This Scorching Earth

by Donald Richie

  "Sir," said the private, "you oughtn't involve yourself like this."

  The colonel looked at him, smiled, and put his hand on his shoulder. "Michael," he said, still smiling, "what else have I left to involve myself in? But I do wish you'd told me the truth, back in the theater."

  "Why don't you just go home, sir?" asked the major. "I got myself into this, and I got him into it too. O'Hara's in on it too. I guess I got it coming."

  "Oh, I'll go home," said the colonel, and the major looked at the floor. "But, first, you see, I've got to help my men. That is what an officer is for."

  A lieutenant-colonel looked out of the window and said: "Well, shall we go back to the moat? Really, soldier, you might have picked a more convenient place to throw it."

  Slowly they all went outside, and the MP behind the desk said: "So you go get her husband and then go out and pick her up, OK?"

  "Us boys get the juiciest assignments," said one MP.

  "Yeah, like our loco friend a while back."

  "Who was that?" asked the MP behind the desk.

  "He's in the guardhouse now. Got a big red nose. Funny as hell to look at. Charge was molesting the nationals. Got looped and then got into some kind of fight. Says he was just trying to be friendly and got a real crying jag on, tears running all over that big raspberry nose of his. They'll probably section-eight him out fast I bet."

  "They'll stockade him even faster. Mac doesn't like the boys beating up his Gooks any more."

  It was near morning when Gloria reached her hotel. She was so tired she could scarcely walk. Her fur coat was heavier than sin. There had been not so much as a pedicab until she reached Ginza. By that time she had walked for hours. She'd walked in great circles over the burned rabble, terrified by the sound of the wind and dead leaves. When she reached the deserted streets, she'd taken wrong turnings, endless alleys which led only away from where she wanted to go. Finally she'd found a bridge, and then a pedicab. She told the startled driver the name of her hotel, and then fell asleep. He woke her at the hotel. She had no yen, so gave him all her cigarettes.

  "No yen," she repeated to herself, but it wasn't so funny. She was too tired to laugh, and she was still frightened. An MP jeep had wailed behind her in the dark. One of her endless circles had taken her back to the spot where the sedan had left her, and she saw their lights in the ruins. Squatting down behind some rubble, she heard them calling: "Mrs. Ainsley! Mrs. Ainsley!" Well, at least the driver hadn't told her real name; maybe he didn't even remember it.

  Another jeep drove up, and she heard Dave Ainsley's voice speaking in a rather dazed way to another occupant of the vehicle: "But I really don't understand it at all. What could she have been doing here? We were just ready to go to bed when she suddenly remembered something she'd forgotten to tell Madame Schmidt. Has anyone gone there to try to find her? I kept telling you, you know. What would she be doing here? Why won't any of you tell me?"

  Well, thought Gloria, I guess I'm not the only one who'll have some explaining to do. Because Dottie's no more at Mrs. Schmidt's than I am—as Dave will discover soon enough. But she didn't feel at all guilty at having gotten Dottie into a mess of her own. It had to come sooner or later. Davie-boy couldn't go on forever living in a private heaven.

  Then when the jeeps moved on, she'd run so fast in the opposite direction that she'd broken one of her heels. It was only now as she started into the hotel and thought of her appearance that she realized it.

  The night clerk looked startled when she pushed open the door.

  She smiled wanly and waved a hand. The boy bowed. He'd remember her, Gloria was sure of that. It was as though she had committed a murder and thought everyone knew about it. Still, she didn't stand much chance of being caught. That cute little driver just couldn't be that nasty to her. After all, what had she done to him anyway? Nothing. Besides, not all Japanese drivers got kissed by lovely American ladies—at least she hoped not.

  But this time flippancy didn't work. The elevator boy, startled out of his sleep, looked at her curiously and bowed. There's another one who will remember me, thought Gloria, I must look a perfect mess. She hobbled off the elevator on her broken shoe.

  She unlocked the door and turned on the light. It seemed ages since this morning. As she crossed over to the mirror she saw a note on the bed. It was from Sonoko:

  "I think you please no forget pahti tomorrow in honor of best friend Miss Wirson." It was signed: "Very truly yours, Roomgirl."

  No, she certainly wouldn't forget the "pahti," nor the day that had preceded it. Not for a long time. She looked at herself in the mirror. Yes, she was a perfect mess. Her lipstick was smeared, her hair mussed, her dress torn.

  She looked at her face and, very slowly, said: "You whore!" Then she began to cry.

  The tears ran slowly down her reflected face, and she, too tired to move, stood and watched them. She cried for a while, then washed her face with cold water. Seven in the morning was never like this, she thought; then she realized that it would soon be seven. Well, come seven and the great daily accounting for her sins, she'd be fast asleep and well protected.

  Not for long though—the party. Well, at least it wouldn't be like a Muncie party, than which nothing could be worse. And, even though it was Sunday, it wouldn't be like those endless Muncie Sunday mornings. If she heard the name of Jesus Christ, she felt certain she would scream.

