The Heat of the Sun

David Rain
is an Australian writer who lives in London. He has taught literature and writing at Queen’s University of Belfast, University
of Brighton, and Middlesex University, London.

First published in hardback, airside and export trade paperback and e-book in 2012 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © David Rain, 2012

The moral right of David Rain to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Hardback ISBN: 978-0-85789-203-4
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-0-85789-204-1
E-book ISBN: 978-0-85789-800-5

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For Antony, who asked:
‘What happened to that boy?’

ON THE GRAVITY OF AMERICANS AND WHY IT DOES NOT

PREVENT THEM FROM ACTING RASHLY

Democracy in America

P
ROGRAMME

Act One: A Boy Called Trouble

Act Two: Telemachus, Stay

Between the Acts

Act Three: After Tokugawa

Act Four: The Gravity of Americans

Curtain

In Havana before the revolution, I sat one afternoon on a hotel terrace, playing chess with an elderly gentleman who had struck up my acquaintance.
Something about him was familiar. He was the type of American who seems almost British: leisured, with a patrician voice and perfect manners. A cravat, red as blood, burgeoned at his neck; his suit
was crisp, immaculately white, and he studied the board with eyes blue and gleaming as the tropical sea. He said he had lived in the hotel for ten years. He called himself an exile. Fondly, he
spoke of New York City and asked me what had changed. Imagining some sorrow of the heart had compelled him to leave, I hoped to hear his story, but he would not be drawn. Only later did I realize
he was a financier, known in his glory days as the Emperor of Wall Street, who had perpetrated a fraud that had ruined thousands of investors. I wondered if he really thought he could never go
home. He had served his sentence, paid his debts: the face that had sold a million newspapers would be anonymous now. Only a species of vanity kept him in his Cuban fastness, dreaming of Carnegie
Hall and the Palm Court at the Plaza.

Some years ago in San Francisco I attended a production of Puccini’s
Tartarin
. The opera, you will recall, is based on a novel by Alphonse Daudet. In the figure of Tartarin, the
provincial braggart who is Don Quixote and Sancho Panza united in a single man, there is an allegory of the clash between fantasy and reality and the comedy that results from their irreconcilable
claims. In a neighbouring box sat a divorcée (long neck nobly poised) who had been notorious not so long before. She caused no sensation; those around her were blithe, as was she, while the
young man who accompanied her might never have known that her name had been a byword for womanly corruption.

Scandal seldom endures. In the days when I still took on journalism, I covered a trial in Hong Kong. A Chinese houseboy had murdered his lover, but this was no commonplace affair, given that the
lover had been male, English, a nephew of the Assistant Colonial Secretary and betrothed to the Governor’s daughter. Inevitably, the boy was condemned to hang. Flashbulbs blazed; the
judge’s gavel pounded; the governor’s daughter broke into hysterical execration; but even this crime of passion, I reflected, would soon mean little to the world at large. Ours is an
age of amnesia. This is a mercy. Yet certain scandals refuse to vanish.

For a time I believed that the Pinkerton affair would be forgotten. Its day had been dazzling: I had illumined it myself. Perhaps in used bookstores you may still turn up
Benjamin Franklin
Pinkerton: A Life
by Woodley A. Sharpless (New York: Harper & Row, 1947). It is not a good book. That my first essay in the biographer’s art should have been so rushed and dishonest a
production has been a source of regret to me, although, of course, in those days the full story could never have been told. Whitewash was wanted, and whitewash I provided: I was too good a
publicist to be a good writer.

Unfortunately, my distortions found their way into subsequent accounts. With
Pinkerton: Enigma and Truth
by Marius Brander (London: Gollancz, 1953), we need not concern ourselves.
Promising much and delivering little, the book is a cut-and-paste from contemporary press reports, not to mention the work of a certain Woodley A. Sharpless.

Miriam Riley Vetch’s biography of Kate Pinkerton,
Senator’s Wife
(Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1961), caused outrage in Democrat circles. That Kate Pinkerton encouraged the
suicide of her husband’s Japanese lover seems unlikely to me, nor can I believe that she acted as procuress for her admittedly promiscuous husband. The case against Mrs Vetch may be stated
succinctly if I declare that she would never have been permitted to set foot in Kate Pinkerton’s drawing room. Mrs Vetch, however, was fortunate in her publicists. For a year she lectured
coast to coast on the woman she insisted on calling, appallingly, ‘Kate’; there was talk of a movie (Yardley Urban was to play the lead), but the danger was averted, the public lost
interest, and Mrs Vetch moved on to her next project, a life of Julia Ward Howe that promised startling revelations.

