“I know,” I interrupted. That talk had always made me impatient. “What has the United States ever done to Japan except to pass the Exclusion Act?”
“There are your interests in the Orient,” she said.
I had heard enough diplomatic talk in my occasional visits to Washington to be familiar with phases of our Pacific relations.
“I know,” I answered. “That is a vague term and I’ve never heard it specified.”
“Think of it this way,” she said; “think of a great country which is always moving forward—taking. The United States is moving toward Asia—her hand has reached out over Hawaii, over Guam, over the Philippines. Where is she going to stop?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” I said. Grotesque as it seemed to be talking to a pretty girl about the affairs of nations, I was curious to see where the conversation would lead us.
“Then on the other side,” her voice went on, “on the other side of these little islands is Russia.” She was speaking with a feeling that showed me that these matters were real to her. I could not understand why she was concerned when they meant so little to me. “Russia also is always reaching out; Russia was driven from Manchuria at the time of the Czar, but perhaps she is moving back again. They are double-tracking the Trans-Siberian Railway. Vladivostok is a fortress. There are great military bases along the frontier. Russia has stretched out her hand until she holds Outer Mongolia as a buffer State. Where will she go next?—That’s what they’re wondering in Japan. If you were a Japanese—” She looked at me and stopped.
“I’d be upset,” I said. “Is that what you want me to say?”
“I don’t want you say anything,” she answered. “I want you to see how certain people feel. The world, through the League of Nations, has repudiated certain political bets of Japan. She has suffered, like all the other nations, from the economic depression. It is not hard to see why a Japanese must feel surrounded. China dislikes and fears Japan. China is building an air force and Japan is vulnerable from the air. Do you blame the average Japanese if he feels hemmed in?”
“No,” I answered, “I don’t blame him.”
“Neither do I.” Sonya’s voice grew softer. “He looks to the east and seems to see the gray wall of the American battle fleet. He looks to the west and seems to see the Russian army and the Russian air force. And China. Mongolia is full of agents, Harbin is full of spies. He is unhappy—he is restless. The thing which makes him unhappiest is that he has not the understanding and the approval of other nations. I’m sorry for Japan.”
“Perhaps they’ve got themselves too much on their own minds,” I said.
“Perhaps,” she answered. “But so have you. I seem to have known you for a long while, Casey Lee.”
“That’s nice,” I said.
I had a sudden desire to end this general conversation, though I knew it would have been wiser to have waited. “Have you seen my dossier?” I asked.
“Your dossier?” She smiled again. “How should I see that?”
And I smiled back. “Because Japan is a suspicious country,” I explained. “Every foreigner is thoroughly investigated by the secret police. I can imagine what my dossier says, Sonya. ‘Casey Lee, a former American naval aviator, and a freelance air fighter in little wars, who publicly expressed his discontent with his own country. A drunkard, discredited.’ . . . Why don’t we get down to business, Sonya?” She did not smile when I had finished.
“Business,” she said. “All right. May I ask you a question, Casey Lee? You have fought under other flags, your nationality does not tie you particularly. Am I right?”
“Dead right,” I said, and drank another cup of sake. “So you were sent to sound me out?”
She nodded simply.
“Because I would talk more freely to a pretty girl?” I suggested.
She nodded again.
“It’s true,” she agreed. “The word has come that the people in America will not pay for your transpacific flight. There are certain persons here—never mind who—who wish to ask you a question. Would you fly the Pacific in a Japanese plane—and let Japan have the credit?”
She must have known before I spoke what my answer would be. It seemed to me like the chance of a lifetime. I would have my own revenge if I succeeded.
“Sonya,” I said, “for the last hour I’ve wanted to kiss you, but even if I hadn’t, I’d want to now. If you can get me a plane, if you can give me this chance, I’ll do anything in the world for you—anything at all.” I could see her looking at me with the same expression of pleasure that I have seen a player wear when he has finished a game successfully.
