This Scorching Earth

by Donald Richie

  Mrs. Schmidt turned to him, her eyes bright. "I would love to, Colonel. But only to meet and talk with you. No unofficial help, please. I am not begging. Not yet."

  "I didn't mean—"

  "You are a good man, Colonel. You mean very well. I do appreciate your intentions." She stopped and then, as though talking to herself, added: "I don't know what happens to people over here. My husband found himself in the same position. Perhaps"—she paused cautiously, then continued—"perhaps it has something to do with being on the winning side. Wasn't it your Oscar Wilde who wisely corrected the saying to read: Nothing fails like success? But, I'm being indiscreet. Here I am in the very heart of what is only too obviously, a highly successful military operation, as my husband used to say. Again, thank you, Colonel."

  Rising, she turned swiftly and walked into the outer office. Mr. Ohara was bowing and smiling at the Major, who was now standing beside his desk. The Colonel started to follow her—he'd forgotten to ask her to give her husband his regards when next she visited the tuberculosis sanitarium. But she had already left the outer office, and Mr. Ohara and his son, the former still bowing and smiling, were backing out the door. The Colonel knew he could not get past them without another speech from the father and another of those even more disturbing glances from the boy.

  Colonel Ashcroft walked swiftly to the window, hoping to see Mrs. Schmidt as she crossed the street. There was something very young about her, and he liked that. She must have taken another way, however, for he only saw Mr. Ohara and his son. The father walked about five steps in front of the boy but talked constantly. The Colonel suddenly had a horrible vision of Japan democratized—a hundred million Taro Oharas, clustering worshipfully about five-starred emblems.

  He closed his eyes and stroked his moustaches.

  In the street, Mr. Ohara wasn't talking to his son as he strode ahead. He was furiously talking to himself. Finally, near Isetan Department Store, he stopped and allowed his son to catch up.

  "Perhaps it would have been better had you taken the chair the Major offered you," he said in Japanese, "and also the cigarette offered you by the Colonel. They offered. You could have sat down. You could have taken the cigarette, though offending the Colonel was not so bad as possibly offending the Major. But you didn't!"

  "I didn't want to."

  He didn't want to! That was just like him. Mr. Ohara turned and walked swiftly for a time. As though in this life one did nothing but what one wanted. Ichiro was eighteen and should have known better. Life was a series of responsibilities, not a series of evasions. Whether one were American or Japanese, this was true—and this was the cornerstone of Mr. Ohara's life.

  He looked back at his son, who was plodding along behind him, his face turned to the sidewalk. The father shook his head and walked yet more briskly, placing his feet squarely before him, turning his head and smiling in all directions—this was his American walk.

  Most fathers and sons had their little difficulties these days. Mr. Ohara knew this because he was usually on the side of the sons. One could understand their positions only too well. After all, if Japan were to take a leading place in the world, especially after the defeat, one would have to forget the old ways of doing things and become in reality the New Japan. The sons had the right ideas. Even if they took to running around the streets and going with ladies of the night and speaking GI slang in the home, it was, in Mr. Ohara's eyes, a good beginning.

  But Ichiro was different. In this regard the Ohara family was ironically twisted, for it was the father who was forward-looking and the son who was the reactionary. Ichiro wouldn't even talk with American soldiers, members of the Gentleman's Army. If one came up asking for directions or some simple aid—where could he find a girl, for example—Ichiro would not help him, though his English was good enough for that. If he were forced to answer, he would give purposely detailed and inaccurate directions, or say that many ladies of the night were found in the Dai Ichi Building. That was no way to behave!

  Mr. Ohara prided himself upon the fact that he could meet, on their own grounds, any of the representatives of the U. S. Army or Navy and trade stories about Cornell with them. They would leave with a better impression of Japan than they had had before, he was sure. Ichiro contributed nothing to this. Just now, for example, during that delightful call upon his friend the Major, it was he alone who had put everyone at ease in the American way, and it was his son who with his black scowling had almost ruined everything.

