Of course, Major Calloway had been surprised that they would work at all. He'd been expecting snipers, sabotage, the undergound. Like most other Americans, he'd been surprised at the complete lack of resistance and, like most, had been distrustful because of its absence.
Yet, from their point of view they were behaving very sensibly. The Colonel could even reconstruct their attitude. They were only a hundred years old as a Westernized nation and were anxious for respect, anxious not to do anything laughable. Having given up their familiar kimonos, they still felt a bit uneasy in pants and sack coats. Wanting to make certain their pants fit like everyone else's, they had looked about them and had seen not only that the wearers of pants always swaggered a bit, but also that aggression was profitable—Britain in China, America in the Philippines, the grab-bag of Africa. So they tried it, just as they might have tried a washing machine or an automobile, just as they discarded the kimono for plus fours.
Now they had discovered that their studies, though thorough, had been built on false premises. America had been protecting the Philippines; Britain had been engaging in free trade with China. The Japanese had had the right spirit but had used the wrong methods. They had made a mistake. So, with an astonishing amount of good will, they became friendly. On the day after the Emperor's rescript ending the war, any American could have traveled anywhere in the islands with perfect safety. More than that, the children at the roadside would have waved his own flag at him. At the time some of the conquerors said that you'd have thought the Japanese won the war, rather than lost it, the way they carried on.
And, privately, the Colonel wasn't too sure they hadn't. What did one do with a people who, after a fierce and brutal four-year battle, suddenly waved the enemy's flag? Even Hiroshima had not antagonized them. It was just another natural calamity, like an earthquake. They were quite used to accepting the calamities of nature.
They could even accept an army of occupation, accept it with serenity, if not enthusiasm. They did what it told them to and thus transformed the conqueror into an instructor. And all this time they did not seem to resent the presence of the recent enemy, although, to be sure, there were some small antagonisms. The slight anti-American feeling that the Colonel detected from time to time was, he thought, first, a very natural feeling of revolt which, in a healthy nation, would have occurred long before, and second, yet another of Russia's machinations. (The Colonel felt very strongly about Soviet Russia.) All of which did not alter the fact that the Japanese, while not particularly contrite, were now just as anxious to work with the Americans as they had been to fight against them.
He had known their Army well. It was a paper army, a textbook army, and once it lost the advantage, an appallingly bad army. The Colonel, when he had been a major, had seen the Japanese Army coming wave after wave between the palm trees, or skulking about in some antiquated fashion copied from a 19th-century textbook on tactics by Herr Someone-or-other. The line of advancing soldiers would run toward them, shouting banzai's, waving their flags, and all the opposing army had to do was sight and turn on the machine guns, the bazookas, the flame throwers. It was a bit like an old-fashioned shooting gallery, with a choice of weapons. Of course it was frightening also, the way they kept coming, the way the blood kept spilling. And, too, there was something glorious about it, something uselessly gallant in the old Heidelberg tradition—something the Colonel had to respect.
And now, just as this most industrious of peoples had learned tactics and maneuvers by rote, never once believing that a European book could be wrong or that the knowledge in it had to be applied intelligently rather than literally, so they were now learning the principles of democracy by heart, not understanding that democracy was more than a simple method, more than a technique.
Still, what could one expect from this strange country which excelled in techniques and nothing else? The Japanese could not tolerate the amorphous, the ambiguous: they, in fact, lacked the kind of faith, mystical if you liked, that made democracy what it was, that made the ideals of Jefferson—so impractical, so idealistic, so impossible and yet so true—a living reality. Instead they insisted upon definition, upon the hierarchy, upon the letter and not the spirit. Illogical though their Oriental thought-processes often were, still they insisted upon strict logic when it came to anything Western.
This, after all, was the country where one adopted a different code of behavior toward each of the many different strata of society; where there were he didn't know how many terms for the simple word you, each to be dealt out according to the just deserts of both the speaker and the person spoken to, these usages in turn being based upon complicated formulas involving age, money, family relationships, a careful accounting of past favors given and received, and social position. The social order was the most important way, the only way, through which millions could live together on these few acres. Any fool could see it was absolutely necessary.
