BEECHUM HAD ORGANIZED a party for British expats and embassy couples in the lobby of the Imperial Hotel, the men in black tie and the women in gowns that looked like window drapes. As Harry walked in, Beechum was saying, “We all know what Sundays are like on the ramparts of the British Empire. I am happy to report to you that our fighting men in Singapore are undismayed by certain wild rumors. And not just the men.” He watched Alice as she saw Harry arrive, and his baldness took on a purple hue. Harry had shaved and changed clothes to look like a proper friend of Imperial Hotel guests, not someone who juggled heads. “Not only the men,” Beechum continued. “Although the Foreign Office has advised them to evacuate and head for home, every British and Commonwealth wife has loyally decided to stick it out. I propose a toast to their calm and fortitude, if you would all raise a glass.”
Of gin, with gin courage to follow, Harry thought. After a stop at the reception desk, he rang Willie Staub on the house phone.
“Sorry, Willie, it’s no go. I couldn’t reach the right people.”
“Harry, the Orinoco leaves tonight. I must be on it, the embassy says I cannot stay. What will become of Iris? Did you forget about us?”
“I tried, Willie. Things just didn’t work out.”
“Did Mr. DeGeorge find you?”
“No. Hey, come on down and we’ll have a drink before you go.”
“I can’t leave Iris.”
“I feel I let you down. I’d just like to say good luck.”
A muffled, emotional conversation on the other end, and then “Just for a second.”
Harry took a seat on the opposite end of the lobby, but there was no escaping Beechum’s voice as it boomed around the atrium. Alice had described it as the sort of voice that unwittingly set off avalanches in the Alps. The hotel staff had taken a half-step back into invisibility, making Harry the sole audience for the Brits even at a distance. Harry asked for a Scotch, and when he raised it, the ice chattered from the shaking of his hand. Every time he thought of Haruko, he wiped his palm on his pant leg. When he thought of Michiko, he half stood to go. Alice misinterpreted and gave him a warning glance that said to stay clear.
Beechum said, “For those concerned about the safety of our troops in Singapore, I would like to relay the message I received just today from the British commander in chief. He is nearly done perfecting the defenses of the colony, and despite privations, his men confidently soldier on.” What privations? Harry wondered. Singapore was paradise. Cheap gin, beautiful women, decent cigarettes. The tent pole of the British Empire was that a corporal from a Manchester brickyard could live like a king in Singapore, Hong Kong, Delhi. “It’s important that we stand shoulder-to-shoulder with our officers and men everywhere and most of all in Singapore. Today is Sunday, and as many of you know, there are Sunday traditions in British Singapore. One is Sunday curry and the other is Sunday sing-along. We may not have the curry, but it would send a message in many ways if we sang along with those wonderful men and women.”
A woman with a parrot hat sat at the piano and played an enthusiastic “Ta-Da.” Alice was sipping a martini so slowly that Harry could feel her lips. What he saw on other faces was a special emotion, an empire in fear of eviction.
“Harry?”
Willie had come down to the lobby with Iris, who was damp around the eyes and apologetic for even asking Harry to help them. She was in a rumpled cheongsam embroidered with flowers and looked like a crushed bouquet. Willie, too, no longer resembled the confident managing director of China Deutsche-Fon, or even the tourist who had arrived in Tokyo days before. He was desperate, wrung out.
“It’s tough,” said Harry. “Didn’t you have some other people working on this?”
“A clerk at the embassy. You were the only person I knew here.”
“It was a pass of some sort?”
“A letter to the German embassy about Iris’s political background. You don’t remember?”
“I remember now. Willie, that other Scotch is for you.”
“You drank yours already?”
“I’ll have another. Iris, I want you to know that whatever I can do to make Tokyo more endurable, just ask. Someplace to stay, a bank, a maid? Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Willie sat back in wonder. “Now I know what DeGeorge meant. I don’t even recognize you, Harry.”
“Speaking of DeGeorge, have you seen him around?” Harry signaled for more Scotch. Beechum’s party launched into “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” It sounded long to Harry.
The waiter’s tray carried not only the Scotch but also a manila envelope with Willie’s name on it. Willie drew out an envelope with a string closure, and from that a letter.
