Oh, no! She sat down on the bed, one foot in high-heels. No, not tonight. All morning long she had felt that all was not well with the world, and now she remembered why. Carried away the night before, she had said yes when Major Calloway had suggested dinner and the opera this evening. He had seemed such a dear after their dozen-odd Scotches. Now, in the merciless light of day, she saw him in his true form.
"Not a deer, but a boar," she said to herself. But even this reminder of ready wit didn't cheer her. Here she'd gone and ruined a perfectly good Saturday night, just to be brought home and pecked on the lips. Much too late to do anything about it. After all she was the Colonel's secretary, and he was the Colonel's executive officer.
"Well, we're obviously made for each other," said Gloria, wriggling into the other shoe. "The Fates are against us."
She stood up and put on the last finishing touches before the mirror. Sonoko, looking as though she was about to start fluffing the pillow again, peered shyly over her shoulder. The pancake make-up, the mascara, powder, and lipstick were all understood by Sonoko. It was in the last-minute attentions that mystery lay. She watched while Gloria deftly unclotted two eyelashes, cleaned a tiny speck of lipstick off one of her front teeth, and gave herself a final spray of scent. If she ever wore make-up, Sonoko often thought, she would do just as Miss Wilson did, even if she had to put lipstick on her teeth in order to take it off. It was in these final intuitive touches that all true art lay.
Gloria saw the steel-rimmed spectacles over her shoulder and handed Sonoko the atomizer. "Go on," she said, "only don't waste it. It's Sin Incarnate or some such thing, and I'd never be able to afford it if the PX didn't mark it down ninety percent. Go on. Dozo."
Sonoko giggled, holding her hand in front of her teeth, and carefully put the atomizer back on the table. Gloria waved good-by and started for the door. The giggle suddenly stopped, and the dark eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles grew wider.
Gloria smiled politely, one hand on the doorknob: "What is it, Sonoko?"
Her room girl swallowed, then said: "You no forget—o-pahti tomorrow?" It was midway between a declaration and a question.
Suddenly Gloria understood. Oh, god! She had forgotten—but completely! So, as was usual with her under these circumstances, she shook her head, smiled in a special way that wrinkled her nose, and said: "You bet your life I didn't forget, little old Blue Sonoko. I can hardly wait." And for Sonoko's more immediate comprehension she added a bit of pantomime.
They parted with bobbing on one side and nose-wrinkling smiles on the other.
Waiting for the elevator, Gloria felt like kicking herself. Now she perfectly remembered accepting an invitation which at the time seemed to be for some vague, indefinite future. She'd been half-asleep, still in bed, defenseless. Now she was trapped. Oh, well, so she was trapped—so what? She could always learn something. And if tonight was going to be wasted with the Major anyway, she might as well have something to look forward to when she woke up Sunday morning.
Her own nature never failed to delight her. So philosophic. She always said there was so much to be learned from the little things in life—then laughed herself sick; but, nevertheless, it was true—there was. Now, a lot of other American girls under like circumstances would have pleaded off—sick headache or the like. Not Gloria—true blue, she stuck to her word, and what's more, damn it, she'd enjoy herself even if it killed her.
Not that it was likely to. In fact it might be fun—afterwards. She could tell about the quaint little paper house; how meekly she took off her shoes; the good, good soup—like Mother used to make—and the squealy little dishes that Gloria, good sport that she was, ate right along with Papa Sonoko—octopus, seaweed, fish heads, and the like. And then they'd sit around the family koto, and she'd lead them in "Home on the Range" or something like that. Pure strawberry-festival—Japanese style—but it would make a great story Monday morning at the office. And Private Bichardson—he'd be thinking a little about the strange home-life of his Japanese biddy before her tale was done.
Already flushed with success, she smiled at the elevator boy and was carried down to the basement dining room. Under the mockery, the laughter, and the attitude, she was dimly aware of a real curiosity and a real pleasure at being invited. But, what the hell, if one wore one's heart on one's sleeve and one's feelings on one's shoulder, one could well expect to end up with neither sleeves nor shoulder, and she, for one, needed hers. So, when she walked into the dining room, she felt her usual cynical self.
