He compared her relentlessly to Japanese women and found her wanting on all specifications.
Thirty-year-old men did not waste their time fantasizing about a woman, a gaijin at that, like a foolish adolescent mooning over some pop star. Perhaps if he saw her again he would come to his senses and could safely ignore the photograph of the four pilots General Sato had had framed and hung on his wall. Every time Kojiro walked into the general’s office he was confronted with Libby’s smiling face, next to his sour grimace.
With that objective in mind, Major Yoshida finally tapped Libby’s number on his cell phone.
Libby heard the phone ringing just as she stepped out of the shower. She was tempted to ignore it, but on the off-chance it was a summons from the squadron, she grabbed a towel and dashed into the bedroom. For a moment, she thought she was too late, as there was no response on the other end.
“Hello? Hello?” she repeated impatiently. Libby was just about to hang up the receiver when she heard the deep, unmistakable voice of Major Yoshida.
“Ah, Captain Com-er-ford. It is Major Yoshida.”
“Yes, I recognize your voice.”
“Ah so. You, you haven’t forgotten me?” He sounded surprised that she remembered him.
“No,” Libby said, as she struggled to anchor the towel around her shivering body. “I thought it was you who had forgotten all about me.”
“I could not forget a woman who flies the F-16,” was the closest Kojiro could come to admitting that it was impossible to get her out of his mind without losing his composure.
“When you did not answer the telephone … When you took so long to answer the telephone, I was afraid you were out.”
“I didn’t hear it ringing. I was in the shower.”
“Shower?” Libby could hear a sharp intake of breath, the deep growl in the back of his throat Kojiro made when he was perplexed. Perhaps he had misunderstood? Some people could speak a foreign language better than they could understand it.
“Shower,” she repeated. “I was taking a shower.”
Another long pause.
Libby was so cold she was about to cut the major’s call short when he cleared his throat and resumed the conversation.
“I was wanting to see you again. For dinner. If that is still agreeable?” He added, as if he expected her to decline the invitation.
“It is. Agreeable.” Libby hesitated. “I’d like to see you again.”
“Ah, then Saturday evening? If you do not have any other plans.”
“I do not have any other plans, Kojiro.”
“Ah.” Another audible sigh of relief, that made Libby smile. “I’ll send a taxi to your quarters at 7:30.”
“A taxi?”
“Hai, a taxi. Arigato gozaimasu. Goodnight, Captain Comerford,” he said and hung up.
Libby went back into the bathroom to hang up the wet towel and comb her hair. Perhaps accepting the dinner invitation had not been such a good idea after all. In reality, she knew very little about the major. She had made assumptions about him that she had no way of verifying — that he was single for instance, merely because he had refrained from mentioning a wife or children. And yet it was common knowledge that Japanese men often led lives separate from their families, especially the officers stationed at Misawa. Their wives were reluctant to leave Tokyo for the grubby farming community or subject their children to what were considered inferior schools.
Libby frowned at her foggy image in the mirror. Maybe Kojiro had a wife in Tokyo and had just asked her out for a good time. She would know soon enough. In the meantime, she had something to look forward to besides another boring Saturday night at the O Club pretending she was having a good time.
The taxi arrived promptly at 7:30 on Saturday evening. Libby was watching out her window as the gleaming black car pulled up in front of the BOQ. Before switching off the light, she paused to take a final look at herself in the mirror. Instead of her standard blazer and slacks she was wearing one of the two dresses she owned, a conservative, navy blue silk. For some inexplicable reason she felt compelled to impress upon the major that she had not lost touch completely with her femininity, despite the masculine nature of her work. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Japanese women were so dainty and petite, but she was certainly not in competition with a woman, real or imagined, for the major’s attention, Libby assured herself. So why had she gone to so much trouble with her appearance? If Charlie saw her, he wouldn’t know what to make of the mascara and blush and glossy lipstick.
She ran a comb through her hair and blotted her lips. It was amazing what a little make-up and clothes could do, she thought as she appraised her looks. She was so used to seeing herself in a shapeless flight suit and lumbering boots that the image in the mirror looked like a stranger.
When Libby emerged from the building, the automatic door on the taxi swung open and the white-gloved driver indicated she should get in. The back seat was empty. Apparently, the major wasn’t taking any chances being seen with a gaijin.
The restaurant, which resembled a Swiss chalet, was several miles out of town, at the end of an unpaved road, in the middle of a forest. Libby rode in the spacious backseat, eyes fixed on an ornament bobbing up and down on the dashboard, wondering what had ever possessed her to accept the major’s invitation. Curiosity? Boredom? A little of both, perhaps, and an unacknowledged attraction she was too chary to admit.
Major Yoshida was waiting on the front porch when the taxi pulled up, smoking a cigarette. The door flung open and he watched as Libby scooted awkwardly out of the cab. The very least he could do was come down and give her a hand, she thought, instead of standing and gaping at her, but he just stood there, one hand resting nonchalantly on the railing until the taxi disappeared down the driveway. Then he discarded his cigarette, descended the steps, and bowed.
