The Marine said, “We’ve heard about you. Seven MIGs?”
I winked and he said, “We could use you.” He bowed and left and the general said, “Somehow or other you’ve got to respect the Marines. They’re publicity hounds but they know what discipline means.”
Mrs. Webster said, “It’s not that I dislike Japanese. Goodness, they’re wonderful people. So clever and all that. Even in the short time I’ve been here they’ve shown me unusual courtesies. But a conquering army must retain its dignity.”
“I agree,” the general said, “but those yokels in Washington say we’ve got to woo them now. Nancy, you ought to read the directives I get!”
“I approve one hundred per cent!” Mrs. Webster insisted. “Japan is now a free country. We must woo them to our side but we must also remember our position. And be firm.” Ignoring the fat major, she proceeded to eat her dinner with relish.
EILEEN WEBSTER: “I could never consent to live the barren life your mother did.”
On Friday Mrs. Webster gave striking proof that she really did like the Japanese—if they kept their place. She and Eileen called for me about noon and drove me a short distance out into the country in the black Cadillac. Mrs. Webster said, “I have a real treat for you, Lloyd. We’re going to Takarazuka.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Takarazuka,” she repeated slowly.
“What’s that?”
“For one thing it’s a village with a delightful zoo. But it’s also something especially Japanese.”
“For instance?”
“You’ll be amazed!”
In a few minutes we entered the Japanese village of Takarazuka. At the head of an extremely narrow lane we got out and walked into a kind of fairyland. For it was now mid-April and the path ahead of us was lined with cherry trees and I had never seen such trees before. The blossoms were extraordinarily profuse, a kind of grayish, sandy purple, rich and delicate. Laden branches dipped down over us and the blue sky of spring showed through. The walk was filled with people hurrying beneath the blossoms to some destination I couldn’t see. There were women in kimonos, young girls in bobbysocks, old men in black, babies in bright clothes and half a dozen brilliantly beautiful girls in a kind of green dress that swirled about their ankles as they walked.
“Who are they?” I gasped.
“Those are the Takarazuka girls,” Mrs. Webster explained.
“What’s that mean?”
“The most famous collection of girls in Japan.”
“What do they do?”
“That’s the big surprise.”
But I wasn’t to find out for some time because she led us down the flowered lane past scores of little shops that sold mementoes of the village, past old trees that offered shade and past minute restaurants at whose doors women stood offering cheap food. We were in the heart of Japan and Mrs. Webster was enjoying herself as much as any Japanese.
We had gone only a short distance when a thin young man in black joined us and bowed very low, drawing breath in through his teeth. “Many, many pardons,” he said. “I was waiting for you at the main office.” He took us to the zoo, where there were beautiful lakes and flower beds and charming benches on which you could sit beneath the cherry blossoms and watch children play.
The young man asked in good English, “Are you the pilot who shot down seven MIGs?” He was impressed and said, “I used to be a flier. Now I work here.”
“What is this place?” I asked in a low whisper.
“You don’t know?”
“Never heard of it.”
Mrs. Webster saw us talking and cried, “Oh, Lloyd! Don’t spoil the fun!”
“I hate mysteries,” I said.
“All right, well go.”
She and the thin young man took us out of the zoo and up to an enormous building which looked like an armory in Kansas City. It was a theater. We went to our special seats in the very first row and there we faced one of the largest stages in the world on which was enacted the most amazing performance I had ever seen.
I can’t say I understood the play. It was called, the young man said, Sarutobi Sasuke, meaning Little Monkey Sasuke, and Sasuke is a boy’s name. It dealt with some children who accidentally conjure up a wizard who helps them save a castle from the enemy. Who the enemy was or what the castle I never understood because at Takarazuka it wasn’t the story that counted. It was the overwhelming effect of size.