At the same time she remembered she'd forgotten to put out the candy bars she usually gave Sonoko to take home to the countless brothers and sisters she doubtless had. Oh, well, she gave the girl enough of a treat just being around. She suspected Sonoko had a crush on her, and this made her feel quite good. Tonight she'd put out the candy and, after the sleep of the innocent, lug it out to this god-forsaken place called Zushi or Fushi or Mushi. She was such a good kid, Gloria was. A real heart of gold—just like the proverbial whore.
It was still early. The tables didn't fill up until just before nine. At nine everyone was supposed to be at work. Today was Saturday and most of the tables would remain empty: many of the female members of the Occupation found it convenient to take sick leave on Saturday mornings—it gave them such an early start for their weekend dates by the sea or in the mountains.
Gloria saw Dorothy Ainsley sitting alone, and before she could turn away Dorothy had seen her and was making frantic motions with one hand, the other holding a piece of toast.
"Oh, darling, am I glad to see you!" Dorothy shouted halfway across the room. "I feel just like an interloper or something." She smiled and moved her chair further around the table, patting the other with one hand.
Gloria sat down.
"I was up quite early—shopping, you know, at the Commissary. Us wives! If you don't get there early, all the lettuce is gone, or something. And you know Dave! He loves his lettuce so. Well, I was passing by in our car and I thought: I'm hungry, that's what I am. So I told the girl on duty I'd forgotten my purse because, natch, I don't have any meal chits, and then sat down over here, out of harm's way, and was feeling so guilty. That is, until I saw you."
"I'm so happy for you, dear," said Gloria, while she thought: You lie in your teeth, you slut. You just want one good witness who'll say she saw you here and who'll believe your silly Commissary story. Little me, however—I know what you're doing, though maybe not who with. One of the few good things about our little colonial society is that people know what other people do. So just don't give me any of this marriage crap. I wonder what you told your husband.
"Of course, Dave will be just furious. He doesn't like me to get up early. It's bad for a singer he says. Imagine! Besides—he's so silly—he says he likes to watch me asleep." She giggled self-consciously, one finger extended away from her toast.
Gloria could just picture this. She didn't know Dave Ainsley very well, but she'd seen that faithful-dog look following his beautiful, talented wife around, his smile half-apologizing for her, his eyes shining with devotion. Jealous too. Tried to thrash a sergeant once who made eyes at her. And the poor soldier was probably only acting on advice given him by a lieutenant who'd gotten it from a major. Dorothy was such a snob. No one below field grade. Poor Dave. Gloria could imagine him tiptoeing around their apartment—complete with artificial Ming vases made into lamps—casting loving glances on his sleeping wife. On the nights she sleeps at home, that is.
What would he say if he saw her now, she wondered. Sitting there fat as a grub and almost purring with contentment. Her face was still pink. Gloria guessed that he had never seen her this satisfied. Dorothy would walk in on him at work about an hour from now, still rosy, having been home, washed, and depilated, with some whopping story about a cousin or an aunt in town and that she just couldn't get away and it was too late to call because she "didn't want to disturb your rest, Davie-boy." Or maybe she'd use that one about furthering her career.
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br /> Or else she'd turn up with what Davie-boy always called "one of Dorothy's"—a real stunner involving a sedan breakdown and how she partook of Japanese hospitality and how nice they were to her and sat her in the place of honor and how she could scarcely gag down a breakfast of seaweed, fish, and tea, but how low she bowed afterwards—right there on the tatami—and what really exceptional people they were, too. Not at all usual, you know. Nothing run-of-the-mill ever happens to our Dorothy. And all of this would be told in her low, modest, little-girl voice, the one that doubtless sent her husband into ecstasies....
Dorothy broke into Gloria's thoughts, saying: "You know, dear, we're rather alike. I mean, we really do seem a bit similar. Don't you think?"
Gloria looked at her, noticing with some satisfaction that Dorothy was getting a bit saggy. If she was a singer, her diaphragm looked pretty unprofessional. She always kept her profile high too. That was so the extra chin wouldn't show. But, there was no doubt about it, she was quite beautiful in that brittle, china-doll way that men unaccountably seem to find so attractive.
