This Scorching Earth

by Donald Richie

  "Now ... I asked you to marry me—" he began.

  "I was wondering when you were going to admit it. I thought you'd forgotten."

  "I haven't thought of nothing else but."

  "Well, this is flattering, I must say, but—"

  "I'll put it right on the line, Miss Wilson. I'm going to be worth a lot of money."

  Gloria looked at him curiously. "Oh?" she said.

  "I mean—you could do worse maybe."

  "Well, I don't know," said Gloria. "At least you are a man of few words. But you're not buying a horse, you know; you're asking a lovely young lady to—"

  "I'm just putting my cards on the table, that's all I'm doing."

  "O. K., I'm game. Why is you going to be worth lots of money, Mr. Bones?"

  "Because I'm honest and dependable and save my pay."

  "Well, that's an anti-climax, I must say," said Gloria. "I'd have thought you were up to your ears in the black market to hear you talk."

  The Major laughed easily. "You'd laugh out of the other side of your mouth if you knew how much I made this evening.... Yes, this evening, while we was here listening to the pretty music."

  "If I had another side to my mouth, I should be pleased to use it, but I think I should inform you that during proposals you don't need to sell the girl on you. All you need to do is ask her, and then receive your yes or no like a man."

  She suddenly noticed that the Major was embarrassed. He sat beside her and looked at the floor.

  "Aw..." he began. "I know that the money don't matter, but, you see, Miss Wilson, I know too that you don't really much like me and that you're only being kind to me now—and I hate it. But still I got to ask you. But first I ought to tell you something about me."

  "Where the money comes from?" she asked brightly. "But you've already told enough so I can imagine the rest."

  He was silent for a moment, and then said: "No. I had another girl."

  "That makes us even, Major. It so happens I've had another boy."

  "I mean ... I sort of still got her. I won't have for long. Already I'm getting away. Like just this afternoon, you remember, after I took you home to lie down for a bit, why, right after that I rushed right over to meet her because she wanted a favor done and I told her right then and there that that's the last favor I was ever going to do her and it was sort of a going-away present from me. That way, you see, I was able to let her down without hurting her. My, but she got mad though, but I went right on telling her. 'Cause I'd already made up my mind and asked you to marry me and I just wanted to end this other as soon as I possibly could." The Major was silent, and he looked both self-righteous and noble.

  "And what is the name of this forlorn female?" asked Gloria curiously.

  "Guess I can tell you since we shouldn't have no secrets from each other... It's Mrs. Ainsley—Dorothy Ainsley."

  Gloria stared at him in surprise, and then said: "And then, last night... after you left me, you .. ."

  The Major turned red. "How'd you know?" he whispered.

  Gloria remembered her breakfast with Dottie—her saying that Gloria should be married. And here was the chance, all gift-wrapped. So amused she could hardly keep her mouth straight, Gloria also realized that this was the way to get rid of the embarrassing Major once and for all and yet still stay in good graces at the office. She was wondering which pose to take—perhaps maidenhood threatened, a protective gesture with both hands, somewhat reminiscent of nymphs in flight, that sort of thing—when the Major suddenly caught sight of two men standing in the almost-empty lobby.

  "Those them?" he asked.

  "Those who?" said Gloria.

  "Those men you saw before."

  "Yes, I think so. Their faces are familiar, as all CID faces should be. In fact, the face of every man in the CID is as familiar to me as the palm of my mother's hand. Actually, one of the qualifications for their being chosen, I hear, is that they must betray a striking resemblance to the palm of Gloria Wilson's mother's hand."

  The Major turned to her and grinned sickly. Just then the two men moved away from the wall and walked toward them.

  Stopping beside the Major, one of the men said: "Major Calloway?"

  The Major looked up, his face white, and nodded.

  "Might we speak with you for a second? . . . Excuse us, ma'am."

  The Major, his face a dead white, stood up with them, and all three marched around the corner.

  Gloria sat alone on the chair and tried to decide exactly what she would do with the Major. His proposal seemed quite touching, a declaration of faith rather than of love, and the very fact that she had received it made her think less frequently of what she had overheard about herself that afternoon.

