This Scorching Earth (38 page)

In another part of the lobby a few more of the audience still lingered on, also confident that none of the Japanese staff of the theatre would dare tell them it was time to leave. Dottie and Dave were holding court with a few others near the closed soft-drink bar.

"But," said Dottie for the fifteenth time, "did you see Kate?" And, for the fifth time, she bent her delicate face into her hands and shook her shoulders. "Those breasts!" she gasped.

"Well," said her husband—he had gallantly attempted a new rejoinder each time Kate was brought up—"seeing as how the Japanese girls have so little, they over-compensate by giving the Americans credit for too much. You know, like us white American males with Negroes—and I don't mean breasts."

Usually this would have brought an appreciative giggle from Dottie, but at present she already had more than enough to laugh at. "And that fright-wig!" she screamed and again put her face in her hands.

Mr. Swenson smiled tolerantly: "Well, it is a well-known fact that the Westerners have always been known as the 'red-haired barbarians,' but never in all Japanese art have I ever seen the fact so graphically portrayed."

"And the bucket of bolts!" screamed Dottie, searching now back through her memory for even the less spectacular events of this spectacular evening.

"That, in a way, was too bad," said Mrs. Swenson, cautious lest she cast a pall over the little gathering by reminding them of the beauties of the performance. "For, in its way, that second act—the night passage, you know—was quite charming. The set, for example, was utterly darling. I shall doubtless write a little note of appreciation for it."

"More—more than that," said her husband gently. "Far more than just the second act was fine in this performance. In fact, everything
Japanese
in it was fine. But, as always, no matter how exquisite the effect in their own milieu, whenever they attempt ours the effect is often as tragic and, I'm the first to admit, as comic as the spectacle tonight. The approach is different for them. You will have noticed that mistakes of this nature are almost an impossibility in the Noh, the Kabuki, the Bunraku, and even in the popular theatre—like the Takarazuka, though I am the first to execrate it. They literally don't occur. And it
's
more, I believe and maintain, than sheer technique." He paused a moment, trying to decide what it was, and then finished lamely: "More, much more."

"Why, when I was at the Met," said Dottie suddenly, "they would have laughed this off the stage."

"But this isn't the Met," said her husband gently. "And, anyway, what about the time you told me about when Mélisande got her hair caught in the ivy on the tower, and Pelléas couldn't get it loose—for the whole scene. And the time the donkeys in
Aïda
—misbehaved."

"That's not the point," snapped Dottie, and her husband took a few steps backward. An ugly mood was coming on, and Dottie's eyebrows thundered darkly. He attributed it to the hysteria of the performance and to the fact that the liquor before it was wearing off. She was tired, and her china-doll face was pinched and wrinkled-looking under the crystal chandelier.

"Now, now, now," said Mr. Swenson easily. He'd had enough liquor that it hadn't worn off so quickly, and besides, any time the Japanese made a mistake—like tonight—it somehow reassured him. "After all, they are children. We would not laugh at a childrens' performance. We could, indeed, commiserate, we could sympathize. That poor soprano must be suffering agonies—maybe she'll even lose her contract. And I imagine that Little Trouble is being put straight to bed—for he won't be harshly whipped the way one of our own children might be in these circumstances. They
do
take their failures so seriously, especially when it's a question of face. So, my dear, we must not judge too quickly."

Mr. Swenson had not intended so personally rebuking a tone. He was simply being expansive and was feeling sure of his audience. He smiled benignly and turned his profile to where it showed to best advantage.

"Don't you my-dear me! I'll judge as quickly as I damn well please," said Dottie suddenly.

Her husband put up one ineffectual hand, as though to clap it over the beloved little mouth. Instead, he put it over his own.

Mr. Swenson was feeling good. He took no offense. Instead he would simply use this petty remark to climb to even greater heights—one must not spurn the lowly foothold. "I assure you that the use of 'my dear' in which I so unhappily indulged was purely rhetorical, and so far as swift judgment goes—which is far indeed—I presume you will continue to outdistance us all, no matter what we say."

He was both gallant and offhand, and his twisted compliment reached nowhere near Dottie, who sat stiffly furious on the plush and understood only that she was being patronized.

"Darling," said Mrs. Swenson urgently, "the car will be waiting, and I'm sure they want to close the theater. We really ought to go,"

"Good-by, good-by," said Dave suddenly. He even began waving, trying to shield Dottie behind his back.

She pushed him roughly to one side and said, in a clipped and metallic little voice: "Well, at least I don't judge the Japs like you do."

"Of that, my dear, I am fully aware," began Mr. Swenson, still smiling, self-assured, handsome, and dignified under the chandelier. "As," he continued, "your constant use of that most unpleasant abbreviation of a nationality would seem to indicate." It would be well, he decided, to let this little fool have her say. After all, it was people like her whom he most disliked. They were all the same—let them say enough and one could crush them—one could fight her with her own weapons. One's native learning and genius would come to the fore.

His wife pulled his sleeve frantically, but he gently removed her hand.

Mrs. Swenson and Dave looked at each other, their mouths open. Both were aware of what was doubtless going to happen, though they never dreamed it would go so far, and both were helpless.

"But," concluded Mr. Swenson easily, as though talking to a child, "I do think it would be most amusing to discover your idea of the criterion I employ in judging the Japanese people."

"Their baskets, you old fairy!" screamed Dottie.

Mr. Swenson turned pale. Dottie did too, terrified by what she had just said. Mr. Swenson and Dave went on standing helplessly by. They stood in complete silence, and the old man, too shocked to answer, slowly bowed his head. His hands shook, and when his wife caught one of them and drew him away, he allowed her to lead him by the hand, his shoulders sagging, his profile wrinkled.

