Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  “Come,” said Sonya. “It’s all right, Casey. Ma’s brother is here in the village. We must go and find him. No, we don’t have to! Here he’s coming now!”

  A tall Chinese in a long blue gown was walking toward us in swift easy strides. His skin was swarthy and coarsened from the weather, but I could distinguish the resemblance between him and the dead man on the boat, and plainly he and Sonya knew each other. He placed his palms together and smiled and bowed, and the red button of his skull-cap moved in an arc with the nodding of his head. After they had spoken for a moment Sonya said to me:

  “Come, Casey, he will take us to his house.”

  We hurried, stumbling across the plowed field to a little path winding toward the gate, with half the village trotting behind us, making low polite remarks. There was a God above the gate and a little mud shrine stood just inside, with another God in the niche.

  “He is the God of Learning,” Sonya said. “The scholars burned prayers before him in the old days when they studied for the government examinations. Have you never seen a Chinese village?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” Sonya answered, “that we haven’t got more time. They are pretty places, Chinese villages, and the people need so little to be happy.”

  We were walking along the main street, and it was like looking at some picture I had seen before, but had never believed till then.

  The combination of complete simplicity and of a sort of airy beauty with it fitted with that interval in the sky, and the place was unrelated to anything which I had ever seen. The walls, the houses, even the roofs were made of beaten earth, but the proportion of the houses was wholly perfect. The roofs had fanciful curves, the lattices of the paper-covered windows each different from the other, and nearly every house had its own wall enclosing a courtyard. A man was drawing water from a well beside the street, and there was a small temple near the well.

  “The God of Health is there,” said Sonya. “And probably the God of Weather.”

  It was a place of strange gods, and simple suspicions hovered over it. Ma’s brother walked before us and I saw that he was very worried. He obviously wanted us to get away, and I could not blame him. There would be ugly questions from the authorities about a plane which had landed.

  “He tells us to be quick,” said Sonya.

  “That goes for me,” I said. “We can’t be quick enough.”

  The man had stopped at the gateway leading to one of those mud courtyards and was gesturing to us to enter. It was a homely place, reminiscent of a peasant’s yard in northern France. Two bullocks were tethered beneath a mud-roofed shed. An old dog chained near them rose stiffly and began to bark. Some hens ran away from us, cackling. A woman was turning a stone hand mill. Ma’s brother walked straight across the court and opened the door of a low building and ushered us into an empty room, evidently the family living quarters. There was a stove made out of mud bricks, with a copper teakettle boiling on the top of it. The flue from the stove buried itself in a raised platform, covered untidily with bedding. There was a crude wooden dresser with utensils on it, a wooden cupboard, probably for clothing, and that was all. I had never seen such complete stark poverty or such grim efficiency. It would have been hard to have found a better place to have left that paper, for no one would have thought of looking there for anything of value.

  Sonya must have understood my thought because she said:

  “Ma’s brother is a rich man, but he keeps his money hidden somewhere underground. There is probably a little hoard somewhere beneath the floor of nearly every house here. One must be careful not to look rich in unsettled times.”

  Sonya was talking, but her mind was not on what she was saying . . . unsettled times. Sonya had seen enough of those to be completely familiar with their developments. She was at home in that place, at home, but her mind was on something else. Her glance was strained, expectant. She was watching Ma’s brother move over to that raised platform. He was lifting a corner of the matting which covered it. He was drawing out a sheet of paper about the size of ordinary foolscap. He handed it to Sonya with a bow. Her hand trembled as she took it. She bent over it attentively. Then she turned to Ma’s brother and smiled. She had opened her purse. She was giving him money.

  I did not have to ask her if she had found what she wanted.

  Ma’s brother was expostulating and his voice and Sonya’s answered each other for almost a minute, in a half-comprehensible dialogue, while I stood watching. I could half imagine what they were saying, because Ma’s brother pushed away the money. He was saying he did not wish it because he was an honorable man.

