Mr. Jones

by Margaret Sweatman

  “They’re hiding.”

  “I don’t think so.” There’d be no sense for soldiers to hide here. The village isn’t close enough to the railway line, and it’s too exposed. Who would the soldiers attack, anyway? The only danger came from the air.

  There weren’t any anti-aircraft guns. Wilson could figure this out for himself. But Emmett asked Wilson, “If you write that nobody shot back — that there probably weren’t any soldiers anywhere near the village the USAF just bombed — would your newspaper print it?”

  Wilson angrily muttered, “Sure.” He took a flask from his jacket pocket, offered it to Emmett, who gladly accepted. “But I’m not going to report it that way.” Wilson saw Emmett’s disappointment, and he added, “How do I know where the soldiers are? We’re nearly two miles in the air.” Wilson drank, muttering, “Goddamn fucking bastards.”

  Emmett guessed that Wilson meant the Chinese communists. His eyes searched the mountains for signs of Chinese troops but saw no one. They were flying over a rail line broken by bombs, but he saw no people anywhere.

  Wilson went on writing and drinking. He noticed Emmett’s intense white face and he observed, “You’re in a funny spot.”

  “Think so?”

  “You came out here just because you were curious?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Got more than you bargained for.”

  “I’m glad I know what I know.”

  “Sure, but what can you do about it? You can’t even report it to your government. You’re not even here.”

  “I’m glad I know,” Emmett said again, looking toward the Korean mountains, their summits filled with snow. He believed that the air force had bombed that village to give the general an exciting show.

  “More stupidity,” Wilson said, “more gratuitous cruelty. Mean, blunt force. You’re glad to know?” Wilson had had quite a bit to drink, but he appeared to be sober. He had an unmemorable face, his features obscured by capillary veins across his sagging cheeks, his green eyes moist and heavy-lidded. His first assignment as Far East correspondent for LIFE, he’d told Emmett, was to cover the Nanking Massacre. “Yeah,” Wilson said, “it’s better to know.”

  Wilson continued, “It makes it hard to enjoy life, to feel good about being a human being, knowing what people are happy to do to each other. So” — he took a drink — “I don’t intend to live very long. But I won’t live my life like a bat in the dark. I’ll look at it full in the face.”

  Emmett stared into the mountain sky. “These kinds of things,” he said, “evil things, they can make a man turn. Make him nihilistic. A man’s got to find something to hope for. He’ll go crazy if he can’t imagine something better. He’ll start to hate himself. And hate others.” He turned toward Wilson.

  The way Wilson shook his head indicated he’d already, long ago, considered that. “It’s a commitment, understand? Knowing how bad it can get and not looking away. It’s like deciding to love someone. Love the bastards who blow the place up.”

  “What if you hate the bastards?”

  Wilson shrugged and handed him the flask. “Then you’ve let them kill you too.”

  Emmett took a drink.

  Wilson said, “I believe in the margin of error. I will forgive human fallibility till I finally get run over by an army jeep.”

  Their plane was heading back to Tokyo. Ahead of them was the air force plane carrying General MacArthur. Wilson was saying, “A buddy of mine, a reporter, was in the Philippines with MacArthur when we dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima. He said that MacArthur was all cut up about it. My friend told me he walked into MacArthur’s quarters in Manila, and MacArthur could hardly talk he was so sad — he was all quiet for a change. MacArthur asks my friend, ‘Do you know what this means?’ My friend says, ‘What does it mean, General?’ MacArthur says, ‘It means there’ll be no more wars.’ He says, ‘It means I’m obsolete. The scientists are going to run things now.’ MacArthur was as sad as sad could be, over the atom bomb.” Wilson shook his head. “No more war. He wept.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  In October 1950, MacArthur believed he would win the war in Korea by Christmas. By October 20, his forces had overtaken North Korea’s capital Pyongyang, and General MacArthur had told President Truman, “If the Chinese try to get down to Pyongyang, there’ll be a great slaughter.”