And it was for this reason that the Colonel took a rather dim view of the Occupation's self-appointed task of democratizing Japan. He believed it useless and saw, instead of a new democracy in the making, only a scrubby little country which, with infallible instinct, insisted upon importing and making its own those elements of American culture which were most superficial, that dross which seemed almost to be a by-product of true democracy in action—chewing gum, modern plumbing, advertising, the movies. To be sure, these things were important to democracy, but in Japan they became simply ugly objects, large and formidable once they lost their place and their purpose.
However, thought the Colonel, this democratization did have one good effect. It was much more attractive to the Japanese people than the only alternative they were offered—communism. He could imagine, centuries from now, a democratic Japanese nation, but he could not imagine a communistic one. At least capitalism allowed social distinctions of a sort, but communism insisted upon there being—ostensibly—none. Japan without social distinctions was a patent impossibility. For one thing, their economy would never stand it, and with this many people, their economy would not change. Order—that was what they needed and wanted—order above all else, and in a nicely antiquated pattern, just as though Perry and then MacArthur had never set foot on their shores.
Order, in a nicely archaic pattern, this was what the Colonel wanted too. This was one of the reasons he thought so well of the Japanese, the reason he so wanted to help them, and the reason he felt himself able to. He now thought of Special Services as a kind of retreat from his real purpose in the country. He should be in Government, on policy-making levels, and though he realized his views would be thought both idealistic and suspect by his commanders, still he might benefit the Japanese nation, and this, after all, was his duty.
But he must be content with this small part of the potential duty which he now performed—and after all, he told himself, it was not negligible. And perhaps, in time, he would rise to the position where he might fulfill his entire obligation.
The Colonel stroked his moustaches and looked out of the window at the bamboo skyscraper. Wood and bamboo—almost everything in Japan is made of wood or bamboo. There are no pyramids. The closest thing to them is the Imperial Hotel, but that is scarcely the fault of the Japanese. The Ise Shrine—the most important in Japan—is made of straw and wood. Every twenty years it is dismantled and an exact replica is built. Then that is taken apart in its turn and another constructed. This was what impressed the Colonel about Japan. Time has been conquered. It is conquered by allowing it to have its own way. When the pyramids crumble and the Imperial Hotel has long been swallowed up, the Ise Shrine will remain—as new as ever.
The Colonel turned away from the window and looked at his desk. It was filled with the check-sheets, the memos, the endless paper paraphernalia of official endeavor. Soon Ohara would appear, late as usual, and he would find himself in the position of having to defend himself and, tacitly, the Occupation. And a man like Ohara was Japan's worst enemy. The Colonel sighed. Some mornings
he just didn't feel up to it.
He straightened the letter opener, pushed the pen holder a bit to one side, and heard Miss Wilson's voice in the next room.
"Mr. Ohara and his son are here, Mike," she said.
There was a slight pause for which the Colonel could not account. Actually, it was caused by a moment's hesitation on Private Richardson's part when he looked up to find the eyes of the son fixed on him, as though they knew and hated him. There was somehow something quite familiar about the son. But he shook it off, and then the Colonel heard the smoothly oiled machine of office procedure begin to function again as the Private turned to Major Calloway and said: "The Oharas are here, sir." He gave the name its proper Japanese pronunciation.
The Major said: "Boy, you sure got a way with that lingo—how you ever get that word spit out right?"
The Colonel guessed the visitors would be standing there, understanding every word. He must sometime attempt to do something about Major Calloway.
Finally the swivel chair creaked protestingly, and the Major appeared in the doorway. Mr. Ohara always sent his card in, and the Colonel always winced when he read it—"Taro Johnnie O'Hara."
The Major was still standing there. "Them Japanese nationals are here, sir."