“It’s all in Japanese. What does it say?” Willie seemed to trust the waiter more.
The waiter held the letter by the corners. “If I may, this letter is not to you.”
“Oh.”
“No, it is to your embassy. It reads, ‘This office is pleased to state that Mrs. Iris Staub, a Chinese national, has been found to be a person of good character. She is free to travel with her husband, Wilhelm Staub, a German national.’ It’s signed by a general of the military police.”
“Is it official?”
“It bears the letterhead of the Ministry of War and has the general’s stamp.”
Willie took the letter back and showed Iris. “It came.”
Harry said, “Congratulations. Now you have something to drink to.”
“The embassy said it was hopeless. You did nothing?”
“Nothing at all. Kampai!”
As they drank, Harry felt a visual sweep. He didn’t recall Beechum’s eyes being quite so red, and he had to wonder how much the man knew about the next day’s flight. Had Alice mentioned that she wasn’t coming back? Harry assumed that, as a rule, women didn’t tell husbands much.
Willie studied the letter again. “It’s so short.”
“The shorter, the better.”
“What is ‘shorter, the better’? That would be rare.” Colonel Meisinger had come out of one of the gloomy hallways the Imperial had so many of. He was strapped into Gestapo black, and when he bowed to Iris, it was like watching a toad pirouette. “Don’t you agree?”
Willie said, “Colonel, I have good news, permission for Iris to leave with me. It’s wonderful.”
Meisinger snatched the letter from Willie. He opened his mouth with amusement. “I will say this in English so your wife understands. This paper, whatever it says, is hardly enough. It has to be in German. We’re Germans. Also police and educational records and an examination of her family, all in German.”
“Not enough?” Willie asked.
“I just said. I’m sure your wife will find suitable arrangements here.” Meisinger cocked his head toward the sing-along. “Wonderful spirit. I’ll contact whoever sent this letter and explain things to him.”
“Harry?” Iris asked.
Meisinger said, “Yes, Mr. Niles, are you acquainted with the immigration policies of the Third Reich?”
“No, sorry.”
“He can’t help you,” Meisinger explained to Iris.
“Join us, Colonel?” Harry said, ignoring Willie’s discouragement.
“One drink,” Meisinger settled into the chair next to Iris. “I regret the situation, but it will be resolved, I’m sure. I will take a personal interest.”
“You’re enjoying Japan?” Harry asked.
“I would enjoy it more if the Japanese would do more than chase Chinese bandits. And do more about the Jews.”
“You want the Jews to leave?” Willie asked.
“No, I want them sent back where we can get our hands on them. Harry, you seem to understand the Japanese, why are they so blind to the Jewish problem?”
“They’ve hardly ever seen Jews. Even the anti-Semites haven’t seen any Jews.”
“It’s a matter of education?”
“And talking to the right people.”
“Ah, yes, always the case.” Meisinger’s drink arrived. He tipped his bulk to raise his glass. “Heil Hitler.”
“Cheers,” said Harry.
“And who would the right people be?” Meisinger asked.
“Anyone but General Tanaka.”
“Who is he?”
Harry tapped Willie’s letter. He laughed, and Meisinger joined in.
“I’m sure we can smooth his feathers,” Meisinger said. “It’s hardly more than a note.”
“That’s a sign.” Harry took his time offering cigarettes. He hummed along with the song. The singing was terrible, but for camaraderie it was hard to beat the Brits. If the piano were a sinking ship, they’d probably still be singing: What’s the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile. It occurred to Harry that if the Japanese were attacking Hawaii, they would attack Singapore at the same time. Alice Beechum was the only person he knew with the intelligence and means to warn Singapore and Pearl.
“A sign of what?” Meisinger finally bit.
“Rank. The higher you are, the less you have to say. Tanaka is at the very top. A letter this brief is polite, but it’s an order. You asked for a check on Iris, and this is your answer.”
“But it’s inadequate. We need much more and in German.”
“You’re in Japan.”
“I will call this Tanaka and explain.”
“A call might settle it, but not from you. It would have to be from someone of equal rank to Tanaka, a German general.”
“The only general at the embassy is Ambassador Ott.”