  Unless the Chinese gained air protection. And only the Russians had the power to provide air protection to the People’s Liberation Army.

  The Chinese had Russian air support by the first of November. Then the Chinese People’s Volunteer Army infiltrated the UN lines, cut them off and circled their flanks, drove them out of Pyongyang into the snow-covered mountains in small, disparate groups of wounded men. Anyone too injured to walk froze to death or was captured.

  November 27, thirty below zero, one hundred and fifty thousand Chinese soldiers marched through the snow of Manchuria undetected and came out of the night to encircle the Americans at the Chosin Reservoir in the northeast of North Korea. MacArthur began to try to orchestrate a massive retreat. He wouldn’t permit anyone, however, to call it that, a retreat. Reporters were instructed to write that the American troops had “moved back to new prepared positions.”

  On a sleeting day in December, Emmett was working from his office at the Canadian Liaison Office in Tokyo when the receptionist popped in and told him he had a visitor.

  “Who is it?”

  “Beats me.” Following Emmett down the corridor, she added, “He looks like the nervous type.”

  A man in his mid-forties wearing a wrinkled black suit with a white shirt and a skinny black tie, unmistakably jet-lagged and harried, sat smoking in one of the Bauhaus chairs. He wore black glasses, had an oblong face, and he looked unhappy.

  He stood and offered his hand. “Miller. George Miller. US State Department. How are we today, Mr. Jones?”

  The interview took place there, in the reception area, while staff came and went, and the receptionist sat at her desk reading a Sears Roebuck catalogue. George Miller told Emmett that he was with the Policy Planning Staff, a Washington-based “think tank.” He announced that he was going to lay his cards on the table. “I hear you speak Japanese,” he said, adding with strange emphasis, “must be handy with the girls.”

  Emmett said nothing.

  “Talking the talk, right?” Miller prompted. “It gets you a head start with the ladies.”

  “Not really.”

  “Poor little Japanese butterflies,” said Miller.

  Emmett thought, He’s talking about Aoi. He had been to see Aoi just that weekend. He could still smell her on his clothes.

  Miller put out his cigarette and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “We’re glad Canada has men like you working here. Top-notch.”

  “Thanks.”

  “We just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  “Of?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Same page of what?”

  Miller gave him a dirty look, running a finger over his lips. “You speak Chinese too, that right?”

  “My field is strictly Japan.”

  “You sure?” Miller made enough of a smile to suggest that it was okay if Emmett laughed. Then he said, “I hear you’re a great fan of Mao.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. It’s not baseball.”

  “What’s that?” Miller cocked his ear.

  “I’m not a fan of anybody.”

  Miller sat back. “Good.”

  Emmett said nothing.

  “You’ve got friends in Ottawa.”

  “Oh?”

  “A real rising star.” Miller began to scratch irritably at the back of his head. “I keep telling Washington, the Canadians aren’t stupid. But you know what? Sometimes they don’t believe me.”

  Miller went on, “I’m being direct with you. Why? Because I respect you. Sure I do. We keep working with you. Why?” He polished his glasses, deliberating, Emmett supposed, an alt
ernative. “We work for a common goal. What’s that? Freedom! We’re going to wipe the communists from the face of the earth.

  “Listen, pal” — Miller leaned toward Emmett — “you want to wear a — what,” he motioned, “sign around your neck tells everybody who you are? Huh? Don’t be a patsy. It’s like the Middle Ages over there in China. Soviet Union? Same damn thing. There’s no equality,” Miller scoffed, as if Emmett had been arguing with him. “They tell you, Emmett, you go work in this, what, rice paddy. I don’t care who you are or how many goddamn languages you speak, how many college degrees you got or who you know. The thing is this. The communists have the A-bomb, and millions, millions of innocent people are going to die. Rosenbergs, you heard of them, you know them?”

  “Sure I’ve heard of them.”

  Miller paused. “You ever meet them?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Course not. How would that happen? Forget it. I’m talking in my sleep.”

  “Mr. Miller,” Emmett said. “Can I call you George? What do you want?” He told himself to stay calm.

