The Man in the High Castle
Page 11
“The most I can see today,” he said, “is buying the wood for the bench, and maybe electrical parts. But no jewelry supplies.”
They went, then, to a lumber supply yard in south San Francisco. By the end of an hour they had their wood.
“What’s bothering you?” Ed McCarthy said as they entered a hardware store that dealt on a wholesale basis.
“The money. It gets me down. To finance things that way.”
“Old W-M understands,” McCarthy said.
I know, Frink thought. That’s why it gets me down. We have entered the world. We’re like him. Is that a pleasant thought?
“Don’t look back,” McCarthy said. “Look ahead. To the business.”
I am looking ahead, Frink thought. He thought of the hexagram. What offerings and libations can I make? And—to whom?
7
THE HANDSOME YOUNG Japanese couple who had visited Robert Childan’s store, the Kasouras, telephoned him toward the end of the week and requested that he come to their apartment for dinner. He had been waiting for some further word from them, and he was delighted.
A little early he shut up American Artistic Handcrafts Inc. and took a pedecab to the exclusive district where the Kasouras lived. He knew the district, although no white people lived there. As the pedecab carried him along the winding streets with their lawns and willow trees, Childan gazed up at the modern apartment buildings and marveled at the grace of the designs. The wrought-iron balconies, the soaring yet modern columns, the pastel colors, the uses of varied textures . . . it all made up a work of art. He could remember when this had been nothing but rubble from the war.
The small Japanese children out playing watched him without comment, then returned to their football or baseball. But, he thought, not so the adults; the well-dressed young Japanese, parking their cars or entering the apartment buildings, noticed him with greater interest. Did he live here? they were perhaps wondering. Young Japanese businessmen coming home from their offices . . . even the heads of Trade Missions lived here. He noticed parked Cadillacs. As the pedecab took him closer to his destination, he became increasingly nervous.
Very shortly, as he ascended the stairs to the Kasouras’ apartment, he thought, Here I am, not invited in a business context, but a dinner guest. He had of course taken special pains with his attire; at least he could be confident of his appearance. My appearance, he thought. Yes, that is it. How do I appear? There is no deceiving anyone; I do not belong here. On this land that white men cleared and built one of their finest cities. I am an outsider in my own country.
He came to the proper door along the carpeted hall, rang the bell. Presently the door opened. There stood young Mrs. Kasoura, in a silk kimono and obi, her long black hair in shining tangle down her neck, smiling in welcome. Behind her in the living room, her husband, with drink in hand, nodding.
“Mr. Childan. Enter.”
Bowing, he entered.
Tasteful in the extreme. And—so ascetic. Few pieces. A lamp here, table, bookcase, print on the wall. The incredible Japanese sense of wabi. It could not be thought in English. The ability to find in simple objects a beauty beyond that of the elaborate or ornate. Something to do with the arrangement.
“A drink?” Mr. Kasoura asked. “Scotch and soda?”
“Mr. Kasoura—” he began.
“Paul,” the young Japanese said. Indicating his wife. “Betty. And you are—”
Mr. Childan murmured, “Robert.”
Seated on the soft carpet with their drinks, they listened to a recording of koto, Japanese thirteen-string harp. It was newly released by Japanese HMV, and quite popular. Childan noticed that all parts of the phonograph were concealed, even the speaker. He could not tell where the sound came from.
“Not knowing your appetites in dining,” Betty said, “we have played safe. In kitchen electric oven is broiling T-bone steak. Along with this, baked potato with sauce of sour cream and chives. Maxim utters: no one can err in serving steak to new-found guest first time.”
“Very gratifying,” Childan said. “Quite fond of steak.” And that certainly was so. He rarely had it. The great stockyards from the Middle West did not send out much to the West Coast any more. He could not recall when he had last had a good steak.
It was time for him to graft guest gift.
From his coat pocket he brought small tissue-paper-wrapped thing. He laid it discreetly on the low table. Both of them immediately noticed, and this required him to say, “Bagatelle for you. To display fragment of the relaxation and enjoyment I feel in being here.”
