This Scorching Earth (24 page)

Mrs. Schmidt nodded. She knew how it was. Dorothy, so well-intentioned, like so many Americans could only tolerate exposure to emotion so long. Sooner or later they all were forced to retreat behind empty phrases, behind the polite conventionalities which they had been taught were useful. And useful they were, for Dorothy, having been very near compassion, was now placing herself behind the hollow mockery of apology, ironic in that the words themselves carried the connotations of concern but were empty of it, while only seconds before real concern had come naked and alone and touched her as it passed.

But it
had
passed, and so had tears, and now Dorothy, perfectly dry-eyed, was bobbing and smiling and saying: "These rules are tiresome, aren't they? But what can one do? Now, you just run along and come back before supper—I mean, dinner."

Mrs. Schmidt adjusted her shawl and watched the doors swing shut behind her pupil.

Gloria watched Dorothy as she marched with tiny, defiant steps toward her husband and the Swensons. She was still curious and would like to know just whom Dorothy had been out exchanging billets-doux with. Not for a second did Gloria doubt that it was an officer.

The Major swallowed his Scotch. "Hungry?"

"Frightfully early, but we might as well get it over with," said Gloria and carefully slid from the stool.

There were some small furtive movements behind her as several people tried to sit on the vacated stools at the same time. A stout man won one of the prizes and turned to the ladies around him. "Sorry, dears," he said, "but I really couldn't support all this bulk much longer. Now, all gather round, for I've the most splendid and juicy story of all—and it's about Our Lord himself."

Always talking about MacArthur, thought Gloria. How terrible to be in charge of something like an Occupation.

"Don't get lost in the carpet," she called, taking her hand from the Major's.

In the elevator he said: "Which floor's the restaurant?"

"I don't know. Ask the boy."

But the boy had already stopped at the third floor; opening the door, he stood waiting.

"Officious little bastard," said the Major, then begged Gloria's pardon.

"Watch out for the carpet," called Gloria.

They walked slowly down the wide hall, looking into various rooms.

"What do these signs mean? asked the Major, reading: "Miss
Gramboult. Lt. and Mrs. Schwartz.
And look at that one over there:
Mary Patsy Snied, daughter of Colonel and Captain Snied.
What goes on there?"

"Maybe they're brothers."

"Let's go see," said the Major and peered past the door into the room.

There were a number of children, not yet of school age, sitting on chairs talking with each other. Two or three regarded the Major and then turned back to their companions.

"Hi, kids!" called the Major.

None of the children answered. They all turned to stare, and then resumed their conversations. The youngest rose and shut the door.

"Officious little bastards," said the Major. But Gloria was no longer there. "Miss Wilson! Where are you, Miss Wilson?" he shouted.

Then he caught sight of her, just entering the room marked
Miss Gramboult.

"Oh, there you are," she called to the Major. "Well, don't just stand there. Heavens, you'd think you weren't invited."

Cautiously, he entered the room, passed the small portable bar, behind which two boys were working, and looked around. Dozens of people were standing or sitting, all with drinks in their hands. The air was blue with smoke.

"Darling," said Gloria to the lady with whom she was talking, "this is Major—. What
was
your name, dear? Oh, yes—Major Cowhand. And Major Cowhand, Miss Gramboult. Pudding, Alice. Alice, Pudding.... Well, darling, as I was saying, I thought we'd never make it at all, and then suddenly I decided, headache or no headache, Berle Gramboult is one of my oldest friends. And
so
I just dropped everything." She lowered her voice: "Though one thing I couldn't drop was this Texas idiot, but I trust you'll understand."

Miss Gramboult steadied herself at the bar. "Of course, dear. Though actually this"—she helplessly indicated the room—"was just going to be a little intimate gathering." She make some attempt to pull herself together. "But I understand perfectly, and I'm thrilled to death you could come, for after all"—she looked at Gloria and wrinkled her brow—"there's just no one I'd rather see—I think."

"A drink!" cried Gloria and moved to the bar.

The Major followed her. "You know my name isn't Cowhand."

"It is now. Don't fight life. Make the best of it!"

"Do you know that woman?"

"Never saw her before in my life and hope I never do again—as soon, that is, as we've made an appreciable dent in her liquor supply."

"I don't think all of this is quite right. And it's only afternoon. Isn't it sort of early for a cocktail party?"

"Oh, we civilians live dangerously. This has become
the
fashionable hour. Besides, would you like to be spending your—ha-ha—hard-earned money?"

"What do you mean?" said the Major brutally.

"I simply mean: What would you like to drink?" Gloria pointed to the almost empty remaining bottle of Scotch, and the boy emptied it for her. "Besides Scotch, that is," she added.

Glass in hand, not waiting for the Major, she turned to see if she knew anyone at the party. She didn't, but the Major did.

"Why, Sam, how the hell are you? Billy! I sure didn't expect to see you here. Why, Frankie, you old son-of-a-gun. Hey, there's Willy!"

Gloria moved slowly away.

"Hello there, Colonel Watkins, sir, nice seeing you," continued the Major. "And, for Christ's sake, there's Phil. Sure didn't expect to see you this morning—or is it afternoon?"

Gloria moved further away.

"Well, here's Bobby. What do you know?" the Major shouted.

