This Scorching Earth (37 page)

Even the death scene didn't come off too well. Little Trouble refused to wave the American flag, and Butterfly's urgings grew stronger and stronger, while the hushed but scandalized voice of Mrs. Swenson proclaimed: "Japanese children are ordinarily so well-behaved on the stage." Eventually the child began to cry. This might have aided the pathetic effect somewhat had not Butterfly, after retiring to die behind a large screen, kept popping out to give the flag a few suggestive pushes. The child grew furious and finally tore the flag from its stick, thus intruding a somewhat suspicious note into the morass of symbolism which is Butterfly's death.

Even so, things might have straightened themselves out. Butterfly had skilfully draped her scarf over the screen, and when the knife entered her breast she was to catch at the scarf. The long piece of silk disappearing over the screen as she fell was to have spoken volumes. Instead, however, she succeeded only in knocking the screen over, not only burying the flag-tearing Little Trouble, but also revealing herself, squatting on the stage in perfect composure, her hand still grasping the end of the long scarf, a very prosaic face turned toward the audience. She had the instantaneous presence of mind to fall forward—unfortunately onto the screen, setting Little Trouble kicking and screaming with terror.

Thus, when Suzuki entered, on cue, it appeared more as though she had merely been called by the wailing infant. What was frankly meant to be a sentimentally tragic scene—the infant waving the flag, the scarf beside the screen, and Butterfly's hand outstretched—became truly cathartic. Suzuki's discovery of the corpse, was scarcely the poignant thing it should have been: first she had to shift the body of Chocho-san, put up the screen, replace the scarf, pick up the howling child, and then, quite suddenly, discover the little outstretched petal-like hand—which, incidentally, she had forgotten to put into view.

The audience howled louder than the child, and Mr. Ohara, his face fiery, sank deep into his seat as the curtain fell on this scene of carnage. The applause was both indulgent and genuine. Little Trouble got a bigger hand than anyone.

Both of Haruko's parents sat impassive. They neither smiled nor sobbed, laughed nor applauded. Mr. Ohara had almost disappeared from view, his head sunk down in the collar of his kimono.

Haruko, somewhat bewildered by the conclusion of the beautiful tragedy, turned toward Ichiro. He had the oddest expression on his face. His mouth was set tight but apparently wanted to turn up at the corners, and he was looking at his folded hands. As she looked at him, he turned slightly and, from the corners of his eyes, saw her. He blinked manfully, but his mouth curled still wider. She suddenly saw he was trying to keep from smiling, and the expression on his face—so like that when he had been the little boy she had known so well—made her forget all about the sad fate of Chocho-san. It was so infectious that she smiled a little herself. Blinking with effort he tried to compose his face, but couldn't. He looked so ludicrous that Haruko laughed out loud. Her mother cast a single piercing glance at her, but it had no effect, because Ichiro was now laughing too.

They looked into each other's eyes—across the heads of the three bewildered adults—and laughed like children.

As the audience slowly moved out of the auditorium, the Major pulled Gloria into a corner of the lobby.

"Now, you and me are going to do some talking," he said.

She looked wildly about for Michael, couldn't see him, and was forcibly pushed into one of the chairs. She began to like the Major more. He could be rough.

"Now ... I asked you to marry me—" he began.

"I was wondering when you were going to admit it. I thought you'd forgotten."

"I haven't thought of nothing else but."

"Well, this is flattering, I must say, but—"

"I'll put it right on the line, Miss Wilson. I'm going to be worth a lot of money."

Gloria looked at him curiously. "Oh?" she said.

"I mean—you could do worse maybe."

"Well, I don't know," said Gloria. "At least you are a man of few words. But you're not buying a horse, you know; you're asking a lovely young lady to—"

"I'm just putting my cards on the table, that's all I'm doing."

"O. K., I'm game. Why is you going to be worth lots of money, Mr. Bones?"

"Because I'm honest and dependable and save my pay."

"Well, that's an anti-climax, I must say," said Gloria. "I'd have thought you were up to your ears in the black market to hear you talk."

The Major laughed easily. "You'd laugh out of the other side of your mouth if you knew how much I made this evening.... Yes, this evening, while we was here listening to the pretty music."

"If I had another side to my mouth, I should be pleased to use it, but I think I should inform you that during proposals you don't need to sell the girl on you. All you need to do is ask her, and then receive your yes or no like a man."

She suddenly noticed that the Major was embarrassed. He sat beside her and looked at the floor.

"Aw..." he began. "I know that the money don't matter, but, you see, Miss Wilson, I know too that you don't really much like me and that you're only being kind to me now—and I hate it. But still I got to ask you. But first I ought to tell you something about me."

"Where the money comes from?" she asked brightly. "But you've already told enough so I can imagine the rest."

He was silent for a moment, and then said: "No. I had another girl."

"That makes us even, Major. It so happens I've had another boy."