“Then the ambassador. It looks like Tanaka sent this letter today, Sunday, which is unusual and suggests someone important got to him. That would involve losing face all around. General Tanaka would certainly be very insulted. The army would be offended, too. So, I think you’re right, you should have the ambassador call as soon as possible.”
“Because of this note? Over Oriental rank and face?”
Harry produced a helpless shrug. “It’s Japan.”
“This is preposterous.” Meisinger sank into his chair.
“Is the ambassador busy?”
“On a Sunday evening, Ambassador Ott has recitals of classical music for a few friends. He does not like to be disturbed. I myself have other things to do besides sit and eat cookies with a group of professional dilettantes.”
“You may want to talk to him before the general does. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll come up with a solution.”
Meisinger picked up the letter again, as if he’d suddenly learned Japanese. “This stamp is Tanaka’s?”
“Yes, it’s considered an extension of the general himself. Very important.”
The colonel let the letter drop to the table. “Well, Staub, it seems that you have influential friends.”
“It does,” Willie said.
“So, perhaps this is a matter of ‘when in Rome’…We certainly don’t want to offend our hosts, especially the army, when we are trying to encourage them to cooperate with us. I have no personal objections to Frau Staub joining you. We will even skip the usual procedures. So, everybody’s happy.”
Meisinger pasted on a magnanimous expression; what had just been a vital sticking point was now casually swept away. When the colonel took his leave, Willie and Iris reacted as if a shark had swum around them and moved on.
Harry said, “You’d better go. What you can’t pack in five minutes, leave. Just get to the ship.”
“You knew he was going to let us go?” Willie asked.
“He had to. The man was such an embarrassment in Warsaw that the Gestapo sent him here. If he fouled up in Tokyo, his next stop was the South Pole.”
“When the waiter read the letter, he never mentioned General Tanaka by name, yet you knew it.”
“It’s not a talent I advertise, but I can read upside down. Willie, the Orinoco leaves from Yokohama, and it’s just going to slip into the dark. Go.”
“Thank you, Harry,” Iris said.
“Don’t thank me. You know why else the colonel let you go? He thinks that while he may not be able to stop Iris from boarding the ship, she won’t get past the Gestapo on the other end because of German race laws. That’s after you’ve run fifteen hundred miles of blockade, so don’t thank me, please. If you put in at any neutral ports, say, Lisbon, you might want to let the ship go on without you.”
“We can’t avoid the war. We have to take part.”
“You’re an ant on a dance floor, that’s how you’ll take part.” Harry laid on the letter what looked like two golden calling cards. Tael bars. “Lisbon is a beautiful city.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s something everybody needs.”
“I couldn’t.” Willie pushed the bars toward Harry.
“Willie, we lied and bribed to save people in China. Do you think you’re any better than they were? What do you think, Iris?”
She said, “Maybe it’s a loan.”
“Definitely a loan,” said Harry, who thanked God for women, or else the world would be full of proud men sitting on their thumbs. “I know you’d do the same for me.”
“I am sorry for what I said before.” Willie squeezed Harry’s hand. “Do you have your way out?”
“A smart man always knows where the exit is.”
“You have an exit here?”
“All over.” Harry pulled free. “Don’t play cards with anyone, ever. If you meet anyone who reminds you of me in the least, run the other way. Go.”
As Willie and Iris moved toward the elevator, Harry thought they were just another version of lovers giddily leaping into flames. Sometimes he felt he was the only realist he knew. At the other end of the lobby, Beechum’s party was reaching its own climax of indomitable good cheer, “There’ll always be an England / And England shall be free / If England means as much to you / As England means to me.” No doubt the same words could be heard, Harry thought, in Singapore, Hong Kong and Sydney, wherever Britons shouldered the white man’s burden of ungrateful wogs. The chorus repeated until sentimental tears ran down warm cheeks. Harry wondered how to find Michiko and where to hide from Ishigami. Now that he thought about it, he had needed the gold for himself. And, besides the plane, what exit?
ESPECIALLY AT NIGHT, the hotel looked like an Aztec temple with potted shrubs. As host, Beechum lingered in the driveway by the reflecting pool, making his good-byes of the evening while Alice waited in a car. Harry slid into the dark of the seat behind her.
“Willie and Iris seemed happy when they left,” Alice said.