And Gloria moved completely away. She looked out of the window. The sun was surprisingly low; it was, somehow, late afternoon. The moat, the Palace, and the streets were gray. Beneath her were patches of color as crowds passed the plaza; further away, they became a uniform gray themselves, like the street. In the distance the Diet Building was white.

"Look at Fuji," said someone behind her, and a finger was pointed past her face.

"It's the Diet," said Gloria, not turning around.

"Oh, you old spoil sport, and I was so anxious to see Fuji just now."

Gloria turned around and confronted a familiar looking elderly lady who held a long cigarette holder in one hand and a dark-brown drink in the other.

"As I said in my column the other day, Fuji is never so beautiful as when half-hidden by rains. And now you tell me you can't even see Fuji."

"In any event," said Gloria, "you can't see Fuji from here on any day."

"But, honey, this is where I do all my writing." She pursed her mouth with annoyance and almost turned her back; then suddenly she swung again in Gloria's direction. "But we don't know each other, do we? I'm Mrs. Swenson—Hilda Swenson. You know!"

"I thought your face was familiar, but how did you get up here so fast?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said: I read your stuff in the
Japan Times."

"Oh, not really." She seemed genuinely delighted. "How most interesting to find one who knows one. Did you read yesterday's?"

"Unfortunately not."

"Oh, it was quite fine," Mrs. Swenson said, with an attempt at impartiality. "It was all about birth control. Both my husband—
New York Tribune,
you know—and myself are all for it."

"Need you be?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. I was just saying that I'm one of your most devoted followers. I'm the one called 'Just an Observer'."

"Really?" she gasped. "Why, only last week I printed a simply extraordinary letter of yours. Only I thought it was from a Japanese—most of them are, you know."

"Yes, I read it."

"All about temple reconstruction. It is
so
needed, don't you think?"

"No, it was about the pedestrian problem."

"Oh, you're so right. And what you said just echoed my own views so. I just printed it as was with just a few teeny changes—grammar and things, you know. But, oh, the Japanese feeling was there, my dear, it was there! You obviously have the Gift."

"What's that?" asked Gloria.

But Mrs. Swenson was motioning toward a crowd of men in another corner. "Dearest, dearest," she called. "I've found the most amazing person I didn't even know—or rather, I knew but actually didn't. Come here." She paused, and then shouted: "Come here!"

Mr. Swenson moved toward them, holding himself and his drink erect, his classic profile toward them as he addressed amenities to those he passed.

"Darling," said his wife, "this is 'Just an Observer.'"

"I'm delighted to meet you," said Mr. Swenson, extending a hand to Gloria, who curtsied.

"Isn't this a divine party! One meets such fabulous people. And, dear, she has the Gift. She writes just like a Japanese."

"Yes," said Gloria shyly, "me pray for the General's coming erection."

Mrs. Swenson giggled nervously. "Yes, I saw the sign too. You know, dear," she said to her husband, "that sign written by some Japanese—that billboard, you know." And since he still seemed thoroughly confused: "The age-old difficulty Our Friends have with the l's and r's and their differences."

"Oh, I see," said Mr. Swenson. "Election—oh, quite good! Very amusing. Keen sense of humor, these Japanese."

Mrs. Swenson forgot herself to the extent of throwing a hopeless shrug of the shoulders to Gloria before she ran across the room and threw herself into the arms of another elderly lady who had just entered.

"Lady Briton. Darling!" she cried.

Mr. Swenson turned to Gloria. "I suppose you're a great fan, shall we say, of my wife's?"

"Let's be daring and say it. Yes, I wouldn't miss an installment."

He nodded his head and pursed his lips. "Yes, that girl has talent. Real Talent. I was afraid for a time that it might be dulled by the newspaper grind."

"I'm sure it's not been."

He looked at her with appreciation. "You know—I don't think it
has
been. There's always some talk around the house as to which is the best"—he paused and laughed—"she or I. But then a comparison would be quite invidious. After all, she explains the West to the Japanese, and I explain the Japanese to the West. It's a nice arrangement."

"I understand."

"You know," said Mr. Swenson as he was pulled away by his wife, who had unexpectedly returned, "I think you do."

"Darling, it's Lady Briton," said Mrs. Swenson, sweeping her husband grandly into the great lady's presence.

"Dear Lady Briton," said Mr. Swenson and kissed the tips of the fingers which were extended to him. "Dear Sacred Protector, as says Tennyson, of Our Dumb Friends."

"Our 'dumb friends' had just better toe the mark or it will be jolly well up with them," snarled Lady Briton. She was Australian and most outspoken.

"No, no, no," tittered Mrs. Swenson, hovering between Lady Briton and her husband. "My husband means the animals, not the Japanese."

"Oh, well, whyn't you say so? Awfully sorry. But really, Swenson, if you'd just been through what I have, you'd be a bit upset yourself."

"Whatever?" asked Mrs. Swenson, her eyes round. What indeed could so upset the Lady Briton who was, after all, Royalty. Or almost.

"Well," the Lady began with a sigh, "we were motoring with General Hughes and his wife. And we were in the midst of this really divine countryside when, all of a sudden, coming around a bend, what did we see but one of these—these people most inhumanely beating his animal. Which, by the by, wasn't much to look at. But still, it
was
a horse." She stopped and with glittering eyes surveyed her almost entirely American court.