This Scorching Earth. Donald Richie
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Michael smelled the clean rice smell of the Japanese. In close quarters it tended to grow musty, but in the open air the smell was exhilarating. He smelled something else, and it reminded him of Haruko—as did everything Japanese. He finally located it. A Japanese war veteran, with one leg and one arm gone, was standing on the corner in his clean white robe and field cap. His long hair was beautifully parted, and Michael could smell the same rich odor of pomade that he had associated up until now only with Haruko.
Further on was an antique store. There were English signs in the window as well as a suit of ancient Japanese armour, a hand-wound phonograph, and a Petty-girl calendar. An elderly American couple, man and wife apparently, and a young lieutenant were looking in the window.
"Oh, but it can't be. It just can't. Not here, not right out in the open," said the woman in little screams, her white hair upswept and held in place by several lacquered geisha combs. She was uncommonly white.
"Well, my dear, as they say in New York, step in and try it on," said the elderly gentleman, also quite white.
"But not here, not here where we've combed every alley for years. Not a real piece of celadon. I simply can't believe it."
"That's what it looks like, ma'am," said the lieutenant. "Let's go in and see."
"But you know it couldn't be. You just don't find, things like that—except in Korea, of course."
The lieutenant took off his cap and ran his fingers boyishly through his brown, curly hair. "Well, I don't know much about stuff like pottery, ma'am. But you never can tell." He put one hand rakishly on his hip and with a bow, like an Oriental shopkeeper—or his idea of one—indicated the door.
Michael purposely chose this moment to salute. The lieutenant, with a glance of alarm, put on his hat and saluted in return. By that time, however, Michael was past.
The lady laughed merrily. "Oh, Lieutenant, your hat's on sidewise. You look just like Napoleon."
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