Herself (22 page)

The stewardess announced it, as she did all pts of interest, meanwhile serving us with cake and éclairs. Someone here has told me (an Amer. of course—perhaps Baker) that the J. at Hiroshima are proud of their distinction in being “the first to be atom bombed.” Part of the insistent J. reliance on prestige, perhaps?—Thence we landed at Itazuke airfield, about 40 minutes out of Fukuoka, the inevitable A.C.C. truck meeting me, Mr. Kuriya in command. Left me at the Hakata, to repair myself until 2
P.M.
when the talk is scheduled—mostly professors, he told me.

The A.C.C, housed in the same building as the consulate, was a surprise. Downstairs, I stopped to note several books enclosed in a case on the wall near the elevator, J. and Eng. among them. And there, staring at me, was Curt’s name and mine—on a copy of the O. Henry collection. K explained that 2 other J’s were to talk at this meeting—we evolved a scheme whereby I say a few words first, then the other two wd deliver their papers, then I and my questions and answers.

First paper was delivered, in English (at some pains to compliment me I’m afraid)—on James’s
Portrait of a Lady
. Beforehand we were each given a mimeographed paper containing, first, the
Oxford D. of E. Lit
’s synopsis of the book, a historical acct of the pub. from Leavis, etc. The speech was in effect, merely a going over of the printed matter (though it is probable it wd have been more expanded in Japanese). But emphasis was placed on Henry James having had a “success” with his bk. The prof. (name not caught) did speak of the ending, left up in the air—why was Isabel Archer left to return to Europe?—this not explained by James, etc. I have always felt this abt the ending also, and later said so.

It was opportune to have something to say, since the lecture was primitive, and this not entirely owing to language—although it was sometimes difficult not to laugh when I finally translated such a sentence as fell on my ear thus: “Isahbel Ochah’s seedpod, o, razzer, hah rubber”—as “Isabel Archer’s sweetheart, or, rather, her lover.” I am beginning to be slightly more deft with J. names and syllables and used to their accent: “In leeding the lurks of,” for “in reading the works of,” now strikes me as quite natural, and nothing to be reported really. An advance.

The next speech concerned mass-culture in the U.S., a very young and eager-beaver prof. who had lifted some stuff I saw in the U.S.—lists of the popular best-sellers since the 1880s with some interpretations of popular tastes, etc., nothing more than statistics really.

Sakae Murioka, pres. of the society, invited me to a party for the consul Mr. and Mrs. Herndon, there at the lecture, and just returned from leave, and for a Mr. Gardiner who has been teaching here and goes to Ochanimasu (U. for girls in Tokyo). The Herndons drove me back to the hotel—he a former language-school grad in Fr., she from the South, plump and talky, rather bright or merely pleasant. She sweet-talks the J. men—this goes down very well with them.

Party was a dinner really, in an impressive walled villa—later the Herndons said they did not know to whom it belonged and may well have been a restaurant. (Now I remember what G. Iseki and I discussed—:the reluctance of the J.’s to entertain in their homes, he said, is not due to any large sense of personal privacy, as with the French, but because they feel that their homes may not be elaborate enough, problems of service etc. also being easier in many ways. How like us they are in this, as in their sense of the future, and mechanical talents, though they have infinitely more talent for painstaking handicrafts than we—this because we are at farther distance from our handcraft era?)

The Dinner. Long table, oblong, at which about 18 of us sat, Mr. Gardiner, a rather typical Anglo-Irishman of a certain sort, at my left. He loved being
intime
with the J.’s, not particularly interest in talking to me, altho his teaching will be Lit (Eng.). May not like women. Not interested in talking abt London—I careful not to pursue. But the young Amer. and Eng. who stay out here (Burton Martin at Waseda is a prime example) interest one, since one always suspects—at least Americans do—the expatriate. And it is true that many of these (like the rather-dreadful and pathetic S. K. who spoke to me after the lecture at Kyoto—who has left U.S. because “poetry should not be in the marketplace,” who published works of bad poets and probably writes poetry himself—gave me a thin folio by Theodore Enslin) have the flavor of the intellectual remittance man. Undoubtedly, I suspect, many of them stay or return because homosexuality is easy, etc.—Though not all. The foreign service people here, for instance, return for many tours, and obviously love it.—I speak of the single men, teaching at a university, and with a certain air of entente with the Japanese, which seems more than superficial—to them.