  "Do not lag behind!" he turned and shouted at his son, regardless of the stares his rudness brought him from the passers-by. "This is not a feudal country. You are not a retainer. I am not a daimyo. Walk here with me."

  But still Ichiro would not hurry, and his father had to wait on the sidewalk until they were side by side.

  "What did you learn from this morning's interview?" he asked, determinedly pleasant. The catechism was a favorite form of conversation with him. Through it both learned, one how to ask questions, the other how to answer them. Thus a pleasant walk could be made profitable to both parties, even be they father and son.

  "I learned that one should take cigarettes when they are offered by Americans though one does not smoke oneself."

  This was a pleasant answer. It showed that a mistake had been acknowledged, and this in itself was pleasant, for it meant that the mistake was now dead and could be forgotten. "That is very true," said Mr. Ohara sagely. "But, more generally, in the most important sense, what is it that you learned?"

  "I learned that it is politic to forget that we are Japanese when in the company of important foreigners. I learned it is important to imitate them."

  This was less satisfactory, because even Mr. Ohara began to suspect sarcasm. Still, what the boy was saying was perfectly true, and perhaps in his own way—a way now fortunately as obsolete as the way of his own grandfather—he himself was right.

  "Anything else?" he added pleasantly. On the third question the compliment usually appeared, and though he admitted it was childish and unworthy of him, he did love to receive compliments—no matter how empty he knew them to be. They were so reassuring.

  "I learned my father is more foreign than Japanese."

  Mr. Ohara turned and looked at the expressionless face of his son. Though this was meant as no compliment, he might, if he tried, interpret it as such. But his shoes pinched him, his coat was binding his arms, his hat hurt his head. He lost his temper.

  "I too learned something. I discovered that my son is not intelligent."

  It had escaped before he had thought to stop it. Though he began smiling at once, he saw it was too late. Never would Ichiro understand that it was an innocent phrase. It was used all the time at Cornell.

  It was, to Ichiro, a direct insult, and the color slowly left the boy's unsmiling face.

  It had come to this. A public insult on the street!

  Ichiro looked at his father, took off his cap, and bowed very low. Then he turned quickly and walked away, leaving his father speechless, furious, and remorseful in the street.

  He was the eldest son and, though still young, carried already the air of responsibility which is so striking in the first child of a Japanese family. He was a model—industrious, devoted, dedicated. That was why the insult had reached him. Many other sons these days would have giggled and begged pardon instantly. To Ichiro the insult was also a falsehood. He could not believe he had merited it and would not forgive his father. Ichiro had no small opinion of himself.

  To be sure, everything that he was he owed to his father. This was true of all sons. It had been true of his father before him. Yet, recognizing this, he could not imagine his father reacting to a direct insult as he himself had just done. His father would have begun stamping his tight Western shoes, would have shouted, and finally, would have trampled his dignity under his own feet. His father was by now a man without dignity.

  Just in front of Ichiro there walked a mendicant priest, wearing the inverted-bowl-shaped hat, the dar
k, oddly formal kimono, the straw sandals. In one hand he held a Buddhist bead-string and a shallow pan for offerings; in the other, a tiny tinkling bell in the shape of a cat's head. He walked slowly, the crowd pressing around and past him.

  Ichiro, behind, smiled. There was something reassuring about this priest, here on the crowded, modern streets of Shinjuku. Wandering priests were no rare sight, yet they were more than an anachronism—they were a reminder. They were a kind of symbol of Japan's integrity.

  At the street corner Ichiro already had his hand in his pocket, feeling for small bills, when the light changed. Rather than cross in front of the priest—on principle Ichiro paid no attention to traffic lights—he waited behind him. The priest, however, seemed deep in meditation. His head down, his eyes covered by the hat, he continued walking against the traffic.

  A charcoal-burning taxi, trailing a great cloud of yellow smoke like a battle banner, came around the corner at great speed and knocked the priest down.

