This Scorching Earth

by Donald Richie

  "What barbarism!" said the Major feelingly. Then, anxious to shine in the somewhat dulled eyes of the Tribune representative, he drew nearer and said: "Why, would you believe it, sir, today I saw an old beggar knocked down on the street. Just happened to glance from my office, you know, and, would you believe it, no one helped him at all—just stood around in a circle and gaped. Might have been dead for all I know. And even though he was just a dirty old beggar of the kind we don't even allow in Houston—Houston, that's where I hail from, sir, the fastest growing city in the world—still, you'd think a little Christian charity wouldn't be out of place. Why, if that had happened in my home town—that's Houston, sir—you wouldn't have been able to see the body for the folks clustered around trying to help. We're friendly people out our way, and so I was real disturbed—inner-like, you know—to see that nobody cared or helped the old person. Just stood and gaped at him!" The Major relapsed into an indignant and virtuous silence.

  "Was that out Shin-jew-kew way?" shouted Mrs. Swenson.

  "Yes, ma'am, it were."

  "But, dear, we saw that! You remember, just after we found that the celadon was only jadeite from Wool-worth's—had it stamped right on the bottom. Oh, I was so furious, you can imagine. But you remember that taxi accident, don't you, dear? Only it was a priest, not a beggar. A mendicant priest."

  Mr. Swenson paid no attention to his wife. During the Major's recital he had begun to smile, and as it concluded he was almost laughing. Here was just the sort of conversation he liked best. "Well," he began, still chuckling, "despite the undoubted concern of our friends in Houston, there are still many reasons for actions like those you so pertinently observed today. For one thing—"

  His wife interrupted him, saying: "Well, the people really have to let off steam, as they say. And you know, dear, perhaps that's just one of the ways of doing it—by not helping. You know, it's sort of like not contributing to the Red Cross or something. Makes you feel all nice and evil on the inside." She giggled nervously.

  Here was just the kind of interruption he liked least. And it invariably came from her. Whenever he had to handle two ideas at once he always became irritable, but this time he'd been doing so beautifully. The pleasing logic of the statement he had been about to make was now all muddied, and the charming, if elegiac, arabesque he had been about to draw before their very eyes would now seem a bit meaningless.

  Exasperated, he said: "Well, naturally, my dear. That propensity which you seem bound to intrude into our discussion is time-honored. The war is a perfect example of what you apparently mean. In any civilization where the laws of behavior are so codified as they happen to be here, escape valves must be expected, indeed, encouraged. Why do you think shrine festivals with all those young men drunk and shouting and literally not caring what happens to them are so popular? You speak like a novice."

  This was his most severe criticism, and his wife closed her mouth with a snap. He raised his eyebrows hopelessly, for all to see, and then, charming again and once more smiling, turned to the Major, ready again to explain the intricacies of the Japanese institution of non-interference in regard to fallen mendicant priests.

  "Oh, yes," said the Major suddenly, the impact of an idea having unexpectedly struck him with full force, "like the Matsudaira murders a while back. The work of a real monster. And those women raped and the breasts cut off and all hacked up like that and all and left in the sun for a month or two. I saw a couple of the photographs—public relations, that's me." He laughed expansively; then, remembering that he was actually talking about the monstrous murders, he somewhat unsuccessfully did his best to shudder through his smiles.

  Mr. Swenson always prided himself on being sane about his subject, the Japanese. He always said he neither bent too far backwards, nor forwards. Instead, he strove to teach through example. So, now, he was quite ready to forgive the rather maturely handsome major his unbelievable gaucheries. He formed his lips precisely, pursing them as he did so.

  "Well, I for one should not consider the work of an admittedly pathological 'monster,' as you say, to be completely indicative of the state of any nation—whether in Tokyo or—oh, yes—in Houston."

  The Major bobbed attentively, dimly aware that he was being reprimanded.

  "No"—and. Mr. Swenson laughed easily—"when I mentioned the need for safety valves I was merely thinking of great mass actions—the war, for example, or the many rebellions in Japanese history, or those lovely shrine festivals. That's all." He spoke sharply but smiled constantly, and the shaft struck home. The Major didn't say a word.

