A Bridge for Passing: A Meditation on Love, Loss, and Faith

by Pearl S. Buck

  He stopped at the office the next day at noon and looked in. Something was always going on there, and that moment was no exception. Hundreds of costumes were heaped on the floor, and several persons—men, boys and a girl or two—were pawing them over to a running accompaniment of Japanese at various tonal levels. They were looking for some garment demanded by the model for various parts in the picture. The model was a microscopic human being, male, of vague age but certainly not young. He stood something under five feet and if he weighed ninety pounds, it would surprise me. He was skin and bone, and if the skeleton was a child’s, the face was fascinating. Wrinkled, lively, full of fun and mischief, it was the face of an old faun. The top of the head was bald, but hair surrounded the large bald spot and stood straight out from the skull, as though the old faun were undergoing electric shock. He was certainly full of some sort of electricity for he was issuing orders without let, as he modeled a fisherman’s outfit made for a man four times his size. He was a good model, nevertheless. He clutched the trousers in at his waist, gave a twist to the belt, arranged the Japanese coat and became a fisherman. Everybody laughed and I sat down to watch.

  He knew all the characters in The Big Wave, it appeared, and he modeled them all. When he modeled a man he faced us. When he modeled a woman, he turned his back. I recognized each character, even the young girl Setsu. How an old man could pose so that he suggested a gay young girl, even from the back, is something I cannot explain. I wished for the millionth time that I understood Japanese, for whatever the old faun was saying the audience was convulsed. Every now and again he was dissatisfied and threw off a costume, or rejected what was offered and pawed among the confusion of the piled garments with all the fierce intensity of a monkey looking for fleas.

  At this moment someone had an inspiration. “He’s what we’ve been looking for—a wonderful attendant for Old Gentleman. Does he speak English?”

  The old faun smiled with all his teeth, none of them in good repair, and shook his head to the English.

  To the rest he replied that he would think it over and let us know tomorrow. The next day, the old faun, modeling more costumes, and dancing about on his spindly legs, brightened as I entered the room. A stream of Japanese flowed from him, which, interpreted, was that he would join the cast, but only if we promised not to cut his hair. He said he would not come with us if we cut his hair.

  I regarded the circle of electrified black wire surrounding the bony bald skull. “Tell him,” I said, “that I would not think of cutting that hair. I promise it will not be cut.”

  We all stared gravely at the valuable hair.

  “Hai,” the cheerful faun said with a smile that reached across the room. Suddenly the smile disappeared. Japanese chatter poured from where the smile was.

  The patient interpreter explained. “He says, does he have to speak English? If so, he can’t.”

  “He has only two lines and we will teach him every day,” we promised.

  More Japanese and the interpreter reported. “He says he must have a good teacher. He must speak English perfectly.”

  “He will have a good teacher,” we promised.

  Later we found that no amount of teaching could prevail over his invincible Japanese accent. We cut his lines to two essential words, “yes,” and “no.” These he says in the picture, impressively and with pride. He had, he said, waited his whole life to become an actor, but the nearest approach had been to work with costumes. I shall never forget his beatific face when he knew he was to have the part. So far as he was concerned, he was a star. He gave us a great smile and the faun became monkey again, pawing among the clothes, but now he was searching feverishly for his own costume.

  That night for the first time since he left, I felt a release, slight though it was, from the dull oppression of—what shall I call it? Shock, desolation, loneliness, whatever its compound, it had laid a burden upon me from which I could not escape. I did not wander the streets that night. Instead I decided upon a Japanese massage, dinner alone in my room, a long letter to the children at home, and a book. This is a program ordinary enough, but I had not achieved it since being alone. Laughter had provided the possibility now. I laugh easily, since the world is full of funny people and incidents, but I had not laughed often in the past months and never without the self-forgetfulness that somehow the little faun had inspired that afternoon. It is the peculiar talent of the artist that he is able to enter the being of another person and this is particularly true of the novelist. We had discussed it often, he and I, and he had forgiven me always when, temporarily, I was absorbed in someone other than himself. It is a strange absorption this, and I do not know how to describe it except to liken it to the focus of total interest essential to the scientist theoretician. Such a scientist is by temperament an artist too and none of us can escape what we ourselves are.