  Ichiro's first impulse was to run to the fallen priest. The hat had fallen from his head and was rolling in the intersection. His face was quite old and his eyes were closed. The pan was caught under one of the worn tires of the taxi and the bead-string was broken. The cat-faced bell had disappeared.

  A crowd was gathering around the stopped taxi, and Ichiro successfully suppressed his first impulse. This was, after all, the responsibility of the driver who had struck the priest, and, now, Ichiro no more thought of going to the old man's aid than did anyone else gathered around, silent and looking. If Ichiro, or anyone else, interfered and performed any service, no matter how small, the priest, his abbot, his entire sect would be forever in debt, in theory at any rate, and there was always the possibility that this would in turn complicate the donor's life no end. It would therefore be cruel to the priest if he were still alive, and useless if he were dead.

  Now he lay quite peacefully, his arms outstretched, his legs curled under him, as though he were the main figure in some Chinese assumption scene. The terrified driver had not yet climbed from his smoking cab. The crowd looking at the now feebly bleeding body was growing larger. When the driver, frightened and pale, opened the door, more and more curious passers-by stopped.

  Ichiro stayed longer and watched the pale driver bend over the old man. The taxi smoked, and the cars, piled up behind it, honked incessantly. Suddenly Ichiro felt very sad and very angry. He turned abruptly and started down the street.

  By the time he reached Shinjuku Station he was almost running, accidentally bumping against others, who turned, marveling at his rudeness. He bought a ticket to Ochanomizu and walked to the platform for the Chuo Line.

  He had thought perhaps to go to Asakusa and walk through the park and the amusement district, feeling his spirit recoil with disgust at the naked girlie shows, the American gangster movies, the black-market cigarettes and whiskey, the hunger and sadness and poverty that was Japan. That would be punishment enough for his shocking behavior toward his father.

  But then he realized that it would also be self-indulgence. It was better to carry one's shame within, until it was entirely expiated. As he waited, he solemnly pinched first one thigh, then the other. After that he cruelly twisted all of his fingers.

  It was past the rush hour and the trains were less crowded. All the seats were taken, naturally, but it was possible to stand without danger of being crushed. He stood, one hand on the rail above, the other in his pocket, still wickedly tweaking his already bruised thigh.

  Before him sat a young girl, and as he watched her Ichiro felt a great and satisfying wave of disgust. From head to toe she was everything a Japanese girl should not be. Her feet were forced into high-heeled shoes which he recognized as PX. Her stockings, though not the luxurious American nylon, were the Japanese substitute and wrinkled around the heel. (He decided that Japanese girls should never show their legs—not that it was immoral, it was just that their legs were not adapted to Western clothes. He'd heard GI's call them "piano legs" and that seemed most apt.) Her dress was too short, either through choice or necessity; it failed to hide the roll of her stockings above the knee. Under her coat she wore a Japanese imitation-silk blouse torn at the neckline. She had tried to hide the tear by fastening it with a pin—a Chuo University pin. Her hair was frizzed in the current "cannibal" fashion and stood straight out from her head.

  The face beneath was pretty, however, for it was the classical moon-face, always so beautiful in Japan. But the cheeks were rouged so heavily and the lips painted such a thick red that the face itself was all but hidden. The rice-powder on her nose was caked and cracked, and the mascara on her eyebrows was greasy with perspiration.

  He watched her, positively enjoying his disgust. And, too, how symbolic of Japan she seemed. If he remembered, he would write a waka or perhaps, to limit himself still more severely, a haiku about her. The moonfaced beauty so reminiscent of Japan's past, the loveliness of Kyoto in the autumn, the full moon rising above Edo—then all of this mutilated and disfigured by the paste for the lips, the powder for the nose, and the American permanent wave. If he could cut it down, it would make a good haiku.

  The girl looked up from her movie magazine, and he glanced rudely away, hoping to offend her as she deserved. But she was not offended, for she was not interested. She had eyes only for the next car, which she could see through the end windows. Several American soldiers were sprawling in it. Ichiro closed his eyes. This was much better punishment than Asakusa would have been. As his eyes closed he bit his under-lip. This before him could have been his own Haruko.