  Contented, Mr. Swenson prepared to pick up that first part of the conversation which his wife had knocked flat. "And so, regarding the lower limbs of the Japanese—for that is what we were discussing—I must admit they do have one uncivilized attribute, and that is the binding of those thighs and calves, the result of which is, as you know, the single flaw in the beauty of the race."

  "They sure got some cute numbers," said the Major, agreeably. "But they're not really barbaric like I said. I was sort of joking."

  Mr. Swenson instantly warmed to the Major. "Oh, no, nothing like that." He laughed lightly. "Nothing like that—just short-sighted or what have you. But I must warn you that, much as I disapprove of the mind militant at work, I am contemplating a rash action and must at once admit to the intention of firing a small campaign—which you might with reason stigmatize as barbarous—the results of which would be the abolition of back-carried babies and back-carrying mothers. But, then, is it not equally barbarous to tamper with nature to the extent that strong calves, straight thighs—those adjuncts to perfect beauty—are completely absent from the race?"

  "Yeah," said the Major, anxious to please. "And then they put on silk stockings. Wow!"

  Mr. Swenson's smiling face froze. "Silk stockings? Silk stockings? Not at all. The Japanese is not an effeminate race. It never has been. What you so tastelessly refer to as 'silk stockings' might perhaps be the court garb of the Heian Era, or it might be any number of other articles of clothing—manly, virile, and quite above your slanders."

  "Huh?" said the stunned Major, and Gloria decided it was time they moved away. Old Swenson was likely as not to make a fine scene before very long.

  "Come, I'm thirsty," said Gloria, drawing the Major away by an oak leaf.

  "Yes, yes," said Mrs. Swenson, bird-like, pecking at her husband's flannel sleeve, nodding busily. "Next intermission, next intermission."

  "Never did find what anyone thought of the singing," said Gloria.

  "What's the idea dragging me away like that?" said the Major. "That's Swenson of the Tribune—a good man to know."

  "And that's just what you'll do—in the Biblical sense—if you're not careful."

  "I don't follow you."

  "You'd better not—I'm going to the powder room."

  She left him standing by the big marble staircase. Near him was Private Richardson, smoking a cigarette. Whenever the Major and the Private met outside the office, which was rarely, they never talked, always pretending not to know each other. This suited both of them. Now, however, the Major turned and, with an extraordinarily conspiratorial air, spoke from one corner of his mouth.

  "Got the package?" he said.

  "Yes, sir," said Michael, after a pause.

  The Major relaxed his mouth a bit and laughed. "Don't want anything to happen to that baby. Safe, eh?"

  "Safe as the Emperor's carp, sir."

  "Huh?"

  "Yes, sir, real safe."

  "Good work, boy. See you tomorrow." He turned rapidly and bolted in the direction of the drinking fountain.

  Michael was rather pleased. Now that the package was gone, the less he saw of the Major the better. Except that now he wondered what the Major would do when he discovered the loss. He doubted if even the Major could have the moat drained. And one consoling thought was that you couldn't bust a buck private.

  He looked up and saw the only officer he didn't dislike coming
toward him. It was Colonel Ashcroft, looking sadder than ever.

  "Good evening, Richardson," said the Colonel.

  "Good evening, sir."

  "Are you enjoying the opera?"

  "Not particularly, sir."

  "Well, that makes two of us." The Colonel continued standing before Michael, thought it soon became apparent that they had no more to say to each other than the good-mornings and good-nights they exchanged every day. The Colonel, however, obviously had something on his mind.

  "I really wonder," he said, "why we ever sponsor a thing like this—not that it's a bad performance, but that it's opera."

  "Well, it amuses the civilians, sir."

  "Yes, that's true—I don't see many of your friends here."

  That was one of the things Michael liked about the Colonel: he would never have used the word buddies. "No, sir, they're sure not here."

  "To be frank, I'm a bit surprised to see you here, Private Richardson."

  Michael colored slightly. "I came with someone else."

  "A lovely young Japanese, if I interpret office gossip rightly."

  Michael smiled in spite of himself. He suddenly hoped that nothing bad ever happened to the Colonel—that he would always be happy. "Yes, sir," he said.