“I don’t know why. Dodging destroyers to get to Germany is not, to me, a rational decision.”
“Harry, if you were a paragon of reason, you would not be in Beechum’s car nuzzling his wife.”
“But that’s not why I’m here.”
“No?” Alice laughed. “My God, what on earth for, then?”
“The Japanese are raiding Pearl Harbor. I think they’ll attack Singapore at the same time, probably Hong Kong, too.”
“When?”
“Within a day or two.”
Alice twisted the rearview mirror to see Harry. “This is not your area of expertise, is it?”
“No. By the way, did you see any photos in the evening papers?”
“Prime Minister Tojo riding in the park.”
“In tweeds.”
“Jodhpurs.”
“Almost British.”
“Some people at the embassy thought it was a good thing.”
“Did you believe it?” asked Harry.
“No, nor in the tooth fairy. I can’t think of anything more ominous.”
A man ran over to the car to tell Alice that Beechum would be only a minute longer. Harry raised his head when the man was gone. “I hear that the emperor has been studying charts of the Hawaiian Islands.”
“This is all highly circumstantial.” Her eyes fixed him via the mirror. “A Japanese attack may be overdue, but there’s something else, Harry, to make you so sure.”
“There’s been a little pressure on me to verify the missing oil.”
“Not your phony oil?”
“Suddenly it’s an issue. Targets, maybe.”
“How much pressure? Anything physical?”
“Just a touch, but they’re beating an accountant half to death at Sugamo Prison.”
“Harry, you must get on that plane tomorrow.”
“My thought, too.”
Alice was quiet for a moment. “Do you imagine if I thought anyone would heed our warning of an attack, that I would abandon my post? It’s too late for warnings, Harry. There are no brakes on the bus and no ears on the driver. This crash is going to happen.”
“We can try.”
“I’m not a spy, I’m just someone good at puzzles. If I suddenly had information, I’d have to name the source. Unfortunately, your reputation precedes you. No one will listen to you or me. It’s time for us to leave. Oddly enough, you’re becoming a better person. First Willie, now this.”
“As soon as we get to California, I’ll con some old lady out of her life savings, redress the balance.” Harry noticed that Beechum had moved out of sight.
“You’re going to do this, Harry? You will be on the plane?”
“Cross my heart.”
“You’ve said farewell to Butterfly?” Alice asked.
“Michiko? Not quite.”
“I can’t believe this. I am vying with a geisha for the affections of a gambler.”
Harry would have said that Michiko wasn’t a geisha, except now he was no longer sure. “First I have to find her.”
“You’ve lost her?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I have no doubt. Harry, you don’t have to tell her. If she knows you, she’ll understand soon enough that you’ve skipped out. Don’t go back to the club. All you need to do is get to the plane. Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me, to just get on the plane?”
“That’s what I said. We catch the Clipper from Hong Kong, and from there the world’s our oyster. A bungalow at the Beverly Hills, breakfast under an avocado tree.”
“So you are choosing me? I am the lucky girl? I wish I could think of something that was sacred to you to swear by.”
“I’m choosing California and you, it’s a package deal.”
“I forgot, you’re not a romantic.”
“Are you?”
“No. Of course not. We’re just a pair of black sheep.”
He placed a kiss on her neck and opened his door. Before he slipped out, he said, “You know what white sheep have? No imagination.”
HARRY HAD LEFT the Datsun across the street. The more he thought about it, the more he knew that Alice was right. The last thing he should do was look for Michiko. The smartest thing would be to stay out of Asakusa. Just lie low.
As he slid behind the wheel, he smelled the sweet scent of bay rum.
Things were black for a moment, then Harry discovered himself lying on the street and looking up at Beechum, who straddled Harry and pressed the edge of a cricket bat across his neck. Tears dripped from Beechum’s face, gone a chalky red.
“Stay away from my wife,” Beechum was saying. “Hands off my wife.”
Bigger things at play than adultery, Harry would have said if he could. Diplomatic deafness. The emperor’s new maps.
“Or I’ll kill you,” Beechum sobbed.
What was it DeGeorge said? Harry thought. “Get in line.”
Which earned him another swing of the bat.