  Sonya’s voice became more insistent. She was saying something which was important, as I could gather by the attention with which the tall Chinese countryman listened. She must have alluded to me at some point, because he turned and looked at me thoughtfully and impersonally. Then he took the money, bowed himself to the door, leaving Sonya and me standing there alone.

  She had changed, now that she had the paper in her hand, displaying a new sort of gravity, a new sort of decisiveness. The paper had come between us, making us both a little different.

  “So that’s it?” I asked. “That’s the thing you wanted?”

  Sonya signed. “Yes, Casey,” she said slowly; “that’s what we wanted.”

  I reached toward the paper, but she drew it away from me.

  “No,” she said, “please, Casey dear. If I could, I’d let you see it.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Sonya, what’s changed you?”

  She sighed again and her voice was gentle.

  “Casey dear,” she said, “I want you to understand. If it were only you or me, you know I’d do anything—anything. I want you to know that. I wanted to be alone with you for a minute, and that is why I sent the man away.”

  I did not follow her. “What do you mean?” I asked. “We’ve got what we wanted, Sonya. We’d better get out of here. We’ll have to leave right off.”

  Sonya shook her head and her lips trembled. “No,” she said; “please, Casey, you don’t understand. You must go, but I’m not going.”

  That speech jolted me into stupidity. “You’re not going with me?” I said. “Why, what’s the matter, Sonya? Aren’t we friends?”

  “Casey”—her voice was imploring—“Casey dear, I like you better than anyone I know; that’s what I want you to understand. I’d do anything for you if it were only me; but in a matter like this, please, don’t you see that friendship doesn’t count? Casey, I want you to see. I’ll tell you something else to make you understand. I think I love you, Casey. I’ve never loved anyone before as much as I love you, but it would make no difference, Casey. You see I’m going to take this paper, because it is not mine. I know what my father would wish. He would wish me to take it to friends of his in Harbin. He would want them to use it to help what he was planning. It was a cause he was thinking of. There’s something here which will help, Casey. Don’t worry about me. Ma’s brother will take care of me. I’m used to being alone.”

  Everything she said was so unexpected that I could not get my thoughts straight. Yet I should have known long ago that Sonya would have such an idea. I thought of what use she had made of me, but I could not be angry. Instead, I felt kindly toward her. Instead, I was deeply moved.

  “So that’s your game,” I said. “I should have known it, Sonya.”

  “Casey,” she answered, “Casey, please—”

  “Sonya”—I tried to control my voice—“I don’t believe you understand. I’ve come to get that thing you’re holding, and I’m going to get it. Do you think I’m going to risk my neck and then let you take it away, so that you can sell it to someone else? Sonya, listen, please. I can understand you, but your ideas are wrong. Who are your people? What can they do? I heard you talk of them last night. You love them but you know that anything they try hasn’t much validity.”

  “Perhaps,” she said; “but that makes no differen
ce, Casey.”

  “I’m sorry, Sonya,” I said, “but it does to me. Think of yourself. You’re alone in the world. I’d be glad to look after you. I can do it, Sonya. I don’t want to talk about patriotism, but I’m going to have that paper. You and I are here alone. I’m stronger than you are. Will you give it to me, please? I don’t want to take it from you, Sonya.”

  She appeared surprised when I had finished. “Casey,” she asked me, “do you really think it is as easy as that? Do you really think—”

  “Sonya,” I said, “if you think I’m going to let you take this away, you’re mistaken.”

  Sonya’s voice grew calmer. “Don’t think that I have not a respect for your ability,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll do anything you can, but you can’t do much. You see, Ma’s brother understands. Casey, why do you think I talked to him so long? They will stop you if I tell them to. They will come in if I call.”

  “Try and call,” I said ; “and I’ll drive everyone out of this village.”