  "Well, that's nice," said the Colonel, pulling his moustaches. He was plainly preoccupied. "Speaking of office gossip, there is one thing I wanted to ask you."

  Michael nodded and hoped it would not be concerning the rumor of the Colonel's own change of command. It would be unlikely he would ask a private, however, even under the Occupation. But he was still more disturbed when he heard what the Colonel was saying:

  "Do you know anything about Major Calloway? I saw him talking with you just now."

  Michael colored and said: "How do you mean, sir?"

  "Oh, I mean irregular activities—black market and the like."

  This chance of getting the Major was even better than dropping the package in the moat. At the same time he could both do the Colonel a favor and insure the Major's downfall. He was certain that, until the Major actually knew what had happened to the package, he wouldn't involve him, Private Richardson, preferring rather that Michael, as he hoped, would see the business through for him—that is, unless he got cornered. But, at the same time, Michael didn't want to inform on the Major. There were no real reasons not to, he realized, yet he still believed it wrong to tell on anyone.

  "Oh, I don't quite know what you mean, sir," he finally said. "I'm sure it's just rumor—that's all. I've never seen anything."

  The Colonel smiled, apparently pleased. "I thought as much. Just checking, you understand. That's the disgraceful job we all must do, I suppose.... Well, enjoy yourself ... Michael. Good evening."

  He turned and walked through the lobby, content in his belief that Michael knew nothing. The last obstacle was overcome. One must certainly check. He'd been right. One never knew when one of these confused young men might lend themselves to someone like the Major, not even realizing they were doing wrong.

  But the Private—Michael—was made of finer stuff. The Colonel suddenly realized, with some emotion, that this soldier, to whom he had never before spoken a personal word, would be the only person in Japan whom he would miss. He passed Miss Wilson and nodded pleasantly.

  Gloria smiled briefly at the Colonel and walked directly toward Michael. Before she reached him, he said: "Well, where're the furs?"

  "Checked—and, Mike, let's just for a second not joke. I want to ask you something, and it's deadly serious. In fact, I'm deadly serious. Take a good look, for you won't often find me like this."

  "Well, I've got the time—if you've got the place."

  "Will you be serious! I'm with the Major, but I'll dodge him. Will you wait for me after it's over?"

  "Well..."

  "Oh, I know, you've got a dozen faithful Japanese maidens on the string—" Then she noticed his face. "I'm sorry Mike, but I'm all upset too. Wait, will you?"

  The Major had found her and was tugging at her arm.

  "Stop that," said Gloria. Then hopelessly shrugging her shoulders, she waved good-by to Michael. "Stop pulling me, I said!"

  "We'll be late. Buzzer sounded," said the Major.

  "I didn't know you were enjoying yourself so much."

  "Love it."

  "Oh, yes—'Jap Girl Gets Long-Due Come-Uppance' by Puccini," said Gloria.

  The lobby was rapidly becoming empty. Near the corner phone stood the Colonel. He was waiting to use it. A woman had been ahead of him. He seemed undecided whether to phone or not. Just then the woman finished talking. She hung up and turned around. The Colonel saw it was one of the two women he'd seen talking with the Major, the smartly dressed one who was so well preserved.

  The phone was free at last. The lobby was empty. The Colonel lifted the receiver and heard the answering buzz. Then he put it down. He could not make the call.

  Haruko didn't see much of the second act. She was crying too hard. Poor Chocho-san sat before her paper windows and sang her heart out. One fine day he would return—and Kate would be with him, and Butterfly would have to kill herself. Chocho-san to be sure did not yet know all this herself, but Haruko already knew the work very well and was in agonies of anticipation. She was privately of the opinion that the play was of a much finer quality than the one about Macbeth which she had been forced to read in school: Butterfly made her cry much more.

  It was so beautiful... so sad ... so true. Between almost inaudible sniffles, Haruko raised her eyes to the stage, waiting for the next revealing comment by Suzuki, the next innocent but, oh, so telling phrase from Chocho-san. Then she would bury her nose in her handkerchief and silently sob. Comprehending the revealing comments and telling phrases, however, demanded a concentration which somewhat detracted from the flavor of her sorrows: all the arias were in Italian, while all the rest was in Japanese, except that Sharpless and Pinkerton sang in an approximation of English.