But the dinner. First taste of saké, clear, warm—was told it might make me sleepy but not drunk—it did relax, poured from a tiny-mouthed small urn. And getting used to the tidbits one dips in soy (latter first mixed with a mustard—nothing like ours—this is a chopped green smoothness, rather like mashed avocado), then in the main dish that comes swimming in clear sauce. Main dish, kept in a chafing-dish at either end, was chicken giblets etc., particular dish of this region. At intervals, serving maids brought other things to be dropped in the simmering sauce along with the chicken—crinkled Chinese cabbage, which was delicious, not stewed a la the West—and a kind of white, jellied consistency, in squares, which might be fish, might be part of an animal,
quien sabe
—very good. Not bean curd. Had had a delicately salted fish of some sort before, cold, not salmon not crab, but in between, pink—to be dipped in soy. Several chestnuts.

The idea of the J. meal is of course “several”—not too much of anything, a taste here and there, except for the rice, which melds all. Rather a little like Fr. cuisine in that—they of course are sympathetic, very, to Fr. culture, and some of this may come from a natural, native resemblance in the spirit of the two styles of life. Certainly it was a relaxing and civilized way to spend an evening.

The men assume the lotus, position, legs crossed in front, but often vary this with one knee raised, or other casual positions, feet stretched under table. I contented myself with kneeling on haunches, luckily, since I am such a floor-sitter, and still fairly supple, this not hard for me, though tiresome. Murioka came over and teased me: why did I continue to sit in the
proper
position for ladies. Glad I had instinctively assumed same—although it is apparently O.K. to sit sideways, as I then thankfully did, though never, for a woman, to cross legs. My sheath dress, which happens to look so Oriental had saved me from this anyway. The dinner had started somewhat before 6, ended a little before nine, with a J. fruit, nameless to me still, a cross between apple and pear. We all exchanged our flowery compliments—I am getting fairly good at this, in fact enjoy it, having an initial taste for formalities and flowerinesses hardly satisfied by life in America. Murioka in particular went into a long speech, describing how, before meeting me, he had wondered was I young or old, now he was infinitely happy to discover that I was young, might he call the hotel tomorrow?—I thought he perhaps might have been a little saké-ed—also the men had had whisky from complimentary bottles of
VERY OLD RARE LIQUEUR
Sun-Tory brand—anyway I repeated my promise to leave my copy of Keenes’ Intro to J. Lit for him, and to send him a copy of my book.

Talked quite a bit with Gunther Rosinus, the dir. of the A.C.C.—Harvard Edct, German background I think, mother a child psychologist—he brought me home and we had a brandy in the bar. All the liquor, western and J., that one wants—I had not happened to want any to date, but may be sorry for this, as about the fish, when I reach Tabriz.

A wonderful night’s sleep at last, stayed in bed until after 9, had breakfast; it is now 1
P.M.
Like many hotels in J., Rosinus said, this one is built into a dep’t store—I may investigate—they are open Sun. and closed Mon.—tried to get a yakata (cotton bath-kimono) in Kyoto, but they are out of season. Driver commented they w’dn’t be able to fit me anyway. Hardly worth having made up, but I w’d rather have these than anything elaborate. Fun to get one for C. too, if I cd. Rosinus said that the tanzen, winter kimono with lining, has a wonderfully pleasing texture to wear, warm and comfortable.

I am still a little dizzy and suffering from that other woe, but not as hysterically tired as I know I must have been. Fukuoka from above—my room on the 8th floor has fine view of rooftops and distant mountains, has a distinctly seaside air—the bay can be seen from the restaurant where I had lunch yesterday. Two J. boys were playing catch with a ball and mitts, on the rooftop of a building just below eye-level, when I lunched. City seems cosmopolitan on a small scale geared to visitors—the way Atlantic City might though it is not a cosmopolis, and Fukuoka of course is at the top end of Kyushu. (How proud I am of my geography!)

I have time to think of C. now—or rather again, for when I felt ill this was part of it—as well as homesickness. I have put his picture out—though Dita in enlarging has hexed it and it does not look as I remember him best—it is nice to see. Perhaps there will be mail when I return to Tokyo tomorrow. I concentrate hopefully on the day we shall meet, in Tabriz, or Teheran. We have had so many partings—the way I see him best is the way he always comes forward as we meet, his face eager and somehow questioning, as if he is asking himself:

(The telephone has just rung. Mail for me at desk!)