The silence continued after they had disappeared down the staircase. The lobby was empty and the janitors were waiting patiently for the last Americans to leave. A workman in straw sandals stood by the light switches; an electrician stood some distance off and examined an ashtray; two carpenters waited in the doorway.

"Oh, Dottie," said Dave softly, "you shouldn't have done that. I have to work with him. He's important."

The color had returned to Dottie's face, and her cheeks were growing red. "Oh, Dave," she cried softly, her voice shaking, whimpering, "I didn't mean that to come out. I was just mad, and upset, terribly upset, that's all, and ..." Two large tears rolled down her cheeks, and her eyes, bright blue, glistened. Dottie was never more beautiful than when she was contrite. It was not often she was this beautiful.

"Poor little lamb," said Dave and put his arms around her.

She buried her face in his coat. "I'm so wicked, so wicked ..." she sobbed.

"Poor little ... lamb," said Dave again, unable to think of anything else quite so appealing as that.

"Oh, but Dave," she said, raising her eyes, "it isn't only that. Oh, I've been so wicked. I ... I called the CID."

"You what?" shouted Dave. While he believed that the way he obtained beautiful art objects in exchange for occasional cartons of cigarettes was rather worldly and dashing, he didn't like to think of it as being illegal.

"I called the CID and turned someone in. Oh, Dave—I informed!" She burst into fresh sobs, while the electricians and the carpenters stood silent.

"There, there," said Dave. "You come on home and tell me all about it. It can't be so very bad."

"But I did it all to help poor Madame Schmidt. I got him to make out a requisition blank for her and sign it; then I knew he wouldn't go through with it if he could help it, so I did this—I turned him in."

"Honey, who is this person?"

She didn't answer, but sobbed all the harder.

"There, there," said her husband. "We'll just go on home now. Poor little ... little kitten."

"Well," gasped Dottie, "at least poor Madame Schmidt will get her recital now. At least I could do that. That's the only reason I turned him in. Really it is, Dave."

"Don't think about it, honey," said Dave. "And about Swenson—well, he won't hold it against us. We really don't mind about that sort of thing, and it's his own business. At least now he won't go around believing that no one but his wife knows about it. That's it! You really did him a kind of favor, you know. Sort of like in the advertisements. Like telling your best friend he ought to see a dentist." He laughed weakly, but Dorothy still sobbed, disconsolate.

"Look at it this way, honey," he said. "You didn't do any harm at all this evening. You only did people favors. I bet all of them would thank you for it later on. Think of it that way, honey."

Dottie tried and eventually succeeded. Together they walked down the wide steps and into the outer lobby. Behind them the electricians began turning off lights.

Through the glass doors Dave saw the Swensons waiting at the curb for their car. Swenson was white in the glare of headlights, and his wife supported him; his shoulders were bent.

Their sedan pulled up. Mrs. Swenson sat in the rear seat and pulled the door closed after her. Her husband sat in front, as was his habit, beside the young Japanese chauffeur.

In the darkened lobby, Dave held his wife close to him, and she, completely submissive, leaned against him, her chest still rising with sobs, her face a bright pink. Really, thought Dave, it was old Swenson who had, inadvertantly, done
him
a favor. Now they could go home and, eventually, with laughter and a few tears, Dave could enjoy his wife. He smiled in anticipation, his face half in the light, for Dottie only allowed his attentions when she felt herself to have been naughty, when she was contrite and longing for punishment.

The Swenson's car was slowly pulling from the curb. Mr. Swenson, talking earnestly to the chauffeur, seemed to have recovered some of his animation.

The Ohara party had left the theatre some time before, and even then the streets were almost deserted except for the small crowd waiting under the marquee. The street lights, brilliant in the dry cool air, shone like the stars overhead. American jeeps and sedans and a few Japanese limousines of mixed vintages were at the curb, their motors purring. There was the smell of exhaust and of burning leaves.

With some ostentation, Mr. Ohara insinuated his way through the thinning crowd and led his party to a waiting Rolls Royce—ancient enough to have escaped requisitioning—which he had rented for the evening, along with the tight-collared chauffeur.

"Here we is," he said in English and assisted Haruko, her mother, and Ichiro into the back seat.

Haruko's father sat on one of the folding seats, and Mr. Ohara himself sat in front with the chauffeur. The bowing and smiling middleman stood on the curb and waved the car off, smiling to himself. The meeting of the young people had been a great success.

In the car Mr. Ohara found much to praise in the performance, despite the few imperfections, and resolved to scold no one. He would just release the soprano and the child, and that would be the end of it. No use being old-fashioned about it. Sitting beside the driver and feeling himself the personification of magnanimity, he laughed gaily to himself. All had really gone well, and everything was going to be all right.

Actually, the main reason for Mr. Ohara's euphoria was that he had worn Japanese clothes; though he had long realized that, indeed, clothes do make the man, he had never before extended this truth to Japanese clothes. But until this evening he had never been treated with more respect, had never received so many bows, hand shakes, and subtly deferent nods. It had not taken long for his agile mind to discover the reason. But Mr. Ohara's mind was modern, as well as agile; thus he was able to think of his use of the national dress as a positive virtue. He now sat beside the chauffeur and felt almost holy because it was, after all, in deference to his son that he had struggled into the clothes in the first place, and now, lo, the bread he had cast upon the waters was returning and he was all the richer. First thing when he got home he would tell his wife she should henceforth wear only kimono, let her hair grow longer, and take up the Noh or something.