Michael saw them smiling in a closed little circle, and for a second he thought of going over and wishing them happiness. But he fought resolutely against his better nature, and instead, he looked past them to where Gloria was talking with the Major, the Ainsleys, and the Swensons. Though he made as much fun of Gloria as everyone else did behind her back, it had always privately pleased him that she should be so constantly available to him. The potentiality had been such a pleasure that he had never before seriously considered taking advantage of this obliging quality of Miss Wilson's. Now that Haruko was gone for good, however, he thought he might lower his sights as well as his morals; if he could not love, he could at least enjoy. Besides, he doubted very much that love animated Miss Wilson's advances—she was just a good-time kid.
"Well," said Gloria, interrupting both Mr. Swenson and Mr. Ainsley, who had been talking to each other simultaneously, "you'll remember that famous captain who was so caught up in the night life—and the day life—of the Occupation that he never took time to see his five-year-old son. (His mother was in the States and wouldn't come over but had sent the kid.) One day he finally decided to spend an evening with him for a man-to-man talk—you know, 'not father and son, but buddies.' Well, the captain discovered that the poor child had spent so much time with the neighborhood children and the servants that he'd forgotten every word of English he'd ever known and could only speak Japanese."
The rest chuckled agreeably at this. "It is catching," remarked the Major. "Why, I heard that there was this officer who was walking down Ginza or someplace and this GI comes along and doesn't salute him. So just to shame him this officer salutes the private. And you know what the dope does, without thinking apparently—he bows to the officer!"
The others merely smiled at this, while the Major slapped his thigh. Then there was a silence.
"I wonder if Lady Briton will 'show,' as the dear woman puts it, presumably meaning show up," said Mr. Swenson. Then, seeing the baffled looks of the others, he added: "In other words, I mean, will she appear this evening?"
"Don't you remember?" said his wife. "She's having a little dinner tonight. Colonel and Mrs. Butternut, General and Mrs. Hughes, and Major General Custard. He's a fine catch, so she tells me, for he 'never goes anywhere,' though as a matter of fact I've met him on three separate and distinct occasions at three altogether different parties. It's what she called an 'intimate gathering.' Can you imagine her being intimate?—ugh, horrid thought." The Britons had never once invited the Swensons any place to anything, and Mrs. Swenson was not unmindful of the fact.
"Well," said Dave, his mouth already curling in a smile, "that gathering is probably quite intimate by this time, and I don't think Lady Briton is going to 'show' for quite a while."
"Well—that's a cryptic remark!" said Mrs. Swenson, intrigued.
"Then you didn't hear what happened?" asked Dave, quite certain she had not.
"No. Do tell!"
"You'll just die with laughter," said Dottie, unsmiling.
"What, what, what?" asked Mrs. Swenson.
"Well," said Dave, "it appears the Lady Briton went home after Berle's cocktail party and was preparing for her big soiree tonight. She really wanted to impress her guests, you know, particularly big-wigs like Custard."
Mrs. Swenson clucked her tongue appreciatively: the tone he was adopting exactly suited her.
"So," continued Dave, "Lady Briton was out in her garden cutting chrysanthemums around five or so, and—"
"How do you know all this?" asked Mrs. Swenson, anxious to learn his authorities in case her own version of the story was ever questioned.
"Mrs. General Hughes, her hand all bandaged up from the horse the other day, with added details courtesy of Mrs. Colonel Butternut, her thigh doubtless inflamed. The Briton's friends all get chawed up, it seems. We met them on our way here. Apparently they'd just come from the Dispensary."
"Oh, so amusing! Do go on."
"Well, so she was cutting flowers and making with the house beautiful, when all of a sudden, she looked over the garden wall—they live way out in the country, you know—and what do you think she saw? You're right—a mistreated animal. It was one of those surly oxen, and it was pulling a honey cart."
"Oh, no!" said Mrs. Swenson in raptures, anticipating the end of the story, her eyes shining with delight.
