Every large city in the world was bound to have a characteristic street or square, and Jack Rhyce had seen enough of these to make intelligent comparisons. It seemed to him that the Ginza was the most vital of them all; it best expressed the Geist—he had to use a German word—of the people who had made it, although it was not a beautiful street, any more than Broadway was beautiful. The only civic decoration connected with it were the willows on either side of the thoroughfare that were peculiar to the Ginza district. He did not know what they symbolized. Perhaps they were supposed to illustrate the old saying of the supple tree bending before the wind, and perhaps they delivered a quiet, reassuring message of patience and of waiting to the crowds that thronged past them. It was a tawdry street, but very gay, with all the resilience and adaptability of its sidewalk trees. There were huge department stores, and smaller shops filled with garish, highly colored Japanese goods. There were motion picture houses displaying the latest Hollywood films as well as Japanese-made pictures. There were beer halls, cabarets and billboards, jewelry and cultured pearls. There was something for everyone on the Ginza. Though many of its shops had the impermanent construction which he associated with a Western mining town, the whole combination was a tribute to the indomitable spirit of a people anxious to be in the front rank of what was perhaps erroneously known as progress. The startling vigor of Japan was reflected in the burgeoning of manufactured articles that ran from celluloid and plastic toys up to vacuum cleaners and electric refrigerators. And where was Japan going to sell this glittering and sometimes meretricious output? This was one of the world’s new, restive questions, and the world’s future might be hanging on the answer. The motion picture houses, the beer halls and the cabarets with their beckoning invitations in English also showed the versatility of Japan. It was too early for the neon signs, but once they were turned on, the Ginza would be another Broadway, a center of national aspirations. Actually it was more significant than New York’s Broadway of the present, because Broadway was tired, worldly-wise and cynical, whereas the Ginza was full of a naïve, unfaltering hope. Now and then you could believe that you were on Broadway except for the Japanese features and the voices speaking a strange tongue, and the Japanese characters above the shops.
“It’s a little spooky here, isn’t it?” Ruth Bogart said.
“How do you mean?” he asked. “There aren’t spooks around at four in the afternoon.”
“I mean, it’s half home, and half not,” Ruth Bogart said. “I wonder whether the Japanese feel any more at home here than we do.”
It was one of those interesting thoughts that could never be answered, and it showed that she was not anybody’s fool. The truth was, he was thinking, he was growing too interested in her reactions, but it was pleasant to turn his attention to her after a difficult day.
“The beer halls are air-conditioned,” he said. “Would you like to go in and have some beer and listen to some jazz?”
“No, thanks,” she answered. “Let’s walk. It’s hot as hell, but I like to see the show. It isn’t like Piccadilly, is it?”
“No,” he said, “it isn’t like anywhere else. Would you like some raw fish and rice? There must be some good sushi places down the side streets.”
“Not raw fish,” she said, “and don’t try to be an informative guide using words for local color. To hell with the sushi places. Let’s just walk along.”
“I could show you quite a lot if I wanted to use the language,” he said.
“I’d say we’re seeing enough the way it is,” she said. “I wouldn’t say we had a tail on us. Would you?”
“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t. Between us we should have spotted one by now.”
She smiled at him, and he smiled back because he shared her temporary relief.
“Then let’s go back to the hotel and have a drink in the bar,” she said. “And you can make eyes at me in front of the bar boys and the barflies, just to build the cover, darling—just to build the cover. They have an air-conditioned bar at the hotel. Did you know it?”
“We’ll go there pretty soon,” he said, “but there’s one place I’d like to take you first. It’s quite a distance, but we can get a taxi!”
“Oh, no,” she said, “not any more sights today. I never did like sights.”
“It won’t take long,” he told her, “and perhaps we can pick up some ideas.”
Along the Ginza it was simple enough to find a taxi driver who could speak a little English.