  Miller gave a savvy, sideways look and jumped out of his chair to speak into Emmett’s ear. “Who knew the Chinese were going to get involved over there?” Miller pulled back and jerked his head to the left, aiming west, to Korea. Then he came so close again, Emmett could smell the urinary fragrance of airplane in Miller’s hair. “Somebody knew. How about your boss?”

  “I’ve got many bosses.”

  Miller said, “Aw,” sour and self-pitying; this must be a chore, a time-consuming errand, going after a junior analyst. “The diplomat who’s under suspicion.”

  “I can’t speak for Mr. Norman.”

  “You can’t speak for Mr. Norman. How about yourself? Can you speak for yourself?”

  “Yup.”

  “So?”

  “The Chinese are crammed between a rock and a hard place.”

  “Okay. Send them a sympathy card.” Miller sat down again, jittering his knees.

  “I don’t know why your government keeps propping up the Nationalists. It seems almost stupid. Arrogant but also stupid. Your pal Chiang Kai-shek is a lame duck.” Miller jumped a little, hearing this, and Emmett could feel anger like a welcome drug in his veins; he spoke in a low voice, fury rippling through him. “A corrupt duck. He and his soldiers, his bankers, they’re all on the take. You guys are being taken for a ride.”

  Miller smiled as if he’d hit the jackpot. He spoke more loudly, apparently so the receptionist could hear him from her desk, as if he would impress her with his wit. “We’re a bunch of ignorant imperialists. That’s how you put it? Ha ha.”

  The expression sounded sophomoric. Emmett leaned forward as if he might punch Miller’s condescending face.

  “Go on,” Miller said.

  “Of course Mao Zedong’s going to get involved in Korea,” Emmett said. “He gets military support from the Russians. And the Russians have wanted to take over Korea for years.”

  “Your pal Herbert Norman tell you that?”

  “Everybody knows it. Except you. You guys cut Mao off, so he goes to the Russians for support. What else can he do? You pretty well set up the People’s Republic of China.”

  Miller looked at him in disbelief. “You know what you’re saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything new. Everybody knows about it but the US of A.” He hated Miller now, hated him for assuming he had power over him.

  Miller stood up, ran his finger over the starch burn on his neck. “It’s interesting. How these ideas get around. Circulate.” He put his fingers under his nose and sniffed them.

  “It’s common knowledge among us thinking folk.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Let’s hope there’s no cause for any further divergence, Mr. Jones.” Miller surveyed the room. “You might want to consider your future. You like Tokyo. Must be a real homecoming. Be too bad to be sent back. Kind of a disgrace.” He smiled. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

  “Nobody’s sending me back, Mr. Miller. In fact, if I weren’t a gentleman and a Canadian civil servant, I’d suggest you go fuck yourself right about now. And that would be rude.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  He went back to his office, shaken. Miller had threatened to have him “sent back,” and while the American official should theoretically have no influence over his career, he’d let himself be cornered, he’d said too much, and though he’d smiled while he told Miller to fuck himself, he’d made a mistake, snagged an enemy.

  “Glad we met,” Miller had said generously, and he shook Emmett’s hand rather slowly, looking into his face with paternal pity. Poor bastard, Mr. Miller implied in his handshake.

  Emmett wrote a report for Bill Masters; revised it, drinking, revising till he’d achieved a politely detached position outlining the fatal ignorance of George Miller from Washington.

  Bill Masters responded with a scolding memorandum, giving Jones “a little history lesson.”

  “You ought to know,” wrote Bill, “the US policy, keeping the Russians and the Chinese from the vast industrial potential we forecast in Japan and the rest of Asia, is crucial. Take a minute and consider the repercussions of a world takeover by the Chinese and Russian communists. We support the Americans or we lose everything. That’s our policy. Pearson made that clear in ’48.”

  “By the way,” Bill wrote as a postscript, “your friend Herbert Norman has been cleared.”