"So Lady Briton rushed out to the side of the road. Apparently the night-soil man had finished for the day and had quite a load." Here Dave's voice went into a raucous falsetto somewhat reminiscent of Lady Briton's. "He was simply unutterable. Worse, be bad piled bis cart so high that the poor dumb friend was simply killing itself trying to get up the jolly old hill. And there he was in his silly costume, pulling at the rope, using that vicious switch, and simply shouting, my dears, shouting at the top of his voice."
"Oh, really, stop. Stop!" said Mrs. Swenson, her breasts swaying slightly, helpless with laughter.
"Stop camping," muttered Dorothy, who had already heard the story twice.
But Dave had often been told that he told stories well, and there was now no stopping him. "Naturally, it just made her blood boil, but she retained possession of herself and kept that upper lip stiff as a board and marched straight toward him and asked him what he thought he was doing. Of course these people don't understand a word of English, and so eventually she had to call one of the maids, a pleasant though dull girl, who was to 'interpolate' for her."
"Oh, no—mercy!" cried Mrs. Swenson.
"Well, the man had the temerity to appear amazed. And all the time he kept right on beating the poor animal. So she, with a swift gesture of command, summoned all the kitchen help, and while she watched to make sure none disobeyed, they began unloading the wagon of all those heavy and doubtless dripping buckets."
"Oh, ugh! Ha-ha. Stop!" said Mrs. Swenson, shaking.
"So, when she thought a sufficient number had been removed," continued Dave in his natural voice, "she dismissed the young man. He was naturally stunned and just looked at her and backed away. And despite the fact that one usually backs from royalty's presence, it didn't this time impress la Briton, because the boy stared so. Mrs. General Hughes told me she said: 'So impolite these people. Where on earth did they ever get their reputation for common civility? Oh, they bow and scrape a great deal but it's different, don't you think? The quality of the really well-bred simply does not exist here—not as it does among us Aussies, you know.'"
"Most interesting, that comment, began Mr. Swenson, "for the Japanese, in actuality, never—"
"But that," continued Dave, "was only after the finale had occurred. A couple of hours later, on the telephone. So, after this unfortunate overloading incident was happily over, she went back to the 'mums,' hurrying because dear Randolph would soon return bringing all the illustrious guests. Then she heard the car turn into the drive. You know—'Oh, that native driver of ours, he simply races all the time. What if he should hit a cat, or worse, a dog?' Well, he was racing again. Then, suddenly, she heard the brakes (so like the cries of some poor dumb thing) only the noise went on for so long and the tires continued screeching and sliding so, that she realized the car was skidding. Then it fetched up with a great thump beside the house and she and all the servants ran around to the front to see what had happened."
Mrs. Swenson was so taken with the story that she forgot to laugh. "Not really," she whispered.
"You can just imagine the sight that met her eyes. They were all poised in the open doors, throughly shaken, and Mrs. Butternut had her hat over her eyes, and Major-General Custard had buried his swagger stick in poor Mrs. General Hughes, and dear Randolph was sort of sitting on the radiator, and all about them was this perfect sea."
"Can't you just see them now, like a modern Ark, holding hankies to their noses, screaming and bellowing—surrounded, absolutely surrounded," screamed Mrs. Swenson.
"Well," continued Dave, "Randolph, as host, realized that something would have to be done. Since he fancies himself
still something of the athlete—shoots golf, things like that—he made a sprightly leap from the radiator, intended to carry him over this impromptu moat and to the safety of the lawn. Only he missed. And, worse, he hit the pavement at a slight angle and consequently emerged looking somewhat like the shingle in that favorite Army recipe."
Mrs. Swenson was quite weak with merriment by this time and could only hold up a hand in protest. Dottie was chuckling too. Her risibilities were prone to this sort of thing.
"Well, Lady Briton was standing there, horrified, when Randolph, furious, engulfed her and 'he really surprised me, because you know how unemotional Randolph usually is.' Well, the last their guests saw of them they were disappearing, rolling violently down the hall."
