by Ian Buruma
“What an adventure it would be for both of us,” she said, her face lit up by a happy smile. “You know why I really want to go to the States?” she said, beckoning with her hand for me to come closer.
“No, why?”
Lowering her voice like a conspirator, she said: “To learn how to kiss.” She showed her pretty white teeth and giggled. I noticed that she never covered her mouth when she laughed, unlike most Japanese women.
12
MOVING BACK TO the dreaded United States was of course the last thing I had in mind. It is true that I had thought of studying Japanese properly at a university. I could get a scholarship. Uncle Sam was generous in that way. But I wasn’t ready to go just yet. I was having too good a time in Tokyo. Rules against fraternization with indigenous personnel had been relaxed. We no longer had uniformed martinets going around the Mimatsu Nightclub with rulers to make sure there were always six inches of space between Japanese and American dancing partners. Japanese cinemas were no longer out of bounds. We could receive Japanese in our rooms, if we wanted. And oh, how I wanted. I fraternized, and fraternized, and fraternized. I adored Japanese boys, and the great thing was, they were so available: on building sites, in subway trains, in public parks and coffee shops, railway stations and moviehouses, just anywhere, really, where people gathered for work or pleasure. All the straight young men were crazy for sex and didn’t much mind where they got it. And they loved Americans back then. Before that inevitable moment that has to come for every Japanese, of marriage and the conventional life, I would service their needs with the greatest of pleasure. I kept a diary in those days, and would mark every new conquest with a little flag. With every new flag, I felt I reached a little deeper into the soul of Japan.
Not a good time to move, then. I was sharing an adorable little wooden house near the Ebisu subway station with Carl, whose taste for boys was as voracious as mine. Still, one can’t be at it all the time. When we weren’t fraternizing, we went to the Kabuki, and the Noh. I loved opera, so I preferred the showiness of the former, while Carl favored the austerity of Noh. We also spent many hours exploring the old neighborhoods of Tokyo. The absence of historical remnants added a peculiar poignancy to the few bits and pieces that we did manage to find: a charred Tokugawa shrine, a neglected graveyard of Yoshiwara courtesans, the crumbling gate of an aristocratic mansion, the ruins of an old garden whose weeds didn’t entirely disguise the formal design of more elegant times. Their sad state left so much to one’s imagination. In time, of course, the city was rebuilt. This was all to the good. I admired the cheerful way the Japanese put themselves to the task of reconstructing their country. And yet—perhaps I shouldn’t say this— I sometimes miss the wreckage of Tokyo, just as it was when I first arrived. I miss the romance, I guess. I now live in one of the most exciting, most vibrant, most cutting-edge cities in the world. A man who hasn’t lived in Tokyo hasn’t lived in the modern world. And yet, and yet . . . the city of my imagination is no more.
We would talk, Carl and I, on our long walks through the low city to the east, about history, the Japanese, the Americans, art, theater, boys, and books, but also about our luck to be living in a place where we were treated with deference, but more often with indifference. Indifference is a much-underrated quality. If only the Jews in Europe had been treated with indifference. Because we were not judged, we could be whoever we wanted to be, and that, paradoxically, is to be most oneself. But what I wanted to be, to pile one paradox onto another, was more Japanese. I felt comfortable with Japanese in a way I never had with Americans. I was figuring out the codes of conduct that made me feel trusted and accepted by them, and this made me feel strangely at home.
To claim that General MacArthur felt the same way would be an absurdity. He never saw any Japanese below the ranks of emperor or prime minister, which didn’t make for a varied social life. For all his pontification about the Oriental mind, I’m not sure he ever knew much about Japan, or anywhere Asian, but he had an instinctive feel for it. He didn’t have to know the place intellectually; books were of no use to him. He knew it in his bones.
