The China Lover (19 page)

“Ri Koran!” I said. “You’re Ri Koran. I adored your movie.” There was a moment of silence, as though I had said something gauche. Perhaps I had insulted her by getting it wrong. But I was sure it was her. How could I have forgotten that face, those eyes? Of course, actors always look larger on screen. Like a starstruck fool, I just stood there, staring at her. “Ri Koran,” she said softly, “was indeed my name once, but Ri Koran no longer exists. She died in September 1945. I am Yoshiko Yamaguchi now, and I ask for your kind indulgence.”

So the “Chinese girl” Frank Capra had admired was actually a Japanese. Why would she have had a Chinese name? Like so much in Japan, it was all rather baffling. In fact, to me, before I came to Japan, Asiatics were just Asiatics. I couldn’t really tell the difference between a Chinese, a Korean, or a Japanese. Now I fancied that I could. But Yamaguchi didn’t look typically Japanese. She just looked, well, Asiatic.

   7   

P
EOPLE OFTEN ASK
me how the Japanese could have changed so suddenly from our most ferocious enemies, ready to fight us to the death, to the friendly, docile, peace-loving people we came across after the war was over. It was as if some magic switch had been pulled to transform a nation of Mr. Hydes into a nation of Dr. Jekylls. We expected to be met with a hundred million poisoned bamboo spears; what we got instead was the Recreation and Amusement Association offering Japanese girls to Allied soldiers—that is, until our own puritans decided to ban that type of intercourse.

There might be a perfectly practical explanation for this kind of behavior. Aware of what their own troops had done to others, the Japanese wanted to make sure we wouldn’t pay them back in kind. To many Westerners this simply confirmed a typically Japanese talent for deception; they were a nation of double-faced liars, thinking one thing and saying the opposite, facing the outside world with masques and phony smiles.

But I don’t think so. I believe the Japanese were honest in their own way. They had genuinely believed in fighting a holy war for their Emperor, and now they believed with equal sincerity in the freedoms we promised after the fighting was over. Westerners, believing in one God, prize logic. We hate contradictions. To be authentic is to be consistent. But the Oriental mind doesn’t work that way; it can happily
contain two opposite views at the same time. There are many gods in the Orient, and the Japanese mind is infinitely flexible. Morality is a question of proper behavior at the right time and place. Since the concept of sin simply doesn’t exist in the Japanese mind, it is, in a profound sense, innocent. It was appropriate to die for the Emperor before 1945, and it was just as appropriate to believe in democracy after the war. One form of behavior is no more or less sincere than the other. In this floating world of illusions, everything depends on the circumstances. You might see this as a philosophy of deceit. I prefer to call it wisdom.

None of this came to me at once. It took many stumblings and false steps for me to even begin to penetrate the thickets of the Japanese mind. One thing that struck me almost as soon as I set foot in Japan was the lack of nostalgia, or even regret for the destruction of the visible past. The following story might serve as an illustration.

One day I was walking up the steps of Ueno Hill, the highest point in the flatlands bordering the Sumida River. You could see for miles around, a vista of neatly piled up rubble and cheap wooden houses with the occasional temple roof and stone lantern to show what had been there before that night in March 1945, when much of the city was laid to waste by our B-29s.

One of the survivors, right where I was standing, was the bronze statue of Takamori Saigo, the samurai rebel with the bulging eyes and thick eyebrows. He challenged the guns of the Westernized Meiji Army in a heroic and suicidal last stand in 1877. His samurai troops were armed with nothing but spears and swords. A hopeless enterprise, of course. According to legend (and who would wish to challenge that?), Saigo slit his own stomach in an honorable warrior’s death. Japanese still regard their hero with immense affection and respect. He is remembered, among other things, for the extraordinary size of his balls.

So there he was on that cold and blustery day, Saigo of the big balls, standing watch like a sturdy peasant in the short kimono and straw sandals of his native region. At his feet was a swarm of homeless urchins, passing around cigarette butts, and eating whatever scraps of food they had managed to scrounge. The boys were dressed in shorts and tattered T-shirts, despite the cold. A few lucky ones had wooden sandals. And the truly fortunate ones found places to sleep in the warm corridors of the subway station at the bottom of the hill. I saw one little boy, who looked no older than five but might well have been more than ten, hold a rat by its tail, waving it in front of another child’s face, to frighten him, or perhaps to show off what they were going to have for dinner that night.

