The Dick Gibson Show
Page 15
“‘You believe all that shit about the dodo bird?’ I didn’t answer. ‘Bird extinct two hundred and fifty years suddenly shows up. Damned island extinct for about the same length of time, and all of a sudden it’s a major theater of operations. It must have something to do with that bird. That’s what the talk is, but no one knows. What do you make of it?’
“‘I don’t know, Lieutenant.’
“‘You said they’ve got some stuffed dodos at the museum.’
“‘Representations, cunning dolls.’
“‘Let’s take a look at them, see what all the fuss is about.’
“We went to the museum. Collins treated. I knew the collection pretty well by now and I started to take him through. He wasn’t really paying much attention; he barely glanced at the glass cases. ‘We could still be in London, you know that? You had to go haywire.’
“‘No excuse, sir.’
“‘No, hell, water under the bridge. Boy, it sure spooked me when I learned you were so highly connected. What did you have on that general, anyway?’
“‘I once took a burr out of his paw.’
“‘Yeah. Ha ha. You know something? I don’t think this war can last much longer. You going back into radio when it’s over?’
“‘Yes sir.’
“‘Not me.’
“‘No sir?’
“‘Television.’
“Oh.’
“‘That’s where the money will be. Radio’s had it.’
“‘I’ll stick to radio.’
“‘Will you?’
“‘Yes sir.’
“‘Well, it’s all a matter of what you’re comfortable doing, I guess.’
“‘It’s been pretty good to me,’ I said.
“Soldiers had been talking this way for hundreds of years in the respites before big battles. I don’t think Collins saw me, but I began to cry. A chill went through me. Something about our voices, the sound of our dropped-guard friendship, told me that something terrible was going to happen. As he spoke hopefully and confidently about the future, I expected to see Collins die, to be hit by a grenade, his head torn off. Before long, I thought, he’ll be dead at my feet, his neck broken. I wanted to tell him to hush, but of course I couldn’t.
“Then something odd did happen. We were in the picture gallery. All about us were the dark oils of the early settlers—pictures of dodo hunts, the excited Dutchmen ruddy and breathless from the chase, the dodo cornered, maddened perhaps by its ordeal; other paintings, still lifes of Mauritian feasts, tables spread with the island’s fruits, halved cuchacha melons white as moonlight, tangled wreaths of the fruit vines that trellis the cones of the volcanoes, the dodo birds prepared for cooking, split, the guts, like long, partially inflated balloons, tossed into a slopbucket, their long necks limp, the beaks open in death and their bare, old men’s cheeks flecked with blood. I had thought we were alone, but suddenly I heard a low bark of heartbreak. We both turned. It was the captured Japanese civilian, sitting on one of those benches that they put in the middle of picture galleries. There was a strange rapt expression on his face, and he was weeping. Probably he didn’t see us.
“‘How did he get loose?’ the lieutenant whispered. I shook my head. Collins drew his service revolver—since that time in Broadcasting House when he’d placed me under arrest he always wore one— and pointed it at the man. ‘Hands up,’ he commanded. The scientist appeared not to have heard and Collins walked closer. ‘I said hands up.’ Still the fellow did not acknowledge us. ‘Hands up and stop crying.’ At last the Japanese turned to Collins. He seemed very tired. He raised his arms wearily.
“‘What are you doing here?’ Collins demanded. The Japanese just stared at him. He looked like someone in touch with something really important who was suddenly forced to deal with the ordinary. I was glad I wasn’t the lieutenant and didn’t have to ask the questions. ‘Come on, fellow. You don’t have to speak our language to get our meaning,’ Collins said. He waved the pistol at him. He shook it in his face. ‘Move out smartly … I said move!’ The man merely looked away from Collins again and stared across the room at a large painting of a dodo bird. He rubbed his eyes. ‘And you can cut out that sniffling,’ Collins said firmly. ‘We’re not barbarians. We’re American soldiers and you’re a prisoner of war, subject to rights granted you under the Geneva conventions. You’re our first prisoner and we aren’t exactly sure of what those rights include. We’ll have to look them up, but anyway we’re not going to hurt you. You have to come along with us, though.’
“‘I am not afraid,’ the Japanese said calmly. ‘And I will go with you. But first, can you please give me one moment alone in here? As you can see, this is the last gallery. Obviously I have no means of escape.’
“I must confess something. I was very excited at the prospect of taking a prisoner. ‘Don’t do it, Lieutenant—it’s a trick,’ I said.
“The man looked at me contemptuously. ‘Please, Lieutenant,’ the Japanese said, ‘you can see that there is no escape.’ He patted his pockets and opened his palms. ‘I am unarmed.’
“‘How come you talk such good English?’ I asked threateningly. He seemed disappointed in me. I didn’t blame him; I felt my sergeant’s stripes sear themselves into my arm.
“‘I am a scientist,’ he explained coolly, looking at the lieutenant. ‘English is the official language of ornithology.’
“‘Hmph.’
“‘Please, Lieutenant, I will go with you now. My meditations’—he looked at me—‘are over.’