His next conscious moment, Harry was on the sidewalk, unable to do more than raise his head and scan for Beechum, who was gone. An unusual amount of car traffic rolled by on the other side of the car, in the direction of government ministries. Harry concentrated on throwing up. There were dues in adultery. This was one of them.
Harry next found himself on his feet, rocking like a rocking chair and throwing up on the rear fender of his car. He had a knob the size of a golf ball behind his right ear and a tendency to lurch to one side with every step. Two old women with street brooms giggled with embarrassment while he retrieved his hat and reshaped it.
“Too much to drink, maybe,” one of the ladies suggested.
“One too many. I apologize for worrying you.”
“You should walk,” the first lady said. “Drink less, walk more.”
WALK? The idea appalled Harry, but he drove only as far as Tokyo Station before the smell of Beechum’s bay rum made him start to retch again and he decided that a long nocturnal stroll was just what he needed to reset his inner ear and stop veering to the side. He had fourteen hours to go before the plane, and as Alice had suggested, the smart thing would be to avoid Asakusa altogether, not to mention Ishigami and the Thought Police. It would have been nice to find Michiko, but he had to consider his own neck first. So, what the doctor ordered was a long, therapeutic walk. For an insomniac, a piece of cake.
Cars were gathering at ministry offices, but this late, the plaza between the palace and Tokyo Station was quiet, the palace bridges patrolled by a few guards with white-socked rifles. It was wonderful how, on the eve of war, the emperor’s tranquility was maintained. Either the palace was a sinkhole in the middle of reality, or the rest of the world was the emperor’s dream. It almost made a man tiptoe as he went by.
Foreigners who walked the city alone at night were suspect, but under streetlamps, with his face shadowed by his hat, the gaijin in Harry disappeared. The cool air refreshed him. As he went by the station, he took on a shorter, busier stride. Mastered his direction, swung a cigarette vigorously with every step, and policemen automatically nodded as he went by. One of the necessaries of being a hustler was resilience. He’d piss a little pinker was all. Harry was tempted to pass the night playing cards, but he knew that he wasn’t quite up to a serious game. Also, the less he hit his regular haunts, the better, even if he could practically feel the cards being laid down in Asakusa, hear the snap of the pasteboard, see the tiers of smoke above the table. No one was playing at the ballroom, of course. Haruko had that table to herself.
The advantage of a great city was its labyrinth of streets and alleys. Especially at night, when drab housefronts turned to the fanciful silhouettes of Chinese eaves and ghostly shirts hung on rods to dry. The discreet murmur of geishas issued from a willow house, a flash like brilliant tropical birds in the dark. Even the meanest alley might have a shrine, candles and coins set before a pair of stone fox gods with eyes of green glass. Foxes could change into women, it was well known, so any encounter with a fox at night had an element of danger for a man.
East of the palace was a warren of bookstores and print shops. Harry remembered an evening as warm and humid as a bathhouse, the height of Tokyo’s unbearable summer, when Kato had dragged Oharu and Harry to a printer there to pick up a surprise edition of a book entitled Fifty Views of Fuji. It was just a sketchbook, with a print run of one. The pictures had been quickly but deftly done. In each, Mount Fuji’s white skirt hung in the distance, but in the foreground were Asakusa’s narrow alleys, temple festivals and music halls, with Harry either stealing an orange, picking a pocket or smoking at a backstage door, a complete catalog of juvenile delinquency and petty crime. Harry was speechless; if the emperor had awarded him the Order of the Golden Kite, he could not have been more overcome.
Better yet, as they left the printer, Oharu noticed a cart selling balls of shaved ice in paper cones. Three syrups were offered: strawberry, melon and lemon. “Hurry, before it all melts,” Oharu said, and it was true, a lake spread from the drain hole of the cart. Kato flavored his ice with brandy from a flask. Harry chose lemon. Oharu took both strawberry and melon.
The lemon ice was tart and fresh. The problem was that it melted so instantly and the cone soaked through so quickly that Harry had to finish his ice in a race. Oharu, with two cones of ice, wasn’t fast enough. Red stripes of strawberry ran down one forearm and orange melon down the other. She wiped her hands with a handkerchief, but that left her arms sticky, and she seemed in such distress that what Harry did seemed natural. He took her arm and licked the syrup off, first the sweet strawberry and then the subtler track of the melon, mixed with the salt of her skin.
