This Scorching Earth. Donald Richie
do I get tired of that thing—take it to see my girl. The new one, that is."
"I usually take the subway," said Michael. It made him feel a bit noble, being polite to someone he hated so.
"Do you now?" He had at last sensed the formality of Michael's manner and, in turn, spoke a bit stiffly and politely himself. "I always wanted to do that, but it's kind of unsafe, isn't it? Hell, I wouldn't want no DR." He laughed self-indulgently. "I got enough of them as is."
Michael rubbed his eyes and felt the beard on his chin. "Never saw any MP's on it. It used to be on-limits, you know."
"Don't I know!" said the older soldier, drawing himself up. He had been offended. "Hell, man, I was one of the first GI's on Jap soil. I came in with the Bataan boys. Why, we used to have the run of this place. Nothing chicken like now." He smiled in reminiscence. "Sure, subway and all. Boy, used to get right in among 'em. And the smell! Damned if I see how the gooks stand it. I never could. Hell, how you stand it, man?" This was a joke but, now unsure of Michael, he laughed to show it was.
Michael didn't see the laugh though. He was looking out the window, and the train had started again.
The older soldier scratched his head, then turned around and looked covetously at the comic books.
The park flashed past, and Michael realized he was hungry. The tea, soup, and pickled vegetables that Haruko had finally brought him wasn't very much for breakfast.
"I thought you could eat some miso-shiru," she said, uncovering the soup.
"You've been gone an hour," he said accusingly.
"Yes," she said. "But no one hear—talk quiet." She was speaking English again.
The tray she put before him was a work of art. She'd had to clean a whole daikon in order to make a single slice, like a full moon on one side of the plate; she'd gathered and cut scallions so that a touch of green balanced it; she'd made a fish-cake flower, all pink and white in the middle, and had balanced this with a carefully grated mound of red radish. This alone must have taken the hour.
He drank the soup, wondering if she would ever realize other things were sometimes more important than etiquette, than the art of graceful serving, than the conferring of favors like the exquisite plate before him.
"I'd rather have had you with me during that hour," he said softly.
"If we be married, you have me many, many hours. Too many, I think maybe."
"No, not too many. You mean a great many."
"Yes," she laughed, "I always mistake. Many, many."
She had already started to ask him about a fine point of English grammar when he suddenly realized what she'd said. "You said—if we are to be married!"
"Yes. If."
"But then, you will marry me?"
"Oh, yes. I would. Happy, many happy."
"Then you will?"
"Will? Oh, no. I don't know about that. I must think much."
They talked until almost seven. Their voices grew more and more soft, and they held their breath when the old servant passed along the corridor outside the door, separated from them only by paper. Fortunately she was hard of hearing.
Haruko had wedged a small table against the fusuma opening into the corridor, but it wouldn't hold if anyone used a bit of force. Like most Japanese things, it too was intensely fragile. If you moved too swiftly in a Japanese house, you broke something.
It was full morning and he was sleepy. "Please," he said.
She smiled and then said he must go. They would be discovered if he remained. And he must not allow the neighbors, who almost always saw everything anyway, to view his departure. He must be very swift and very silent.
He said he wouldn't go until she said either that she would marry him or that she wouldn't.
Quite suddenly she kissed him and said: "Yes, yes, I will marry. Now go."
She pushed him from the shoji into the garden and then, kneeling, waved good-by, though they were only a few feet apart.
He let himself out the gate and took the crowded subway downtown. So now he was going to get married. And the sooner the better....
"Shinjuku," said the older soldier, looking out of the window. Ahead, a group of higher buildings rose above the small houses, above the maze of small streets—four or five high buildings, all white in the sun.
"I know; I live there," said Michael.
"You live there? What d'ya know." He was starting another conversation, but the train was slowing down, so he stood up. He laughed and carefully laid his half-smoked cigarette on the floor. "Boy, you can't say I'm not good to these gooks. Hell, I never step on my butts." With exaggerated care he stepped over it. "When Junior comes by and takes his dust pan into that closet again to count over the butts, he's gonna have a real nice surprise."
He swayed slightly. The car came to a sudden stop and threw him off balance. He had stepped on the cigarette and swore, then laughed and turned to Michael: "Well, here we are!"
"I know," said Michael shortly.
The other looked at Michael over his large, pitted nose. "Hey, how's about showing me around a little? I don't know this place, you know. You could just steer me a bit. Hell, I got money. I'm gonna have me one hell of a good time."
"I told you I had to be in. I'm supposed to be at work now."
"That's right," said the other. He seemed dimly aware that he had antagonized Michael, and it disturbed him. "Just a drink maybe—some good ole Shinjuku saké."
They were all alike. Show them you didn't like them and they came fawning like puppies. Any number of Americans he knew just couldn't stand not being liked. They liked being conquerors, but they wanted the conquered to like it too. He remembered overhearing an American woman's dismissing the entire population of Japan by saying: "They really don't act like they're glad we won the war." This craving for being liked—it was the American's soft spot, and it was a yard wide. And they could never understand why sometimes people didn't like them—they all got childish hurt eyebrows such as this one had now.
The coach door was thrown open and the train boy called the station in the typical high chanting voice that all train boys in Japan have used, apparently, ever since there have been trains. The two soldiers were thrown together, surrounded by those pouring from the other coaches. Women with children on their backs, old men, girls going to school, young businessmen, all pushing each other unmercifully, safe in their anonymity.
"Jesus!" said the older soldier.
Down the stairway, on the street level, the crowd was less dense. Both soldiers passed through the Allied entrance, and Michael started down the street.
"Hey, Mac," called the older one, "come on. Let's have ourselves a real time. Come on!"
Michael did not not turn around until he reached the street corner. By then the old soldier with the red nose was standing there, stupidly looking around him.
Shinjuku was where the farmers came, and Michael was glad he was stationed there. Around the station, street stalls lined the gutters, and opposite them stood small open shops. Sides of red beef hung from the ceilings on hooks; whole fish, brittle and dusty, fastened through the gills, lay against the walls; and the floors were covered with barrels and boxes. In the stores were country people carrying large bundles carefully wrapped in pieces of cloth. The bright colors of other parts of town were missing. Instead there were the somber blues and browns and grays, the slight checks and stripes of country people's clothing.
Whole families loaded with bundles struggled through the crowds, calling to each other at times. Cocks in wicker cages crowed, and pigs in baskets squealed. Some little children, playing a game like hide-and-seek, ran skilfully between the passing legs.
Further along the street the stalls disappeared. There was