  Her father and mother, apparently unmoved, sat on either side of her. Mr. Ohara kept glancing at her, smiling, indicating the stage, the orchestra, the singers, the brilliant audience—the new Japan. Next to him sat his son, his face red, his collar too tight, his back too straight. He didn't seem to be enjoying himself at all. No one paid any attention to Haruko's private sorrows, and that was the way it should be.

  Through tear-filled eyes, with her handkerchief before her mouth, Haruko gazed at the stage. Suzuki shook her powdered head knowingly, and Butterfly flitted around touching the flowers. It was all that a real tragedy should be—so terrible it was lovely. Tears ran down over Haruko's quivering lips. She was enjoying herself enormously.

  Then came the celebrated night scene. It was beautifully done, with Butterfly kneeling before the shoji, waiting for the faithless Pinkerton. The music sobbed softly, but no one came, and no one was going to come. Then, little by little, the sun rose, its light shining through the paper door. Fragile Chocho-san, exhausted from her long vigil, had fallen asleep kneeling. He had not come.

  It was here that Haruko most clearly saw herself on the stage, waiting for she knew not what. Was it only the night before that her very own Pinkerton had come, scratching like a cat at her shoji? Yes, it was. And it might have been she who, like Butterfly, would kneel for a lifetime—waiting, waiting. This made her think of the lovely final scene with Butterfly, the Knife, Little Trouble, and the American Flag. She could no longer contain her anticipatory sobs.

  Her father turned and looked at her once with a glance he might have given a misbehaving animal. Like the animal, Haruko became instantly quiet and closed her eyes tight. In so doing she missed the rather spectacular effect occasioned by the man in the flies controlling the sun; at that moment he kicked off a bucket of bolts, which fell heavily to the stage, narrowly missing the sleeping but vigilant Chocho-san.

  Suzuki, with commendable presence of mind, calmly gathered up the spilled bolts, put them back into the bucket, and trotted off stage with them, j
ust as though they always had their bolts delivered to the house that way. Butterfly alone appeared slightly shaken.

  Most of the audience, however, were wet-eyed by this time, and there were only a few who laughed. Haruko didn't quite remember this being in the libretto, but she had to admit it made a fine effect and showed real imagination on the part of the producers. Having a bucket of bolts dropped on her was just one more welcome indignity for the poor, faithful Chocho-san. On this final, touching scene the curtain slowly descended to great applause.

  Haruko quickly dried her eyes, and when Mr. Ohara waved his fan at her, she stood up and preceded him and his son toward the lobby.

  "Are you enjoying this famous classic of song?" asked Mr. Ohara in English.

  "Very like," she replied.

  "And my son?" he asked conversationally in Japanese.

  "Yes," said Ichiro. He was in a difficult position because, for the first time within memory, he was forced to approve of his father. He realized what an enormous sacrifice it must be for him to appear among the Americans in Japanese clothes, and yet he was forced to admit that his father was behaving beautifully. Even Haruko, for all her American infatuations, apparently felt no desire to sneer at the kimono, the obi, the geta.

  "May one compliment Mr. Ohara's most elegant clothing?" asked Haruko.

  "If one is Mr. Ohara's future daughter-in-law," said Mr. Ohara slyly.

  Ichiro blushed. Things had not gone well for him today. First his father, then Haruko. Both were central supports in his life, and his father's absurd Americanism had been just as expected as had Haruko's devotion to Japanese method. The day had reversed everything—Haruko had betrayed him with an American and, worse, had shown a shocking and most Western indiscretion in talking openly of the fact to him that afternoon; his father had betrayed him also by making himself unobjectionable. Ichiro felt his world tottering.

  But Mr. Ohara's implied question was still hanging in the air. For an answer Haruko turned and smiled at the confused and suspicious Ichiro. Suddenly her smile became a bit less bright: she had just caught sight of Michael moving through the crowded lobby. For a terrible moment she felt sure that her one fear was about to be realized, that Michael was going to come to them and make a scene. He was now so firmly identified with Pinkerton in her mind that she was convinced he was capable of anything, and with only a bit more persuasion she could have been convinced that it was he who had betrayed her. But when she saw he was not coming to them, her smile grew bright again.