Gloria decided they weren't at all alike and, as coldly as possible, said: "In what way?"
"Oh, I don't know. We seem to have found ourselves out here—in Japan, I mean."
"What have you found?" asked Gloria, whose head was beginning to ache again. Sonoko hadn't brought the aspirin, and eight-o'clock solemnities with Dottie Ainsley were just too much.
"Well, for one thing, a husband," said Dorothy seriously. "They're necessary, you know. All girls should be married." She suddenly smiled, as though what she was saying could not possibly have any personal reference. Nor did she try to explain the illogical sequence of her thoughts from their being alike to husbands.
Gloria stared at her in mild disbelief. Just what did she think she was doing? Gratuitous insults were a bit coarse, even for Dottie.
"Well, Mrs. Ainsley," she finally said, "we can't all be as fortunate in our choice of husbands as you were."
"Don't misunderstand me, dear. I mean, if a girl has a chance of marrying these days, she ought—no if's, and's, or but's about it. She really should. What she does is her own business, but she ought to have a husband, first."
"Your meaning is awfully subtle," said Gloria, "but I think I'm catching on."
Dorothy began sipping her coffee daintily, and Gloria's oatmeal arrived to fill the gap in their conversation. As she ate it she decided that Dorothy's meaning actually was rather subtle. Either Dorothy guessed that other people knew about her, and hence the girls-will-be-girls kind of talk, or else ... or else she wanted Gloria to get married for reasons best known to herself. At any rate, she had looked uncommonly honest when she spoke, just as now, sipping her cold coffee with a pinkie in the air, she looked uncommonly uncomfortable.
The silence after their orgy of intimacy was getting a bit heavy, Gloria thought. She was about to ask whether the plates' willow pattern was Chinese or Japanese when Dorothy, apparently feeling the same, gave a little scream and bent under the table.
"Oh, my, what pretty shoes! Where did you get them?"
Gloria stretched out her legs so Dorothy could see the shoes without disappearing completely under the table. "The PX," she said.
"Don't tell me you get your clothes there! Why, I haven't been near the place for years. Not since I was what they call a 'vocalist'—whatever that is—with the USO and all that, you know. And that—well, just between us, it's been ages ago. No, after I met Dave (he made me over, you know) I started buying from New York—by mail, natch (and it takes just forever getting here!) and then, of course, there's that wonderful little tailor in Hong Kong. But those shoes you have there—they rather interest me. Any other sizes?"
Now, this is our old Dorothy, thought Gloria. It feels good to be back in a mutual understanding again—the understanding that we loathe each other. "I don't think so," she said. "If they do, they're larger."
"Larger? Oh, not really!" Dorothy sipped her coffee and tried again to pretend, somewhat less succesfully, that she had meant nothing personal. "Why, my little feet couldn't begin to fill those up."
You're asking for it, thought Gloria. She'd known girls like Dottie before. Real bitches. Just couldn't stand not tearing in with their little claws. Anything that would hold still was fair game, no matter what. Her poor husband must be just a mass of tangled ribbons by this time. She was the kind of healthy American girl who would write a four-letter word on the upturned lid of the ladies' john in lipstick—backwards. Then stick around and watch the fun when the next occupant, in a cool white blouse, walked out. She'd heard men's cans were all scribbled up. They should see the ladies'—after a crowd of Dottie's type had gotten through with them.
Gloria looked at her shoes. "Well, they're comfortable."
Dottie had apparently expected to get clawed back. She looked disappointed. "Oh, I can see. They're just lovely—exquisite." She sighed shortly. "I only wish I could get things like that." She smiled, her just-between-us smile, which wrinkled up her nose and never failed to infuriate Gloria.
"Oh, you might be able to," said Gloria smoothly. "Perhaps one of the officers you know is in the Quartermaster Corps, or Procurement, or even the PX for all I know. If you really can't bear to go near the PX's yourself, perhaps you could get one of them to scout for you. Yokohama, Kobe, Nagoya—you know."
"Well... but I really don't know any officers that well," said Dottie after hesitating just a second too long.