“Street with all the bookstores.” Jack Rhyce said. He took a paper from his pocket and pretended to read the name of the district from it, with a clumsy pronunciation.
“Bookstores?” she said, as soon as the cab had started on its way. “For heaven’s sake, why bookstores?”
“You’ll be surprised,” he said, “at how many people are reading in Japan.”
There were districts in every city where dealers in new and secondhand books congregated, but few were larger than the book street in Tokyo. The bookshops extended for block after block, and, like Ginza, they offered a little bit of everything. The wide-open doorways leading to the brightly lighted interiors displayed stacks of new paper-backed editions, translations from all over the world, the classical literature of Japan, and current fiction. Also older works were displayed in the show windows—books of art, court ceremonial and religious writings—but the books in English were more provocative than any. There was, for instance, in one shop window, a handsome set of leather volumes on the birds of northern Britain, published some years before Perry had anchored off Japan; an early set of the Waverley novels; a handsome edition of Emerson’s essays; a book on navigation dated 1810; and The Parent’s Assistant by Maria Edgeworth. These timeworn volumes each had its untold and unknown story of its ending in an Oriental bookstall. You could not help wondering who had first brought them to Japan. Had they been owned once by someone in the British Embassy, or by an American missionary, or had they come from the library of a once rich Japanese, impoverished by the war? No one would ever know the answer any more than one could guess who would eventually read them. The past, the present and the future were all implicit in the bookstores.
Most of them were filled with customers, many of whom were reading as much of a volume as possible in the hope of getting the gist of it before they had to buy, but no one disturbed the furtive readers. No one interrupted Ruth Bogart or Jack Rhyce either, as they moved from shop to shop. The displays of periodicals were what interested him most, particularly the large numbers that dealt with Russia and Red China. These—some in Russian, some in English, some in Japanese—were crude but effective projections of American formats. Except for some scurrilous pictures of Uncle Sam and heavily armed gentlemen with dollar signs on their waistcoats who whipped starving workers into factories, everyone was happy in the pictures. Fat Chinese peasants were smilingly learning to read. Farmers were proudly operating tractors. Soldiers carrying the Freedom Flag of the Hammer and Sickle gave candy to little children.
“You see,” he said, “how it rounds out the picture of the day?”
“Yes, naturally I see,” she said, taking his arm and pressing it urgently. “But let’s go. We shouldn’t have come here.”
“Why not?” he asked her. “What’s the hurry?”
“Buy some cheap American magazine,” she said, “and get out of here.”
He did not ask her again what the matter was until they stood on the curb waving to a taxi.
“We’re in the clear,” he said. “There was nothing queer in any of those shops.”
She shook her head impatiently.
“No,” she said, “but we are. We were the only foreigners and everyone remembers foreigners. Where would you keep a lookout for new operators? Put yourself in their position, Jack.”
He felt deeply mortified that he had not thought of her point himself. Too many small mistakes too often added up to something fatal, and there was no way of knowing how great a margin of error they
possessed. A taxi had halted.
“There are some people looking at us,” she said.
“What sort?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Little men.”
“But, darling,” he said, and he laughed loudly. Then he put his arm through hers and took her hand. At least he could leave the impression of love and dalliance if anyone was watching. “This country is full of little men. Insufficient food in infancy—and the large intestine of a Japanese is two feet longer than that of his opposite number in Europe. Did you know that?”
“No,” she said. “How fascinating!” But she leaned against him and laughed up at him applaudingly.
When they were in the taxicab he put his arm around her. As Bill Gibson had said, there was safety in sex. They had only been two people in love looking for a copy of Hollywood True Romances.
“Oh, Jack,” she said, and she giggled.
The taxi driver, if anyone asked him, would remember.
“Honey,” he said, “I’ll get you a nice cool drink in that nice cool bar. Frankly, I can’t wait.”
But she had been right. He had been a fool to be examining Red literature in Tokyo.
