This Scorching Earth. Donald Richie
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with only a few speeches by her father and a well-organized schedule of parlor games. Now she would rather not have the party at all. But it was too late. The invitation had been accepted; her father had bought an extra saké ration; her mother was assembling the ingredients for "mother-and-child"—a lovely dish which used both the egg and the chicken, to say nothing of frightening quantities of black-market rice—and her brother was cleaning the entire house.
"Yes, there are enough people, I think," said Sonoko.
"But you must remember your position with the Americans, dear Sonoko. This is an important occasion. This may well further your Career!"
Mrs. Odawara knew all about careers, for she had had several. She had been an Emancipated Woman in the Taisho Era, and during early Showa had been one of the first suffragettes in the country. She wore lipstick and silk stockings right through the great Kanto earthquake, and often said so. Then she'd been married twice. She'd even had a divorce, of which she was intensely proud, even though it turned out later not to be legal. At present she was campaigning for birth control.
Sonoko smiled and nodded politely. It might indeed help her career. Ever since she had begun to work for the Americans she had dreamed of becoming a career girl, American-style. In fact, the dream was already becoming true. Since getting the job with the Occupation she had begun to enjoy privileges at home which had never been hers as a schoolgirl. She was, to be sure, supplementing the family income, but that was not the real reason. It was that she was working for the Americans. There were a few Zushi girls who were employed by the nearby Military Government unit, but it was Sonoko alone who made the daily one-hour train trip to the city, and it was she who came back with stories of American kindness, generosity, and nobility which far surpassed those her high-school friends working for the MG could contribute.
And that wasn't all. She had come back one day, for example, with the blouse and skirt, both brand-new from the PX, that Miss Gramboult had given her. The family had been highly gratified by this typically American bit of prodigality and could not admire the blouse enough nor too often finger the luxurious texture of the skirt. Her mother had clasped her hands in admiration, both of the clothing and of her child, and her father had spent far too much in obtaining a basket of ruddy apples to take to the kind American in return. The lovely Miss Gramboult had been so touched that she had actually kissed Sonoko, who thereafter did not wash that cheek for three days.
"One never knows the results of such things," Sonoko answered politely. "It might well assist my career, or it might not."
"Well, it certainly won't unless you put sufficient thought into it," said Mrs. Odawara. Her tone was not nearly so domineering as usual. She was thinking. Sonoko guessed that she was working at further party details, anxious to extract the last morsel of instruction and enjoyment from the American's visit.
Everyone thoroughly misunderstood Sonoko's real purpose in inviting the American lady to her house. They all took for granted that she herself would derive eventual benefit from the visit. But to Sonoko that aspect made no difference whatever. It might have done so if the invited guest had been Miss Gramboult, who had already proved herself generous to an almost idiotic degree, or any other of the ladies in the hotel. But this guest was very special—it was Miss Wilson.
Miss Wilson was more than her employer—she was her friend. Though Sonoko loved all the American ladies dearly, it was Miss Wilson whom she loved the most, even though, oddly enough, it was Miss Wilson alone who had given her no presents beyond the usual Saturday-morning candy bars. It was something much stronger than gifts that bound them together. It was their Souls.
Like Sonoko, Miss Wilson could not be called pretty. Though she did not wear steel-rimmed glasses and did not have to hide her teeth with her hand when she smiled, as did Sonoko, her mouth was too large, even by American standards, and her eyes stuck out a bit far. She had what was called a good shape, however, and her legs were very long. Sonoko admired both these attributes, which she unfortunately did not possess herself, but not to the extent of feeling any the less affection for their happy owner.
But perhaps the strongest of Miss Wilson's many attractions was that she was worldly. Sonoko knew that she was the secretary of a colonel, that she went to parties at the French Mission, that she went often to the American Club, that she belonged to some very exclusive literary organization called the Book-of-the-Month Club, and that her parents were actually Baptists. Also—and this was Bomantic—many times over she had been seen escorted by handsome and gentlemanly men. All of them were, naturally, officers. Sonoko could not imagine her going out with an enlisted man, and that just proved how superior Miss Wilson was. If General MacArthur went with women—other than Mrs. Mac-Arthur of course—he would probably choose to go with Miss Wilson. Sonoko was sure of that!
Then, Miss Wilson always dressed like the ladies in those fashion magazines of which she owned so many and over which the plump Sonoko pored hopelessly every afternoon when her work was finally done. And she had seven pairs of shoes—Sonoko had counted them—all of them high-heeled, with not a sensible pair in the lot. And that proved how really sophisticated Miss Wilson was. She was, in fact, everything Sonoko ever hoped to be, and that was the reason they were soul-mates, and that was the reason Sonoko loved her so much.
"There are no men," said Mrs. Odawara suddenly.
Sonoko, caught with tears of emotion in her eyes, looked at her lap and said: "Well, there's your husband and my father and brother—"
"No unattached men," Mrs. Odawara explained impatiently.
Mrs. Odawara knew all about the desirability of unattached men, just as she knew all about a career for the emancipated woman. This naturally gave her an enormous amount of prestige and an enviable reputation for being progressive. Of course, during the war her reputation had counted against her, but she had overcome that obstacle by working in a factory and staging anti-American demonstrations. She had aroused the admiration of the countryside by systematically breaking every piece of American manufactured goods which she owned. But that was in 1942. Now, over half a decade later, when just everyone smoked and wore lipstick and was progressive, Mrs. Odawara hoarded American goods and kept her reputation alive by acting as adviser on matters Western, particularly on fine points of American etiquette. Thus it was that she knew that all parties with American ladies should have as many unattached males as possible.
"Well, perhaps my brother's school friends could—"
"No good! No, someone about this lady's age. How old is she? "
Sonoko never could guess the age of Americans. They always looked older than they were, just as, to them, the Japanese always appeared younger. "Perhaps thirty," she suggested.
"Well, that's nice. Now, I have a nephew, my sister's boy—she was killed in the air raids, you know—and he's just twenty-eight—that's American counting—and a very well-mannered young man. Of course, he's married, but we won't invite his wife. After all, I've sort of protected him ever since dear Michiko's death."
This was just like Mrs. Odawara—no false nonsense about not mentioning death. She even made a point of standing her chopsticks up in the rice, though it was the worst kind of luck to do so. She was very advanced.
"Oh, do you really think—" began Sonoko.
"Of course I do. I'm calling on his wife today and I'll ask him. It will be quite wonderful—you'll see. The lady Wilson and my nephew will become the best of friends. Won't that be nice?"
"Very nice," said Sonoko, miserably. "I'm forever indebted for your kindness."
Mrs. Odawara took the acknowledgment with a complacent nod. She was so emancipated that she always purposely neglected making the little negative signs of self-disparagement with which anyone else would have received the thanks.
Sonoko did not want this married twenty-eight-year-old at her party. More than ever she regretted the whole business. The party seemed headed for disaster, but now it was too late to do anything about it.
The party meant nothing to her. Far more important were her delightful and personal relations with Miss Wilson. If she could only speak English well enough, she felt sure that she could tell the American lady