The play started at one and ran till six. It had thirty-four different scenes, each the biggest and most lavish you could imagine. I never saw a Ziegfeld show, but Mrs. Webster said that any Takarazuka scene outdid the best Ziegfeld ever put on. There was music, there was dancing, there were songs. In fact, there was everything. In this one show there were two gorillas, a jeep, two live pigs, a wizard, three different trios singing three different kinds of songs, a ballet, a football game, a live goat, a motion-picture sequence showing the wizard at work, a passage from an opera and a cave whose trees moved about. But most of all there were girls.
There were more than a hundred girls on stage, and they were all real dazzlers. I thought to myself, “And you were the guy who said he’d never seen a good-looking Japanese girl! Wow!” But at the same time there was something ridiculous about this excess of beauty, for there were no men actors. The most striking girls played men’s roles, and I whispered to Eileen, “This show could use a few Clark Gables.”
Mrs. Webster heard me and laughed. “In Tokyo there’s another theater which has no women. There men play all the parts.”
“Doesn’t sound sensible,” I said.
“It’s Japanese,” she explained.
I soon tired of the show—one enormous set after another and beautiful girls making believe they were men. I said I was willing to leave whenever the others had had enough. Eileen said, “I’m ready,” and as we walked up the darkened aisle I began to appreciate the enormous size of this theater. It must have seated more than 3,000 people. I asked our guide, “Is it always filled this way?” for there wasn’t a vacant seat. He sucked his breath in proudly and said, “Every day in the year. Twice on Saturday and Sunday.” I didn’t tell him so, but I figured there must be something in a Takarazuka show no American could understand because I was bored by this one and so were Eileen and her mother. But the Japanese loved it. They sat on the edges of their seats, their round faces transfixed with intense pleasure.
We started to return to our car but the guide stopped us and said, “The Supervisor has invited you to attend a special rehearsal of our next month’s show.”
“Have you two companies?” Eileen asked, a bit bedazzled by the 115 girls she had just seen.
“We have four,” the guide said proudly. “One plays here, one in Tokyo, one tours, and one is in rehearsal.”
He led us to a huge empty stage where some young girls in green skirts were walking through an intricate dance, while a man at the piano hammered out a tune that sounded like Schubert. In another empty room another man played a song that sounded like Gershwin for a trio of young girls, also in green skirts. “They wear the Takarazuka costume,” the guide explained.
Then suddenly he came to attention and the girls at the piano stopped singing. Everyone looked at the door where an elderly man with a white beard stood for a moment, discovered Mrs. Webster and hastened toward her, bowing very low and saying, “Mrs. General Webster! It is a superb honor.” He waved his hand deprecatingly and said, “Rehearsal only.”
As he turned he disclosed behind him a most lovely slender actress in a plaid skirt, brown vest, and cocky green tam o’shanter set saucily over one eye. I did a sort of double take and whispered to Eileen, “That’s the girl who was with the Marine lieutenant” Eileen studied her and said, “Of course it is.”
The Supervisor saw us staring at the remarkable girl and said, “Mrs. General Webster and honored guests, may I present Fumiko-san, one of our finest actresses?” Although I am certain the girl recognized us, she did not betray th
at fact but stepped sedately forward and bowed low before Mrs. Webster. When she reached me I held out my hand, but she started to bow again, whereupon I withdrew my hand and saw that she was looking up at me with immense gratitude for my not having recognized her in front of the Supervisor. Eileen saw this too and had the presence of mind to say, “We did not see you on stage, did we?” The girl replied in a soft voice, “I not play this week. I … Moon … Troupe.”
Hastily the guide explained, “The four troupes each have a name. Moon, Star, Snow and Flower. You would say that Miss Fumiko is one of the best stars of the Moon Troupe.” I was about to say that I had already seen Miss Fumiko when a distinct glance from her begged me to remain silent.
With extraordinary grace Miss Fumiko walked over to a piano, but I didn’t hear her sing, for just as she began we left for the flower path leading back to our Cadillac. As we walked beneath the swaying cherry blossoms I noticed that each of the shops we had seen earlier had on display large glossy photographs of the principal Takarazuka actresses. As we passed slowly along, the pictures of the beautiful girls, half of them dressed as men, had a mesmerizing effect, but while I was studying them Eileen discovered one of the real phenomena of Japan. “Oh, took!” she cried.