"I mean ... I sort of still got her. I won't have for long. Already I'm getting away. Like just this afternoon, you remember, after I took you home to lie down for a bit, why, right after that I rushed right over to meet her because she wanted a favor done and I told her right then and there that that's the last favor I was ever going to do her and it was sort of a going-away present from me. That way, you see, I was able to let her down without hurting her. My, but she got mad though, but I went right on telling her. 'Cause I'd already made up my mind and asked you to marry me and I just wanted to end this other as soon as I possibly could." The Major was silent, and he looked both self-righteous and noble.

"And what is the name of this forlorn female?" asked Gloria curiously.

"Guess I can tell you since we shouldn't have no secrets from each other... It's Mrs. Ainsley—Dorothy Ainsley."

Gloria stared at him in surprise, and then said: "And then, last night... after you left me, you .. ."

The Major turned red. "How'd you know?" he whispered.

Gloria remembered her breakfast with Dottie—her saying that Gloria should be married. And here was the chance, all gift-wrapped. So amused she could hardly keep her mouth straight, Gloria also realized that this was the way to get rid of the embarrassing Major once and for all and yet still stay in good graces at the office. She was wondering which pose to take—perhaps maidenhood threatened, a protective gesture with both hands, somewhat reminiscent of nymphs in flight, that sort of thing—when the Major suddenly caught sight of two men standing in the almost-empty lobby.

"Those them?" he asked.

"Those who?" said Gloria.

"Those men you saw before."

"Yes, I think so. Their faces are familiar, as all CID faces should be. In fact, the face of every man in the CID is as familiar to me as the palm of my mother's hand. Actually, one of the qualifications for their being chosen, I hear, is that they must betray a striking resemblance to the palm of Gloria Wilson's mother's hand."

The Major turned to her and grinned sickly. Just then the two men moved away from the wall and walked toward them.

Stopping beside the Major, one of the men said: "Major Calloway?"

The Major looked up, his face white, and nodded.

"Might we speak with you for a second? . . . Excuse us, ma'am."

The Major, his face a dead white, stood up with them, and all three marched around the corner.

Gloria sat alone on the chair and tried to decide exactly what she would do with the Major. His proposal seemed quite touching, a declaration of faith rather than of love, and the very fact that she had received it made her think less frequently of what she had overheard about herself that afternoon.

As she idly examined her stockings for runs, she wondered if she would be the same if she were still in America. She finally decided that she would want to be, but wouldn't have the opportunity. There she'd have to be reasonably good. But here she didn't have to be. Suddenly she understood why people in the Occupation were the way they were. Like her, they were intrinsically rather nice, but simply being here had been enough to demoralize them. If they fibbed at home, they lied here; if they only occasionally picked up little items in the five-and-ten at home, they robbed the Army—and the Japanese—blind here; if they liked the opposite sex at home, well, then... just look at Miss Gloria Wilson.

These thoughts somewhat reassured her. It was the environment, or something, she decided. Perhaps it was just part of being a conqueror. At any rate it was quite demoralizing. She slipped her feet from her shoes and curled up in the chair. And it was such fun being demoralized.

She noticed someone standing near her. Looking up, she discovered it was Michael. "Oh, heavens," she said, "you've discovered me thinking—and with a straight face. This will never do. Come, sit down and get warm."

Michael sat down heavily.

"You don't look too well."

"I don't feel too well," said Michael, turning to look at her for the first time. His eyes were red, as though he had a cold.

"Well, I'm glad you waited for me," said Gloria.

"I won't be very good company," lie began, turning slightly toward her. "But couldn't we go someplace together, just you and me?"

"I've wanted to hear those very words for a long time, Michael, but I more than a little suspect I wouldn't be hearing them now unless something fairly unpleasant had happened to you recently. Come on, instead of going out and boring each other with fun and games, why don't you just sit here and tell Aunt Gloria all about it. They won't dare try to close this place up as long as we conquerors choose to stay here."

"I wish you'd be serious."

"And how does one be serious?" asked Gloria seriously. As she looked at Michael she felt that, even now, she was playing some kind of part, had cast herself into yet a new role, this time that of the defender of the wrong and injured. Gloria, mother of the world; Gloria, the picture of warm, compassionate womanhood. It was such a strain not being oneself.

As she continued looking at Michael she realized that she didn't know which was her true self anyway. Was it the way she had been with Sonoko that morning, the warm, protective, school-chum type; or was it, perhaps, the palpitating female with Michael later on; or, maybe, the devastating cynic with the Major? Or was she really just a loud-mouthed, lecherous female with pretensions to kindness, love, and culture?

Suddenly she realized her steady gaze was embarrassing the soldier. Looking down at her knees, she said: "I wanted to see you to ask you something about the Colonel. I've been given to understand that he's leaving. And that means we'll both be at the tender mercies, for a time at least, of the Major. Now, do you think maybe—"

At that moment the Major appeared around the corner, flanked by the two men. One of the men stayed behind with the Major, and the other one walked over to Gloria and Michael.

He smiled an apology at Gloria and said: "Private Richardson?"

Michael nodded and stood up.

"May we see you for a minute?" asked the man. He begged Gloria's pardon again, and all four men marched back around the corner.

Gloria waited and waited, but they never came back.