  As she idly examined her stockings for runs, she wondered if she would be the same if she were still in America. She finally decided that she would want to be, but wouldn't have the opportunity. There she'd have to be reasonably good. But here she didn't have to be. Suddenly she understood why people in the Occupation were the way they were. Like her, they were intrinsically rather nice, but simply being here had been enough to demoralize them. If they fibbed at home, they lied here; if they only occasionally picked up little items in the five-and-ten at home, they robbed the Army—and the Japanese—blind here; if they liked the opposite sex at home, well, then... just look at Miss Gloria Wilson.

  These thoughts somewhat reassured her. It was the environment, or something, she decided. Perhaps it was just part of being a conqueror. At any rate it was quite demoralizing. She slipped her feet from her shoes and curled up in the chair. And it was such fun being demoralized.

  She noticed someone standing near her. Looking up, she discovered it was Michael. "Oh, heavens," she said, "you've discovered me thinking—and with a straight face. This will never do. Come, sit down and get warm."

  Michael sat down heavily.

  "You don't look too well."

  "I don't feel too well," said Michael, turning to look at her for the first time. His eyes were red, as though he had a cold.

  "Well, I'm glad you waited for me," said Gloria.

  "I won't be very good company," lie began, turning slightly toward her. "But couldn't we go someplace together, just you and me?"

  "I've wanted to hear those very words for a long time, Michael, but I more than a little suspect I wouldn't be hearing them now unless something fairly unpleasant had happened to you recently. Come on, instead of going out and boring each other with fun and games, why don't you just sit here and tell Aunt Gloria all about it. They won't dare try to close this place up as long as we conquerors choose to stay here."

  "I wish you'd be serious."

  "And how does one be serious?" asked Gloria seriously. As she looked at Michael she felt that, even now, she was playing some kind of part, had cast herself into yet a new role, this time that of the defender of the wrong and injured. Gloria, mother of the world; Gloria, the picture of warm, compassionate womanhood. It was such a strain not being oneself.

  As she continued looking at Michael she realized that she didn't know which was her true self anyway. Was it the way she had been with Sonoko that morning, the warm, protective, school-chum type; or was it, perhaps, the palpitating female with Michael later on; or, maybe, the devastating cynic with the Major? Or was she really just a loud-mouthed, lecherous female with pretensions to kindness, love, and culture?

  Suddenly she realized her steady gaze was embarrassing the soldier. Looking down at her knees, she said: "I wanted to see you to ask you something about the Colonel. I've been given to understand that he's leaving. And that means we'll both be at the tender mercies, for a time at least, of the Major. Now, do you think maybe—"

  At that moment the Major appeared around the corner, flanked by the two men. One of the men stayed behind with the Major, and the other one walked over to Gloria and Michael.

  He smiled an apology at Gloria and said: "Private Richardson?"

  Michael nodded and stood up.


  "May we see you for a minute?" asked the man. He begged Gloria's pardon again, and all four men marched back around the corner.

  Gloria waited and waited, but they never came back.

  In another part of the lobby a few more of the audience still lingered on, also confident that none of the Japanese staff of the theatre would dare tell them it was time to leave. Dottie and Dave were holding court with a few others near the closed soft-drink bar.

  "But," said Dottie for the fifteenth time, "did you see Kate?" And, for the fifth time, she bent her delicate face into her hands and shook her shoulders. "Those breasts!" she gasped.

  "Well," said her husband—he had gallantly attempted a new rejoinder each time Kate was brought up—"seeing as how the Japanese girls have so little, they over-compensate by giving the Americans credit for too much. You know, like us white American males with Negroes—and I don't mean breasts."

  Usually this would have brought an appreciative giggle from Dottie, but at present she already had more than enough to laugh at. "And that fright-wig!" she screamed and again put her face in her hands.

  Mr. Swenson smiled tolerantly: "Well, it is a well-known fact that the Westerners have always been known as the 'red-haired barbarians,' but never in all Japanese art have I ever seen the fact so graphically portrayed."