The play Sarutobi Sasuke had ended and from the dressing-room doors the Takarazuka girls were entering the flower walk. The youngest were dressed in formal green skirts and about them pressed an adoring crush of people trying to touch them, trying to lay hands on the green skirts or press a letter or a gift upon the actresses. When a particularly famous girl appeared the crowd would utter a little cry and fall back and the actress would move on in a kind of courtly grandeur.
The Takarazuka girls passed along the flower walk, their green skirts swaying softly beneath the cherry blossoms, and I could hear a sigh go up from the crowd as the girls turned the corner, entered upon a bridge and crossed the river to the other side, where I was told they lived like nuns in a secluded dormitory. When they were gone the crowd at the dressing-room doors looked about idly as if now there was nothing to do, and for the first time I realized that every person in the milling mob was a young girl. There were no Stage-door Johnnies. They were all Stage-door Jills.
Mrs. Webster said, “The young girls of Japan idolize these actresses.”
Eileen said, “No wonder! The actresses are so beautiful.”
“And the girls outside are so ugly,” Mrs. Webster said. “Have you ever seen so many round, red faces? Such dumpy little creatures?”
“I don’t know,” Eileen said. “America has its share. When I was thirteen I would stare in the mirror and pray God that I might grow up to look like Myrna Loy.”
“Ah, but you were never a square-beamed little urchin! Lloyd, this child was always beautiful.” Then she played her trump card. “I’m having dinner with the Supervisor—that sweet old man with the beard. He’s very important. You two drive along home.”
And she looked at me with that perfectly frank stare as if to say, “You’re twenty-eight, Lloyd. You should have married Eileen four years ago. Grow up.” And she was, as always, 100 per cent right. Even though she herself had prevented the marriage that first year—she hadn’t been aware of the fact—and even though I could use the Korean war as an added excuse, I had never been able to explain to myself honestly why Eileen and I were not married. We had fallen completely in love, she had risked a lot of public trouble by riding a bus down to a remote Texas air base for a crazy week with me, but we both knew that whenever the big moment of actually getting married approached I shied away. With jet airplanes I was comfortable. With women I wasn’t. I guess that watching Mrs. Webster and my mother had made me gun-shy.
One night I heard one of our medical doctors talking in a bar. He’d been a big shot in civilian life and he was saying, “We find that if a man comes from a broken home he’s apt not to marry early. It’s as if he had to be introduced to love. If he doesn’t meet love in his own family he could, conceivably, go through an entire life without ever meeting it. Of course,” he had added, “at any time almost any girl could provide the introduction if she wanted to take the trouble. But spoiled men who don’t marry before they’re forty—the men who have never been introduced to love—are hardly worth any girl’s trouble. So we can say that some men actually do pass through an entire lifetime without ever meeting so simple a thing as love. No one bothered to introduce them.” I often recalled the doctor’s words but I was satisfied I wasn’t like that, not in all respects. True, my parents had failed to introduce me either to their own love or to the idea of having a home with some gill’s love as the central pillar. I think that explains why I was twenty-eight and vaguely in love with Eileen and unmarried. And I think Mrs. Webster knew it and now she was pushing us together.
“I’ll see you in the hotel,” she cried and left us, towering a good four inches over the little Japanese man who was leading her back to the Supervisor.
I had been hoping for a chance to talk with Eileen alone and as soon as Mrs. Webster left I pulled her into a corner of the Cadillac and gave her a big kiss. She said, “All the way out on the plane I dreamed of meeting you in a romantic spot like this.” She pointed out of the car to where we were passing little rice fields pressed close to the road and tiny houses set back among the trees. There was a sweet heaviness of spring in the air and as we watched the little workmen of Japan trudging along the footpaths at dusk we felt very much a part of this strange country.