His hand opened the tissue paper, showing them the gift. Bit of ivory carved a century ago by whalers from New England. Tiny ornamented art object, called a scrimshaw. Their faces illuminated with knowledge of the scrimshaws which the old sailors had made in their spare time. No single thing could have summed up old U.S. culture more.
Silence.
“Thank you,” Paul said.
Robert Childan bowed.
There was peace, then, for a moment, in his heart. This offering, this—as the I Ching put it—libation. It had done what needed to be done. Some of the anxiety and oppression which he had felt lately began to lift from him.
From Ray Calvin he had received restitution for the Colt .44, plus many written assurances of no second recurrence. And yet it had not eased his heart. Only now, in this unrelated situation, had he for a moment lost the sense that things were in the constant process of going askew. The wabi around him, radiations of harmony . . . that is it, he decided. The proportion. Balance. They are so close to the Tao, these two young Japanese. That is why I reacted to them before. I sensed the Tao through them. Saw a glimpse of it myself.
What would it be like, he wondered, to really know the Tao? The Tao is that which first lets the light, then the dark. Occasions the interplay of the two primal forces so that there is always renewal. It is that which keeps it all from wearing down. The universe will never be extinguished because just when the darkness seems to have smothered all, to be truly transcendent, the new seeds of light are reborn in the very depths. That is the Way. When the seed falls, it falls into the earth, into the soil. And beneath, out of sight, it comes to life.
“An hors d’oeuvre,” Betty said. She knelt to hold out a plate on which lay small crackers of cheese, et cetera. He took two gratefully.
“International news much in notice these days,” Paul said as he sipped his drink. “While I drove home tonight I heard direct broadcast of great pageantlike State Funeral at Munich, including rally of fifty thousand, flags and the like. Much ‘Ich hatte einen Kamerad’ singing. Body now lying in state for all faithful to view.”
“Yes, it was distressing,” Robert Childan said. “The sudden news earlier this week.”
“Nippon Times tonight saying reliable sources declare B. von Schirach under house arrest,” Betty said. “By SD instruction.”
“Bad,” Paul said, shaking his head.
“No doubt the authorities desire to keep order,” Childan said. “Von Schirach noted for hasty, headstrong, even half-baked actions. Much similar to R. Hess in past. Recall mad flight to England.”
“What else reported by Nippon Times?” Paul asked his wife.
“Much confusion and intriguing. Army units moving from hither to yon. Leaves canceled. Border stations closed. Reichstag in session. Speeches by all.”
“That recalls fine speech I heard by Doctor Goebbels,” Robert Childan said. “On radio, year or so ago. Much witty invective. Had audience in palm of hand, as usual. Ranged throughout gamut of emotionality. No doubt; with original Adolf Hitler out of things, Doctor Goebbels A-one Nazi speaker.”
“True,” both Paul and Betty agreed, nodding.
“Doctor Goebbels also has fine children and wife,” Childan went on. “Very high-type individuals.”
“True,” Paul and Betty agreed. “Family man, in contrast to number of other grand moguls there,” Paul said. “Of questionable sexual mores.”
“Thinking more of H. Goring,” Paul said, slowly sipping his drink and scrutinizing it. “Tales of Rome-like orgies of assorted fantastic variety. Causes flesh to crawl even hearing about.”
“Lies,” Childan said.
“Well, subject not worth discussing,” Betty said tactfully, with a glance at the two of them.
They had finished their drinks, and she went to refill.
“Lot of hot blood stirred up in political discussion,” Paul said. “Everywhere you go. Essential to keep head.”
“Yes,” Childan agreed. “Calmness and order. So things return to customary stability.”
“Period after death of Leader critical in totalitarian society,” Paul said. “Lack of tradition and middle-class institutions combine—” He broke off. “Perhaps better drop politics.” He smiled. “Like old student days.”