God only knows how these boys had survived the terrible night of the bombings. People who didn’t melt or burn in the firestorm choked for lack of oxygen. Women tried to protect their faces from the “Flower Baskets,” courtesy of General Curtis LeMay, by wrapping bundles of cloth around their heads. Many of them caught fire and ran around like human torches, their screams muffled by the roaring flames. Others tried to escape by jumping into the river, only to be boiled alive or catch fire as soon as they raised their heads above the scalding water. All that remained of Ueno, or of Asakusa, a few miles farther north, were the concrete remnants of a few large department stores in a vast black hecatomb containing the charred bones of at least a hundred thousand people.

My companion on this walk in Ueno Park was a distinguished old film director, temporarily out of work, because our department didn’t approve of the “feudal” character of his movies. He was a specialist in period pictures set in old Edo, stories of doomed love affairs and fatal loyalties. Kenkichi Hanazono was his name. He spoke a little French, since he had spent some time in France as a young art student, and wore a shabby dark blue kimono with frayed sleeves. As we gazed upon
the ruins of Ueno, he pointed out some of his favorite places that had disappeared in the firestorms: the graceful wooden shrines of Yamashita; the Buddhist temples behind Kiyomizu Hall; the Sakuraya teahouse, the scene in happier times of illicit love affairs and legendary samurai battles. All gone up in smoke. Like a melancholy stork, Hanazono observed the wreckage. I felt sadness and shame. Should I apologize for what my country had done? I decided against that. It might embarrass him. But I tried to share his grief over what was lost by looking solemn, when, suddenly, I heard a chuckle, then a loud guffaw, then convulsive laughter. Gripping my arm, Hanazono was almost hysterical, tears of mirth streaming down his face, as though the destruction of his city were a great joke. I didn’t know what to say, or how to look. I couldn’t very well start laughing with him. When the hilarity had subsided somewhat, Hanazono turned to me, and noticed my look of consternation. “Sidney-san,” he said, still chuckling, “
c’est pas grave
.” He tapped the side of his head: “You cannot destroy my city. It’s all in here.”

I admired this man more than I had ever admired anyone before. I grasped the foolishness of our Western illusions, our idiotic hubris of wanting to build cities to last forever. For everything we do is provisional, everything we build will eventually turn to dust. To believe otherwise is just vanity. The Oriental mind, more sophisticated than ours, has grasped this. This floating world is but an illusion. That is why it was of no consequence to Hanazono that the Tokyo of his youth was no more than a memory. Even if every building had still been there, the city would no longer have been the same. Everything shifts, everything changes. To accept that is to be enlightened. I cannot claim to have reached that stage of wisdom. I still craved permanence of some kind.

I decided to track down some of Hanazono’s prewar films, especially
Tales of a Woman of Pleasure
, a classic picture admired by all
Japanese lovers of the cinema. Like many prewar Japanese classics, Hanazono’s works were hard to find. There were very few copies around. All his films had been made for the same company, called Far Eastern Pictures, whose studios were located in the same western suburbs as Oriental Peace. My contact there was Kashiwara-san, a silver-haired fellow in a blue serge suit. These studio executives always got nervous when they received a call from the Information Bureau, for it could only mean trouble. Censoring any of Hanazono’s films was of course the last thing on my mind, but Kashiwara couldn’t be sure of that, so he was rubbing his hands anxiously as he came out of his office to meet me.

Kashiwara politely inspected my business card and despite the chilly weather broke into a sweat. His cup of tea remained untouched. Sipping from mine, I asked him about Hanazono’s pictures:
Tales of a Woman of Pleasure, Weeds East of the River, Yoshiwara Story
. Kashiwara hissed through his teeth. “Would I be able to see these films?” I asked. Could he possibly arrange a screening? Kashiwara smiled and asked me why I should have an interest in such worthless old movies.

Although he spoke English, I wondered whether I had heard right. “Worthless? But Hanazono is a great director.” Kashiwara shook his head. “Very old-fashioned,” he said. “Old-fashioned? In what sense old-fashioned?” Kashiwara smiled, with perhaps a hint of triumph. “Not democratic.”