"And the guests?" pursued Mrs. Swenson, already busy on her own version of it.
"Well, there was a lot of the stuff, you know (she'd really relieved that poor ox) and so the servants tried putting out planks to those marooned and so forth but it simply wouldn't work and none were foolish enough to try. Finally the driver simply backed the car out and they all called sedans and left, having never once glimpsed their hosts again."
Dave stopped and took a deep breath. A brave job well done.
"Isn't that priceless?" screamed Mrs. Swenson. "My, but how I wish one could print it."
"It would not be the better part of valor," said her husband who had curled the corners of his fleshy lips to show that he was not above such simple amusements as this one had been.
Gloria was trying to decide which was the more revolting, Lady Briton rehashed at breakfast by Dottie Ainsley or after supper by her husband.
At that moment Gloria saw two men in overcoats walking through the lobby. "I'll bet anything those two are CID," she said.
The Major started nervously. "What?" he said.
"Those men—I was simply remarking they must be CID. No one manages to look more casually inconspicuous than the CID—or the FBI, its big brother, for that matter. And that's why they're so easy to spot. They look so ordinary they practically scream at you."
"You sure got a funny sense of humor," said the Major, a bit shaken.
"Oh, maybe they just like opera."
Gloria glanced at Michael. He was standing by one of the pillars, looking at Mr. Ohara. Mr. Ohara in turn was glancing at Michael from time to time out of the corners of his eyes. They didn't speak, however. Then Gloria noticed that the Major was looking at both the soldier and Mr. Ohara. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she didn't understand what was going on.
"Why don't we go over and say hello to Mr. Ohara," she said helpfully.
The Major shook his head.
"Now, now, Major," said Gloria, "remember our purpose in being in Japan at all. We are supposed to be kind to the natives and to—"
"Please stop, would you, Miss Wilson?"
Gloria looked at the Major in surprise. His face was whiter than usual, and the freckles appeared bright orange. He looked a little ill, or else a little frightened. She privately decided that the drinks were taking their toll, and rejoiced.
At the same time she felt sorry for him. It was a novel experience, feeling sorry for a man. She undeniably felt warmly protective toward him. He looked exactly like a little boy who had done something he oughtn't and was now going to be punished. The thought of the Major as a little boy appealed to her, and while he was bleakly looking about for the two men she'd mentioned, she smiled at him.
But it was Michael, standing by a far pillar, who caught her smile and smiled back. The smile was wry, however. He could have Gloria any time he wanted. He could never have Haruko.
There she was, standing next to the tall student who was going to marry her. Michael stared at them both. Another culture, another race—they might have come from the other side of the moon. Yet Haruko was all be had ever wanted, and the student beside her was an alien—strange, a bit forbidding, always incomprehensible. He wondered how he could think of them each so differently. Or was it that Haruko was just as alien, just as strange, just as fantastically different from him? And was it then that Haruko and others like her would always prefer other Japanese? and that Michael and others like him would always have—what?—others like Gloria?
Michael looked at the floor and then at his own white hands. For the first time he realized that he never would be able to understand what he loved, and that that might well be the reason he loved it so. His earlier disillusion fell from him. Again he loved Haruko, and he loved her because he would never understand her, nor the student by whom she stood, nor the fatuous Mr. Ohara, nor those other Japanese near them.
He turned away and, from the pillar, could see, through the doors of the theater, the sidewalk, the street, the moat, and the outer fortifications of the Palace. A single man on a bicycle passed, slowly pedaling, illuminated for a second by the lights of a passing car, and Michael closed his eyes, slowly crushing the tears that had formed.
The third act was short, but that didn't save it from being disastrous. If the Americans had cried before—and there were many who had, Mr. Swenson among them—there were now a great many who howled with laughter all during the touching finale.