She knew she had me then. We were no longer people but abstractions. Her voice was cool, almost businesslike, as though she said, “Very well, I do not have to bother you anymore.” But instead she said:
“Will you please wait here,” and she rose from her cushion on the floor, tall, lithe and straight, and moved toward the sliding door.
I also rose from my cushion beside the little table, becoming aware as I did so that a foreigner was not fitted for dining in the Japanese manner. The joints of my knees and ankles were stiff from my unaccustomed posture, so that I was glad to stretch myself. It could not have been more than three minutes later when the door slid open. I was not greatly surprised to see my friend Mr. Moto exactly as I had remembered him, with his Prussian-cut hair, cutaway coat and somber studious eyes.
Sonya had evidently given him back the ring, for it was again on his finger just as it had been the previous afternoon. He smiled, bowed and drew in his breath between his teeth. I wished that I could imitate the perfection of the Japanese bow where the head drops forward suddenly as though a knife had severed the spinal cord and then snaps back upright.
“Mr. Moto,” I said.
“You remember me, then?” said Mr. Moto. “That is kind of you, when I thought you might have forgotten. I am so glad to see you here.”
My gaze seemed to glance off the smoothness of the little man’s determined courtesy. “The pleasure is all mine,” I said.
“I can well understand,” he answered. “Miss Sonya is so charming. I am pleased that you have both come to understand each other. A very remarkable girl.”
“Where is she now?” I asked.
Mr. Moto smiled again. “She will be back,” he replied; “have no fear. But first I wish to speak to you alone. I represent a group, if you understand me, that has been seeking for someone to fly the Pacific in a Japanese-made plane. You would not object, I hope, to taking our side in a friendly rivalry between Japan and the United States.”
“You show me the plane,” I said, “and I’ll thank you to the end of my days. I’m a good pilot, Mr. Moto.”
“There is no need to discuss your qualifications,” he said. “I know very well you are.”
“I thought you did,” I answered.
“If you had been born in Nippon,” Mr. Moto’s voice was slow and careful, “I think you might have had more consideration. America is so large and powerful that she forgets more easily than we do, I think.”
I knew that he was referring to my wild talk at the hotel. I shrugged my shoulders.
“Without discussing my feelings,” I told him, “I can tell you frankly that my nationalistic sentiments will not interfere with my flying a Japanese plane, or even working in some other way. I cannot see how there is anything more than friendly rivalry between Japan and America.”
Mr. Moto looked at me enigmatically. There is a nameless something in a man, whether he is Asiatic or European, which raises him above the average and I knew that Mr. Moto had that attribute. Neither of us had committed ourselves in a single detail and yet Mr. Moto seemed satisfied with my answers. He even seemed entirely familiar with my thoughts and sympathetic with my situation. “You interest me,” he said softly. “Would you mind explaining yourself?”
“What I mean,” I replied, “is the event of war. Both our countries have discussed it, but I do n
ot see the possibility of war between us. I think that possibility was over when the United States gave up using the Philippines as a large naval base. The United States has no means of attacking you. While the Hawaiian Islands are under the American flag, it is nearly impossible for you to reach the coast of North America. With the Japan sea, a Japanese lake, and with your present naval building program, I see no chance for an American fleet to approach Japan. Sensible men discount war talk, I think, Mr. Moto.”
My speech appeared to please him. “I am so glad,” he said. “I can only say that I agree with you heartily. You are a sensible man, Mr. Lee. Shall we have a drink together? Whiskysoda, eh? American whiskysoda for good Japanese and good Americans.”
He walked to the door in his stocking feet and called out an order to a servant and a minute later we were sitting down at the small table with our drinks.
I drank mine quickly and filled my glass again, but Mr. Moto consumed his in small careful sips, like a man who had no faith in his alcoholic capacity. I felt the time had come for us to be frank with each other.
“Mr. Moto,” I said, “you have found me at a time of great misfortune. I am under no illusions why you are interested in me. You probably heard something I said yesterday at the hotel. I am not prepared to retract any of my remarks. If the opportunity you offer me is genuine, I shall do a great deal to earn it. I imagine I’m close to being an internationalist, Mr. Moto. I know that you don’t offer that opportunity for nothing. What is it that you want?”