Alas, I went down in hopes of mail forwarded from embassy—nothing but a note from Kuriya, saying Mon., is their holiday, so no one may escort me to plane—suggests I ask JAL office downstairs. So I did—although I feel competent enough to get on airport bus which after all starts in front of hotel, there is always the language difficulty—and besides one gets rather used to being shepherded about, things made easy, as a state visitor.
Sic transit amor democratiae
.

This diary is getting far too extensive, but it serves as a companion too, and C. won’t mind my maunderings. I wonder what his will be like—far more pulled together—plus no climatic or other troubles I hope. And perhaps not so subjective. When I was interrupted, I was about to say, almost to
see
his face coming toward me. He always looks as if he is asking himself: Are we still together? Do we still love? Is she as she was, for me? Am I still, for her? But always the same interest in what
will
be—in that we are very alike. At the core of each of us, something anxious to know, not unfeeling but always accompanying feeling—it is this in us that must sometimes make others think us hard at the core, that he and I, understanding, know is not, but recognize. …

I did go down to the JAL office, queried the girl about yakatas—she insisted on accompanying me to the Haikata Daimaru store next door, where, after pricing “Reblon” lipsticks—they hadn’t the color. I wanted anyway, I bought a J. one. Not as many colors as ours, but quite good I’m sure. Smells of that insistent perfume, which may turn nostalgic when not so pervasive, and which C. may taste. As I suspected no yakatas made up. Contented myself with the lipstick and some razor blades for C, then walked down the main street. Foggy and dusty today, small resemblance to yesterday’s seaside Dufy air, when I cd see a distant white lighthouse on a prong of land in the blue bay. Nipped into various shops—a record place crammed with our cheap jazz—it plays all the time in the restaurant here—a food shop and wine shop where they have many familiar brands—Hennessy cognac tempted me but they had no small bottles. Bought cheese crackers—bad reproductions.

All this sounds transitory indeed, but I am rather certain that by walking in streets and shops, making little random purchases, etc., I already know a bit more about J. life, (though very little) than I might if I had done the routine bit to Nikko. And now, I shall read—alas I thought I had brought
Under the Volcano
, but have left it with baggage checked at Imperial—nothing except K.’s book which I finished this morning in order to give Murioka—and my own! Well, I shall muse. Empty Sunday, rather nice Sunday. Still Saturday in New York, just beginning to be so in Tabriz?? Not sure.

After last entry went and blew myself to an enormous dinner—ordered vodka, glass was enormous even after I had extracted all the ice, a huge steak, and Marron
à la creme
—which I thought wd be a tiny taste of, as it is in France. The most enormous pile came—a cone-shaped child’s dream of an ice-cream pagoda—cake, piles of ground chestnut, and such festoonings of whipped cream as must have occupied the happy cook with a pastry tube for quite a while. Then sogged off to bed. Since I have read C.’s journal, it is quite apparent we are both drugging ourselves with food.

Flight back cloudy—glad I had seen something the trip down. Met by the Embassy driver, thank goodness, letter from Miss Downing saying that I was to meet a group of J. writers invited to tea for me at the International House, if I had a photograph please to give, otherwise come to embassy to be snapped. Zippo, the routine started again. Also in the packet was a briefing on the various authors (which I shall keep but carry separately and not append here), and at last, C.’s journal.

I saw little of the long ride in from the airfield. Curiously, at first I felt farther away from C. than before. He was writing in London—but at the moment I was reading had already passed thru that experience, also Italy, and was at that moment in Teheran as far as I knew. My own transient state, coupled with his, almost too much to bear—no fixed point—and I am a person who craves same—though not necessarily a geographic one. Being at my desk wd be a help—the journal is at least a little—and I have not written here for the last two nights.

Mr. Boylan (not Black, as I have it earlier) came with me and Downing to International House—built with joint Rockefeller and Japanese funds, werry handsome, as are all their new buildings. One sardonic advantage of being bombed is that they have all these new ones. The writers—ah well. Mr. Hino (author of
Faeces and Urine
) was as one might expect, a bohemian type in long hair, dark blue shirt—they affect the past Parisian style, some of them, still. Perhaps only his vintage—most of these I met were born 1901 or thereabouts. Again the prestige deal: before our exchange was over he had shown me the prize watch won for something or other 28 yrs ago. (Sad reflection however, that he still wears his 28-yr.-old accomplishments as if they counted in America, last year’s book, prize, is no help for this year.) He also had a secretary, very handsome, pallid, and utterly silent young man—asked me one question—how many times I had had the O. Henry. So help me, I said five—what the hell—I had no prize watch!