She was such a bad liar. Goodness knows it was difficult enough to be a good one. Gloria was a good one, but even she forgot her lies eventually and got into trouble. So she decided to be charitable and say nothing more.
Dottie gave her a hard little glance, disagreeable over her cup. She put it down with a tiny clatter, then softened almost at once and became again feather-brained and flighty:
"Well, I must run. Dave will be furious. You coming?"
"Yes, I'm off to work."
"You're lucky, you know," she said, turning her head whimsically. "I wish I was a career girl again. But I'm not. Just a drudge—a regular Hausfrau type. I bet I couldn't even hit a high C any more. And, you know, my range used to be four octaves. I forget who it was called me the Lily Pons of the Occupation. Silly, but fun." She laughed. "Know what Dave used to say about my range? No? He used to say that I was composed of a bass, a tenor, and a small boy who got pinched. Cute, huh?"
Gloria gave a sick smile, and Dottie rattled on: "Oh, hell, I just remembered—tomorrow's a big Japanese party. They're picking us up. That means I've got to get the servants busy cleaning the house—four of them and not a brain in the lot."
"Real Japanese party—or just Japanese-style American?"
"Oh, the real thing. Ex-zaibatsu or the Imperial family or something. Dave's business. On the paper, you know. Tatami, hashi, the works—all-night deal."
"Well, that might be pleasant."
"Pleasant? You ever had a Jap breakfast?"
"Often," lied Gloria.
"Well, you're a better woman than I am then."
Gloria wisely said nothing to this.
"Oh, by the way, did you hear what happened to Lady Briton last night?" asked Dottie, somehow seeming to want to delay the moment of parting they both wanted so badly.
Gloria groaned. Not Lady Briton again! Gloria bet that at any given moment of Tokyo's social life the antics of Lady Briton would be on a dozen tongues. She was the wife of one of the Australian Mission people, a big horsy woman who was attempting to establish a Society for the Protection of Our Dumb Friends—SPODF she called it, but to the rest of Tokyo it was SPOOF. It was to rival the Tokyo chapter of the SPCA, of which the British ambassadress was patron.
Dottie continued: "Well, you know, a couple of weeks ago she saw some trained dogs in Asakusa or some such place, and she decided they were being cruelly treated—they juggled or sat up or something. Of course, she cares about animals just about as much as I do. But she just can't stand seeing that English woman in
the newspapers all the time. And so she confiscated the whole troupe, dismissed the owner out of hand—the Australians are like that, you know—and decided to play Lady Bountiful to all the animals. She thought they'd be good entertainment at her parties, juggling and all. But they wouldn't do a thing—just moped. They were nasty too; got into some of Randolph's—that's Lord Briton—old ambassadorial papers or something and chewed them all up. Well, last night was the payoff. They'd been just darling little nuisances before, but last night one of them bit Mrs. Colonel Butternut on the thigh when she was down on the floor being the the head of John the Baptist during charades." She smiled. "Isn't that a scream!"
"What happened to the dogs?"
"Well, this was one time, believe you me, when our dumb friends got short shrift. She probably had them drowned."
"All of them?"
Dottie shrugged her shoulders—this wasn't the point of the story. "And Mrs. Colonel Butternut is in St. Luke's under watch—she might have rabies. Can't you just imagine her frothing at the mouth? She's done it all her life, but until now no one thought anything of it. Oh, it's a panic!" She stood up.
Together they walked past the girl who took tickets, and the headwaiter at the door bowed to them.
"Why don't their clothes ever fit, I wonder?" asked Dottie, looking vaguely at the small man in the dress suit too large for him.
"Their Japanese clothes do," said Gloria.
"Oh, those!..."
They were silent as they walked through the revolving door into the already dusty sunlight.
"Well, that was a nice breakfast," said Dottie, "but tomorrow's won't be."
"What I like best about spending the night with the Japanese," said Gloria, who had at least spent nights with Americans in Japanese on-limits hotels, "is that no one says good-morning to me until I'm presentable. They have a tacit agreement that you're not even visible until you get your face on and are ready to meet the world." She'd read this in a book somewhere.
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