He did not reply for a while. Instead he looked at the vase of flowers in the niche along the other wall.
“I am very glad to be direct,” he said. “I do want something—nothing that will hurt your conscience, I think. You know a good many naval men in your country’s fleet. They’re friends of yours. You can meet—” he looked at my half-empty glass thoughtfully—“and drink with them, Mr. Lee. They might talk more freely with you than with one of my own countrymen. You follow me?”
“Yes,” I said, and I had a curious sensation in my spine as the end of our conversation became more obvious. The little room with its flowers and porcelain figure had assumed in my imagination an ominous aspect. I had a very definite though indefinable sense of personal danger. It was not attributable to Mr. Moto, who sat there in a conscientious parody of a European negotiator. It seemed rather to lie in the bare paperlike walls of that room. There was no disturbing sound, nothing; and yet I was willing to wager that had I started up to leave that room just then I should not have been allowed beyond the door.
“I follow you so far,” I said, “but you’ll have to go farther, Mr. Moto.”
“Gladly,” he replied, “as long as you’re thoroughly willing.”
I knew that he was conveying half a warning, half a threat, but I was willing.
“I understand you, I think,” I said.
“Yes,” Mr. Moto nodded, “yes, I think you do, so I may be correspondingly frank. A paper, a plan, to be exact, has been abstracted from our naval archives. It is probably now in the hands of some power. My government is simply anxious to learn what power. If you can find out for me that the United States navy is familiar with the plans of a certain new type of Japanese battleship, that is all I wish of you. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said, and I felt relieved. “I see no real harm in that. You’d find out sooner or later.”
“Exactly so.” Mr. Moto also looked relieved. “It is a harmless commission. I should not strain your loyalty by giving you a greater one. As a matter of fact, we shall be pleased if your government has this. We fear other powers more. I am being quite open with you. I hope that you agree.”
“Very well,” I said, “I’ll do anything I can.” The request seemed harmless enough, but I had an idea that it would have been dangerous if I had refused, and Mr. Moto’s next words, distinct and devoid of tone or emphasis, convinced me I was right.
“I am very glad,” he said. “You will obey orders then?”
“Yes,” I said, “I can mind orders.”
“I am very glad,” Mr. Moto said again. “I am afraid, Mr. Lee, you must obey them, now that we’ve gone as far as this. No one would be greatly surprised if you were to disappear—would they, Mr. Lee?”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” I asked.
He paused a moment before he replied.
“I will leave the answer to your own intelligence. When you get back to the hotel you will find a ticket in your room for the Imoto Maru, which sails from Yokohama to Shanghai tomorrow night. You will be given ample money for expenses. You will simply mix with the colony of your countrymen in Shanghai—particularly naval officers. There will be further instructions for you later. You understand, I hope.”
“Yes,” I said, “I understand. And it’s understood I have a plane to fly the Pacific when this job is over.”
Mr. Moto nodded and held out his hand. “That is entirely understood, and now, I am so glad to have met you. Miss Sonya will see you back to your hotel. There must be no mistakes.” There was something in Mr. Moto’s manner that showed me there must be no mistakes.
My opinion was confirmed when he slid open the door and I saw several men lounging in the narrow hall outside. A minute later Sonya and I were walking up the narrow street and at its end the same car was waiting for us. Though she was beside me, I had never felt so completely friendless or so cut off from everything I had known. The business I had accepted, though not wholly creditable, seemed harmless enough, particularly when the reward was considered; yet I wondered—was it harmless? Sonya walked beside me, humming a little tune, strange and wild—some Russian peasant song.
“There is one thing,” she said, when we were seated together in the automobile. “You must recognize no one on the boat.”
“Very well,” I answered. Her eyes were on me curiously. She was looking at me soberly and somehow she seemed dangerous, competent. I could imagine that she had an automatic pistol in the white handbag on her lap.