No threat came from Webster M. Cullen’s
Pinkerton, Japan, and the War in the Pacific
(Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1968). Cullen is the college professor par
excellence, substituting theory for fact, copiousness for judgement, and jargon for good English. His readers were few.

When I checked the school history books, I was relieved to see that the Pinkerton affair rated a cryptic mention, if any: hardly a story for the eyes of youth. By now I thought of it as my
story, and was by no means keen for it to be sniffed at and snickered over by those who could never understand it as I did. The whole business seemed buried as deep as the Teapot Dome scandal (that
catastrophic blight on the reputation of President Harding), the Kellogg–Briand Pact or the Smoot–Hawley Tariff Act.

Then came Burl Blakey’s novel
The Senator
(New York: Viking, 1974). Of a piece with Mr Blakey’s other productions, this
roman-à-clef
of sex and corruption
amongst America’s ruling classes was a Book-of-the-Month Club main selection and
New York Times
number one bestseller. There is little point in castigating Mr Blakey. He is a force of
nature: one is only surprised that in his several careers as gambler, deep-sea fisherman, and lover of starlets and models, he should find time to produce his eight-hundred-page epics. The movie,
starring Hayden Granger, Rosalind Magenta, and a floppy-haired Curtis Kincaid, Jr (complete with purplish contact lenses) as the half-Japanese B. F. Pinkerton II, became the decade’s biggest
box office draw.

Today, there can be no hope that the Pinkerton affair will be forgotten. Perhaps there never was. When a man in high office dies we are always a little alarmed, as if we had expected death to
tread lightly around those elevated above the common fray. When his death is violent and trailing skeins of scandal, our alarm becomes excitement and can hardly be held in check. Had Benjamin
Franklin Pinkerton been an obscure figure his fate would have been shocking enough, but that so bleak a destiny should envelop a man so eminent lifted it to proportions of classical tragedy. What
was the senator but the Great Man, brought low by his fatal flaw? A textbook case, out of A. C. Bradley!

He could have been president. Three times he put himself forward for the Democratic nomination: in 1920, when he lost, by a whisker, to James M. Cox; in 1928, when he lost (to the party’s
later regret) to Alfred E. Smith; in 1932, when he lost, decisively this time, to Franklin D. Roosevelt. There were those who said that the senator never fulfilled his potential, and yet, while
failing to attain the highest office, still he became a significant architect of national affairs. In the Wilson years it was Senator Pinkerton who laid the foundations for American policy in the
Philippines; during the Republican hegemony of Harding, Coolidge, and Hoover, he remained a prominent figure; but it was under Roosevelt that he came into his own, playing a key role in foreign
policy as America moved towards the Second World War. Many remember Senator Pinkerton advocating internment of Japanese Americans. The part he played in the Manhattan Project has been documented
extensively. By the end he was one of President Truman’s closest advisers, and in the view of many it was the senator, more than any other man, who swayed Truman towards dropping atomic bombs
on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

The Pinkerton affair could be considered under many angles. The Manville connection was a story in itself. Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton, son of an hotelier from Atlantic City, hardly seemed cut
out for his exalted station. That he owed it to a fortunate marriage was never in doubt. The world might never have heard of B. F. Pinkerton had it not been for his father-in-law, the long-serving
Senator Cassius Cornelius Manville (Democrat, New York), who saw in the handsome naval officer a substitute for the son he had lost in the Cuban campaign of 1898. The Manvilles, that great East
Coast political family, hardly knew what a viper they took to their breasts in the young lieutenant from the USS
Abraham Lincoln
. Later, many would ask what sort of woman Kate Pinkerton
(née Manville) must have been: a woman not only apprised from the first of her husband’s dubious past, but one who connived for so long to conceal it, even taking the child of his
previous union as her own. Later, she must have wondered if the boy’s Japanese mother achieved in death the victory she had been denied in life.

But I fear I slip into the tones of Mrs Vetch.

Naturally, much coverage was devoted to the provenance and peculiar history of Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton II. ‘Trouble’, as he was known, was a figure shocking enough, considering
only his crimes; when, added to these, came the truth about his birth, the mixture was explosive. Condemnation, like buckshot, spluttered in all directions. Some directed their greatest outrage at
B. F. Pinkerton; others, at B. F. Pinkerton II. Conservatives declared that a traitor was a traitor – what more was there to be said? Liberals asked: What was the son but the victim of the
father? What chance had the boy? With his blond American looks, Trouble could hardly have known he was half Japanese, the son of a geisha girl who had killed herself for love of his faithless
father. The truth might have devastated him at any time; in the event, it was kept from him for so long that, when he learned it, he could hardly help going a little mad.