The bar of the Imperial Hotel was aggressively modern and so over-air-conditioned that Jack Rhyce felt for a moment that they were locked inside a refrigerator. They sat next to a sealed plate-glass window that looked out on a small Japanese garden containing a marble bust of an elderly man in the top half of a frock coat. Nearly all the tables were filled, some with prosperous Japanese businessmen, but most with rather weary-looking Europeans who appeared as peculiarly assorted as the English books they had seen exposed for sale. People were looking at them with the friendly curiosity with which foreigners in the Orient regard new strangers. There was nothing professional about anyone there, nothing technically disturbing. It was becoming easier and easier to appear conspicuously interested in Ruth Bogart.
“What would you like, sweet?” he asked, when the bar boy came to the table.
“Scotch on the rocks, darling,” she said.
They gazed at each other fatuously for a while after the bar boy left, and then they both begun to laugh, and it was the first time in several weeks that he had been genuinely amused.
“Did you know, sweet,” he said, “that rats are very adaptable creatures?”
“Why no, darling,” she answered, “but what makes you think of rats?”
“The extreme coldness of this room,” he said. “Once when I was crossing the ocean, the ship’s captain asked me to a cocktail party. Have you ever been to a ship’s captain’s cocktail party?”
“Yes, darling,” she said. “That’s one reason why I travel by air.”
“Well, this was a very nice ship’s captain,” Jack Rhyce said, “and he told an anecdote about a rat. It seems that this rat was locked up by mistake in the ship’s refrigerator. He stayed there for four weeks and he didn’t freeze to death. When they caught him he had a coat as heavy as mink. That’s why I say rats are adaptable.”
“Is there any moral to that story?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “no. It’s just an off-the-record story.”
“Well,” she said, “it’s the first off-the-record story you’ve ever told to date.”
“Yes,” he said, “that’s so. I’m afraid you’re a bad influence on me.”
“I hope I am,” she said. “I really do, and I hope you’ll tell some more.”
He realized that he was happy, and happiness was such a rare sensation that he was suspicious of it, but the more he examined his mood, the more certain he was that it was genuine. He could discover no particular reason for it, and he did not particularly care. He only knew that it was something that made the whole day worth while.
“You know,” he said, “I think you’re a pretty clever girl.”
“Why, thanks a lot,” she said. “Coming from you, I must be.”
The mood had not left him yet. He could even enjoy looking at the bust of the old man in the garden.
“In fact, maybe you are smarter than I am,” he said. “You were right about those bookstores.”
“I like to have you wrong sometimes,” she said. “It shows that maybe you are human.”
“Why, thanks a lot,” he said, “but believe me, it’s better not to be.”
She smiled at him, ironically, but very pleasantly.
“You remind me of a poem of Whittier’s,” she said.
“What poem?” he asked.
“About the boy and the girl at the schoolhouse,” she said. “‘I’m sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to go above you, because,’—the brown eyes lower fell,—‘Because, you see, I love you!’”
“Yes,” he said, “but I don’t like what comes later. Dear girl! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing.”
“I don’t like that either,” she said, “and I wish you hadn’t brought it up.”
But even so, nothing changed his mood.
“You know,” he said, “I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a nice time going there tomorrow.”
When she smiled at him again, it was exactly as though they were on the outside.
“Please,” she said, “please let’s, Jack.”
IX
Jack Rhyce glanced at his wrist watch as they stood beneath the porte-cochere of the Imperial Hotel. The time was 9:05 exactly. They had brought box luncheons, and they could make a leisurely trip, spending the whole day if they liked. Mr. Moto had done very well with the car. It was a vintage Buick limousine, with the chauffeur’s seat separated by glass from the owner’s.
“Thirty thousand yen to keep for week end,” Mr. Moto said. “Me, automobile, and glass for privacy, everything. It is not too expensive, I hope.”
“Oh, no,” Jack Rhyce said, “not for this once. Everything’s just swell, and here are some yens on account—just so you’ll know I’ve got them, Mr. Moto.”
