Ichiro laughed, but the other looked so hurt that he turned it into a polite cough and said earnestly: "Is she of the underground also?"
Yamaguchi looked innocent. "We are not to say, but as a matter of fact, yes."
Ichiro had never been able to determine exactly how much of a communist his acquaintance was. He attacked each new enthusiasm with such vigor and militancy that it became impossible to gauge accurately how implicated he was in any of his interests.
Now he bent forward, his cape around him, and, in a conspiratorial voice, dramatically lowered, said: "I can say no more, but it has to do with a great demonstration which we are at present engineering. You will doubtless hear of it in all the papers and on the radio by tomorrow at the latest. It will be a great blow given for Truth and Freedom."
"Is one to know the nature of the disturbance?"
"No," Yamaguchi said shortly. But then, unable to forego the pure pleasure of sharing, he lowered his voice still further and whispered: "It is aimed at the heart of the American Invasion, the infamous GHQ."
It was always difficult to know how seriously to take Yamaguchi's pronouncements. It was quite possible that there was actually to be a demonstration of some kind, though it would probably be an all-student one, and hence rather inoffensive. But Yamaguchi's enthusiasms often bordered on mania. His intensity had made possible the finest stamp collection at Chuo University, and even now he probably knew more about the private life of Viviane Romance than anyone else in Japan. On the other hand, it was equally possible that he wasn't even a Party member and was simply one of those many students whom the real organization used from time to time.
Yamaguchi saw the unexpressed doubt on Ichiro's face. "Well, you remember the May Day demonstration when so much good was done."
"Or so much damage, as you like. What about it?"
Comrade Yamaguchi tapped his chest complacently.
"All of it? asked Ichiro.
Yamaguchi held up a modest hand. "No, Comrade Ohara, not all—but," and he lowered his voice tenderly, "a little."
Ichiro knew all about this and felt like smiling. Five students had been implicated, all of them innocently. They had enjoyed the riot for its own exciting sake; it was only afterwards that they realized it had been anything but spontaneous, realized it had been engineered. All, including Comrade Yamaguchi here, had been quite contrite, and all had been punished by a public reprimand from the president of the university. At the time Yamaguchi was making a scrapbook devoted to Odette Joyeux and almost failed to attend his punishment.
"Well," said Ichiro, "it was a stroke of genius to use the Imperial Plaza."
Yamaguchi smiled, touched. "We thought so," he said quietly.
"By the way, are you a member of the Party?"
"It's no crime," said Yamaguchi, instantly defensive—or perhaps avoiding a direct answer. "Not like in some countries I could name. Japan's still a free country."
"Oh, no, it's not either—it's a colony."
Comrade Yamaguchi could very easily turn any comment to his own advantage: "Yes, of a vicious and corrupt capitalistic system which, in the end, can only defeat its own purpose. This we true Japanese will wish for and will encourage. Then will come—among other nice things—the Worker's Paradise."
Ichiro didn't laugh, knowing Yamaguchi had no sense of humor, but the idea of Japan's being a worker's paradise strongly tempted him to. A dictatorship of the proletariat was impossible, and as for anarchy, the ultimate goal of communism—well, Japan was simply too tidy a country. But, then, Yamaguchi didn't know what he was saying—he always parroting phrases he'd picked up here and there.
"You don't seriously believe that, do you?" asked Ichiro, still amused.
The amusement stung Yamaguchi, who stuck out his lower lip. As a matter of fact, he didn't but was scarcely in the position to admit it. It was an attitude, like many others, and self-respect must be maintained at any cost. Actually, he had long before begun to have doubts.