Robert Childan felt his face flush, and he bent over his new drink to conceal himself from the eyes of his host. What a dreadful beginning he had made. In a foolish and loud manner he had argued politics; he had been rude in his disagreeing, and only the adroit tact of his host had sufficed to save the evening. How much I have to learn, Childan thought. They’re so graceful and polite. And I—the white barbarian. It is true.
For a time he contented himself with sipping his drink and keeping on his face an artificial expression of enjoyment. I must follow their leads entirely, he told himself. Agree always.
Yet in a panic he thought, My wits scrambled by the drink. And fatigue and nervousness. Can I do it? I will never be invited back anyhow; it is already too late. He felt despair.
Betty, having returned from the kitchen, had once more seated herself on the carpet. How attractive, Robert Childan thought again. The slender body. Their figures are so superior; not fat, not bulbous. No bra or girdle needed. I must conceal my longing; that at all costs. And yet now and then he let himself steal a glance at her. Lovely dark colors of her skin, hair, and eyes. We are half-baked compared to them. Allowed out of the kiln before we were fully done. The old aboriginal myth; the truth, there.
I must divert my thoughts. Find social item, anything. His eyes strayed about, seeking some topic. The silence reigned heavily, making his tension sizzle. Unbearable. What the hell to say? Something safe. His eyes made out a book on a low black teak cabinet.
“I see you’re reading The Grasshopper Lies Heavy,” he said. “I hear it on many lips, but pressure of business prevents my own attention.” Rising, he went to pick it up, carefully consulting their expressions; they seemed to acknowledge this gesture of sociality, and so he proceeded. “A mystery? Excuse my abysmal ignorance.” He turned the pages.
“Not a mystery,” Paul said. “On contrary, interesting form of fiction possibly within genre of science fiction.”
“Oh no,” Betty disagreed. “No science in it. Nor set in future. Science fiction deals with future, in particular future where science has advanced over now. Book fits neither premise.”
“But,” Paul said, “it deals with alternate present. Many well-known science fiction novels of that sort.” To Robert he explained, “Pardon my insistence in this, but as my wife knows, I was for a long time a science fiction enthusiast. I began that hobby early in my life; I was merely twelve. It was during the early days of the war.”
“I see,” Robert Childan said, with politeness.
“Care to borrow Grasshopper?” Paul asked. “We will soon be through, no doubt within day or so. My office being downtown not far from your esteemed store, I could happily drop it off at lunchtime.” He was silent, and then—possibly, Childan thought, due to a signal from Betty—continued, “You and I, Robert, could eat lunch together, on that occasion.”
“Thank you,” Robert said. It was all he could say. Lunch, in one of the downtown businessmen’s fashionable restaurants. He and this stylish modern high-place young Japanese. It was too much; he felt his gaze blur. But he went on examining the book and nodding. “Yes,” he said, “this does look interesting. I would very much like to read it. I try to keep up with what’s being discussed.” Was that proper to say? Admission that his interest lay in book’s modishness. Perhaps that was low-place. He did not know, and yet he felt that it was. “One cannot judge by book being best seller,” he said. “We all know that. Many best sellers are terrible trash. This, however—” He faltered.
Betty said, “Most true. Average taste really deplorable.”
“As in music,” Paul said. “No interest in authentic American folk jazz, as example. Robert, are you fond of say Bunk Johnson and Kid Ory and the like? Early Dixieland jazz? I have record library of old such music, original Genet recordings.”
Robert said, “Afraid I know little about Negro music.” They did not look exactly pleased at his remark. “I prefer classical. Bach and Beethoven.” Surely that was acceptable. He felt now a bit of resentment. Was he supposed to deny the great masters of European music, the timeless classics in favor of New Orleans jazz from the honky-tonks and bistros of the Negro quarter?
“Perhaps if I play selection by New Orleans Rhythm Kings,” Paul began, starting from the room, but Betty gave him a warning look. He hesitated, shrugged.
“Dinner almost ready,” she said.
Returning, Paul once more seated himself. A little sulkily, Robert thought, he murmured, “Jazz from New Orleans most authentic American folk music there is. Originated on this continent. All else came from Europe, such as corny English-style lute ballads.”