  I had not been able to absorb myself in anyone, however, since his death and until this afternoon when for an hour the old habit returned. I felt elated and almost hopeful. At least I was relieved, however briefly, of the miasma of sadness in which I had walked for so many weeks. I laughed with all my heart and for an hour was healed. I can report that I carried through my program for the evening and went to bed at a reasonable hour, also for the first time in all the weeks. The fact marked a beginning.

  The abalone diving girls—have I spoken of them? I think not and I must, for they were a unique tightly knit little group in our all-Japanese cast. Abalone clams are a delicacy in the Japanese cuisine but they are difficult to obtain for they cling to rocks with a powerful muscle and they live far down where the sea is dark and the water icy cold. Japanese fishermen prudently refuse to dive for them and allot the task to young women, who are more able to endure the cold and the danger. Men row the boats to the clam beds and wait patiently while the women plunge into the sea, clad only in shorts and belts into which they thrust the long heavy iron knives necessary for hacking the clams from the rocks.

  To my amazement, their costume, so natural to them and so sensible, became a matter of concern and even controversy with our American producers. American audiences, it seemed, could not tolerate the sight of the bare breasts of the women divers. In Europe the sight would be quite acceptable, even pleasant, but decency has absolute standards in the breast-conscious United States.

  “How?” I inquired. “A woman is a woman and she cannot properly be anything else.”

  “Bras,” the American delegate said laconically. He relented slightly when he saw my amazement. “We’ll take two shots of them, one with and one without.”

  That is what we did, and I was amused to see how embarrassed the women were when compelled to wear pink brassieres over their round brown breasts. They felt really naked, as Eve did in the garden, doubtless, when she was told to wear a fig leaf.

  A peculiar satisfaction in translating my story from one medium to another, from printed page to film, was that the characters came alive in flesh and blood. We found Setsu one day and I shall never forget the moment of pure angelic pleasure when, looking at a young woman, I recognized her. She was a young star of his own company, the production manager told us. More important to me was her lovely little face and large melting eyes of soft brown. She was so small in stature that she was, she told me, a member of the Transistor Club, whose members must all be under five feet. This transistor girl, however, was even smaller. When she stood by our six-foot, grown-up Toru in the film it was exactly right as he looked down upon her, laughed and said, “I like you because you are so small and funny.”

  Our cast was complete at last. They could all speak English or could learn the few words they must speak—except Toru’s mother. She was simply too shy to attempt an English word. But she had so sweet a face, besides being a well-known actress in Japan, that we cut her lines and let her act instead of speak. Meanwhile three weeks had passed. All contracts were signed. It was a fine cast, Sessue Hayakawa the star best known in the western world. All the others were stars in J
apan, except grown-up Haruko, a new actress chosen especially for the ferocious abalone diving girl, who fell in love with Toru and fought for him against gentle Setsu.

  When we were ready to leave Tokyo at last, the cast assembled, the camera and crew waiting, Old Gentleman invited us to a party at a geisha house, and thither we went one evening, he having called for us in state to take us there in his own car. I had grown used by now to evenings spent in quiet inns with Japanese friends. A good inn, in Japan, is never to be found beside a highway. One must descend from car or bus and walk for at least a hundred yards, and likely more, down a mossy path to a secluded spot, where under trees, if possible, low roofs spread over rooms open to gardens and small pools. To such places, as often as I had felt inclined, friends had invited me, professors in universities, writers, playwrights, literary people and artists, groups of talented women.

  Such evenings passed in restful conversation, comparisons in customs, and memories of peace and war and peace again. I enjoyed beyond expression the new freedom with which we could talk. Some barrier seemed to have rolled away in the years in which I had been absent from Japan, not from me but from them. I can only attribute it, at least in part, to the experience they have had with Americans during the years of Occupation and after. There had been misunderstandings, but understanding had prevailed.