  "And the bucket of bolts!" screamed Dottie, searching now back through her memory for even the less spectacular events of this spectacular evening.

  "That, in a way, was too bad," said Mrs. Swenson, cautious lest she cast a pall over the little gathering by reminding them of the beauties of the performance. "For, in its way, that second act—the night passage, you know—was quite charming. The set, for example, was utterly darling. I shall doubtless write a little note of appreciation for it."

  "More—more than that," said her husband gently. "Far more than just the second act was fine in this performance. In fact, everything Japanese in it was fine. But, as always, no matter how exquisite the effect in their own milieu, whenever they attempt ours the effect is often as tragic and, I'm the first to admit, as comic as the spectacle tonight. The approach is different for them. You will have noticed that mistakes of this nature are almost an impossibility in the Noh, the Kabuki, the Bunraku, and even in the popular theatre—like the Takarazuka, though I am the first to execrate it. They literally don't occur. And it's more, I believe and maintain, than sheer technique." He paused a moment, trying to decide what it was, and then finished lamely: "More, much more."

  "Why, when I was at the Met," said Dottie suddenly, "they would have laughed this off the stage."

  "But this isn't the Met," said her husband gently. "And, anyway, what about the time you told me about when Mélisande got her hair caught in the ivy on the tower, and Pelléas couldn't get it loose—for the whole scene. And the time the donkeys in Aïda—misbehaved."

  "That's not the point," snapped Dottie, and her husband took a few steps backward. An ugly mood was coming on, and Dottie's eyebrows thundered darkly. He attributed it to the hysteria of the performance and to the fact that the liquor before it was wearing off. She was tired, and her china-doll face was pinched and wrinkled-looking under the crystal chandelier.

  "Now, now, now," said Mr. Swenson easily. He'd had enough liquor that it hadn't worn off so quickly, and besides, any time the Japanese made a mistake—like tonight—it somehow reassured him. "After all, they are children. We would not laugh at a childrens' performance. We could, indeed, commiserate, we could sympathize. That poor soprano must be suffering agonies—maybe she'll even lose her contract. And I imagine that Little Trouble is being put straight to bed—for he won't be harshly whipped the way one of our own children might be in these circumstances. They do take their failures so seriously, especially when it's a question of face. So, my dear, we must not judge too quickly."

  Mr. Swenson had not intended so personally rebuking a tone. He was simply being expansive and was feeling sure of his audience. He smiled benignly and turned his profile to where it showed to best advantage.

  "Don't you my-dear me! I'll judge as quickly as I damn well please," said Dottie suddenly.

  Her husband put up one ineffectual hand, as though to clap it over the beloved little mouth. Instead, he put it over his own.

  Mr. Swenson was feeling good. He took no offense. Instead he would simply use this petty remark to climb to even greater heights—one must not spurn the lowly foothold. "I assure you that the use of 'my dear' in which I so unhappily indulged was purely rhetorical, and so far as swift judgment goes—which is far indeed—I presume you will continue to outdistance us all, no matter what we say."

  He was both gallant and offhand, and his twisted compliment reached nowhere near Dottie, who sat stiffly furious on the plush and understood only that she was being patronized.

  "Darling," said Mrs. Swenson urgently, "the car will be waiting, and I'm sure they want to close the theater. We really ought to go,"

  "Good-by, good-by," said Dave suddenly. He even began waving, trying to shield Dottie behind his back.

  She pushed him roughly to one side and said, in a clipped and metallic little voice: "Well, at least I don't judge the Japs like you do."

  "Of that, my dear, I am fully aware," began Mr. Swenson, still smiling, self-assured, handsome, and dignified under the chandelier. "As," he continued, "your constant use of that most unpleasant abbreviation of a nationality would seem to indicate." It would be well, he decided, to let this little fool have her say. After all, it was people like her whom he most disliked. They were all the same—let them say enough and one could crush them—one could fight her with her own weapons. One's native learning and genius would come to the fore.

  His wife pulled his sleeve frantically, but he gently removed her hand.

  Mrs. Swenson and Dave looked at each other, their mouths open. Both were aware of what was doubtless going to happen, though they never dreamed it would go so far, and both were helpless.

