This Scorching Earth (34 page)

The curtain rose on time. There was a handsome view of the harbor, an American destroyer floating in the bay. Chocho-san welcomed Pinkerton, who entered, in the American manner, with long steps, closely followed by a Sharpless wearing white gloves. The only thing the matter with the first act was that the moon got out of control and, as the lights darkened, bobbed suddenly over the horizon, dipped several times, and after that pursued a decidedly erratic course. Otherwise the production wasn't bad.

This annoyed Dottie. During the first intermission, when most of the audience was milling in the lobby, she turned to Gloria and, with no preamble, said: "Really, when are they going to stop?"

Gloria smiled and looked baffled.

"Did you see the moon?" continued Dottie. "Wasn't it hilarious?"

"The reflection machine worked well enough. Lovely reflections."

"Oh, you're so right. And no moon over them. Reflections and no moon!—it was simply killing."

"But the singing—did you like it?"

Dottie turned vaguely away, her eyebrows near her hairline, her face a perfect mask of despair.

"Well," said Major Calloway, "if I was this Pinkerton guy I'd do just what the program says he's gonna do in the second act. I'd up and leave her too. You can have her, I don't want her, she's too fat for me."

Now that he was going to be boss, Gloria didn't quite know what attitude to take toward him. Fortunately, the first act had interested him to the extent that he was content with merely clutching her hand. One thing was obvious: she could no longer walk all over him. "Well, she
is
sort of chubby," she finally conceded.

"Chubby like a house," the Major sniggered.

"But the singing," said Gloria, "it was rather nice."

The Major's face went blank. "Oh, well, there you're way over my head, Miss Wilson. I don't know nothing about art; I just—"

"—know what I like," finished Gloria with a weary smile.

"Oh, look, dear," said Mrs. Swenson bustling up—she always made it a point to circulate. "Here's 'Just an Observer'—or was it 'Worried'?"

"Try 'The Old Philosopher,'" said Gloria kindly.

"Oh, come now," said Mrs. Swenson archly, "I'm 'The Old Philosopher.'" Instantly she put one hand over her mouth. "Oh, dear, I suppose I shouldn't have said that."

"We're among friends, Mrs. Swenson."

"I suppose that's true," said Mrs. Swenson doubtfully.

"Are you enjoying the opera, ma'am?" asked the Major, ducking and bowing.

Her husband held up one slender hand. "Please, not a word," he said. "My wife's nerves are quite bad enough as it is. The poor thing still has 'Un Bel Di' to undergo. Puccini is not, after all, her precise cup of tea, as they say. I suppose you might say that my wife has advanced tastes."

Mrs. Swenson turned an astonished glance toward her husband, then obediently raised her eyebrows and said:

"Puccini, hah.!" giving a hard, humorless little laugh. It was a passing imitation of Dottie Ainsley.

"But the singing?" pursued Gloria.

Mrs. Swenson turned vaguely toward her husband. "Gorgeous decor," she murmured, while her husband was drawing himself up to full height.

"I'm afraid," he began, "that the Japanese vocal equipment is not quite up to, shall we say, the—ha, ha—bel canto standards. You all know, of course, of the incidence of the White Plague in this country."

"Yes, it's another word for the Occupation," said Gloria, and Mrs. Swenson giggled until her husband silenced her with an elbow.

"I was naturally referring to tuberculosis, and if you will allow me to conclude, I might point out that the pinched chests so conducive to that disease do not seem equally conducive to the glories of song. I presume, along with those who call themselves 'anthropologists,' that this chest condition is caused by the lamentable habit indulged in by Japanese mothers of carrying their offspring on their backs, as though the infants were veritable papooses—if, indeed, the word has a correct plural—which, incidentally, is equally responsible for the stature of this race commonly known as diminutive."