It was enough to see him go in and out of his office in the Daiichi Life Insurance Building every day, an operation that was staged with the stylized ceremony of a Noh play. When we were in the area with nothing else to do, Carl and I would go and watch, just to amuse ourselves. It was pure theater. The crowd was held back by MPs, as the limousine pulled up to the front of the building at precisely the same time every morning. A whistle was blown, the ceremonial guards presented arms, the door of the limo was opened, always by the same soldier, always in the same way, facing the back of the car, and SCAP emerged from his black coach, wearing his famous crushed cap. He turned his hawkish profile to the right, then to the left, without ever acknowledging the hushed crowd, even with a brief wave or a half salute, made a quick turn, and walked briskly, though never too fast, to the front door. This fascinating spectacle was repeated every day, except Sundays. “Susan” had acquired the solemn gravitas of a Shogun, every movement of his body an illustration of his lofty aloofness from the people he ruled with the imperious air of a strict but benevolent father.
I was but a cog in the giant wheel of the SCAP’s Department of Civil Information. And I would have been quite content to continue in that humble position for a while longer. However, the best plans in life have a way of being disrupted by unforeseen events. I should have sensed trouble when Murphy and I were summoned one day to Willoughby’s office, for this was very irregular. Even Murphy never saw Willoughby, except on official business. Without Mr. Capra’s introduction I would never have been able to meet him the first time. It was only after I had joined his staff that I realized what an unusual privilege this had been.
Murphy didn’t smell a rat either, even though he, a true-blue New Dealer, detested Willoughby’s reputation as a Republican to the right—as Willoughby himself often put it—of Genghis Khan. Ever the optimist, Murphy speculated that we might be singled out for special praise, or, one never knew, perhaps even a promotion. He looked oddly cheerful as he bounded up the stairs in his big black boots and freshly clipped hair, every inch the good soldier. I followed him, with amusement more than apprehension. I was curious to hear what the old monster had to say to us. We were ordered to wait in a separate room. When a young officer told us to proceed, we had been waiting for more than half an hour.
Still entertained, I looked over the familiar objects in Willoughby’s office that had struck me the last time I was there: the Kaiser’s bust, the porcelain figurines dancing in the glass cabinet by the wall. I noted a new addition to the pictures on the wall; perhaps I just hadn’t noticed it before: a small silver-framed photograph of General Franco of Spain, signed with a message of some kind written in neat little letters. I couldn’t read what it said, but could make out the name Willoughby quite clearly. “Gentlemen,” he said with his elaborate Old World courtesy, “won’t you sit down.” Murphy looked very pleased to be in this exalted place, this antechamber, as it were, of SCAP’s inner sanctum.
Willoughby carefully removed the gold-embossed wrapper from an expensive-looking cigar, and took his time clipping it with an instrument that closely resembled a miniature guillotine. “From Havana,” he commented, “best in the world. Have you noticed, gentlemen, the general decline in the quality of cigars? This is no trivial matter. The decline of our civilization is reflected in the steady decline of the good cigar, I always say.” He passed the cigar under his nose, lightly brushing the Ronald Colman mustache. I wondered where this was leading. His manner of speaking combined silkiness and pomposity in equal measure, a disconcerting mixture.
“However,” he continued, after lighting the cigar, “this is not why I requested the pleasure of your company. Gentlemen, what I wish to discuss with you today is the nature of our mission in Japan, a most delicate mission, to be sure. Winning the war, I believe, was but one necessary step toward a higher goal. As the General observed on the deck of th
e Missouri under the standard born to Japan in 1853 by Commodore Matthew Perry, as the General observed on that great day in our history, we are here to create ‘a better world founded on faith and understanding.’ We shall ‘liberate the Japanese from a condition of slavery’ and bring peace for all time. Do you remember those sacred words, gentlemen?”
Murphy, who could not have put it better himself, and was perhaps pleasantly surprised that a crusty old leatherneck like Willoughby would have shared these noble sentiments, confirmed with great enthusiasm: “Yes sir, we surely do!”
“Good,” said Willoughby, “good. And we are all agreed that our great mission to bring liberation and peace can only meet with success if we treat our erstwhile foes with the utmost civility. There can be no room for prejudice on the grounds of race or creed. We will show the highest regard for what is best in the tradition of this brave and honorable island race, is that not so, gentlemen?”
“Yes sir, of course, sir!” said Murphy, his voice raised almost to a shout.