  "But," concluded Mr. Swenson easily, as though talking to a child, "I do think it would be most amusing to discover your idea of the criterion I employ in judging the Japanese people."

  "Their baskets, you old fairy!" screamed Dottie.

  Mr. Swenson turned pale. Dottie did too, terrified by what she had just said. Mr. Swenson and Dave went on standing helplessly by. They stood in complete silence, and the old man, too shocked to answer, slowly bowed his head. His hands shook, and when his wife caught one of them and drew him away, he allowed her to lead him by the hand, his shoulders sagging, his profile wrinkled.

  The silence continued after they had disappeared down the staircase. The lobby was empty and the janitors were waiting patiently for the last Americans to leave. A workman in straw sandals stood by the light switches; an electrician stood some distance off and examined an ashtray; two carpenters waited in the doorway.

  "Oh, Dottie," said Dave softly, "you shouldn't have done that. I have to work with him. He's important."

  The color had returned to Dottie's face, and her cheeks were growing red. "Oh, Dave," she cried softly, her voice shaking, whimpering, "I didn't mean that to come out. I was just mad, and upset, terribly upset, that's all, and ..." Two large tears rolled down her cheeks, and her eyes, bright blue, glistened. Dottie was never more beautiful than when she was contrite. It was not often she was this beautiful.

  "Poor little lamb," said Dave and put his arms around her.

  She buried her face in his coat. "I'm so wicked, so wicked ..." she sobbed.

  "Poor little ... lamb," said Dave again, unable to think of anything else quite so appealing as that.

  "Oh, but Dave," she said, raising her eyes, "it isn't only that. Oh, I've been so wicked. I ... I called the CID."

  "You what?" shouted Dave. While he believed that the way he obtained beautiful art objects in exchange for occasional cartons of cigarettes was rather worldly and dashing, he didn't like to think of it as being illegal.

  "I called the CID and turned someone
in. Oh, Dave—I informed!" She burst into fresh sobs, while the electricians and the carpenters stood silent.

  "There, there," said Dave. "You come on home and tell me all about it. It can't be so very bad."

  "But I did it all to help poor Madame Schmidt. I got him to make out a requisition blank for her and sign it; then I knew he wouldn't go through with it if he could help it, so I did this—I turned him in."

  "Honey, who is this person?"

  She didn't answer, but sobbed all the harder.

  "There, there," said her husband. "We'll just go on home now. Poor little ... little kitten."

  "Well," gasped Dottie, "at least poor Madame Schmidt will get her recital now. At least I could do that. That's the only reason I turned him in. Really it is, Dave."

  "Don't think about it, honey," said Dave. "And about Swenson—well, he won't hold it against us. We really don't mind about that sort of thing, and it's his own business. At least now he won't go around believing that no one but his wife knows about it. That's it! You really did him a kind of favor, you know. Sort of like in the advertisements. Like telling your best friend he ought to see a dentist." He laughed weakly, but Dorothy still sobbed, disconsolate.

  "Look at it this way, honey," he said. "You didn't do any harm at all this evening. You only did people favors. I bet all of them would thank you for it later on. Think of it that way, honey."

  Dottie tried and eventually succeeded. Together they walked down the wide steps and into the outer lobby. Behind them the electricians began turning off lights.

  Through the glass doors Dave saw the Swensons waiting at the curb for their car. Swenson was white in the glare of headlights, and his wife supported him; his shoulders were bent.

  Their sedan pulled up. Mrs. Swenson sat in the rear seat and pulled the door closed after her. Her husband sat in front, as was his habit, beside the young Japanese chauffeur.

  In the darkened lobby, Dave held his wife close to him, and she, completely submissive, leaned against him, her chest still rising with sobs, her face a bright pink. Really, thought Dave, it was old Swenson who had, inadvertantly, done him a favor. Now they could go home and, eventually, with laughter and a few tears, Dave could enjoy his wife. He smiled in anticipation, his face half in the light, for Dottie only allowed his attentions when she felt herself to have been naughty, when she was contrite and longing for punishment.