“Good evening. Libby,” he said slowly. (He had been practicing saying her name, repeating the intransigent consonant ‘L’ over and over again like a school boy.) “I am very happy you could join me.” He sounded like he was reciting phrases from an English textbook, his deep voice a monotone.
Libby forced a polite smile and extended her hand. Major Yoshida took it reluctantly and gave it a brisk shake. Then he turned abruptly and mounted the stairs. Libby gritted her teeth and followed.
Once inside, they were greeted by the attentive owner who ushered them to table in the far corner of the room, overlooking the wooded hillside.
“It is a fine view in the daytime, but at night … ” Kojiro paused. The only thing they could see were their own reflections mirrored in the plate-glass window, two ghostly figures, framed like a portrait, staring at one another’s image.
Dressed in civilian clothes, the dignified major looked more like a diplomat than a fighter pilot, Libby thought. The dark business suit and starched white shirt enhanced his smooth, ivory complexion and piercing eyes, making him look older, more uncompromising. More Japanese.
Unnerved by Libby’s scrutiny, Kojiro shifted his attention to the array of cutlery set out on the table in front of him. He was always dismayed by the number of eating utensils a westerner needed to transfer food from plate to mouth when chopsticks were more convenient and practical. With chopsticks you didn’t have to agonize over what fork to use or which hand to hold it in. But then he was of the opinion that Westerners went out of their way to make life more difficult for themselves as well as the rest of the world. In Japan, every man, woman, and child knew exactly what was expected of him and behaved accordingly. It made for a much simpler and tranquil life.
Kojiro did not feel very tranquil at the moment, gazing across the table at Libby. He couldn’t think of anything to say to relieve the awkward silence. He was relying on her to do all the talking. Most of his foreign acquaintances never shut up, particularly the women. All he had to
do was nod his head occasionally in agreement. But she just sat there with her head bowed, studying the menu.
He lit a cigarette to calms his nerves, noticed Libby’s grimace at the enveloping smoke and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Kojiro had forgotten about Americans’ preoccupation with their health. Japanese society was more indulgent. There was scarcely a venue in the entire country where a man couldn’t light up and enjoy a cigarette. He tucked the package of Marlboros in his inside pocket. It was going to be a long night.
Kojiro hoped that Libby was suitably impressed with his choice of restaurants. He had selected it specifically because it catered to western tastes and he had no idea whether or not Libby liked Japanese food. Most Americans were appalled at some of the delicacies the Japanese savored. The Tyrolean ambiance was charming, the cuisine reputed to be as exceptional as it was expensive. Without coming out directly and saying so, he wanted to let her know, that where she was concerned, money was no object. He was prepared to lavish as much as necessary on the American pilot on the vague assumption that she would want to reciprocate his generosity in one way or another. He thought of it in terms of an exchange of gifts — the greater the value bestowed by the benefactor, the greater the obligation incurred by the beneficiary.
So far, Libby hadn’t given any indication that she was aware of his intentions. Other than accept the dinner invitation and show up at the appointed time, she had hardly said two words to him. But Kojiro figured she wasn’t some naïve school girl. Libby was a woman of the world — a man’s world, at that — and Western women were known for being as sexually adventurous as they were experienced.
He glanced sheepishly across the table. Most beautiful women were self-conscious about their beauty but Libby appeared to be unaware of it or else indifferent. Kojiro had been hoping she would wear something more provocative. Her dress was so conservative with its long sleeves, high neckline and ankle-length skirt, it almost looked as if she had gone out of her way to disguise her figure, but he couldn’t credit that. Covering herself up just made her look that much more tantalizing.
The uncomfortable silence was relieved when the waiter came to take their order. Kojiro insisted Libby order the most expensive entrée on the menu to complement the bottle of outrageously priced French wine the waiter suggested.
Libby wasn’t quite sure what to make of his largesse, but she was touched by his earnest endeavors to please her, it had been such a long time since she allowed herself to be indulged by an adoring male. So much for the inscrutable Asian, Libby thought to herself. There was no mistaking Kojiro’s admiration, he hadn’t taken his eyes off of her from the moment she arrived. But she didn’t feel threatened by his attention, as much as amused. It was hard to take someone as uptight and unsmiling as the major very seriously. Besides, he was Japanese … .
“You do not look like a fighter pilot,” Kojiro blurted out gruffly. The wine, two glasses of which Kojiro had drunk with uncharacteristic abandon before the entrée had even been served, had loosened his tongue as well as blunted his discretion.
“Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?” Libby asked. “Or as an admonition?”
“Admonition?”
“You don’t approve of women pilots.”
He shook his head. “I do not think women should fly in combat. It is very dangerous. It also requires, not only skill, but daring and aggression. Not very admirable traits for a woman,” he added, just in case she missed his point.
“But acceptable for a man?”
“It is part of our nature,” Kojiro nodded smugly.
“And what of a woman’s nature?”