  “Don’t,” said Sonya sharply. “Please wait a minute, Casey. You mustn’t! You don’t see! One of the things they’ll do is to smash your plane. There are men out there ready to break it if they hear a single shot—and where will you be then? Where will you go? What can you do? They’ll call for the soldiers, Casey. There’s no place for you to hide.”

  There was truth in what she said, but truth and logic did not matter to me. There are times when it does no good to weigh the pros and cons of a situation. I was convinced that this was one of those times. There was only one reason why I hesitated—because I was sorry. I knew that I would not see Sonya again.

  “Sonya,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” she answered. “If you’re going now, I’ll go to see you off, but you mustn’t wait any longer.”

  “Sonya,” I said, “it seems to me you’re fixing it so that we both have to give up everything for nothing. I don’t want you to think I’m not fond of you, because I am. I don’t like to think how different things might be.”

  “Please,” she said, “please don’t say that.”

  “All right,” I answered. “Have it your own way, Sonya.”

  She must have been taken off her guard. If she was, it was exactly what I intended, much as I hated what I was prepared to do. She may have forgotten momentarily that she was still holding that sheet of paper.

  I half turned, reluctantly, as though I were going to go. Her hand and the paper were out of my line of vision for a moment but I knew exactly where it was. I darted sideways. My fingers reached the corner of the paper and I snatched. If I had thought I could be too quick for her, if I had thought that I could snatch the paper out of her hand, I was mistaken. Her hand drew back the instant mine caught the corner of the page. There was a tearing sound and Sonya had stepped away from me. We each were holding a half of that foolscap and staring at each other stupidly. I think she was going to cry out but I stopped her. If I did not have the whole paper, at least I had half.

  “Be careful, Sonya,” I said. “There’s one thing I can do now—I can destroy this if you call.”

  She understood me. At any rate, she did not cry out and I looked at my half of the torn page. There were words on it in fine penmanship in a language I did not understand, and formulas of what I knew to be organic chemistry from the groups of symbols that were bound together in valences.

  Sonya was speaking gently. “That wasn’t fair of you,” she said.

  “My dear,” I answered, “do you think you’ve been entirely fair? Are you going to give me that other half?”

  “No,” she said, “not as long as I live. And you won’t get it, Casey.”

  We stood there facing each other. That short interval of time is the oddest which I have ever experienced. The surroundings made it stranger—that wretched mud hovel, the kettle steaming on the small brick stove, the tamped earthen floor, the faint light through the paper windows. I shall never live through a moment like that again, or, if I do, it will be no more credible to me than the scene through which I lived. I do not believe I exaggerate as I think of the importance attached to this paper which we sought. It may be that I am mistaken, but in my heart I am close to being sure that I held half the future of the Pacific basin in my hand as I stood in that Manchurian farmhouse, and that the girl opposite me was holding the other half. I had never realized the complete seriousness of my position until I held that paper. It was a responsibility about which I could not be entirely certain, but it was one which I had to take. My mind seemed to go in a circle, futilely seeking for another step, when Sonya interrupted me.

  She was calling out for help.

  I realize now that Sonya’s call lifted all decision from my hands. I shifted my paper from my right hand to my left and got out my automatic just as the door burst open.

  “Wait,” I said. “Sonya, tell those fools to wait a minute!”

  I knew already that there was only one thing left for me to do. I was even relieved by the thought and I still believe that I did what was best, and all that was possible.

  Ma’s brother, with a group of men behind him (all of them big Chinese) stood irresolutely in the doorway. Some of them were holding hoes and mattocks. One of them held an antiquated rifle.

  “Tell them to wait a minute, Sonya,” I said.

  Sonya called to them sharply. I had to make my next move quickly and accurately, before anyone could guess what I intended. There was a glow of embers in the draft in the mud-brick stove. I bent quickly, still watching Ma’s brother and the men.

  “Casey!” Sonya cried. “You can’t do that!”

  I thrust the paper into the embers of the stove while the echo of her voice still rang. A bit of flame licked up at it. The paper was on fire and I straightened up, holding the burning half sheet.