I must confess that at moments like this I felt the power of my position as a representative of the victorious Allied forces. The feeling was not entirely unpleasant. It was, after all, rather amazing that I, Sidney Vanoven, a nobody from Bowling Green, Ohio, would be sitting here at a major movie studio in Tokyo, Japan, ordering up film screenings whenever I wanted. On this occasion it gave me license to vent my displeasure.

“Not democratic?” I cried. “Well, I’ll be the judge of that.” When
could Kashiwara-san arrange a screening? Perhaps we should start with
Tales of a Woman of Pleasure
. He dismissed the thought with a wave of his hands. “Please understand that we are abiding by the new rules. We are now a democratic country, thanks to you.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head, as a token of his gratitude.

I was wondering why he was so eager to hide these movies. Why the hell wouldn’t he show them to me? What was he ashamed of? Was he trying to protect some of Japan’s great masterpieces from an American censor? I felt insulted and wasn’t going to stand for this nonsense any longer. I’m afraid I lost my patience with this oily little man. I behaved like a boorish American. I shouted at him: “Just show me the damned movie!” Kashiwara stared at me, suddenly very calm, his face a blank slate.

He stood up slowly from his desk, smiled, and said: “Please, let me show you something.” At last, I thought, I had got through to him. Now I would be able to see Hanazono’s masterpieces. We walked through the long white corridor, past the open doors of offices where men in suits were working away in clouds of cigarette smoke. We came to the back of the building, where I thought the screening rooms might be. Kashiwara invited me to look out the window. I saw a large open space with low gray buildings and bits and pieces of various film sets scattered about: half a Japanese-style house, a castle wall made of plywood. A handsome young man in a white suit and panama hat was smoking a cigarette while a young woman applied makeup to his face. Then they both disappeared into one of the buildings. Farther in the distance was the silvery ribbon of the Tama River. There were puffs of smoke rising from a number of large bonfires near the riverbank.

“There,” said Kashiwara, “
Yoshiwara Story, Tales of a Woman of Pleasure
, all the feudal films.” For the first time he looked perfectly relaxed, even triumphant. He gave me a thumbs-up sign. “Okay,” he said. “A-okay.”

   8   

T
HE PREMIERE OF
Sounds of Spring
, at the Ginza Bunka Theater, was by Hollywood standards a subdued affair. But Major Murphy thought so highly of the first Japanese film to feature a kissing scene that he wished, as a gesture of goodwill, to contribute something to the party afterwards at the Imperial Hotel. Apart from a gift from the Information Bureau of several crates of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, Murphy had planned to stage a demonstration of square dancing after the screening. Murphy was an enthusiast of square dancing. A proud son of Idaho, he liked to think that the official dance of his state should be popular, and indeed of great benefit, everywhere. He had tried to introduce square dancing to the citizens of a village in Shikoku, where he had, for a brief time, enjoyed absolute authority as the chief military administrator. Square dancing, in his view, perfectly embodied the new spirit of sexual equality in Japan, and was a fitting expression of democracy. The Japanese movie folks were no doubt somewhat alarmed, but Murphy’s good intentions were so patently clear that no one had the heart to protest.

Many of our top brass turned out in full dress uniform. Not “Susan” himself, of course, for SCAP never descended from the Olympian heights of his residence in the old U.S. Embassy, where, rumor had it, the General spent every night alone watching Hollywood pictures. SCAP liked westerns. Especially westerns with Gary Cooper. I had
heard it said that the American Mikado watched
The General Died at Dawn
more than ten times. But Willoughby, not generally noted for his love of the movies, was there with a dashing young officer in tow.

Yoshiko Yamaguchi stood out in the crowd like a tropical bird, looking absolutely gorgeous in a red and gold kimono. We all rose to our feet when she made her grand entrance, accompanied by Okuno, her co-star, and an older man whom I didn’t recognize. Both men were smartly turned out in tuxedos. The older man acknowledged the presence of various other guests with a slight bow of his silvery head. I tried to catch Yamaguchi’s eye as she walked past my seat, but she didn’t recognize me. I know I shouldn’t have done that. I felt rather disgusted with myself, behaving like some besotted movie fan standing in line for an autograph. Why should she have recognized me? But I couldn’t help myself. It’s the way I am. Hopelessly starstruck, I’m afraid.