“This is perpetual argument between us,” Betty said, smiling at Robert. “I do not share his love of original jazz.”
Still holding the copy of The Grasshopper Lies Heavy, Robert said, “What sort of alternate present does this book describe?”
Betty, after a moment, said, “One in which Germany and Japan lost the war.”
They were all silent.
“Time to eat,” Betty said, sliding to her feet. “Please come, two hungry gentleman businessmen.” She cajoled Robert and Paul to the dining table, already set with white tablecloth, silver, china, huge rough napkins in what Robert recognized as Early American bone napkin rings. The silver, too, was sterling silver American. The cups and saucers were Royal Albert, deep blue and yellow. Very exceptional; he could not help glancing at them with professional admiration.
The plates were not American. They appeared to be Japanese; he could not tell, it being beyond his field.
“That is Imari porcelain,” Paul said, perceiving his interest. “From Arita. Considered a first-place product. Japan.”
They seated themselves.
“Coffee?” Betty asked Robert.
“Yes,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Toward end of meal,” she said, going to get the serving cart.
Soon they were all eating. Robert found the meal delicious. She was quite an exceptional cook. The salad in particular pleased him. Avocados, artichoke heart, some kind of blue cheese dressing . . . thank God they had not presented him with a Japanese meal, the dishes of mixed greens and meats of which he had eaten so much since the war.
And the unending seafoods. He had gotten so that he could no longer abide shrimp or any other shellfish.
“I would like to know,” Robert said, “what he supposes it would be like in world where Germany and Japan lost the war.”
Neither Paul nor Betty answered for a time. Then Paul said at last, “Very complicated differences. Better to read the book. It would spoil it for you, possibly, to hear.”
“I have strong convictions on the subject,” Robert said. “I have frequently thought it over. The world would be much worse.” He heard his voice sound out firm, virtually harsh. “Much worse.”
They seemed taken by surprise. Perhaps it was his tone.
“Communism would rule everywhere,” Robert continued.
Paul nodded. “The author, Mr. H. Abends
en, considers that point, as to unchecked spread of Soviet Russia. But same as in First World War, even on winning side, second-rate mostly peasant Russia naturally takes pratfall. Big Laughingstock, recalling Japan War with them, when—”
“We have had to suffer, to pay the cost,” Robert said. “But we did it for a good cause. To stop Slavic world inundation.”
Betty said in a low voice, “Personally, I do not believe any hysterical talk of ‘world inundation’ by any people, Slavic or Chinese or Japanese.” She regarded Robert placidly. She was in complete control of herself, not carried away; but she intended to express her feeling. A spot of color, deep red, had appeared in each of her cheeks.
They ate for a time without conversing.
I did it again, Robert Childan informed himself. Impossible to avoid the topic. Because it’s everywhere, in a book I happen to pick up or a record collection, in these bone napkin rings—loot piled up by the conquerors. Pillage from my people.
Face facts. I’m trying to pretend that these Japanese and I are alike. But observe: even when I burst out as to my gratification that they won the war, that my nation lost—there’s still no common ground. What words mean to me is sharp contrast vis-à-vis them. Their brains are different. Souls likewise. Witness them drinking from English bone china cups, eating with U.S. silver, listening to Negro style of music. It’s all on the surface. Advantage of wealth and power makes this available to them, but it’s ersatz as the day is long.
Even the I Ching, which they’ve forced down our throats; it’s Chinese. Borrowed from way back when. Whom are they fooling? Themselves? Pilfer customs right and left, wear, eat, talk, walk, as for instance consuming with gusto baked potato served with sour cream and chives, old-fashioned American dish added to their haul. But nobody fooled, I can tell you; me least of all.
Only the white races endowed with creativity, he reflected. And yet I, blood member of same, must bump head to floor for these two. Think how it would have been had we won! Would have crushed them out of existence. No Japan today, and the U.S.A. gleaming great sole power in entire wide world.