  She was too tired to hang up her clothes, so she put her coat on the chair and patted its fur, as though it were a faithful animal. She flung her dress over the end of the bed, tossed her slip over the big doll with the broken wisteria and the "Off Limits" sign, and threw her brassiere and panties in the direction of the stalking tiger.

  She stood, naked, in the center of the room, her arms around herself. It was cold, and she opened the window wider, standing in the autumn breeze. She felt like taking a bath, but decided not to. I wonder, she said to herself as she leaned out of the window, what it would be like to go straight—just for the kicks? I'm not the only pebble on the beach, and I could take up flower arranging or something like that. I'm actually a good kid, just a trifle impetuous, just a bit on the neurotic side. Better still—what if this good, virtuous kid went home to Muncie?

  The idea hurt her so much that she positively enjoyed it. "Go home, go home," she repeated to herself, still leaning, naked, out of the window and looking at Tokyo sleeping beneath her.

  After a while she sneezed and decided that if she were going to live and make good her resolves, she had better go to bed. She looked at the flag. It was tacked against the opposite wall, a Japanese flag, made of silk, the red ball hanging stark against the white. She didn't remember where she'd gotten it. Perhaps some officer had given it to her. Perhaps it had been in the room when she'd moved in, left behind by some former occupant.

  The white field was covered with brush stokes. They were names—the names of a platoon, or a regiment, Gloria had no idea which. Hundreds of ink characters lay black upon the white silk, forming the names of men long dead.

  Gloria stared at the names. Some were delicately drawn, with the finest of strokes; others were broadly painted, and the ink had run. She thought of these men who, perhaps only five years before, had gathered around this flag and carefully written their names. They had knelt ceremoniously, surrounding the flag, and each one, bending carefully forward, had left behind on the white silk his name. Then each had disappeared.

  The flag made her feel sad, but not personally, painfully sad. It filled her with an enveloping sorrow very much like memory, very much like the sorrow she felt when looking at old photographs, or seeing old newsreels.

  Naked, still hugging her shoulders, she looked at the flag, and a tear ran down her cheek. She was not feeling sorry for herself, nor for the dead soldiers. She didn't know why, but she felt sorry. She also felt cold.

  She remembered the candy bars and, forgetting the flag, put a pile of them on her night stand so she'd be sure to remember them in the mornin
g. For a moment she considered prayers on her knees—like a dear little child, all naked and chastened beside its bed. Then she decided against it. Probably would end up with pneumonia, and after all, one must be moderate in all things—even in virtue.

  She climbed under the covers and decided she wouldn't compile that little list she'd been thinking of that morning after all. Instead she'd write a real book, maybe even about the Japanese. Everyone else had, so why shouldn't she—she who was on the verge of being an Authority? Maybe she and Swenson could compare notes or something. She'd call it Live Better and Be Longer, or something of this sort which was so popular nowadays.

  Oh, well, tomorrow was another day, and the sun—in a sinfully short space of time—would dawn upon the new Gloria—Gloria, lady bountiful; Gloria, friend to the oppressed. Come to me, you homeless, starving, etc. That lovely, innocent party was just the note on which to start all over again—purest strawberry festival. Then it would be Monday—a new week, and she'd be back with her own little family: the dear Colonel; that good Joe, the Major; and, finally—for he had seemed most appreciative that evening—Private Richardson. She could hardly wait to get to the office—what a surprise!

  She fell asleep very quickly.

  Outside the window, the east was faintly pink, and the stars overhead were growing dim. Below, the street lights were extinguished, and the fires in the alleys cast the shadows of the waiting drivers behind them. Behind the paper windows of the houses were the lights of early risers.

  The smoke of household fires and of waiting charcoal-burning taxis rose into the air. In the houses the bedding was folded into closets, and the mats were swept. Beneath the hanging pillars of the early rising smoke was the morning sound of night shutters thrust back into the houses' narrow walls; the sound of geta clicking on the pavement, the geisha hurrying home.

  The rising sun cast the shadows of the buildings far behind them. The distant rails shone silver in the sun, and Greer Garson luxuriated, her paper face half in the shadow.

  The morning train left Yokohama at precisely six-thirty, but it was Sunday and the train was not crowded. Sonoko had her choice of any of a dozen seats. Even the veteran with the double amputation and the sweetly pomaded hair found a seat.

  Three times she had opened her GI English, and three times she had closed it again. Today was the day of the Party, and she simply could not concentrate. In just a few hours she would be again on the train, and beside her would be her beloved Miss Wilson.

  At home the whole family had been up and ready for hours. The lunch was finished already—real Japanese home-cooking, which would certainly delight Miss Wilson. All cold and very good. Tender squid and nice raw fish and some lovely marinated sea-urchins which her father had been saving. And, in addition, "mother and child." The house was clean too, and they had all put on their best clothes.