“Any other orders?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “not now. So you are one of us, Casey Lee. We are both without a country now.” Her words were like the slamming of a door. All my past seemed to be definitely closed and definitely behind me.
I was aware in some way that I had sold part of my soul. I did not mind just then, so long as I was getting value for it. “It is flattering that they have set you to watch me, Sonya,” I said. “You’re a pretty nurse. Shall I call you nurse?”
“You’re right,” she answered. “I’m watching you.”
“Sonya,” I asked her suddenly, almost involuntarily, “what are you getting out of this?”
“Never mind.” Her eyes were hard. “I’m being paid a price. You’ll do well not to ask questions after this. Simply obey orders, Casey Lee.”
I looked at her. Her figure beneath her tailored dress was lithe and strong. Her long fingers were strong and capable. “You’re a pretty nurse,” I said, “but I’m sorry you’re a nurse.”
“Let that be as it may.” Her throaty voice tinkled like ice in a glass. “We’re only even. I’m sorry you’re what you are.”
“We’ve got that much in common,” I answered cheerfully. “I guess we neither of us have much to boast about, but we’re professionals, Sonya. We can earn our pay.”
I have tried to set down an accurate and unbiased record of these scenes, without a single effort to put myself or my motives in a favorable light. I wish emphatically to affirm that I meant every word which I said to Moto, that I entered in good faith into a contract which doubtless would seem shocking to many of my fellow citizens. The only reason I can conscientiously offer for my conduct is a humble one, not valid in any court of law—that I did not understand. I did not understand, until subsequent events forced the comprehension upon me, how strong the ties of nationality and race become, when they are presented clearly. There is no quibbling with those ties; there is no way of rationalizing them, when events force one to make an
actual decision. I was faced with that decision sooner than I expected—on the very night, in fact, when I boarded the Imoto Maru, which reminds me that I am writing a record that has no room in it for moralization. I had better get on with my report, only pausing for one addition. Men die for their faith who have never been inside a church, and men die for their country, although they may have spent their lives criticizing all its works. The amazing thing about it is that they are probably surprised by their irrational willingness to die.
4
HALF AN hour after I was aboard, the Imoto Maru had moved from the dock in Yokohama and was slipping past the harbor lights of that great port into the Pacific, on her way along the Japan coast to China. She was taking me on a trail which was entirely new to me, for aside from those useless weeks of waiting in Tokyo I had never seen the Orient. I had a comfortable sensation of excitement such as one has nearly always when a ship carries one into the dark. There is always a sense of the unknown in the darkness which may be inherited from the dread of ancient mariners who thought their ship might slip off the end of the world into space. From my point of view the simile was almost true. The Imoto Maru had carried me off the edge of my world, it seemed to me beyond hope of returning. I did not mind it very much.
First I took a turn around the first-class quarters of the ship. The Imoto was small, as liners go nowadays. Except for her swarthy, stocky-looking crew, she reminded me of the transport which had carried me to France in another incarnation. Companion steps led from the promenade deck down to the bow and the cargo hatches and I climbed down, as there seemed to be no restriction, and walked past the battened hatches and hoisting gear out toward the bow itself. Everything ahead was black except the water beside our hull, which was so brilliantly phosphorescent that evening that it glowed and flashed into flame.
Suddenly it came over me, without my being able to analyze the reason, that I had been followed ever since I had been on that boat. I turned and stared into the dark shadows of derricks and ventilators but I could see no one. Then I felt in the side pocket of my coat for my leather-covered flask and took a drink. It occurred to me that the time had come to do some serious thinking, but the drink from the flask made me delay it, and instead, I thought of Sonya. I wondered if I would ever see her again. Probably not, I decided, for one who has led my sort of life becomes used to inconsequent shifts of personalities. Still, I was sorry that she had left me, and the poignancy of my sorrow surprised me and filled me with a desire to see lights and people, a desire which led me aft to the smoking room.
Mr. Moto Omnibus Page 4