This Scorching Earth (40 page)

After deciding that Ueno sounded as unlikely a spot as any, she sat back on the cushions and tried to light a cigarette, but her hand trembled. "Oh, really!" said Gloria. She had cramps—pure fear she guessed. It was too absurd....

She opened her eyes. They were at Ueno.

"Turn right—right," said Gloria. Ueno was as brilliantly lighted as a Christmas tree. Oddly so, she thought, for the name had always sounded dark and mysterious.

"Asakusa?" said the driver in some surprise.

"Yes, wherever that is," said Gloria.

Tadashi nodded. He was becoming suspicious. It was very irregular for an American lady to be in these districts even in the daytime, much more so at midnight. Also, this drive was taking time and he didn't dare get another delinquency report.

He slowed down to turn toward Asakusa, but Gloria leaned forward, her face almost touching the back of his neck, and said: "Straight."

"Straight?" asked Tadashi, now more frightened than suspicious. But he followed her directions.

They drove across the Sumida River into Honjo. There the streets went in all directions.

Completely lost, Gloria said: "Right."

He began driving faster. If the lady simply wanted a ride, what would he put on his trip ticket? He decided that before long he would pretend to misunderstand a direction and get them back across the river. Fukagawa lay directly before them.

"Left," said the lady, her mouth at the back of his neck.

She had seen an enormous expanse of unlighted field, a road running white and dim down the middle of it.

He stopped the car.

"Left," she said again.

He started the car and turned to the left. The headlights illuminated a blackened stretch of ruin, covered with weeds. The road stretched into the darkness toward distant lights on the opposite side of the open stretch.

When they were in the middle of the charred and blackened expanse, Gloria called "Stop!" more loudly than she'd intended.

Certain that the American lady was either sick or drunk—or both—Tadashi stopped the car with a jerk.

"Yes, please?" he said quickly, turning around.

The poor boy is frightened, thought Gloria, and it made her feel better that they should both be frightened, for she was too—quite frightened.

She quickly opened the door and climbed into the front seat. That back seat was at least one obstacle she could get around. Quite suddenly she wished for a drink, a drink for both of them. Drunk it would be easier. It was going to be difficult with both of them sober.

"Cigarette?" she said, holding out her pack and smiling.

It was then that he recognized her. He pointed a finger at her, his mouth half-open and his eyes black in the flare of the match.

"Yes, it's me," said Gloria, both touched and pleased.

Tadashi started putting the automobile into gear, but Gloria reached over and turned the ignition switch.

"Now, you don't want to run away," she said evenly. She didn't really care what she said as long as her tone was reassuring. The tone she used to Tadashi was the same she used for talking to animals.

"What you want to run away for? Heavens, it's only little me, and I wouldn't hurt a fly. You know that. We'll just sit here, real comfortable, and smoke our cigarettes and be friends."

"Friends?" said Tadashi, that being one of the few English words he knew. He sat very straight in his seat and puffed his cigarette swiftly. Americans were certainly friendly. Almost never had he had this so spectacularly proved as now. Apparently all she wanted was to be friends. Still, though he would like to be her friend, he had to think about the Motor Pool and about returning to it. He must not lose his job.

"Yes, friends—tomodachi," said Gloria.

"Tomodachi," said Tadashi.

Gloria had never run into the language barrier with such, force before. It both intrigued and infuriated her. Really, conversation did have its place after all. It would be just too much if she, like Major Calloway, let her hand slide across the sedan seat to his, to the fist he was holding by his side. The poor boy was doubtless terrified.

To reassure him, she turned her head away and looked around them. This was the most extensive ruin she had seen since coming to Tokyo, and they seemed to be in the very middle of it. In the distance, on all sides, were the lights of the city, distant as stars. Between them and the car there was nothing but blackness. The sedan was an illuminated island on the black field, and the white road led away from them into the darkness. The odor of burning leaves was blown by the cold wind. It smelled as though the earth were smoking, scorching.

Her studied inattention may have reassured
him,
but the surroundings certainly didn't reassure
her.
She decided they should play a game. After saying "What's that?" and pointing in several directions, she got her idea across.

"What's that?" she said and pointed west.

"Sumida-gawa," said Tadashi soberly.

"What's that?" She pointed north.

"Honjo."

"And that?" She pointed south.

"Fukagawa."

"What a delightful name!" said Gloria, laughing in her throat.

Tadashi said nothing.

"And right here?" She pointed all around them.

"Susaki."

"Lovely place, no?" said Gloria and looked around.

The wind blew dead leaves across the road.

"New game, new game," said Gloria and wrinkled her nose. "My—name—is—Gloria."

"Guroria," he repeated.

"Yes, Gloria Wilson. It's perfectly all right, darling—we'll never see each other again." She smiled briefly. "And what's yours?"

"Guroria Wiruson—you," said Tadashi. The American lady was lying. Her name was Mrs. Ainsley—a married lady. It said so on his trip ticket.

"Yes, dear—me, Tarzan; you, Jane."

"Missu Wiruson," said Tadashi. If the woman was demented, as he had begun to suspect, he should probably agree with her as much as possible.

She looked at his profile and felt sorry for him. He was just too good looking. At the same time she felt sorry for herself. They were no longer Myrna Loy and an Indian prince in disguise. They were merely Gloria Wilson from Muncie, Indiana, and a poor, frightened, and—unfortunately for him—roaringly handsome sedan driver who, for all she knew, had a wife and kids at home, all hungry and waiting. The whole thing had begun to seem a bit sordid.

She remembered dark tales she'd heard of other American women who had stolen across the color line. How on earth had they gone about it she wondered.