  The evening at the geisha house was not like the quiet evenings among congenial friends. We stopped at a sumptuous new restaurant and then entered a huge room where the longest low table I had ever seen was already surrounded by guests, all of whom, our host assured us, were the highest of their class. Thus we were introduced to an aged prince surrounded by geisha girls, of whom there were plenty, then to a minister of the present cabinet, then to a young giant seven feet tall and three feet wide, who was the champion wrestler in Japan, and so on and on. Each male guest had several geisha surrounding him, and even I was given two to attend me, right and left.

  Between dishes, we were entertained by the traditional dancing and singing of trained geisha. What was new, however, were two young girls, magicians. They were among the best I have ever seen, and I have seen magicians in every country because I adore them. These girls, in contrast to the geisha, were in western dress, their arms bare to their shoulders. There was no nonsense therefore of hiding rabbits and fowl and pots of water up their sleeves. They simply did marvelous tricks and I have no idea how.

  After some four enjoyable hours the evening came to an end. Reflecting upon its incidents, a bit of fluff sticks in my mind. The American Ambassador’s wife had described to me, at a luncheon in my honor, the formal dresses still required of foreigners attending any function at the court or palace of the Emperor. The dresses, she told me, must be long and must have high necks and long sleeves. Later in the day I asked a Japanese friend of literal mind why foreign women must wear high necks. She answered promptly and exactly. “It is so when they bow the Emperor must not be embarrassed to look down their naked bosoms.”

  Our last night in Tokyo, the geisha party over, I sat by my window in the dark before I slept and looked out over the brilliant city, a mass of glittering modern buildings, in the center of which is the high and ancient wall surrounding the imperial palace. Yes, there is a moat. In the division of old and new, which is today’s Japan, I am reminded of a courtesy call I had made that morning to the president of another great Japanese film company. He had been kind enough to lend to us one of his young stars to be our grown-up Toru.

  In his way, this executive was remarkable, too. He is a small man, slender and healthy and full of energy. He has keen eyes and a brisk manner. I expressed my gratitude, and he said he wanted the picture to be a success. At this moment I observed high on the wall a miniature Buddhist temple. He is an ardent Buddhist, as I knew, and we talked for a few minutes about that great and ancient religion. I remembered that my scholar father once wrote a long monograph upon the subject of Buddhism as a source for certain Christian beliefs. There were more than thirty such resemblances and I told the distinguished Japanese Buddhist about them. He was deeply impressed, and said my father was entirely right—there is much in common between the two religions, and this not by accident, he was convinced, but by shared experience in history.

  The next day, our very last, we obeyed Japanese custom by giving a party for cast and crew before we set out on great adventure. The big room we had rented from the hotel was crowded. All our actors were there, our cameraman—of him much more, for assuredly the gods sent him to us—the make-up artist, the best in Japan, we were told, and many others. Reporters had clamored to be present and were.

  Our child actors were in their best party clothes, Little Setsu, Little Toru and Little Yukio, and their big dittos. Our entire cast, in fact, made me swell with pride. They were handsome, they suited their parts, and they were enthusiastic. Our co-producers were pleased, too, even the production manager. He stayed throughout the party, he made a speech in Japanese which was doubtless excellent, since there was loud applause. Our star, Sessue Hayakawa, also spoke in Japanese, the reporters took notes, cameras flashed again and again, and the party was on. There was plenty of food and drink and everybody soon knew everybody.

  It was a lovely party. We were slow to part, and we said good-by with assurances that we would soon meet again and work together on The Big Wave. Tomorrow—tomorrow—and may all tomorrows shine as brightly as that one shone ahead, I told myself that night.

  Again I did not wander forth alone into the night. Instead I opened the window and sent my secret message into space, with love. Wherever he is, he heard, or so I dreamed, for a new comfort descended upon my heart and brought to me my first intimation of eventual peace. It was his blessing.

