This Scorching Earth (35 page)

"Got the package?" he said.

"Yes, sir," said Michael, after a pause.

The Major relaxed his mouth a bit and laughed. "Don't want anything to happen to that baby. Safe, eh?"

"Safe as the Emperor's carp, sir."

"Huh?"

"Yes, sir, real safe."

"Good work, boy. See you tomorrow." He turned rapidly and bolted in the direction of the drinking fountain.

Michael was rather pleased. Now that the package was gone, the less he saw of the Major the better. Except that now he wondered what the Major would do when he discovered the loss. He doubted if even the Major could have the moat drained. And one consoling thought was that you couldn't bust a buck private.

He looked up and saw the only officer he didn't dislike coming toward him. It was Colonel Ashcroft, looking sadder than ever.

"Good evening, Richardson," said the Colonel.

"Good evening, sir."

"Are you enjoying the opera?"

"Not particularly, sir."

"Well, that makes two of us." The Colonel continued standing before Michael, thought it soon became apparent that they had no more to say to each other than the good-mornings and good-nights they exchanged every day. The Colonel, however, obviously had something on his mind.

"I really wonder," he said, "why we ever sponsor a thing like this—not that it's a bad performance, but that it's opera."

"Well, it amuses the civilians, sir."

"Yes, that's true—I don't see many of your friends here."

That was one of the things Michael liked about the Colonel: he would never have used the word buddies. "No, sir, they're sure not here."

"To be frank, I'm a bit surprised to see you here, Private Richardson."

Michael colored slightly. "I came with someone else."

"A lovely young Japanese, if I interpret office gossip rightly."

Michael smiled in spite of himself. He suddenly hoped that nothing bad ever happened to the Colonel—that he would always be happy. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Well, that's nice," said the Colonel, pulling his moustaches. He was plainly preoccupied. "Speaking of office gossip, there is one thing I wanted to ask you."

Michael nodded and hoped it would not be concerning the rumor of the Colonel's own change of command. It would be unlikely he would ask a private, however, even under the Occupation. But he was still more disturbed when he heard what the Colonel was saying:

"Do you know anything about Major Calloway? I saw him talking with you just now."

Michael colored and said: "How do you mean, sir?"

"Oh, I mean irregular activities—black market and the like."

This chance of getting the Major was even better than dropping the package in the moat. At the same time he could both do the Colonel a favor and insure the Major's downfall. He was certain that, until the Major actually knew what had happened to the package, he wouldn't involve him, Private Richardson, preferring rather that Michael, as he hoped, would see the business through for him—that is, unless he got cornered. But, at the same time, Michael didn't want to inform on the Major. There were no real reasons not to, he realized, yet he still believed it wrong to tell on anyone.

"Oh, I don't quite know what you mean, sir," he finally said. "I'm sure it's just rumor—that's all. I've never seen anything."

The Colonel smiled, apparently pleased. "I thought as much. Just checking, you understand. That's the disgraceful job we all must do, I suppose.... Well, enjoy yourself ... Michael. Good evening."

He turned and walked through the lobby, content in his belief that Michael knew nothing. The last obstacle was overcome. One must certainly check. He'd been right. One never knew when one of these confused young men might lend themselves to someone like the Major, not even realizing they were doing wrong.

But the Private—Michael—was made of finer stuff. The Colonel suddenly realized, with some emotion, that this soldier, to whom he had never before spoken a personal word, would be the only person in Japan whom he would miss. He passed Miss Wilson and nodded pleasantly.

Gloria smiled briefly at the Colonel and walked directly toward Michael. Before she reached him, he said: "Well, where're the furs?"

"Checked—and, Mike, let's just for a second not joke. I want to ask you something, and it's deadly serious. In fact, I'm deadly serious. Take a good look, for you won't often find me like this."

"Well, I've got the time—if you've got the place."

"Will you be serious! I'm with the Major, but I'll dodge him. Will you wait for me after it's over?"

"Well..."

"Oh, I know, you've got a dozen faithful Japanese maidens on the string—" Then she noticed his face. "I'm sorry Mike, but I'm all upset too. Wait, will you?"

The Major had found her and was tugging at her arm.

"Stop that," said Gloria. Then hopelessly shrugging her shoulders, she waved good-by to Michael. "Stop pulling me, I said!"

"We'll be late. Buzzer sounded," said the Major.

"I didn't know you were enjoying yourself so much."

"Love it."

"Oh, yes—'Jap Girl Gets Long-Due Come-Uppance' by Puccini," said Gloria.

The lobby was rapidly becoming empty. Near the corner phone stood the Colonel. He was waiting to use it. A woman had been ahead of him. He seemed undecided whether to phone or not. Just then the woman finished talking. She hung up and turned around. The Colonel saw it was one of the two women he'd seen talking with the Major, the smartly dressed one who was so well preserved.

The phone was free at last. The lobby was empty. The Colonel lifted the receiver and heard the answering buzz. Then he put it down. He could not make the call.

Haruko didn't see much of the second act. She was crying too hard. Poor Chocho-san sat before her paper windows and sang her heart out. One fine day he would return—and Kate would be with him, and Butterfly would have to kill herself. Chocho-san to be sure did not yet know all this herself, but Haruko already knew the work very well and was in agonies of anticipation. She was privately of the opinion that the play was of a much finer quality than the one about Macbeth which she had been forced to read in school: Butterfly made her cry much more.

