria
Was
paying no attention,

"Boy, I was sure hopping mad," said the Major. "Had to fill some old executive position over there when I wanted to be out with the boys giving these Japs—" He laughed uneasily and went on: "—these Japanese the licking they deserved."

The driver skilfully turned the corner, and Gloria was thrown against the Major.