His first doubts had occurred when, at his own expense, he had gone to see the prisoners returned from Russia. He, and almost everyone else, had been profoundly shocked by the behavior of the indoctrinated soldiers toward their own families. He'd seen a young ex-soldier nod only slightly to a weeping father whom he had not seen in years, in the meantime shouting and carrying around the placards used in what was called their spontaneous demonstration. He'd seen another, about his own age or a bit older—he must have entered the Army from grammar school—standing undecided between his weeping mother and his jeering comrades. It was a most dramatic scene, illustrating the theme of conflicting loyalties which fills all Japanese literature, and yet the resolution of the conflict in this case was one which any Japanese would have found repugnant. Thus is was that Comrade Yamaguchi began to have his doubts.
And with his doubting came a tendency to find flaws in the Communist world-pattern, just as he eventually always found flaws in his hobbies. Thus he had finally decided that Arletty was the epitome of the bourgeois. And now he slowly turned from Marx, saying, first, that Stalinism was not true communism at all and, finally, that true Marxism was no real answer in itself—it answered the body, he was fond of whispering to himself, but what of the soul?
This might have led him to Buddhism or to Christianity, but instead, following the obscure pattern of his enthusiasms, it led him to American literature. He had already been reading much of it, in translation, under the guise of "getting to know the enemy." But after reading Emerson and Whitman and Moby Dick he had been stirred into curiosity. What, indeed, of the soul? So, being commendably thorough, he attempted to find the answer where he had found the question—in American literature.
He read Hemingway, but received small comfort. Scott Fitzgerald was no better. Miss Louisa May Alcott seemed to him to have a somewhat superficial view of the subject of the soul, while the solution of Longfellow's, though probably more practical than that of William Faulkner's, was, perhaps, a bit optimistic. Thus he waded through American literature, receiving much pleasure but little instruction.
His doubts concerning the Communists had begun to be considerable, but it was not yet time for him to change his attitude publicly. He would wear it a while longer, deriving whatever solace it gave while he searched for a substitute. His heart, however, was no longer in it. He never went to French movies now and had sold his stamp collection so he could buy the collected works of O. Henry. His gradual political apostacy, however, dissemble it as he might, had not gone unnoticed.
So when Ichiro smiled and said "You don't seriously believe that, now do you?" Yamaguchi was stung: he was the first to realize that, of course, he didn't: But he couldn't simply admit it—there was his position to think of.
"Yes I do!" he shouted. "But I can see that you don't. You and your capitalistic, war-mongering, fraternizing father! You're just like him—an opportunist, a non-altruistic Philistine!" He was spluttering with rage and, being unable to think of anything more damning, turned and ran quickly—bird-like—along the station, his clogs clattering on the concrete
These were very harsh words for Ichiro, but then Yamaguchi always used very harsh words. Sometimes he got himself slapped because of them, but he never learned. Ichiro merely sighed and refused to take the words seriously. Besides the words didn't bother him, though their application did.
Why was it, he wondered, that one was always expected to be one thing or another! His own father occasionally indulged in towering rages, during which he would accuse Ichiro of being radical, anti-social, probably a Communist, and certainly an ingrate. Just now Comrade Yamaguchi had accused him of precisely the opposite—of being a reactionary, a capitalist, probably a fraternizer, and certainly an opportunist.
The saddest part, thought Ichiro, was that he was none of these things. His sympathies, if they had to be some place, were with the Americans; it was only natural for a Japanese that they would be—after all, Comrade Yamaguchi was an exception—but that did not necessarily mean
that he approved of everything they did or stood for. That was one thing people like his own father and Yamaguchi—the world seemed to be full of such—could never understand: that a divided loyalty was a natural thing and one to be desired. Ichiro's view of the world, whatever its limitations, did not confine itself to merely black and white. There was more than this to life. But, at times like this, Ichiro strongly doubted that he was particularly fitted for his future career. He was in law school.
He walked to the street, past the Julien Sorel Men's Wear, the New Kleine Fujigetsudo Patissiere, and the Monster Atom Bar. At the corner he caught a crowded streetcar and, hanging on the outside, the wind whipping his face, wondered how he ought to act toward Haruko after all.