“We will not blindly impose our own habits, some of which might be less than admirable, on an alien race. While creating a world of freedom, we will respect our differences in culture and history, will we not? We cannot just act as if the whole world were just another state of America, can we? After all, Japan is not Kansas or Nebraska.”
“No sir, it surely isn’t,” shouted Murphy.
At this point Willoughby paused, peering through the smoke that swirled in the milky beam of the morning sun. “Well, then, if we all agree on these principles, laid out for us with such noble force by the General, would you be so kind as to explain to me how the hell you could have passed a subversive, arrogant, prejudiced, disgusting piece of Red propaganda”—here he spat out a string of tobacco and drew a deep breath, trying to control his mounting rage—“an affront, an affront not just to the fine people of Japan but to the very enterprise we are embarked upon at great expense in blood and treasure. Am I making myself clear, gentlemen?”
Neither Murphy nor I had a clue what he was talking about. Surely there had to be some mistake. Murphy was about to protest, but Willoughby stopped him before he could speak. Willoughby was now hitting his stride, as though he were in a lecture hall, or a church: “I have experienced awkward moments during my time in Japan. How could it be otherwise? This is a strange country. They have their own ways of thinking and doing things. But I have never experienced anything, anything at all, to compare to the mortification I felt after watching that piece of Commie propaganda at the residence of the Japanese prime minister, who is a fine gentleman. When Prime Minister Yoshida objected most vigorously to this frontal attack on our policies, and the gross disrespect shown to the Emperor of Japan, who is worshipped by all Japanese as a deity, what could I say to the prime minister? You tell me, gentlemen. What the hell could I say to him?”
“But . . .” Murphy began.
“No buts,” said Willoughby, sounding like a headmaster who has seen discipline go to the dogs. “Don’t you know what we’re up against? Don’t you realize how dearly that bunch of New York Reds would like to sabotage our mission?”
Maybe I was wrong, but I felt as if he were looking straight at me. I had a shrewd notion who “that bunch” might be. Instead of opening that can of worms, however, I asked Willoughby very politely which film he had seen at Prime Minister Yoshida’s residence.
This made things worse. By now Willoughby had worked himself into a frenzy, spraying his immaculate desk with drops of spittle. “You dunderheads! You duffers! Don’t you feign ignorance! You not only passed this execrable picture, by the title of Dark Times, or something of that sort, but from what I hear you even had an active hand in it. What is it you want? A revolution in Japan? A civil war? An insurrection? Is that your idea of peace and progress? Well, it will not pass! It will not pass! The film will be withdrawn from all cinemas and banned forthwith! Murphy, you will be moved at once to another department, where you can do no more damage. I believe they still need men in our postal services. And as for you, young man, I am deeply disappointed. Worse yet, I feel you have abused my goodwill, coming to me with a recommendation from Mr. Capra, then letting your country down in this way. Capra is a fine patriot. Wait until he hears of this. There will be no more place for you in our administration. That will be all, gentlemen.”
“But, sir,” went Murphy, who was on the verge of tears.
“Dismissed!” cried Willoughby.
And that, I’m afraid, was indeed that.
13
MY FIRST REACTION was one of panic. I felt as though I were about to be expelled from the Garden of Eden. Without a job, it would be impossible to stay in Japan. How would I cope with a life of exile in the cold country of my birth?
My friends, Carl, Nobu, and the others, were sympathetic. Nobu, the dear boy, even wept when he heard that I might have to leave. But there was nothing they could do to help me. Yoshiko was not surprised when I told her what had happened. She had already heard the news through the cinematic grapevine. She wondered whether General MacArthur himself was aware of the situation. She had friends in high places. In fact, she had a thought: Colonel Wesley F. Gunn, he would surely help. Such a charming man. She would invite us both to a party in her new house in Asagaya.
I didn’t know Colonel Gunn personally, of course, but was aware of his somewhat fearsome reputation as head of the Special Operations Section, and in a less sinister vein, as a legendary ladies’ man, with an endless supply of “kimono girls.” Rumor had it that he had even seduced Hara Setsuko, one of Japan’s most famous movie stars, also known as the Eternal Virgin because, although many tried, including studio bosses and cabinet ministers, no man had ever managed to lay a finger on her. A classical Japanese beauty, Hara cultivated a wholesome image, which only made her more desirable. But she remained impervious to all men who begged for her favors, until—so they say— Colonel Gunn came, saw, and conquered.