It was so beautiful... so sad ... so true. Between almost inaudible sniffles, Haruko raised her eyes to the stage, waiting for the next revealing comment by Suzuki, the next innocent but, oh, so telling phrase from Chocho-san. Then she would bury her nose in her handkerchief and silently sob. Comprehending the revealing comments and telling phrases, however, demanded a concentration which somewhat detracted from the flavor of her sorrows: all the arias were in Italian, while all the rest was in Japanese, except that Sharpless and Pinkerton sang in an approximation of English.

Her father and mother, apparently unmoved, sat on either side of her. Mr. Ohara kept glancing at her, smiling, indicating the stage, the orchestra, the singers, the brilliant audience—the new Japan. Next to him sat his son, his face red, his collar too tight, his back too straight. He didn't seem to be enjoying himself at all. No one paid any attention to Haruko's private sorrows, and that was the way it should be.

Through tear-filled eyes, with her handkerchief before her mouth, Haruko gazed at the stage. Suzuki shook her powdered head knowingly, and Butterfly flitted around touching the flowers. It was all that a real tragedy should be—so terrible it was lovely. Tears ran down over Haruko's quivering lips. She was enjoying herself enormously.

Then came the celebrated night scene. It was beautifully done, with Butterfly kneeling before the shoji, waiting for the faithless Pinkerton. The music sobbed softly, but no one came, and no one was going to come. Then, little by little, the sun rose, its light shining through the paper door. Fragile Chocho-san, exhausted from her long vigil, had fallen asleep kneeling. He had not come.

It was here that Haruko most clearly saw herself on the stage, waiting for she knew not what. Was it only the night before that her very own Pinkerton had come, scratching like a cat at her shoji? Yes, it was. And it might have been she who, like Butterfly, would kneel for a lifetime—waiting, waiting. This made her think of the lovely final scene with Butterfly, the Knife, Little Trouble, and the American Flag. She could no longer contain her anticipatory sobs.

Her father turned and looked at her once with a glance he might have given a misbehaving animal. Like the animal, Haruko became instantly quiet and closed her eyes tight. In so doing she missed the rather spectacular effect occasioned by the man in the flies controlling the sun; at that moment he kicked off a bucket of bolts, which fell heavily to the stage, narrowly missing the sleeping but vigilant Chocho-san.

Suzuki, with commendable presence of mind, calmly gathered up the spilled bolts, put them back into the bucket, and trotted off stage with them, just as though they always had their bolts delivered to the house that way. Butterfly alone appeared slightly shaken.

Most of the audience, however, were wet-eyed by this time, and there were only a few who laughed. Haruko didn't quite remember this being in the libretto, but she had to admit it made a fine effect and showed real imagination on the part of the producers. Having a bucket of bolts dropped on her was just one more welcome indignity for the poor, faithful Chocho-san. On this final, touching scene the curtain slowly descended to great applause.

Haruko quickly dried her eyes, and when Mr. Ohara waved his fan at her, she stood up and preceded him and his son toward the lobby.

"Are you enjoying this famous classic of song?" asked Mr. Ohara in English.

"Very like," she replied.

"And my son?" he asked conversationally in Japanese.

"Yes," said Ichiro. He was in a difficult position because, for the first time within memory, he was forced to approve of his father. He realized what an enormous sacrifice it must be for him to appear among the Americans in Japanese clothes, and yet he was forced to admit that his father was behaving beautifully. Even Haruko, for all her American infatuations, apparently felt no desire to sneer at the kimono, the obi, the geta.

"May one compliment Mr. Ohara's most elegant clothing?" asked Haruko.

"If one is Mr. Ohara's future daughter-in-law," said Mr. Ohara slyly.

Ichiro blushed. Things had not gone well for him today. First his father, then Haruko. Both were central supports in his life, and his father's absurd Americanism had been just as expected as had Haruko's devotion to Japanese method. The day had reversed everything—Haruko had betrayed him with an American and, worse, had shown a shocking and most Western indiscretion in talking openly of the fact to him that afternoon; his father had betrayed him also by making himself unobjectionable. Ichiro felt his world tottering.

But Mr. Ohara's implied question was still hanging in the air. For an answer Haruko turned and smiled at the confused and suspicious Ichiro. Suddenly her smile became a bit less bright: she had just caught sight of Michael moving through the crowded lobby. For a terrible moment she felt sure that her one fear was about to be realized, that Michael was going to come to them and make a scene. He was now so firmly identified with Pinkerton in her mind that she was convinced he was capable of anything, and with only a bit more persuasion she could have been convinced that it was he who had betrayed
her.
But when she saw he was not coming to them, her smile grew bright again.

Michael saw them smiling in a closed little circle, and for a second he thought of going over and wishing them happiness. But he fought resolutely against his better nature, and instead, he looked past them to where Gloria was talking with the Major, the Ainsleys, and the Swensons. Though he made as much fun of Gloria as everyone else did behind her back, it had always privately pleased him that she should be so constantly available to him. The potentiality had been such a pleasure that he had never before seriously considered taking advantage of this obliging quality of Miss Wilson's. Now that Haruko was gone for good, however, he thought he might lower his sights as well as his morals; if he could not love, he could at least enjoy. Besides, he doubted very much that love animated Miss Wilson's advances—she was just a good-time kid.

"Well," said Gloria, interrupting both Mr. Swenson and Mr. Ainsley, who had been talking to each other simultaneously, "you'll remember that famous captain who was so caught up in the night life—and the day life—of the Occupation that he never took time to see his five-year-old son. (His mother was in the States and wouldn't come over but had sent the kid.) One day he finally decided to spend an evening with him for a man-to-man talk—you know, 'not father and son, but buddies.' Well, the captain discovered that the poor child had spent so much time with the neighborhood children and the servants that he'd forgotten every word of English he'd ever known and could only speak Japanese."