In the ordinary course of events he would have been calling merely to instruct her how she should act that evening at their official meeting. But now that he knew about the soldier, this was obviously impossible. Yet he could not confront her with his knowledge. This was not permitted. If she were as high-minded as Ichiro would have her, she would have no other recourse than suicide, and he had to admit he didn't want that. So he decided to be stern, to allow her to suspect that he knew. He would watch her torments in silence and then, finally, relieve her of them by announcing he was bowing to his father's wishes. He would coldly ask her if she would do him the honor of becoming his wife. She, covered with shame, would kneel low before him, beg forgiveness, and promise to be the model wife.
By the time he rang the bell he had all the details worked out.
The old female servant opened the door and at once prostrated herself. She knew in which direction the wind lay. It was she who had telephoned his father's servant—her dearest friend—and told about the soldier's having finally stayed the night. She had heard him come and heard him go—with almost four hours intervening between those two shocking occurences. She had also heard laughter—and suspicious silences. But she resisted the impulse to elaborate upon these significant details, finding it more pleasant to allow her friend to fill in the probabilities with her own lively imagination. Now she lowered herself before the wrathful lord.
He nodded brusquely, anxious to get on with the interview, and allowed himself to be led into the main room, where he was seated before the small red-lacquer table and given tea. The old servant, all unspoken condolence, bowed again and disappeared. He waited for Haruko, contrite, frightened as a kitten, to appear.
When the fusuma at the far end of the room opened it was not pushed by the gentle hand, graceful as a falling petal, of a well-trained Japanese maiden who would thus have revealed herself, dramatically, in a pose of silent contrition, as though her hand, now falling equally gracefully into her lap, had not even touched the door. It was pushed by Haruko's foot as she, bending over a mass of chrysanthemums from the garden, backed into the room.
She didn't see him until she was well into the room. "Good morning," she said, bowing clumsily over the load of flowers.
"Good day," he said shortly, a bit aware that his formal pose—one fist around the teacup, the other at his side as though upon a sword hilt, a combination of the samurai and David Lloyd George—was none too effective.
"I've been out in the garden," she said and gracefully piled the flowers at one side of the tokonoma beside him.
"Yes," he said, and waited.
She knelt beside him, her legs folded under her, her hands in her lap, and successfully resisted an impulse to laugh. He looked so pompous sitting there glaring down at her. They had known each other from childhood, far too long for her to take his pretensions seriously now that he was of a marriageable age. Then she sighed, for, even if it was rather amusing, it was also rather sad. She had seen so many of the boys with whom she had played as a child become pompous bores. It seemed, in fact, a national pattern.
When he'd been young he'd been charming. They had played together every day, as though they were both boys, and he'd taught her to fly kites, and she'd always had him as a special guest on the festival day for girls. It was he who had always been allowed to touch the dolls.
Then, quite suddenly, he had been removed into some other world, put into a boys' school, and their meetings had been frowned upon. Soon she had gone to a girls' school and had never again known any boys her age until Michael. Perhaps when she and Ichiro were very old they might play together again, but certainly not before that. In the same way she had put her bright-colored kimono away upon going to school, and could not again wear the brilliant reds until long after her children were married.
So it was sad to be sitting like this with him now. He had apparently forgotten every one of their childhood confidences. She was going to be a celebrated airplane pilot, and he was to explore Mongolia and become extremely famous. But it had all changed. She was simply a Japanese girl, and that in itself was a lifetime of labor. He would become a bank clerk or a shipping official and, after years of labor, would remain a manager or a president or a something. And already he was more successfully facing his future than she. Only a future Japanese magnate of industry could sit there as he was doing now, glaring at her.