"Will you please show Mr. Ohara and his guest in, Major Calloway."
Taro Ohara, Cornell, 1924, stood in the doorway, beaming. He thought a big smile was the best way to meet Americans. This was often difficult, because he always got all dressed up before meeting Americans, and his collar choked him, his coat and pants bound him, and his shoes hurt him. He never felt like smiling then. In Western clothes he was always hot, uncomfortable, and determined. Beside him was his son, a student. The celluloid collar of his uniform was wet with sweat, and his hat was in his hand.
Ohara held the big smile until the Colonel nodded and indicated two chairs beside his desk. He'd tried to get his son, Ichiro, to give the big smile too, but Ichiro had refused, just as he refused everything modern and progressive.
"Well, Colonel," said Mr. Ohara, leaning forward, both elbows on the desk, "how's the thing cooking?"
The Colonel smiled a bit wanly. "Just fine, Mr. Ohara. How are things with you?"
"I can't complain," Ohara said, laughing loudly and leaning back in his chair, anxious to appear at home in the office of a colonel, his friend, Colonel Ashcroft, U. S. Army. "Everything's just hunky-dory."
The Colonel cringed. Why was it that Cornell 1924 or Princeton 1926 or Harvard 1929 always thought slang remained frozen from its time of origin, like forms of court address?
"Everything ready for this evening?" he asked, determinedly pleasant.
Mr. Ohara looked up warily. This was getting down to business a bit too soon. He thought he ought to chew the rag just a little longer, if only for the sake of appearances. Making the best of his friend's rudeness, he leaned forward, smiling in anticipation, rubbing his hands together. "'That's what I like, Colonel. A businessman—an A-Number-One businessman."
The Colonel knew he liked nothing of the sort. Yet, as he watched Mr. Ohara dissemble, rubbing his hands together and professing a delight he didn't feel, he again thought how very Jewish the Japanese were. He remembered a very funny, pseudo-scholarly and self-congratulatory article in the Japan Times called "Are the Japanese the Lost Tribe?" He was inclined to agree with the article—they were. Or were these only the mannerisms of any minority, the manifestations of any intensely self-conscious people? He tried to remember the Virginia Negroes of his childhood but couldn't recall their rubbing their hands and leaning over with unctuous familiarity. The Colonel, to be sure, liked the Japanese better than the Jews and the Negroes, but, like them, they obviously had their place, and the Colonel thought that Mr. Ohara was out of his.
Suddenly Mr. Ohara stopped smiling. One didn't smile during business. Only before and after. "Yep, you bet. Everything's under control, as they say," and he laughed.
He also pulled out a package of cigarettes and offered one to the Colonel, stealing a glance to make sure he'd not brought out his black-market American cigarettes. "These are Peace, you know. Like what we are celebrating."
The Colonel knew the next move. "Why don't you have one of these?" He offered Lucky Strikes.
Mr. Ohara laid his pack of Peace on the desk and took a cigarette from the Colonel's. Before he put it in his mouth he raised it toward his forehead. That was the only thing Cornell hadn't taken from him. He still bowed—in his own way—whenever he received anything. He no longer insisted upon the absurdly literal translation of the Japanese form—"I am sorry"—but he still gave it deference with a little twinkle of despair.
The Colonel took one of his own cigarettes, trying not to look at the package of Peace lying before him.
Well, even if he won't take one, he's been asked, thought Mr. Ohara. He resolved to leave the cigarettes in full view throughout the interview. It wasn't as though he hadn't offered. He had. There they were—the proof of it!
"You understand that the money will be paid, as usual, some little time after the performance. With the usual amount of red tape involved, the money should come through in about a week, at the most. No need to worry." The Colonel stopped, realizing he always had an absurd inclination to reassure Mr. Ohara as though the gentleman were a child. Actually, a company as large as that Mr. Ohara represented, one of the big three of Japan's amusement world, had no need of such paltry sums. But then this visit was rather childish. There was no reason for it. A telephone message that everything was ready for the evening would have been much more efficient.