"Where?" asked Tadashi helplessly.

"Oh, you bad boy," said Gloria, laughing. "Why, right here I suppose. Do you know a better place?"

As soon as she'd said this she looked out the window, irritated with herself. This really was too much! How self-indulgent could you get anyway? Why didn't the fool boy start the car and just get them out of here. He was the man. He was supposed to do things like that.

Yet, if he did, she knew she'd do everything she could to stop the car again. It was always the same. The only thing different was that this time it was Gloria who made the advances, directly rather than indirectly. Besides, she told herself, if I don't, I'll be an even bigger fool than I am now. I'll lie sleepless in that damn bed and think about what
could
have happened. I'll really kick myself if I don't go through with this. Beside, what does it matter? Come on in, the water's fine....

She grimaced with a sudden cramp, closed her eyes briefly, reached over and took Tadashi's hand in her own, and opened her eyes. Well, that was easy. Tadashi hadn't moved.

He was terrified. It had just occurred to him what it was this Mrs. Ainsley was after. The responsibility would have frightened him in any event, for such an occurrence was without parallel in his experience. But now it frightened him all the more because, through it, a pattern of his life was revealing itself to him.

All day the pattern had been forming; now it was revealed. Mrs. Ainsley had been with him three times that day, for now he remembered having seen her that morning too. This was too often for coincidence. But it also seemed he had seen her once before, long ago, in Shimbashi, the night of the fire, when his sisters and parents and friends had been killed. Was she not perhaps the unknown lady in Shimbashi, the lady in Western clothes? She was very like her. And now they were sitting in the ruins of that fire, he and the lady who had kept him from his duty, the duty of being burned with his parents and sisters. They were sitting in Susaki—the section devoted to the pleasures of the flesh, where his father had been burned to death almost five years before. The destruction of Tokyo rose before Tadashi's eyes, and the dark plain burned fiercely. He was a very superstitious young man.

Gloria leaned forward, and as he turned his head, her mouth, its fleshy lips like little arms, caught his and held him.

He smelled her perfume, the odor of her lipstick and of tobacco. He closed his eyes and held his breath.

"Ardor—that's what I like," said Gloria as she pulled away.

She lighted another cigarette, and he refused one. She still held his hand, and as her match flared out she saw the palm" of his hand, wet, like her own.

"Let's look at it this way," she said, "this is democracy in action,"

"Democracy," said Tadashi.

"Sure, honey. And now you see—democracy
can
be fun! Now I'll give you one of the finer points—this is the Monroe Doctrine."

She held the cigarette in one hand and bent over him. This time her lips very gently pried his open. His were cool and yielding.

It was actually a bit clinical, like being at the dentist's, thought Gloria, for the child didn't know how to kiss. Well, she would teach him!

She slipped one arm around his waist, thinking, goodness, how masculine can you get. The wool of his Army uniform scratched her wrist softly. She could see herself, spreading democracy and good cheer all over these lovely islands. And one nice thing—there was no shortage of material for democratization. She'd really been limiting her talent by confining her attentions to white males—these little people were delightful. They made one feel so masterful. Before long General MacArthur himself would have to be awarding her a medal.

And the dear boy's heart was like a triphammer. Probably just as appreciative as he was reluctant. She had a pleasing vision of her future—her reputation reestablished with those whose opinion counted, and the entire male Japanese population stretched at her feet like that platoon the Major had mentioned—all stretched out and not caring what happened. If only the good Major could see her now—what a shock he'd be in for!

Really, how predatory can you get, thought Gloria; then—oh, well, the hell with it—she slipped her tongue between Tadashi's half-opened lips.

Frightened, he pushed her away.

"Did I frighten my little lamb?" asked Gloria, looking at him closely. His lips were still partly open, and in the reflected light it looked as though he were smiling.

"Well, you're a sly one," she said. "Lookie, dear, just wait until I get out of this fur job I've got on. See, you're almost democratized already. To say nothing of myself.

Finding she couldn't get her coat off in the car without mussing herself all up, she opened the door. There'd still be plenty of time later for mussing.

"Missu Wiruson," said Tadashi.

"That's the name," said Gloria, and backed out of the car, enjoying the cool air on her calves. "Just wait until I take off this coat and we can..." She stood outside, still struggling with the fur coat her mother had sent her. "And then we can—"

The car door suddenly disappeared, and with it the car.

Tadashi drove so fast that he had only a fleeting image in the rear-view mirror of the lady struggling with her coat before she became a small, dim figure in the distance, and then disappeared in the complete darkness.

He drove away from the Susaki district as fast as he could, and at last found the bridge leading over the Sumida River from Fukagawa to Nihombashi. He drove across the bridge, where years before he had found the bicycle; and passed the corner of the Shirokiya Department Store, where he had bought his mother the bolt of cloth. A lone pedicab driver nearly fell off his bicycle before he succeeded in escaping the sedan. The tears in Tadashi's eyes blinded him, and finally he slowed down.

His tears were not caused by his fear of the inevitable deliquency report and its consequences, nor by his fear of the friendly lady. The day had another pattern: it was the pattern of his own failure to himself. Twice today he had been given the opportunity to become himself, to act upon his own convictions. He could have taken the soldier to Shinjuku. He could have satisfied the lady.

Ordinarily he would have had little compunction concerning either. Both were essentially friendly, human acts. To be sure, he would have been enormously in the lady's debt, but the situation was so unusual that he need not worry about obligations. And yet he had satisfied neither the soldier nor the lady, and, more important, he had not satisfied himself. He, who scorned the military, all militaries, who hated discipline, who wanted more than anything to become a real individual. In that he had failed, yet again.