She doubted that she could make him a satisfactory wife. It was not that she didn't like him—quite the contrary. When she'd first learned she was to marry him she had been ecstatic, but that had been years ago and her romantic devotion to the handsome student whom she occasionally saw on the street or in the homes of mutual friends had long since become something more sober and enduring. They had shared a life in common, and that was the most important thing. For that reason alone she could be his wife. But then, of course, she no longer knew him—she only remembered him as he had been. It was best to pretend he was a stranger and treat him accordingly.
Tentatively, she said: "The chrysanthemums are very full this year."
"So I have seen for myself."
"Might one bring you hot tea?"
"As one may notice, it has already been brought."
"May one inquire after the health of one's future parents?"
"One may. They are well."
"And of one's future husband."
"He also is well."
After a pause, he continued: "It is concerning the marriage that he comes to speak with you." He leaned back slightly, waiting for this pronouncement to have its full effect upon her. He had hoped for blushes and a lowered head.
Instead, she leaned forward on her elbows and said: "Good. I've been wanting to talk to you about it too."
"It is the husband's prerogative to speak with the wife. Not the other way about."
"I know. That's why I've been waiting." She folded her hands and waited.
Ichiro didn't like the turn the interview was taking. As always, she was aggressive. If he'd thought of it, he could have sent his mother, and she could have found out all he wanted to know through the female combination of maternal petting and quite objective poking and pulling. But he hadn't thought of this until now.
"The marriage is what our honored parents wish."
"Isn't that so, though?"
"And, upon proper consideration, I believe it neither possible nor good that we attempt to run counter to their wishes."
"Oh, I don't know about that. After all, it's not they who are getting married. It's us.... How do you really feel about it, Ichiro? Not too good, judging from the way you're acting."
Ichiro swallowed, then finished the rest of his tea. She was quite impossible, positively unladylike. It was because she was so Western. In spite of the servants' gossip he still believed her pure of body—but of mind, no. Her mind was corrupted. He was certain of that.
"My feeling in this matter, which you so kindly consider, is not entirely based upon personal considerations. I, not unnaturally, am also motivated by considerations for the future, the fact that our parents will come more and more to depend upon us, that our children will find in us that which we have found in our parents."
"Oh, I hope not," said Haruko, without thinking. "If you're anything like your father—"
A stern though scandalized glance from Ichiro stopped her.
"As I was saying, all of these considerations conspire to create within me a condition which you quite accurately noticed as troubled. I do not feel that a marriage between our houses is feasible until a certain obstacle is removed and until we ascertain precisely how much damage this obstacle has already occasioned." That, thought Ichiro, was very well put. Now at last he would be rewarded with a few tears and probably a blush as well.
"You mean the American?" asked Haruko. "Well, to be sure, he must be considered. For he, too, has asked for me as his wife, and, frankly, I don't know quite what to do. You must help me, Ichiro, because I'm just a girl and I can't decide things like this—important things, you know. And you can."
Her flattery did not even reach him. Ichiro was shocked, much in the way his father had been shocked by the Colonel's dragging business so indecently into the open and then heartlessly dispensing with it. The son had expected modesty and contrition. Perhaps, after several hours of conversation, the existence of the soldier might have been casually mentioned, there might have been more subtle references, so slight that if the other did not wish to acknowledge them, he—or she—need not do so. But this indelicate blatancy, and the further insult of asking for aid in a problem so uniquely her own—he was rendered quite speechless.
Haruko toyed with the insignia of his cap. "I suppose you think me impolite, but, really, Ichiro, this is far too important for both of us not to discuss it in full. I don't really mean to be impolite, but I am forced to be since you will not do me the justice of speaking about it openly."
"The fact that I am here proclaims that I am ready to do so," said Ichiro, feeling his honor at stake.
"It proclaims nothing of the sort. It merely indicates you are suspicious. You are here because you know the soldier was here last night. I suppose you want to know what happened. Nothing happened—that's what happened. Nothing but that he asked me to marry him. And he kissed me, which is, or so I hear, an old American custom meaning no more than shaking hands or bowing." She broke into tears.
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