"But the singing?" Gloria began, then stopped. He hadn't even heard her. She turned to smile in sweet conspiracy upon the Major but saw, to her surprise, that he was all ears and. attention. He was not listening to a garrulous and. effeminate old man—he had, instead, the honor of being present during the obiter dicta of a representative of the
New York Tribune.

"You don't say so, sir," said the Major, standing stiffly at attention.

Support from the Major, whom he did not know, so surprised Mr. Swenson that he was silent a moment, long enough for his wife to say: "Shrill, nasal voices." But that was all she said, for her husband, beaming on the Major, at once began again.

"Indeed I do, sir. Perhaps you are not aware that the Japanese torso is in every way comparable to ours. Oh, I do not mean they have, say, the fully developed pectoral muscles so invariable to the type called Nordic, but in matters of length—or height, I suppose I should say—the Japanese are not to be despised."

"Your husband's quite an authority on
things
Japanese," said Gloria.

"Isn't he just?" answered Mrs. Swenson.

"Their diminutive stature, however, is caused by this habit of binding when young upon the mother's back. Hence it quite effectively warps the lower limbs and prevents a natural growth which, ordinarily, would rival that of a straight young sapling."

"Just like they torture and pervert those little trees in buckets, eh, sir?"

"Ah, yes, the bonsai. Well, though your terms are strong, your thought is logical. Yes ... yes, I would say so ... yes. And so the Japanese is both short and bow-legged." He paused, his handsome profile limp in the overhead light, and looked about for approval.

"What barbarism!" said the Major feelingly. Then, anxious to shine in the somewhat dulled eyes of the
Tribune
representative, he drew nearer and said: "Why, would you believe it, sir, today I saw an old beggar knocked down on the street. Just happened to glance from my office, you know, and, would you believe it, no one helped him at all—just stood around in a circle and gaped. Might have been dead for all I know. And even though he was just a dirty old beggar of the kind we don't even allow in Houston—Houston, that's where I hail from, sir, the fastest growing city in the world—still, you'd think a little Christian charity wouldn't be out of place. Why, if that had happened in my home town—that's Houston, sir—you wouldn't have been able to see the body for the folks clustered around trying to help. We're friendly people out our way, and so I was real disturbed—inner-like, you know—to see that nobody cared or helped the old person. Just stood and gaped at him!" The Major relapsed into an indignant and virtuous silence.

"Was that out Shin-jew-kew way?" shouted Mrs. Swenson.

"Yes, ma'am, it were."

"But, dear, we saw that! You remember, just after we found that the celadon was only jadeite from Wool-worth's—had it stamped right on the bottom. Oh, I was so furious, you can imagine. But you remember that taxi accident, don't you, dear? Only it was a priest, not a beggar. A mendicant priest."

Mr. Swenson paid no attention to his wife. During the Major's recital he had begun to smile, and as it concluded he was almost laughing. Here was just the sort of conversation he liked best. "Well," he began, still chuckling, "despite the undoubted concern of our friends in Houston, there are still many reasons for actions like those you so pertinently observed today. For one thing—"

His wife interrupted him, saying: "Well, the people really have to let off steam, as they say. And you know, dear, perhaps that's just one of the ways of doing it—by
not
helping. You know, it's sort of like not contributing to the Red Cross or something. Makes you feel all nice and evil on the inside." She giggled nervously.

Here was just the kind of interruption he liked least. And it invariably came from her. Whenever he had to handle two ideas at once he always became irritable, but this time he'd been doing so beautifully. The pleasing logic of the statement he had been about to make was now all muddied, and the charming, if elegiac, arabesque he had been about to draw before their very eyes would now seem a bit meaningless.

Exasperated, he said: "Well, naturally, my dear. That propensity which you seem bound to intrude into our discussion is time-honored. The war is a perfect example of what you apparently mean. In any civilization where the laws of behavior are so codified as they happen to be here, escape valves must be expected, indeed, encouraged. Why do you think shrine festivals with all those young men drunk and shouting and literally not caring what happens to them are so popular? You speak like a novice."