  Emmett wasn’t the only person to wonder this: If there was really no evidence that Norman was a communist and a threat to security, how could the US Senate Committee have persuaded Ottawa to recall him to investigate? There must have been a grain of sand, a seed, a Herbert Norman who might actually exist. Herbert Norman had been right to grieve over his lost reputation. His life would never be the same.

  A week passed, then Emmett got another dispatch from Bill Masters. “I had a personal visit from George Miller, your friend with the State Department. What kind of socialist flummery came out of your mouth, Jones? You’re a fan of Chairman Mao, are you? I’m reminding you — you’re on probation.”

  Emmett paced, furious, despising his own shoebox career. He packed a few things, took the train south to Kobe and then a bus to Shioya, and climbed the snowy road to see Aoi.

  He arrived late Friday night. The lanes of Shioya were sparsely lit with lanterns. He hadn’t realized that it was nearly Christmas till he got to James-yama, where the American armed forces personnel who still occupied several of the houses of the estate and the British subjects who were returning in their wake had strung coloured lights and hung cedar with red bows. Approaching the house, he heard the thrilling clatter of a biwa. The player reached the end of a phrase and began it again.

  There were big footprints from a man’s boots in the snow leading to Sachiko’s front door, where there was nailed a Sakaki branch, bare of ornament, a relic.

  Emmett rang “Waltzing Matilda.” Something made him look back at the road. In the blue light he saw a man passing from view behind the plum trees, the deeper blue flag of his kimono billowing in his wake. Emmett carried his duffle bag containing his shaving kit, a change of underwear, clean socks, and condoms. He realized he might have warned Aoi that he was coming. She’d finished practising, had begun to play with her customary gusto, and didn’t break off to answer the door. But the latch was open, he discovered. He left his bag in the hall and went through the empty house to the sunroom, where he found Aoi engaged in an epic recitation of the Satsuma rebellion; she didn’t stop but leaned forward as if he were some kind of elemental force she must press against.

  He took to the chaise and waited for her to finish. She wore the white kimono. He sensed that it was going to be a rocky night.

  When at last the Satsuma rebellion came to its mournful end, Aoi stood and ceremoniously swept the sleeves of her kimono from her arms to carry the biwa to its case before turning to him and bowing.

  “It’s late,” she said. “And you didn’t call.”
>
  He apologized.

  Aoi ushered him to a room he didn’t know existed; it must have been off limits when he was a boy. It was more traditional than the rest of the house; its tatami mats were in good shape. She was flustered. “I have things I must do,” she said. He apologized again for showing up unannounced. She said, “Well, you’re here now,” and bowed and left him there.

  The hibachi was already lit, the room was warm, the bedding had been unrolled, and a clean towel lay beside water in a basin. Dimly he marvelled that she was so well prepared for him. The heated room made him sleepy so he lay down on the futon to wait for her and fell asleep.

  He awoke to the presence of someone in the room and saw her figure against the glowing embers in the stove. “Aoi?”

  She came to kneel beside his bed.

  “I’m not good,” she said.

  “Yes you are. You’re very good. You’re beautiful.”

  She made love the way she talked, he decided later, with the same laconic self-absorption and pride. In the darkness, his bed was a raft at sea, with no direction. The walls of the room melted away in waves of pleasure.

  When he awoke, Aoi was gone. It was not yet dawn. Embers glowed in the hibachi. The room was chilly. He got dressed and put on his coat and boots and left the house.

  He was on his way up the mountain as the sky lightened, following a path lit by snow. The ascent was vigorous enough to warm him, the path cleared of fallen trees; even the pine needles had been raked and swept.

  He’d often thought that he preferred the country of his birth over the country of his nationhood; preferred its cultivated grace to the wild waste of tree and rock. In Canada, he’d yearned for Japan, homesick for a land so ancient as to be an extension of human thoughtfulness; all the countryside a shrine. Now, ascending the mountain pursued, in his mind, by a Washington think tank, the countryside made him feel claustrophobic, it felt like a binding contract. He wanted wilderness.