“He rose, his eyes downcast, his body just visibly stiffening as we went by each of the paintings. In the gallery showing the environments of the dodo birds he would not look up, and once, when his hand accidentally brushed against one of the glass cases, he jumped back as if flung. ‘Pretty odd behavior for a so-called scientist, wouldn’t you say, Lieutenant?’ I whispered in Collins’s ear, regretting my style even as I spoke. My stripes lashed me, driving me to feats of clown and squire.
“Once outside the museum the Japanese seemed more comfortable. We took him back to the garrison and let ourselves into the guardhouse.
“‘How did you escape?’ the lieutenant asked our prisoner.
“‘I didn’t. I was abandoned. They forgot about me.’
“‘What were you doing at the museum?’
“‘I’m an ornithologist.’
“‘You’re the one who discovered the dodo.’
“‘No. I identified him.’
“I was still smarting from all the things I’d said up to now. ‘Listen, Lieutenant,’ I whispered, ‘I think there’s more going on here than we appreciate yet. Give me a few minutes alone with him.’
“‘Why? What good would that do?’
“‘I think I know some ways of getting him to talk.’
“‘He’s a prisoner of war, Sergeant.’
“‘Yes sir, but our buddies are out there. I think this gook knows more than he lets on.’ The scientist rolled his eyes.
“‘Many hundreds of years ago—’ he said.
“’Talk,’ I hissed.
“‘Many hundreds of years ago, during the dynasty of the Emperor Shobuta—’ the man said.
“‘That’s it,’ I said lamely, ‘keep talking.’
“‘ … there suddenly appeared in Japan, on the island of Shikoku—your Indian word “Chicago” derives from this—a single specimen of the genus Raphidae Didus, what you call dodos. How it got there is unknown, for Japan—this was in the thirteenth century, three centuries before the discovery of Mauritius—was an insular nation which had no dealings with the rest of the world. The bird was flightless. Ceramics from the era show that its wing development was even less than the Mauritian representations. Naturally, the bird was a curiosity. The curator of the Shikoku Zoo—we are not barbarians either, Lieutenant; Shikoku had a zoo long before one was ever dreamed of in Europe—did not know how to classify it and was inclined to put it with the animals rather than in the aviary.
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br /> “‘Now at this time Japan was plagued by warlords. One in particular, Zamue, a Shikokuan, was a threat to the emperor himself, a man of mild manners and ways whose paths were peace. Zamue, in contrast, was a fierce samurai who, in the course of events, had left a trail of bloody victories from the island of Yezo in the north to Kyushu in the south.
“‘Now it came to pass—you have this idiom in your country?—it came to pass that a court counselor, one Ryusho Mali, recognized the need to instill courage in our emperor, and when he heard about the strange wingless bird that had alighted in Shikoku he sent for it in order to examine it for its qualities as an omen. He had expected something like a peacock, perhaps, or a cassowary—both rare in Japan but not unheard of—or even a parrot, but when he saw the specimen he was extremely disappointed. How could so foolish-looking a bird bode well for the state? Nevertheless, setting aside his prejudices, he proceeded to examine it closely. Perhaps it enjoyed some of the properties of the parrot and could be made to mimic human speech. Ryusho Mali recalled how a predecessor of his had once done something notable for his country through an ordinary crow, and so he closeted himself with the bird and examined it. He tried to train it to say “courage,” thinking that perhaps the hard k sound might be natural to it, but, alas, he quickly discovered that the bird had no voice at all. It was mute as a turtle. He wondered if something cheering might not be done with the feathers, but there was little inspiration to be had from the lusterless black and dingy yellow with which the bird was covered. In the end, Ryusho Mali put the bird away from him, commanding that it be sent back to the zoo in Shikoku to be stared at by the multitudes for the pointless novelty it was.
“‘The Emperor Shobuta—whose very name means compassion— was himself an animal fancier, no hunter but a lover of beasts. Perhaps he saw that they had qualities which he himself lacked. It is often the way. We have an expression: “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.” At any rate, it is well known that fish and birds are the most fascinating animals to man for that the one can live in the sea and the other in the air. Be that as it may, it was Shobuta who had decreed that there be a 200—for the two hundred distinct animal types; the z in the word “zoo” is a corruption of the 2—and every day he would visit there, consoling himself with the mysteries of creation.
“‘No sooner was the bird returned to its pen in the 200—as I’ve said, the curator did not know how to classify it and had ordered that it should be put in with the hogs—’
“‘But hogs—’ I said.
“‘Yes,’ the ornithologist said. ‘Exactly. No sooner was the bird returned to the 200 than the emperor, who had been away at his summer palace when the bird was first discovered, saw the dodo and was furious—as much as it was possible within the terms of his sweet nature for him to be furious—that it had been classified with the animals. He had recognized it immediately for what it was. Oh, I don’t mean he knew that it was Raphidae Didus, but he saw that it was a bird. He was, as I say, furious. His exact words were: “What iniquity is this? To break off the wings of a bird”—for that is what he thought had happened— “merely to indulge the crowd’s appetite for the grotesque! I will not have this! A nation which stoops to the barbarity of a Zamue the samurai does not deserve to be sustained. What, are not wings marvelous enough?” We have an expression in Japan: “to gild the lily.” It is to situations like this that such an expression applies.”