This was his most severe criticism, and his wife closed her mouth with a snap. He raised his eyebrows hopelessly, for all to see, and then, charming again and once more smiling, turned to the Major, ready again to explain the intricacies of the Japanese institution of non-interference in regard to fallen mendicant priests.

"Oh, yes," said the Major suddenly, the impact of an idea having unexpectedly struck him with full force, "like the Matsudaira murders a while back. The work of a real monster. And those women raped and the breasts cut off and all hacked up like that and all and left in the sun for a month or two. I saw a couple of the photographs—public relations, that's me." He laughed expansively; then, remembering that he was actually talking about the monstrous murders, he somewhat unsuccessfully did his best to shudder through his smiles.

Mr. Swenson always prided himself on being sane about his subject, the Japanese. He always said he neither bent too far backwards, nor forwards. Instead, he strove to teach through example. So, now, he was quite ready to forgive the rather maturely handsome major his unbelievable gaucheries. He formed his lips precisely, pursing them as he did so.

"Well, I for one should not consider the work of an admittedly pathological 'monster,' as you say, to be completely indicative of the state of any nation—whether in Tokyo or—oh, yes—in Houston."

The Major bobbed attentively, dimly aware that he was being reprimanded.

"No"—and. Mr. Swenson laughed easily—"when I mentioned the need for safety valves I was merely thinking of great mass actions—the war, for example, or the many rebellions in Japanese history, or those lovely shrine festivals. That's all." He spoke sharply but smiled constantly, and the shaft struck home. The Major didn't say a word.

Contented, Mr. Swenson prepared to pick up that first part of the conversation which his wife had knocked flat. "And so, regarding the lower limbs of the Japanese—for that
is
what we were discussing—I must admit they do have one uncivilized attribute, and that is the binding of those thighs and calves, the result of which is, as you know, the single flaw in the beauty of the race."

"They sure got some cute numbers," said the Major, agreeably. "But they're not really barbaric like I said. I was sort of joking."

Mr. Swenson instantly warmed to the Major. "Oh, no, nothing like that." He laughed lightly. "Nothing like that—just short-sighted or what have you. But I must warn you that, much as I disapprove of the mind militant at work, I am contemplating a rash action and must at once admit to the intention of firing a small campaign—which you might with reason stigmatize as barbarous—the results of which would be the abolition of back-carried babies and back-carrying mothers. But, then, is it not equally barbarous to tamper with nature to the extent that strong calves, straight thighs—those adjuncts to perfect beauty—are completely absent from the race?"

"Yeah," said the Major, anxious to please. "And then they put on silk stockings. Wow!"

Mr. Swenson's smiling face froze. "Silk stockings? Silk stockings? Not at all. The Japanese is not an effeminate race. It never has been. What you so tastelessly refer to as 'silk stockings' might perhaps be the court garb of the Heian Era, or it might be any number of other articles of clothing—manly, virile, and quite above your slanders."

"Huh?" said the stunned Major, and Gloria decided it was time they moved away. Old Swenson was likely as not to make a fine scene before very long.

"Come, I'm thirsty," said Gloria, drawing the Major away by an oak leaf.

"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Swenson, bird-like, pecking at her husband's flannel sleeve, nodding busily. "Next intermission, next intermission."

"Never did find what anyone thought of the singing," said Gloria.

"What's the idea dragging me away like that?" said the Major. "That's Swenson of the
Tribune
—a good man to know."

"And that's just what you'll do—in the Biblical sense—if you're not careful."

"I don't follow you."

"You'd better not—I'm going to the powder room."

She left him standing by the big marble staircase. Near him was Private Richardson, smoking a cigarette. Whenever the Major and the Private met outside the office, which was rarely, they never talked, always pretending not to know each other. This suited both of them. Now, however, the Major turned and, with an extraordinarily conspiratorial air, spoke from one corner of his mouth.