“We’re going to spoil the boy,” Kato said. “He’ll never be able to go home now.”
Harry realized that, moving for hours as mechanically as a sleepwalker, he had returned to familiar ground. The tea merchant, the willow house, the communal pump. He was on his own block, a black space suspended between corner lamps. It was hard to believe that, only two nights before, the Happy Paris had overflowed with customers drinking, boasting, admiring the Record Girl.
The club was shuttered and locked, but he heard the murmur of a saxophone. As Harry unlocked the door, the music stopped. He entered and locked the door behind him. The club was dark except for a moonbeam glow around the jukebox, the lowest setting of the light, where Michiko stood with a gun.
“I’m back,” said Harry.
Michiko stared as if he were an apparition. “Where were you?”
“Looking for you.”
“Not soon enough. Were you busy, Harry?”
“A lot of places to look.”
“And women to see?”
“Here and there.” Trying to stop a war, but Michiko always personalized things, Harry thought.
She turned the gun around and offered it to him. “Why don’t you just kill me, Harry?”
“No, thanks. I can see the headline, ‘Tragic End of Woman with Gaijin.’”
“‘Lovers End Life Together.’”
“‘Together’? After I kill you, I’m honor-bound to kill myself? My honor doesn’t stretch that far. To be honest, I’d cheat.”
“Okay.” She turned the gun around and aimed at him. “I waited at the ballroom, then I waited here.”
“Did you see Ishigami?”
“No, but I heard him.”
“Heard what?” Harry didn’t like the way she put it.
Michiko brought the words out slowly, as if from a hole she didn’t dare look into. “Haruko came for her stupid dress and hat. So we changed. I was in Tetsu’s office when someone else came. When I went out, Haruko was dead.”
“Where was Tetsu? Where was everyone else?”
“He had tattoo fever. He chased everyone out and went home. He said I could wait.”
“Why were you in his office?”
“I didn’t want anyone to see me. I was ashamed.”
“Why?”
“Haruko said that you were going to China with an Englishwoman. She said you weren’t coming back. Is that true?” She turned the gun toward herself, and he saw that the safety was off. He hated emotional blackmail. At the same time, he admired her nerve, the way she coolly placed the barrel to her temple.
“No, I said good-bye to my English friend and her husband. They were very good about it.”
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe, but I’m back.”
“You’ll be gone tomorrow, so what does it matter?”
Harry punched in “Mood Indigo.” “You like this one? Ellington uses a baritone sax instead of a tenor to carry the lead. Did I ever tell you that before?”
“Every time.”
“Well, it’s a classy touch. I saw him at the Starlight in L.A., the whole band in white jackets. Duke was in tails.”
“Don’t do it,” she said when Harry reached for her.
“What have I got to lose?” He laid her cheek on his shoulder. She resisted for a moment, but they really fit together, he thought. A person couldn’t shoot herself and dance at the same time. They didn’t dance so much as drift. The great thing about “Mood Indigo” was that a couple couldn’t dance too slowly.
“How many times did you play this song tonight?” he asked.
“Ten times? Twenty?”
“You must really like it.”
She said, “Not anymore.”
The turntable clicked to a stop. An arm rotated the record to the vertical and let it roll against a soft bumper of felt. For a moment she stayed in his arms.
Harry heard a clicking noise from the shutters. They were metal, padlocked from the outside against burglars, effectively blinding and trapping Harry and Michiko within. There was no light outside since the neon sign had been broken. It was a Sunday night, a working day tomorrow, the weekend over, time for women to rest their heads on wooden pillows and for the police to knee up to office heaters. No one abroad but goblins, cats and insomniacs. Harry threw on the club’s interior lights and located the source of the sound, a sword tip that vigorously probed one shutter slat and then the next like a tongue. What had he expected? It was just what Alice warned him about. So far, the shutters were holding.
“Are you staying?” Michiko asked.
“How can I get out?”
“No, are you staying?”
Staying? Harry had never asked himself the question in exactly that way.
“I wouldn’t leave you. Couldn’t leave you.”
With those words, Harry pictured the plane, his getaway, the Air Nippon DC- 3 in its hangar at Haneda Field. It shone in the dark. Then it disappeared.