Kojiro poured himself another glass of wine. Either Libby did not know that in Japan the woman was obligated to do the honors for a gentleman or else she thought he was over-indulging. In either case, he was forced to refill their glasses.
“And what of a woman’s nature?”
“Well, of course, women are … ” He squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, trying to recall the English adjectives that would describe what Kojiro considered essential female attributes. “They should be gentle and feminine and, and … ”
“And you think a woman who flies an F-16 lacks those instincts. Am I right?” Libby interrupted. He could tell by her tone of voice, that she wasn’t pleased by the implication.
Kojiro shifted in his seat. That was exactly what he thought, but he didn’t want to insult Libby by admitting it. Not if he hoped to see her again.
“I am sure there are exceptions … ” He demurred.
“Major Yoshida, look at me. You’re right about fighter pilots having to be aggressive in the air. My last assignment was flying in Iraq. But that doesn’t preclude them from being … gentle and loving on the ground.” She smiled. “Or unfeminine. Do you think I’m unfeminine?”
Kojiro swallowed. He didn’t know whether she was flirting with him or wanted an honest answer. Americans were so forthright with their questions. They didn’t like ambivalence or guile.
“No. No,” he stammered. He thought she was the most feminine creature he had ever laid eyes on, the embodiment of womanhood.
He glanced at the bottle of wine and was surprised that it was half empty. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Kojiro rarely drank to excess. He didn’t like losing control, was afraid he would do something imprudent or embarrassing. But the wine steadied his nerves, boosted his confidence, and unshackled his tongue. He never realized how fluent he was in English, how glib.
“I believe it is unnatural for any woman to want to fly in combat in the Air Force. Most women want a home and a husband and children.”
Libby smiled. “I do want those things. But later. Right now, all I want to do is fly. As a woman, I don’t have as many options as a man. If I want to succeed in the Air Force, I can’t let personal considerations interfere with duty. It’s as simple as that.”
“Ah, yes. But what if, when you are through flying, you are too old to get married or to have children?” He asked in a grave voice.
She did not like the turn in the conversation. She would have laughed if she thought he was teasing, but Kojiro was serious. He looked worried or worse yet, sorry for her. Libby wasn’t used to being pitied. Most people were in awe of her accomplishments. If they questioned her choices in life, they had the courtesy to do it behind her back. But she had no intention of giving Kojiro the satisfaction of realizing he had offended her.
“That’s where the real danger lies, isn’t it? Not in flying the F-16 but in being an old maid,” she said lightly.
“Hai, like a Christmas cake that is still on the shelf in the bakery after the twenty-fifth of December.”
Libby forced a smile at the unflattering simile. Is that how he thought of her, as a stale Christmas cake with the sell-by date stamped indelibly on the fancy wrapping?
Libby had had no idea what to expect when she accepted Major Yoshida’s invitation. There was never a question of refusing. She wanted to see him again, but she had not thought of their having dinner together as a conventional date. Perhaps she had been a little naïve in that regard, but she found it impossible to think about Kojiro in the same way she thought about Charlie or the other eligible American men in her life. But she hadn’t expected to be insulted by the prim major or have her femininity impugned. And he had been so circumspect about his own circumstances, she still didn’t know if he had a wife pining away for him in the south.
He wasn’t married. When Libby asked him, he blushed a furious shade of red and informed her coldly, that if he had a wife, he would not have been so rash as to ask her to dinner.
“Like you, I have postponed the pleasures of a family for my career.”
“I should think a wife would be an asset for an ambitious officer,” Libby parried, but her sarcasm was lost on Kojiro. His mastery of English did not extend to subtleties of phrase o
r nuances in the tone of voice.
“I will take your advice into consideration. Thank you.” From the pained expression on his face, it was apparent Kojiro didn’t like to talk about marriage any more than Libby.
By the time dessert was served, Libby and her host had achieved a more amicable accord. A second bottle of wine had a noticeable effect on Kojiro’s disposition, as well as on his complexion, which was stained a dusky red. He was more talkative, his gestures more expansive. Libby questioned the wisdom of consuming so much wine every time he went to refill her glass, but someone had told her it was considered impolite to refuse a drink in Japan and she didn’t want to offend Kojiro.
“Here we are having dinner together like old friends, and I do not even know where you are from in the United States.” Kojiro beamed happily across the table. Things were going well. Better than he expected. The language problems he had anticipated had all but disappeared. He didn’t have any trouble communicating with Libby. She had a liberating effect on the taciturn major that in conjunction with the alcohol had made him more talkative and less inhibited.
Libby, bemused by the transformation in her starchy host, smiled. “Dayton, Ohio, the home of the Wright Brothers.”
Kojiro laughed. “I think that is the reason you love to fly. It is in your blood.”
“Sort of. Dayton is also home to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. That’s where I saw my first air show. I was hooked after that. I think I was nine or ten years old when I announced to my parents that I was going to fly jets when I grew up. My mother said girls couldn’t do any such thing, which of course was true at the time and Daddy just laughed. But I never wavered in my determination to join the Air Force and fly.”
Heart to Heart Page 75