It all began with the entrance of Pinkerton and Kate. "Oh, god!" said Gloria when she saw Kate. Pinkerton's American wife, being American, wore a great wig—bright red—to emphasize that fact. And, since American women were known to be highly developed, the young Japanese girl playing the role had stuffed what appeared to be grapefruit in her bosom. Whenever she turned—which was often, for she was the vivacious type of American lady—the grapefruit, undecided, would pause a moment before turning with her, and then roll comfortably back and forth until they finally settled, hanging straight down in the folds of her dress. This somewhat mitigated the pitiful quality of Butterfly's entreaties, which could scarcely be heard over the laughter of the audience. And the whole improbable effect was still further heightened by the fact that in this act, for some reason, Pinkerton sang only in English and Kate spoke only in Italian, while Butterfly contented herself with Japanese.
Even the death scene didn't come off too well. Little Trouble refused to wave the American flag, and Butterfly's urgings grew stronger and stronger, while the hushed but scandalized voice of Mrs. Swenson proclaimed: "Japanese children are ordinarily so well-behaved on the stage." Eventually the child began to cry. This might have aided the pathetic effect somewhat had not Butterfly, after retiring to die behind a large screen, kept popping out to give the flag a few suggestive pushes. The child grew furious and finally tore the flag from its stick, thus intruding a somewhat suspicious note into the morass of symbolism which is Butterfly's death.
Even so, things might have straightened themselves out. Butterfly had skilfully draped her scarf over the screen, and when the knife entered her breast she was to catch at the scarf. The long piece of silk disappearing over the screen as she fell was to have spoken volumes. Instead, however, she succeeded only in knocking the screen over, not only burying the flag-tearing Little Trouble, but also revealing herself, squatting on the stage in perfect composure, her hand still grasping the end of the long scarf, a very prosaic face turned toward the audience. She had the instantaneous presence of mind to fall forward—unfortunately onto the screen, setting Little Trouble kicking and screaming with terror.
Thus, when Suzuki entered, on cue, it appeared more as though she had merely been called by the wailing infant. What was frankly meant to be a sentimentally tragic scene—the infant waving the flag, the scarf beside the screen, and Butterfly's hand outstretched—became truly cathartic. Suzuki's discovery of the corpse, was scarcely the poignant thing it should have been: first she had to shift the body of Chocho-san, put up the screen, replace the scarf, pick up the howling child, and then, quite suddenly, discover the little outstretched petal-like hand—which, incidentally, she had forgotten to put into view.
The audience howled louder than the child, and Mr. Ohara, his face fiery, sank deep into his seat as the
curtain fell on this scene of carnage. The applause was both indulgent and genuine. Little Trouble got a bigger hand than anyone.
Both of Haruko's parents sat impassive. They neither smiled nor sobbed, laughed nor applauded. Mr. Ohara had almost disappeared from view, his head sunk down in the collar of his kimono.
Haruko, somewhat bewildered by the conclusion of the beautiful tragedy, turned toward Ichiro. He had the oddest expression on his face. His mouth was set tight but apparently wanted to turn up at the corners, and he was looking at his folded hands. As she looked at him, he turned slightly and, from the corners of his eyes, saw her. He blinked manfully, but his mouth curled still wider. She suddenly saw he was trying to keep from smiling, and the expression on his face—so like that when he had been the little boy she had known so well—made her forget all about the sad fate of Chocho-san. It was so infectious that she smiled a little herself. Blinking with effort he tried to compose his face, but couldn't. He looked so ludicrous that Haruko laughed out loud. Her mother cast a single piercing glance at her, but it had no effect, because Ichiro was now laughing too.
They looked into each other's eyes—across the heads of the three bewildered adults—and laughed like children.
As the audience slowly moved out of the auditorium, the Major pulled Gloria into a corner of the lobby.
"Now, you and me are going to do some talking," he said.
She looked wildly about for Michael, couldn't see him, and was forcibly pushed into one of the chairs. She began to like the Major more. He could be rough.
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