“‘It was the first time anyone had ever seen the emperor so angry, and though it was explained to him that no one had tampered with the bird, he would not believe it. He ordered the bird released and brought it back with him to the palace. There he anointed the nub of its wings with precious balms and unguents. I said before that man admires and loves those qualities which he does not himself possess, but he loves also to recognize in other species those which he does. Both things are true. Perhaps the emperor’s heart responded to something like his own winglessness in the bird’s; at any rate, it is known that he cherished the bird as he had cherished nothing before it, and that he kept it with him always.
“‘Now something must be said of the warrior Zamue. Remarkable as it may seem for one so successful, he had no followers. He permitted himself none. The fact is, he was not so much warlord, or even samurai, as he was assassin. He was a man of a thousand disguises and wreaked his havoc through the art of murder, which he had perfected. He had murdered men by drowning them and murdered them with poisons. He’d done murders with knives and murders with clubs. He murdered them awake and he murdered them asleep, and he murdered the sick as well as the well. He had great strength and murdered them by lifting heavy objects and then letting them fall on the tops of their heads. He shoved men off cliffs and lured them from the sea to the rocks with false signal lights. He murdered by loosing beasts and by cruel degrees of torture. He pushed them against walls and squeezed them to death. He murdered with gunpowder and murdered with strangling, by forcing sand up their noses and holding their mouths. He murdered them by repeatedly kicking them hard.
“‘Zamue preempted whole kingdoms by killing the leaders, and had worked his wicked way up the chain of proprietorship till all that stood between himself and the sandal—we say sandal instead of crown in Japan—was the life of Shobuta the Tender. Him he had saved for last, just as one reserves the sweetest morsel of a feast.
“‘Shobuta knew Zamue was coming. He doubled his guards, tripled them, but in his heart he had no faith that he could escape the assassin’s depredations. Zamue, as has been said, was a master of disguise. The chances were excellent—better than excellent—that one of his own men was Zamue, and so he reasoned that by increasing their number he had correspondingly increased the chances of Zamue’s being among them. He reduced the guard by a third, by a half, by three-quarters. In the end he relieved all but his most trusted attendant and made him his entire guard. I know what you’re thinking.
“‘Zamue was a fate—in our country we have a saying: “What will be will be”—and all that the emperor could do in these last days was care for the bird, minister to his new pet’s winglessness. “I will be your wings,” Shobuta whispered to it. “Surely you are not so high as once you soared,” he would tell it—he carried the dodo everywhere—and then add, thinking perhaps of his own circumstances, “We all come down.” In this wise the emperor continued for months. Each night as he laid his head on his pillow he could not but wonder if he should ever see the morning.
“‘It is well known that birds tuck their heads under their wings when they sleep, but what of wingless birds? Shobuta took the poor dodo to his bed with him. “I told you I would be your wings,” he reminded it softly, and raised his elbow. With an uncanny instinct, the bird nuzzled up to Shobuta’s armpit, and the emperor put his arm gently down over the dodo’s head. In this wise they remained all night.
“‘As the great feast days approached, Shobuta thought that Zamue would soon make his move. In our country, as in most, there is the old saying: “Strike before the feast days if you would have victory.” Each day now he peered outside the door of the imperial apartments and glared accusingly into the face of his most trusted lieutenant. Should not the suspicion that has occurred to you occur also to the greatest scholar of his time? Every afternoon at exactly the same time Shobuta the Tender would step out just as the circle of his tour brought the man before the doors to the imperial apartments and, at the precise moment when the eyes of the “trusted lieutenant” met his own, he would whisper softly, “When, ‘Lieutenant?’ How?” In my country we have the expression “battle of nerves.” That’s what this was. The man never answered, of course, for that is against the basic rule of guard duty.’
“‘Why didn’t the emperor—?’
“‘Discharge the lieutenant? Zamue was a master of disguise. Sergeant, a master. With his great strength and fabulous muscle control he could alter not only his size but even the actual features of his face. If only he had used his powers for good …
“‘Things continued in this wise till the next feast days, and still nothing happened. Then, one day, after completing a new song that the dodo had never heard before, Shobuta walked down the hallway at the other end of which stood the huge double-thick ivory entrance doors to the imperial apartments, first, of course, setting down the bird and giving his customary admonition that it remain there until he returned.
“‘The emperor went down the long hallway, his tender anger building as he thought of the duplicities and treasons of him who had so long kept him waiting for what he still thought of as his fatality. But then the knowledge that he had recently completed the delicate negotiations softened his heart toward his malefactor. Indeed, by the time he arrived at the enormous doors it was all this tender, gentle man could do to fix his features in a scowl. Though he was now quite empty of hostility, he felt he owed it to his enemy to present a scowling face—since he knew, you see, that the cruelty of a Zamue thrived on such gestures and the tender Shobuta did not have it in him to disappoint even Zamue.