  And Haruko might yet become like this shameless creature sitting before him. For a time he allowed himself the indulgence of imagining a meeting years from now between Haruko and himself. She would be a prostitute and he an internationally famous lawyer, devoted to his task of showing the way to Japan. It would be in Shinjuku Station. He would have come from an important meeting with the Prime Minister during which he had changed the destiny of his people several times.

  Ordinarily he would be in his own car, being driven home, perhaps to Denenchofu, where they had the latest plumbing, and where his wife, a beautiful, meek, and very rich girl from the country, would be bowing low at the portal. But tonight, for some reason, he would be in Shinjuku Station, like a samurai in disguise. And this little prostitute would timidly approach him, somehow aware that she was in the presence of a great man. She would lay a tiny hand upon his arm, and he, smiling at the folly he was seeking to correct, would begin to turn away. But before he did—the Recognition Scene!

  It was Haruko, her teeth blackened, her hair frizzed in the still-popular "cannibal" style, her eyes dropping mascara-like tears. Ah—she knew him also. Their eyes would meet, and the Truth would lie between them.

  It would be enough that they both knew. Then he, sadder but wiser, would turn away, and she, with no backward glance, would go and fling herself under the next train.... The only thing spoiling this otherwise enjoyable vision was Ichiro's feeling that he'd seen it all someplace before.

  The train stopped at Ochanomizu, and both Ichiro and the girl got off. She sauntered close to the window of the Allied car, peering in, and Ichiro suddenly remembered how he himself had peered into the Allied car that morning at the soldier from the Colonel's office—his rival. He would go see Haruko now and confront her with his evidence. Despite the fact that they were not supposed to meet until tonight, they had been seeing each other off and on since they were children, and this meeting at the opera was simply a public way of announcing an engagement. If he saw her this afternoon, he could throw her off guard. Eventually, weak and womanly, she would creep to him for forgiveness, which he would magnanimously give. It would get their marriage off on the proper footing—himself as master. The only thing the matter with Haruko was that she had big ideas about the equal importance of women and so forth. Well, she wouldn't have them long!

  Meanwhile the train pulled out, and the prostitute—what else could she be?—continued
her stroll along the station. Ochanomizu was a respectable district, and it seemed decidedly bad business that she should be here even at night, not to speak of noon. She was approaching a rather dirty student, and Ichiro, despite his disgust, turned to watch. He had hoped to see her rebuffed, but instead, the student smiled and bowed. After a few words she turned and strolled away. Ichiro saw that the boy was Yamaguchi, a schoolmate of his.

  Just then Yamaguchi saw Ichiro and waved. He was a short boy with enormous glasses, long uncut hair, and a vast amount of dirt. Even though it was no longer in the height of fashion, he still affected the traditional filth of students, and his bare feet were thrust into high wooden geta which clattered along the station floor as he ran, his cape flying behind him.

  "Hello, Ohara," he shouted.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Yamaguchi," said Ichiro, knowing he now liked to be called Comrade Yamaguchi since his recently acquired enthusiasm for communism. Before that it had been the French films and, before that, stamp collecting. Ichiro, on principle, disliked the idea of calling anyone comrade and so always declined. He nodded toward the distant swaying girl and said: "You were speaking of Marxian dialectic?"

  Yamaguchi turned brusquely, head over his shoulder, and looked after the girl. His actions always seemed parodies of themselves. When he shook hands with a comradely enthusiasm, it was as though he were pumping water; when asked an opinion, he would screw up his eyes and visibly think; when told a joke, his braying laugh could be heard for blocks. Now he turned and stared back along the station as though he had been told that Marx himself had suddenly appeared there.

  He looks like an ugly, dirty little bird, thought Ichiro, like the latest metamorphosis of the imperial phoenix.

  "As a matter of fact, yes," said Yamaguchi, turning his head with a quick motion which threatened to dislocate it.