Eileen whispered, “I didn’t want to leave America. The idea of …” she hesitated, then added, “getting married in a foreign land didn’t appeal. But now …”
I pretended not to have heard her remark about marriage and said, “I was proud of you today.”
“About what?”
“That girl.”
“The actress?”
“Yes. You knew she was the one your father threw out of the dining room. But you didn’t embarrass her.”
“Why should I? She came to the Club as a guest and she seemed a very pleasant girl.”
“But your mother …”
“Mother’s all right. She just has to feel that she’s running everything.”
I asked, “Would she be frightfully sore if we didn’t show up at the Club dinner?”
“She knows we’re courting.”
“What a quaint word for a Vassar girl!”
“I’m not always a Vassar girl. Don’t let the tag fool you. Pardner, I been a-livin’ in Tulsa, where folks go a-courtin’.”
“Let’s court.”
“What had you in mind?”
“A Japanese night club.”
She thought a moment, then smiled and said, “Let’s court!”
The driver reluctantly dropped us at a corner and even more reluctantly indicated how we could go halfway up an alley and find the Fuji Nights, which turned out to be a tiny room specializing in beer and fried fish. A geisha girl, her face white with cornstarch, came and sat with us and showed us how to order. Soon four other white-faced geishas came up to admire Eileen’s blonde hair. One who could speak English placed a strand of Eileen’s against her own jet black hair and sighed, “How beautifur!”
Eileen said, “Isn’t it fascinating, the way they can’t say l.”
I asked the geisha, “How do you say lovely lady?”
She laughed and said, “You tease.”
“Please!” I begged.
She put her slim fingers under Eileen’s chin and said, “You have one ruvrey radie.”
Eileen clapped her hands and said, “Your kimono is lovely, too.” The girls talked for a while and then the radio was turned on and we danced. The geisha who could speak English said to Eileen, “May I dance with your officer? Very important we know American dancing.” Eileen said, “Sure,” and for the first time in my life I danced with a foreign girl.
It was pretty dull. The geisha had something sticky on her hair and so much cloth about her middle that I couldn’t hold onto her anywhere. She
had apparently run into this problem before, for she took my hand and slipped it securely under a particularly huge bundle of cloth and in that way we danced. I asked her why geishas wore so many clothes and she said shyly, “I not real geisha. I only après-guerre geisha.” I thought she had used a Japanese phrase and asked her what it meant. “Après-guerre,” she said. “Maybe French. After-the-war geisha.” I still didn’t catch on and asked if that were some special kind. In real embarrassment she looked away and said, “In here we only make-believe geisha. (She pronounced it onry make-berieve.) To be real geisha need many years study. Many kimonos. We poor girls. We buy one kimono, make believe for Americans. We got to make money.”
When she led me back to the table two of the other make-believe geishas started talking in a real jabber and finally one of them ran to the back. It was amusing to see her move, for such girls walk extremely pin-toed, which gives them a peculiar sing-song motion. In a moment she appeared with a Japanese newspaper and there, about the size of an American penny, was my picture. This excited the five geishas and they made me stand up so they could inspect my uniform. One held up seven fingers and I nodded, whereupon the girls gasped and the first geisha said to Eileen, “You must be very proud.”
“I am,” Eileen said, and later that night, as we drove home she kissed me warmly and whispered, “I like courtin’ with you.”
I remember that I thought to myself: “This is it, squarehead. Either you get this woman problem settled now or quit for good.” So I took the plunge and said, “Where I come from, Podner, courtin’ means marryin’. When?”
Eileen smiled gently, as if something very right had happened, and said, “I want to get married … if …”
I had dived in and the water wasn’t as frightening as I had expected so I struck out and said something pretty polished for me, “I’ve been flying where seconds mean hours of ordinary time. I don’t want to wait a single day.”
She laughed nervously and said, “Can’t a girl be jittery over her first proposal?”
I was eager to play the determined lover—I was beginning to like the role—and said, “You’ve known all along I could live with no wife but you.”
Sayonara: A Novel Page 4