Mr. Ohara looked sad. All the business at hand had been discussed and disposed of with typical American efficiency. Money had been discussed without so much as green tea as a preamble, making his own position seem more like that of an errand boy than that of the representative of one of Japan's most important corporations. There had been no circumspection, no concern for his own feelings, no politeness. The visit was actually over.
Anxious to put a good face on it, he turned toward the Colonel and said confidentially: "It will be a Number One performance. The boys will like it."
The Colonel could not imagine the boys liking Madame Butterfly, but he knew that most of the boys would not be there anyway. It was Saturday night and they'd be out drinking and running after girls. The only boys there would wear glasses and carry books to read at intermission. Actually this was a treat for the officers and the civilians. It was a big social occasion.
"I'm sure it will be, Mr. Ohara," said the Colonel, rising. He smiled as he did so. From his father he had tried to learn this trick of handling men. When you wanted them to go you stood up, rising slowly, smiling all the time, and continued the conversation. Just as naturally they too would rise and be out of the office before they even realized they had been dismissed. But, like so many of his father's ways, this one refused to accomodate itself to his son. It merely appeared rude. He looked at the father and son before him. They hadn't risen. The son wasn't even looking at him.
Mr. Ohara saw the Colonel looking at his son. "Don't believe you know the young sprout here. Name's Ichiro—eldest, naturally." This was the card up the sleeve, Ohara had kept it in reserve. He hated to use it now but was forced to. At least it would make his friend, the Colonel, sit down again, and they could continue the visit in seemly fashion. "Ichiro here is the prize pitcher on his college team, but"—he leaned forward confidentially, just between men—"but his English she is not so hot."
His son stood up and bowed. The Colonel bowed back. Then he offered the boy a cigarette. The younger Ohara smiled, made a little negative sign with his hand in front of his face, and sat down. His father looked around the office and crossed his legs.
"You know, this office reminds me of the dean's at Cornell," he began.
Colonel Ashcroft was still standing. If he sat down, the Oharas would stay half an hour. So he pretended not to have heard. "Well, that takes care of that, I guess," he said, smiled, and heartily held
out his hand.
Mr. Ohara sprang from his chair as though shot, his smile still there but tight. "Yes, sir. It does. Well, I want to thank you very, very much. We all appreciate this. The troupe, the committee, and not least, myself. It is the most gracious of you and we shall endeavor to do our most very best to give before the great American Military Forces audience one of the finest performances of that immortal classic of song, Madame Butterfly, that they have perhaps ever been privileged to see before in their lives." Scarcely pausing for breath, he hurried on: "And not only will they..."
As he went on and on the Colonel stood with a frozen smile. Why, he wondered, did they always have to give speeches? Formal, rigid little people, they could never let anything, be it a pine tree or a good-by, go its own natural way. They were always fussing with it, making it what it wasn't, perverting it into something they thought it should be. It was so typical of Ohara, first the needless visit—completely ritual, no logical reason for it—and now this flowery and pathetically absurd good-by speech.
The Colonel had heard a hundred good-by speeches just like this one. He was enduring it with a stretched smile and an interested look when Gloria came in and said that someone was waiting to see him—a Mrs. Schmidt. While he was wondering who she was and why she had come, he held out his hand again and said: "Forgot that I had a visitor coming. You will excuse me, won't you?"
Mr. Ohara broke off in the middle of a sentence. "Sure, sure, you're a mighty busy man, Colonel, anyone can see that. I'll just stop and say a few words with my friend Major Calloway, if it's all right with you, sir."
The Colonel detected the sarcasm and smiled right through it. "Naturally, Mr. Ohara, please make yourself at home." Then to the boy: "Pleased to have met you, Ichiro."
The boy shook hands limply, shuffled his feet, and didn't look up. His father clasped the Colonel's hand with some emotion and then, with waves and backward glances, left the room.
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