Pearl Buck - Patriot

He wrote to her throughout the long year, often impatiently, sometimes angrily, and sometimes, in the long gray winter’s days, in the apathy of delay and discouragement. He knew that she could not always get his letters when they reached Sumie. Sometimes, she told him, there were five or six waiting before she found a chance to go to Akio’s house and then she had to wait until night to read them. But her letters were always the same. They were short, even when his were long, but they carried always the same steady words. “It will be made clear to us what our fate is. And my mother still delays.”

Well, he must learn to be content with delay, he told himself…. That year in Yokohama was the longest of his life.

For hours he had stood checking with a pencil the things which the clerks drew carefully out of the sawdust and rice straw — potteries and ivories, carved agate and rose quartz, crystal and cloisonné, carved blackwood and redwood, and silver, inlaid with the sky-blue feathers of the kingfisher bird. But he paid no heed to anything.

All through the spring and the summer he had forced himself to be content with delay, but now in this first month of early autumn he was miserably anxious again about Tama.

He had not simply imagined that her letters had grown careful. It was more than that. Last week she had told him to write less often and less freely. What did that mean except that she was afraid and uncertain — that she was changed? He had remembered then that she had never said that she would surely marry him, whatever happened, and he had decided desperately that he would wait no longer for Tama’s “fate.” He must know why she had changed to him. And instantly he had sat down and written her all his fears and had begged her to tell her father everything and let him come. He had told her that he would wait four days for her answer. This was the fourth day. If tonight there were no letter he would leave for Kyushu tomorrow. And now he could scarcely wait until the hands of his watch crept to six, and yet he dreaded to know the hour was there.

The door opened and Shio came in.

On great tables put there the treasures stood. Shio went over them in an ecstasy.

“Hah—” he whispered tenderly, “hah — all this—”

His small stubby fingers touched as delicately as a breath one thing after another. He knew everything, murmuring as he went. “This now, is Sung white — and this is a green they never made so well as in the Ming — and yes, I see it — the white jade landscape — ah, I have tried for ten years to get that!” He seized upon a lump of jade carved into the likeness of a snowy mountain. He was laughing and half tearful with joy. “It’s here!” he cried. “I cannot tell you what it means! I will not sell it to any American, even if he offers a million for it! It shall stay here in Japan! Such things belong in Japan. It is only we who appreciate them—”

I-wan watched, astounded. Why, Shio was like a man half mad! He was caressing the mass of jade, muttering and grunting. It was revolting, I-wan thought to himself, horrible! Suddenly a question cracked across his mind again like a whip. Where had these things come from?

He stood a moment, then he turned and silently and quickly he went out of the warehouse. He brushed his way through the crowds of clerks leaving for their buses. Everybody was laughing and merry as they put away office coats and slipped off paper cuffs. But he went on swiftly, entered the hostel and went down the hall and opened the door of his room…. If there were a letter it would be on the table.

It was not there, he saw instantly. But, peacefully asleep on his bed, he saw Bunji.

His first thought was to shout, “Bunji! What are you doing here?” But he checked the cry. He had never taken any thought before of how Bunji looked. He knew Bunji was not handsome. Bunji himself made fun of his looks.

“I look like the clown in a street show, of course,” he always said cheerfully. “Well, what of that? I don’t have to worry about that — all the mogas will not love me — so I can have a peaceful life.” He always declared he would marry the ugliest girl he could find, since being still uglier himself, he would make her happy in feeling she was beautiful by comparison. Nobody needed to think how Bunji looked when he was laughing and joking, because he was always a pleasant sight in spite of his thick flat nose that was bridgeless and his small bright eyes and big smiling mouth.

But now for many months I-wan had not seen him. And he had never seen him asleep. Bunji gravely asleep was someone else. His face looked low-browed and the jaw was too heavy and the mouth was thick. Now I-wan could see — Bunji was very Japanese. His body was squat and his arms long and his hands short and powerful. Even his feet, without shoes now, looked short and thick except for the prehensile Japanese toes. I-wan had heard children on the streets of Shanghai call after a Japanese, “Monkey — monkey!” The word came to his mind now. But Bunji opened his eyes, stared, and leaped up, laughing.

“I-wan!” he shouted.

“Why are you here?” I-wan asked quietly. He was forcing himself to think, “This is the same Bunji.”

Bunji was yawning loudly and rubbing his eyes with his fists.

“I don’t know,” he said cheerfully. “All I know is Akio and I were told to report at Tokyo at army headquarters. We got here too late to go on tonight. So I said, ‘I’ll go and find that old I-wan and we’ll have fun once more together.’”

“Where is Akio?” I-wan asked.

“Oh, of course Sumie came, too, and they are somewhere together, I suppose, looking at Fuji-san under the moon or something like that!” Bunji laughed. “You know them! Besides, they love Fuji. Every summer they make a trip together up Fuji—”

“Why should Tokyo headquarters send for you?” I-wan asked.

Bunji was putting on his shoes.

“That’s what I shall ask them,” he said cheerfully. “Every year or so we reserve officers have to go and get registered in case of war — generals are like old grannies, always thinking about war.”

He was on his feet now, brushing his hands through his stiff hair.

“Yokohama has good geisha dancing,” he roared. “Come on, I-wan! After all, it’s months since we met!”

I-wan thought a moment. Bunji could tell him of Tama….

“I’m coming,” he answered.

The theater was bright with lanterns and the seats were full of gaily dressed people, placidly eating sweets and staring at the brilliant stage, their faces serene with pleasure. It was an ancient dance, full of stateliness and pomp and historic meaning which I-wan could not understand. But everybody else seemed to understand it. When it was over there were cries and shouts of praise. Bunji leaned back, beaming and perspiring with his pleasure.

“I never saw it done so well,” he cried. “Ah, that little Haru San — the one in the middle — she is famous! Everybody knows her. I have heard of her and never seen her.”

“I did not listen too well,” I-wan confessed.

Everybody was talking and laughing and moving about until the curtain rose again.

“It is the story of how the daughter of a great samurai disguised herself as a man and led her father’s armies out in his place,” Bunji explained. “She takes the enemy general captive, you see, and falls in love. Her heart bids her spare his life. The struggle is terrible. But her country prevails and she kills him with her father’s sword. Then, seeing him dead, she kills herself.” Bunji wiped his face which instantly burst out into fresh perspiration in his excitement. “It’s beautiful—” He sighed and looked about him. “It is a famous play. Everybody knows it, but still they want to see it over and over—” His round absurd face grew suddenly shy. “If I had any courage,” he said, “I would ask to see that little Haru San — and tell her — how I — how I—”