He laughed heartily, and Mr. Moto laughed back. There was one good thing about the business. Money was never an obstacle, and nobody audited expense accounts if you happened to get home. Their suitcases were locked in the trunk behind. Everything was ready.
“All right,” he said, “let’s go”—and he smiled at Ruth Bogart affectionately for the benefit of the doorman. “That is, if you’ve remembered everything, sweet?”
“Silly,” she said. “Of course I’ve remembered everything.”
The mood of the afternoon before was still with him, and he felt no sensation of tenseness or discomfort. He was sure that they were not being watched or followed, and that they were still in the clear.
“By the way,” he said, rolling down the glass partition, “we might stop for a few minutes at the Memorial Temple—the one for the soldiers, I mean. Miss Bogart might like to see it.”
She looked at him questioningly, but he was sure that he was right about the temple. His asking to go there established them as sightseers, and for some reason the Japanese felt no resentment at Americans visiting the shrine of their war dead. The pine-shaded area of the temple’s grounds stood in one of Tokyo’s heavily populated districts, making a sharp contrast with the surging traffic on the street outside.
“Wait, please,” Jack Rhyce said to Mr. Moto. “We won’t be long”—and Mr. Moto smiled.
In plan, the temple was typical of all the shrines of Japan dedicated to the Shinto sect, which was more of a national loyalty than a religion. The arched stone-lined causeway leading to the red-lacquer pavilions, and also the smaller paths that diverged beneath the dark pines, had undoubtedly been adapted, like so much Japanese culture, from early Chinese religious structures; but time had added dignity to this adaptation until Japanese shrines possessed an austere beauty entirely their own. There was a Spartan simplicity in the repression of design, as well as in the repression of the people, mostly elderly, who moved about the grounds, stopping now and then before a pavilion, clapping their hands and bowing their heads in prayer. The ashes of so
ldiers who had died for the Emperor were preserved there, and where there were not ashes there were names.
“I come here,” he said, “because I’m responsible for several of these names.”
There was no necessity, he realized, to have given her this explanation.
“How many?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Twenty-thirty. More, perhaps. You can’t always tell everything that a machine gun or a hand grenade does. And you see, most of them preferred to die.”
They walked back to the car in silence, and he hoped he had taught her something about Japan that was both important and unfathomable. It was hard to realize that all the city streets had been torn by war, and that every person walking on them had lost some near relation, because the signs of war had almost disappeared, both from Tokyo and the faces of its people. It was valuable to understand that nothing was forgotten.
Even during the journey, Jack Rhyce knew that he would never forget the motor rides to Miyanoshita. It was one of those unrelated lapses that come into one’s life when least expected, a sudden unalloyed period of beauty that became something more than memory. It was dangerous to feel as he was beginning to about the girl in the car beside him, but as he looked back over that long day he could not experience a single qualm of regret. Actually there had been no need for any, because there was nothing that he or she could have done about anything until they made contact with Bill Gibson at the hotel that night. There was no necessity to think or plan, and no immediate harm in being beguiled; and besides, all they did was part of the cover.
It was part of the cover to be conscious of her nearness and to hope that the car would soon take another curve so that she would lean against him. It was as though they were both on the outside, that day, and it was more of a fact than an illusion. It was a part of his business to know perfumes. The first instant he had met her he knew that she used Guerlain’s and he had identified the variety, but there was nothing technical about the Guerlain any longer. He had immediately recognized her as beautiful, but now everything about her was subjective, not objective any longer, just as it might have been on the outside. The way a draft of air blew a wisp of hair across her forehead was beautiful, and so was the austere perfection of her profile when softened by a smile, and so were the quick gestures of her strong but delicate hands. A pair of white gloves lay across her lap, but she did not wear them, and she wore no rings, no jewelry at all except a plain gold clip.
Right You Are, Mr. Moto Page 12