The Game in the Past. John Zeugner
said recalling the word for briefcase. “Envelope. Where is it? Doko desuka?”
She smiled, went upstairs. Moran moved to the foot of the stairs. Soon enough she brought the envelope back down to him.
“Where did you find it?”
She smiled and walked quickly back through the door.
The tuxedoed barker let Moran out. “Good time, eh?” he said, his eyes dancing in phony delight.
“Terrific time,” Moran answered, “the best ever.” He clamped the envelope against his side under his left arm.
On the walk back to his hotel, once away from the heaviest crowds near the kabukicho, Moran opened the envelope. It contained three smaller white envelopes. In two of them he found wads of lined blank school notebook paper. In the third envelope there was only a pair of brown nylon socks with nifty little clocks stitched in the sides.
2.
C. Livingston Wells embodied his name, Moran decided. Immaculately suited in material that seemed softer than his jowls, more neatly trimmed than the spare silver hair tucked behind his ears, Wells sat stiffly behind a long white Formica table. To his right were Guade and two Japanese professors. Wells wore cufflinks, apparently translucent white discs joined by silver chains. He had a rather beefy face, but narrow shoulders suggesting a kind of elegant thinness. The face wasn’t quite right, perhaps a tinge too red. Either too much adulation has brought a permanent blush, Moran felt, or else the old fellow is a tippler. But his eyes contained none of the tell-tale, yellow-clay tone Moran found in alcoholics.
Evidently there were more enthusiasts for the Cold War in Tokyo than in Kyoto. The circular lecture hall was crowded. Media types lined the walls. Who would have thought the collapse of the perimeter defense theory in June, 1950 would have stirred so many? Was Wells something of a hero in Japan? Did they think he was still connected with the government?
Guade led off the panel with six minutes of sharp comments demonstration how each federal bureaucracy viewed the Asia defense line differently in the spring of 1950. Internal contradiction, then, seemed to account for the speedy collapse of the doctrine, Guade asserted. The two Japanese colleagues also spoke about six minutes and Moran studied Wells rather than absorbing the headphone translation. Finally both the Japanese and then Guade asked Wells for his comments.
“A lot of this is ancient history splendidly resurrected by Professor Guade. I certainly have no substantive revision of his remarks. But I suppose I should say that in a bureaucracy, and especially at that time, lots of posturing, lots of position papers get generated—especially during slack times—that were never very seriously considered, even by their authors. Oh, they were assented to, duly stamped, logged, but always considered a kind of window dressing. Speculative exercises. Since crucial committees with authority to act seldom committed themselves in writing. They didn’t have time or they found it, rightfully enough, binding in a way they wished to avoid. So I suppose admirable as Professor Guade’s account is, it may be miss-focused, or concerned with policy declarations, rather than policy itself.”
Guade said jocularly, ‘I’d like to see your substantive revision, if that is your non-substantive reaction.”
“Perhaps I’ve wandered out over my head. I don’t mean to suggest people didn’t believe their papers, but rather their belief was a double nature, what you Japanese so skillfully identify as tatemae, the official explanation, the public sentiment, versus honne, the real, private, accurate assessment. It is tatemae that these places, USIS or rather ICA (must keep up to date with our acronyms, mustn’t we!) these libraries are interested only in public information exchange. The honne is, of course, the desire to present America as favorably as possible, to win allegiances to American life and concepts of government, and so on, and so on. Some honne is part of tatemae, of course, but I suppose a great deal of tatemae is not ever honne. I must say, too, that at the time of the invasion I was off the Allied Control Council in Japan. In point of fact I was on leave, since my wife was recovering from her first operation.”
Wells stopped talking, waited for comments or questions. But there was a typical silence in the lecture room. To cover Wells said, “Beyond all this laudable historical analysis I feel it incumbent to say something about the real world we live in today in 1979. For the present the U.S. is still terribly committed to the defense of South Korea and should the attack come in the form it took in June, 1950 surely the U.S. would intervene to defend its ally. Somebody ought to say that publicly and unequivocally.”
This pledge of support by a retired official seemed, Moran noted, to inspire the audience. There followed a series of elaborate statements in Japanese from the floor. Invariably each ended with the justifying question: “Would you comment on that?” Clearly there was no sentiment for question and answer, only the mutual airing of variant positions in the endless quest for further information.
Wells smiled through all these briefings avuncularly. Apparently he followed the Japanese discussion directly for he had conspicuously left his ear phone on the table top. The responses he made were soothing and appropriate, agreeing with several points, omitting controversial ones and after each juncture of evaluation introducing an appealing anecdote.
After forty minutes of such one-way colloquy, Moran decided it was time to shatter the immense saturninity. He was the first foreigner with a question. When his arm went up, Guade instantly designated him the next speaker, and the ICA attendant rushed to give him the hand microphone. Moran watched as Guade leaned in on the table to study Wells’ answer.
“Mr. Undersecretary,” Moran started, “can you tell us why the Air Force requested all of George Atcheson’s personal and diplomatic correspondence when it investigated his plane accident?”
“A very specific question,” Wells said, smiling, “unlike some of the more cosmic efforts heretofore. Atcheson? Atcheson? Do you mean Dean Acheson, whose plane so far as I knew never had an accident?”
“No sir, I mean George Atcheson, with a ‘T’ who was a senior member of the Control Commission here in Tokyo, as well as a former China hand, and Ambassador to Japan, I’m sure you remember. He was lost in a plane accident in August, 1947.”
“1947,” Wells said, “A long time ago, and your question is?”
“Why did the Air Force want to see all his files, just to investigate the plane crash, the ditching of the B-17 he was taking back to the states?”
“I’m not sure I could answer that. Have you asked the Air Force?”
“No, sir. Is it routine to send out the total file of a Foreign Service officer lost in the field.”
“Are you sure it happened?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, it surprises me. There must have been good reason. Perhaps you should contact the Air Force. George Atcheson? George, did you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, there was nothing special about that flight that I can remember.”
“Except, of course, it was special for Atcheson,” Moran said.
“Indeed. Indeed. I’m at a loss, I’m sorry. Someone at State should be able to help you.
“Thank you,” Moran sat down. Guade had been jotting notes the whole time.
Very skillful, Moran thought. It was impossible to tell whether Wells was only feigning or was truly bewildered. Moran did notice that Wells could not stop glancing at him even while fielding other Japanese comments. Bewildered then, or upset, or both—Moran couldn’t decide.
In fifteen more minutes, however, something of a decision formed, for Wells, having dutifully commented on a rambling speech about the impact economically of the Korean War, suddenly returned to Atcheson. “It occurs to me concerning a previous question from the gentleman over there, that I do remember George Atcheson and his tragedy, now that you remind me of it. And he was highly respected in Japan, and it was a stupid accident. And I believe he was—I mean his body was