Yoshiko’s house was small, but well furnished in a girlish kind of way: thick cushions, fluffy carpets, a large collection of dolls, Chinese scrolls, and photographs of Yoshiko with a variety of people. I recognized Kawamura in several pictures, Ikebe, Hotta, and others whom I couldn’t identify. In the Western-style living room hung a portrait of the young Yoshiko, dressed in a high-necked Chinese dress. The artist had made much of her large eyes and red lips, like two burning pieces of coal above a pair of plump cherries.
Major Gunn, who turned up with his executive officer, named Dietrick, was no Valentino. Short and thickset, with a bull neck, he had short blond hair, like pig bristles. Dietrick was by far the better-looking. But Gunn exuded the kind of energy that could easily explode into aggression. He took Yoshiko in his arms and twirled her around, while she shrieked in mock protest, her short legs kicking. Dietrick, a more reserved character, put down some boxes from the PX, filled with bottles of whiskey, sausages, cheese, perfumes, records, and various kinds of ladies’ underwear.
Neither Gunn nor Dietrick appeared to be too pleased to see me, and they pretty much ignored my presence for the rest of the evening, which after the first few rounds of whiskey started to get quite wild. Yoshiko had made an attempt to interest Gunn in my case, but without any noticeable effect. He just put another jazz record on the phonograph. Both men took their turns to dance with her, and I was the unwilling witness to a competition in which it was clear who would emerge as the victor. No matter how much Dietrick tried to impress Yoshiko with his somewhat fawning manners, it was Gunn’s cruder, more energetic approach that proved more seductive. Yoshiko closed her eyes as he bent her backwards in a tango that upset one of the open bottles, spilling liquor all over the floor. He sat down on the sofa, lifted her up in his arms as though she were a doll, and placed her on his lap. It was getting late. I felt I had seen enough and said I really had to go. But Gunn, who had barely spoken to me, told me to relax; Yoshiko would sing us a song. Yoshiko resisted. She had had too much to drink. “Please,” she begged, “please, n
o. No songs tonight.”
“Sure you will!” roared Gunn, while Dietrick, more animated than he had been before, and with a slight air of menace, shouted: “ ‘China Nights,’ ‘China Nights’!” Yoshiko, still in Gunn’s lap, shook her head and giggled, despite her obvious distress. Gunn put her on her feet, and told her to get up on the goddamn table. “Please, no,” she pleaded, still laughing, but with fear in her eyes. Gunn swept the empty bottles and food bowls off the table, grabbed her hand, and lifted her onto the table: “Now sing!” he said. “ ‘China Nights.’ Hubba hubba!” Both men clapped their hands, as though cheering a nightclub act. And she began singing, hesitantly at first, then louder, while the men leaned back, savoring their triumph. At the end of the song, Yoshiko covered her face in her hands and started sobbing. I desperately wanted to protect her, save her from these animals. Gunn grabbed her in his thick, hairy arms. I thought she would hit him, as she had every reason to do. He whispered something in her ear. I saw her arms tighten around his hoglike back.
14
TO SAY THAT I felt miserable would be an understatement. I felt deflated, inadequate, impotent, hopeless. How could we help the Japanese, with monsters like Willoughby and Gunn in charge? There was nothing more to fear from the Japanese militarists. Instead, the Japanese now needed protection from our own people. But what could I do, a nobody about to be sent back to my dreadful country?
Feeling very sorry for myself, I decided to indulge in one of Tony’s pizzas. That usually lifted my darkest moods. I’ve never met a sausage I didn’t like, and Tony’s pepperoni almost always did the trick. It was after the normal lunch hour on a rainy Thursday afternoon. There was only one other diner, a morose-looking American with thin black hair. He was probably homesick, missing his regular food. Tony emerged from the kitchen, looking big, lumbering, like a retired prizefighter, pressed into a blue double-breasted suit.