  “I think that’s the only answer, Sonya,” I said. “I think we both did our best.” The flames burnt my fingers and I dropped the charred fragments on the floor. Then I moved toward her, and I was glad, now that it was over. “I guess that’s the end, Sonya. You’d better burn up your half of that. It won’t do you any good, I think, but it might be dangerous. Burn it up, Sonya. I’m going to take you home.”

  She swayed toward me, and then she was sobbing on my shoulder. “You’re not angry,” she was sobbing, “are you, Casey?”

  “Yes,” I said, “don’t you see, everything’s all even, Sonya.” And a sound made her straighten.

  We both knew what the sound meant. It came from the sky, reverberating between the roofs and the smoky rafters above our heads—a droning sound which grew louder, louder and then stopped. It was another plane. Its pilot was cutting off the engine, landing. Voices outside were rising in a torrent of sound.

  “That will probably by the Japanese police,” I said. “Give me that paper, Sonya.” And I put it in the fire. “I’m sorry,” I said to Sonya again and I took her hand.

  “Don’t be sorry,” she answered. She looked happier, younger, the way she should always have looked. Her lips curled up into a smile. “Don’t be sorry,” she said, “because I think the police will be”—and she mimicked the English of Japanese—“very, very sorry.”

  “And on the whole, I’m pleased,” I said; “very, very pleased. What do you think they’ll do to us? Shoot us or put us into jail?”

  There were no sounds from the street any longer. The villagers must have gone away and we found ourselves a minute later, staring at an old friend of ours. Mr. Moto, out of breath, was standing in the door of Ma’s brother’s house. Mr. Moto’s composure was ruffled from his haste and he no longer wore his morning coat. Instead, his clothing was more incongruous—a tweed golf suit and a brown tweed cap. I knew enough not to laugh because Mr. Moto was serious.

  “So you have not gone,” he said. “You are clever, Mr. Lee. As long as you have not gone, I am very, very pleased.”

  “I like it here,” I answered. “Why should I go away?”

  “Do not joke, pleas
e,” Mr. Moto said. “You cannot get away from here. We have you, Mr. Lee. And you too, Miss Sonya, and we want what you have come to find—right away, please. Do not joke!”

  “The fuel-oil formula?” I said.

  “Yes, please,” said Mr. Moto. “Thank you so much. I am so glad you know what I mean. This is serious. I must have it, please.”

  “No, Mr. Moto,” I answered, “I’m afraid you can’t.”

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto, “do not be funny, Mr. Lee.”

  I found myself close to laughter again, but I did not laugh. It would have been discourteous to laugh, when Mr. Moto was laboring under such excitement.

  “The trouble was,” I said, “you have wanted this and I have wanted it, and so has Sonya here. When people like the three of us want something, what happens, Mr. Moto?”

  “I am being very patient, Mr. Lee,” Mr. Moto said.

  “The trouble was this,” I explained to him. “Miss Sonya had that paper. I snatched for it and it tore in two. There seemed to be only one thing to do with that difference of opinion.” I pointed to the fire. “I burned my half. Then the thing was useless. Then Miss Sonya burned her half. You can see the charred fragments on the floor. There is the story, Mr. Moto, and I am very much afraid that Japanese and American battleships will continue to burn oil in the same old wasteful way. And perhaps it’s just as well. What do you think, Mr. Moto? I ask you because you’re a sensible man.”

  I thought he would be angry, but he was not. He grew grave, as he stared at the charred fragments on the beaten earth floor. Then he looked up at me.

  “Sometimes,” said Mr. Moto, “I do not think, in spite of my study and my admiration for your people, that I understand them very well. But please, Mr. Lee, you are a man of honor, I think. We have tricked each other and I am very, very sorry. I do not wish to cause you further pain. Will you give me your word of honor that a single large page of paper containing chemical symbols was what you have burned?”