  In the tokonoma, the picture of Christ had proved to be an excellent likeness. He looked even more handsome than the hanging scroll he had supplanted. When Sonoko left, Mrs. Odawara had already arrived and was bustling about being very cheerful as she arranged the cushions for prayer meeting.

  As Sonoko looked from the window, she was particularly pleased that nothing had gone wrong. Even Mrs. Odawara's suggestions of the day before now seemed just the thing with which to flatter and enchant the infinitely obliging Miss Wilson. She would be their guest! Sonoko was so proud that she smiled at everyone on the train.

  She felt in her pocket. There was the aspirin wrapped in a bit of tissue paper. Miss Wilson had asked for it yesterday, and then Sonoko had ungraciously forgotten all about it. She put the aspirin back in her pocket. The chances were that Miss Wilson would not need it this morning. Still, Miss Wilson was not nearly so healthy as she looked. She often had headaches when she first got up, and Sonoko was carrying the aspirin just in case. She wanted nothing to go wrong today.

  And it really didn't seem in the least likely that anything would. Mrs. Odawara had taken care of everything, had even arranged for that intelligent nephew of hers who probably spoke English so well, the one who was so important in Transportation, to come and spend the day with them. Sonoko had seen his picture. He was very handsome, and Miss Wilson seemed to love beauty in almost everything, even in men.

  He would doubtless be there when they returned, and he and Miss Wilson would be friends forever, and she would love them both, and Mrs. Odawara would stand over them, blessing them like the Christ Himself.

  Sonoko smiled and looked out of the window. She could hardly wait for the moment when Miss Wilson—Gloria—saw Mrs. Odawara's nice nephew, Tadashi, the poor, but handsome boy from Fukagawa. She could just see Miss Wilson's face now!

  Everything was going to be all right, but, still, life did have its responsibilities. With a happy grimace, Sonoko turned from the autumn landscape and opened GI English.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Donald Richie is known to most Americans in Japan as a trenchant and devastatingly honest film critic for the Nippon Times, but he actually considers literature his first love and music his second, films coming in third. Born in Ohio in 1924, he first came to Japan in 1946 and until 1949 worked as film reviewer and feature writer for the Pacific Stars and Stripes. During this time he also began publishing in the Japanese press, and toward the end of his first stay in Japan his book Essays in Contemporary American Literature, Drama and Cinema was published in Japanese. Returning to America to complete a degree at Columbia University, he again came to Japan in 1953 and intends to make his home here. At present he lives in Tokyo, continues writing for a number of Japanese periodicals, and is working on a new novel. His writing has also appeared in Theatre Arts, New-Story, Sight and Sound, Saturday Review of Literature, and various of the "little magazines," together with numerous articles published in Japanese.

  "Books to Span the East and West"

  The Dwarf Pine, by A. Irene Reiser. A tender, penetrating novel of love and family life in Japan. The author has lived in Japan for over thirty years and writes with rare understanding of the Japanese people. In many ways the book may be compared to Pearl Buck's The Good Earth.

  Ginza Go, Papa-san: The Adventures of a Texas "Admiral" in Geisha-land, by Allan R. Bosworth. A rollicking collection of reminiscences concerning the Japanese adventures of one American naval officer with the gift of observation and anecdote. The author's infectious humor and love of people make this charming book ideal reading for anyone with an interest in the lighter side of Japan.

  It's Better with Your Shoes Off, by Anne Cleveland. Here are top-drawer cartoons—the thought-provoking, chuckle-arousing kind to be read again and again—which tell what it's really like to live in Japan, capturing in flashes of keen humor and artistic insight those delicate nuances too fleeting for the written word. A book for all who appreciate sophisticated, artistic cartoon humor at its meaningful, satirical best.

  The Japanese Are Like That, by Ichiro Kawasaki. A far cry from the purple prose of the starry-eyed Western visitor or the sterile style of the government gazette, this book is a down-to-earth scrutiny of the so-called "inscrutable" Japanese. Certain to provide the reader with new insights into little-known facets of Japan which few authors have cared or dared to treat so openly.

  Library of Japanese Art. A distinguished and important new series of pocket-sized art books which will cover all phases of Japanese art. Each volume contains 20 to 50 illustrations in full color, plus 15 to 20 in handsome double-tone process, plus valuable text and explanatory captions by an outstanding authority, at a price of only $1.00 each. Titles now or shortly available in English translation: Hokusai, Sharaku, Hiroshige.

  The Landscape Painting of China and Japan, by Hugo Munsterberg. For the first time in English a full and lucid account of the remarkable art form which, as a distinct tradition in Oriental art, has come to be universally recognized as one of the greatest in the world. The author is Professor of Art History at International Christian University, Tokyo.

  The Story B
ag: A Collection of Korean Folk Tales, by Kim So-un. Written with earthy wit and pathos, these favorite stories from Korea's past unveil the inevitable foibles of people everywhere and expose the human-like qualities of animals and the animal-like qualities of humans.

  CHARLES E. TUTTLE COMPANY: PUBLISHERS

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