  Three

  WE ARRIVED AT THE delightful town of Obama after a seven-hour journey by plane, train and car. It was midnight when we reached our hotel, and our beds, made Japanese fashion on the tatami mats on the floor, looked and were comfortable. It was a real Japanese hotel—food, plumbing and all, a big hotel, and in its way comfortable to the point of some luxury.

  Again I was in a Japanese bed. A thick mattress laid upon the floor mats, a soft mattress, sheets and pillows and silk-covered quilt, all immaculately clean, provided the exact combination of hard and soft for the most restful sleep. There is, I think, a certain security in sleeping on the floor, perhaps because there is nothing to fall from. The restless sleeper may fling out arms and legs and even roll over and over, and he will be on the same level. It is the security the human creature always feels when he is on stable earth, a contact with the basic plain. Babies know it by instinct and sleep most soundly, therefore, when they sleep on their stomachs. Then, if they wake, or only dream, they feel hands and feet touch solidity instead of clutching at the air. However narrow the bed, if it is made upon the floor it seems spacious. And how sensible, too, the use of room! By day the bedroom is made into a pleasant sitting room, the bedding folded into closets, a wise use of space in a small and crowded country.

  I slept well but woke early, eager to see the locations chosen for the filming of the picture. It had been late when we arrived, and I did not know what the views would be from the wide windows of the small veranda upon which my room opened. They faced south upon a curved bay, the bay surrounded by green mountains. The street lay between hotel and sea, and beneath my windows was a large pool of steaming hot water, natural heat, for Obama is a famous spa, with natural hot springs.

  As soon as I stirred, the paper-covered shoji slid back and a pleasant little Japanese maid in a gay yukata, or cotton kimono, came in, knelt and bowed, and chattered in Japanese while she put away the bed. In a few minutes my bedroom was a sitting room, a low polished table in the center, cushions to sit upon, a backrest to lean against. The tokonoma alcove held a graceful vase of fresh flowers and a landscape scroll by a good artist.

  “Breakfast,” the maid told me in gestures, “very soon.”

  I nodded, and went down a flight of stairs to my
private bathroom, and had a Japanese bath. The water in the little pool was the natural hot water and very refreshing, stimulating without being exhausting. And breakfast was an egg, some fruit, salt fish and rice. The mineral bath had made me hungry. After breakfast we set forth in a car. … Here I pause to say that the Japanese cars are as extraordinary as their drivers. They are adapted to an abrupt landscape and perilous roads. Japan has many good roads, far more than I remembered from early visits, but these cars go with equal spirit on rough narrow roads or cement and asphalt. Most roads are narrow and do not allow room for comfortable passage. Some, and not a few, allow for no passage at all. When two cars meet face to face on such a road, both stop. The drivers take stock of each other. Sooner or later one of them makes up his mind that he is the weaker and prudently he backs until he finds a corner where he can wait and let the other pass. A bus or a truck driver does not take stock. He simply waits for the other car to get out of the way, with an air of doing him a favor by not running him down over the cliff. There seems always to be at least one cliff on the side of every road in Japan and very often both sides overhang cliffs, without guard rails or protection. The reason, I suppose, is that when nearly every road runs at the top of a cliff above the sea, there is no use in dreaming about guard rails. People must learn to take care of themselves. The same principle holds true for driving through towns and villages and hordes of bicyclists. The result is that people do look after themselves and they teach their children to do so, and remarkably few accidents occur, at least in proportion to hazard!

  … We drove for an hour through fantastically beautiful country and all my memories came alive, for I have lived on Kyushu for months at a time in an earlier incarnation. How well I remembered these sharply pointed mountains, accustomed to sudden mists of rain, and these indented shores and water-worn rocks, these villages sheltering in coves, the farm houses, their steep roofs thatched three feet deep, and the terraced fields, climbing step by step up the hillsides and even nearly to the tops of mountains! Nothing was changed. I put out of my mind the bomb-wrecked city of Nagasaki, which was very near, because the Japanese have put it out of mind, too, and have built a new city.