Apart from the divine Miss Y., there was nothing very memorable about the picture itself. I had already seen it anyway, at a private screening for the censorship board. Naturally, the film passed without a hitch. There was, much to my amusement, a sharp intake of breath in the theater during the famous kissing scene, followed, rather curiously I thought, by a round of applause, as if we had been watching a pair of acrobats or performing seals. Kissing, after all, is not
that
hard. Perhaps the audience felt a sense of relief after all the suspense. But after the Great Kiss, the movie rather petered out.

The square dancing, on the other hand, was highly amusing. It took place in the Imperial Hotel ballroom, a huge space furnished with rather inferior copies of Louis XVI chairs. Murphy had trained a number of men and women on the staff of our department for many weeks to make sure they gave a good account of themselves. He had also taken a keen interest in the proper attire. Several Japanese women from our secretary pool were dressed in long wide skirts and peasant
blouses. The men wore bright red Western shirts with bolo ties and white cowboy hats. I can’t think where Murphy had found this gear, which made the Japanese men look undernourished, since the sleeves were too long and the collars too wide. When everyone had taken his or her place, the band, consisting of a fiddler, a bass player, and a fat man strumming a banjo, struck up a hillbilly tune. As the dancers crossed, and sashayed, and U-turned, Murphy, always the diligent teacher, announced the names of the various dances to his bewildered audience. “This is what we call the California Twirl!” he went, his face a picture of joy, “and this the Box in the Gnat!”

I don’t know what the Japanese made of it all. Most of the men stood around in groups, chatting and drinking their beers. Miyagawa, the director, had turned his back on the proceedings. One man, a studio executive of some kind, had gone red in the face after downing several beers, and tried to enter into the spirit of things by shouting “Yeah!” at regular intervals.

“Where is Miss Yamaguchi?” cried Murphy. She was spotted in a corner, talking to the older man who had escorted her into the theater. “May I have the honor?” Murphy enquired with a courtly bow. She opened her eyes wide and graciously declined. “I cannot,” she said. “You’re a showgirl!” boomed Murphy. “You can learn.” “I’m too shy,” she protested. He grabbed her by the sleeve of her kimono and said to the older man: “You don’t mind if I borrow her, do you?” The man said nothing but smiled indulgently as though appeasing a dangerous drunk. Once more the band struck up a tune, the women hiked up their hooped skirts, the Japanese executive shouted “Yeah!” and Murphy guided, not without skill, the kimonoed Yamaguchi across the dance floor.

“Yamaguchi-san,” I said, after she had been released at long last from Murphy’s grip. She turned round and this time she recognized me: “Sid-san, isn’t it?
O-genki desu ka?
” I replied that I was very well,
and added that I had loved the movie. She gave me a radiant smile. “It’s so good that we can celebrate together. Japan is such a small place, you know. But this is a real international occasion. Thank you so much for helping us so kindly.” I wasn’t quite sure what she meant. Helping you to do what exactly, Miss Yamaguchi? My eye was drawn to Murphy, who was busy slapping Yamaguchi’s older companion on the back. “To be international. You can teach us so many things. Where are you from, Sid-san?”

I told her that I was from Ohio, but had worked in Hollywood. This made me sound far more important than I was, naturally, but I was keen to make an impression. It looked as though I had succeeded. “Hollywood,” said Yamaguchi, gleefully clasping her hands together, “I love Hollywood! Gary Cooper, Charlie Chaplin, Deanna Durbin! Have you seen
Because of Him
?” I replied that alas I had not, but had she seen
The Bride Wore Boots
? “Of course, Barbara Stanwyck! I know we are going to be very good friends, Sid-san.”

I felt like dancing all the way back to the Continental, which was actually just round the corner from the movie theater. I couldn’t believe my luck. I had made friends with one of the great stars of the cinema, celebrated all over the Far East. As soon as I got into the hotel, I called for Nobu. He had been asleep and was rather annoyed to be woken up.

“Guess what?” I said.

“What?”

“Guess who I met tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll never guess.”

“Guess what?”

“Yoshiko Yamaguchi.”

“Who?”

“Yoshiko Yamaguchi. You know, Ri Koran!”

“Oh.”

Nobu was not at all impressed. He wasn’t very interested in the movies, preferring French literature and German philosophers. Besides, Ri Koran was a name from the past, a reminder of enthusiasms he preferred to forget. He also thought she was vulgar, or as he liked to put it, “in bad taste,” something he regarded with a feeling of horror that I was unable to share. Too much good taste is the enemy of great art, I’ve always believed.