“How did Mr. Muraki know?” I-wan asked.
“He received the cablegram, of course,” Bunji said calmly. “It was sent to the house and he read it.”
“Why?” I-wan asked.
“To know whether it was important, of course,” Bunji answered as if surprised.
I-wan was about to retort, “But it was my cablegram!” but this would be rude toward Mr. Muraki, who perhaps had no sense of wrong done. So instead he said, “Please thank Mr. Muraki.”
Did he imagine Bunji was watching him strangely?
“I suppose it is necessary for you to go,” he continued.
“Certainly I feel it is,” I-wan replied firmly.
He had been half thinking as he stood there that he might take Tama and the boys to show them off to one of his own family. Now, going out of Bunji’s office, he decided against it. He had better meet I-ko alone.
He stood craning his head to watch as the ship came into the harbor with the smooth slow grace of a great swan. He did not run instantly to the gangway. He suddenly felt very shy of I-ko. They had never been close. I-ko was too much older. And I-wan remembered still that Peony had hated him for things of which she would never speak. That hatred had long made I-wan feel that I-ko was mysteriously evil, so he could not love him, even yet. And now there were these years in Germany. Who knew what they had done to him? Still, he was excited, too, at the thought of seeing his brother. For the first time he felt he had been a long time away from home. While the ship docked he stared at the row of people along the ship’s rail, recognizing no one.
Then he saw I-ko coming down the gangplank. He could not believe this upright cleanly-cut figure was that I-ko who had gone away, the slender slouching young man with thin peevish lips, who could pout like a child when he was denied and even weep to get his own way. What had Germany done to I-ko? He saw I-wan and shouted, and now I-wan saw a straight upright man, a head higher than the swarming Japanese about him, a hard-looking man with a firm mouth and haughty eyes and a foreign bearing. Behind him was a white woman dressed in some sort of shining green silk, her arms bare to the shoulder, but I-wan did not look at her. There were other men and women coming down the gangway.
He went up to I-ko shyly and put out his hand.
“I-ko,” he said.
“I-wan!” I-ko cried, and then he seized the arm of the white woman behind him. “Frieda,” he said to her, in German, “here is my brother.”
This I-wan heard. He remembered a little of the German he had learned long ago from the tutor his grandfather had hired for him. But who this woman was he did not understand. He looked at her and at once hated her. She was young but already too fat and her cheeks were too red. Her eyes were a hard bright blue above these red cheeks, and her hair under a green hat was yellow. She put out a hand covered in a yellow leather glove.
“Ach, it is so wonderful to see you!” she cried in a loud voice. I-wan felt her seize his hand in a sharp upward German clasp, and then to his horror he saw her lean forward and upon his cheek he felt her painted lips. “Brother I-wan!” she said and giggled.
“This is my wife, I-wan,” I-ko said haughtily. “Her name is Frieda von Reichausen, and her father is a German military officer of high standing.”
His voice, his eyes fixed upon I-wan, were daring I-wan to say anything. There was nothing to be said, I-wan thought. If they were married, what could be said? He merely bowed, therefore. But within himself questions were whirling. Did their father know? What would their mother say? How could this stout, hard young woman fit into their family? Why had I-ko done this? And then he remembered Tama, whom all these years he had not wanted to take home. If he should ever say a word of disapproval to I-ko, would not I-ko say at once that at least he had not married a Japanese? And yet Tama—he knew by instinct that this woman was not fit to stand beside Tama!
“We are only bride and groom,” she was saying. “Everything is so wonderful!” And again she giggled, her eyes arch upon him.
He thought, “I must not look at I-ko. She is so silly he will be ashamed of her before me.”
Something, he felt, must be said quickly to help I-ko. They were standing on the dock waiting awkwardly for nothing, and people swept against them as they hurried to and fro. And yet what could he say? He was still dazed. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and secretly rubbed his cheek, lest her red lips had left a stain on him.
“I-ko,” he said at last, “I scarcely knew you.” He spoke in Chinese and his tongue felt stiff and strange. Not for years had he spoken his own language. And now he was glad to speak it because it shut out this foreign woman.
I-ko looked pleased.
“No, I am changed,” he replied. “In fact am I not improved?”
“You look—much older,” I-wan said diffidently.
“Oh, I am a man now,” I-ko replied, smiling slightly. “I am very grateful to my father. I hated Germany for the first year and then liked it. I-wan, where can we talk? I have much to say—and the ship’s stay is very short. They are staying one hour instead of four.”
“But can’t you wait over a few days and take another ship?” I-wan asked politely. What would he do if I-ko accepted—with her!
I-ko shook his head. “There is no time,” he answered. “It is imperative that I get home. Where can we go?”
“I suppose we could go to that little restaurant,” I-wan said, doubtfully. A small restaurant was near the dock and it had a few outdoor tables. I-ko nodded his head vigorously.
“Yes, that will do,” he decided. “Come, Frieda!” he called in German. He strode across the street ahead of I-wan, his shoulders set square, and when they sat down he beckoned imperiously for a waiter. Behind them she came. They sat down and I-wan at once felt the stare of people—a white woman with two Chinese men! But I-ko seemed not to notice.
“Beer,” I-ko said to the waiter, and scarcely waiting a moment, he leaned toward I-wan.
“I-wan,” he said, “you cannot stay here. You must come home at once.” He spoke in Chinese and he paid no heed to his wife. But she seemed used to this and while they talked she sat looking about her with hard and curious eyes. If she cared that other people wondered at her she made no sign of it.
“But—but—,” I-wan stammered, meeting I-ko’s look. He drew back a little. I-ko’s face was almost menacing. “I—it is impossible—my family—”
“Can it be you, too, don’t know?” I-ko exclaimed.
“Know what?” I-wan asked. The old premonition had him by the throat and his mouth went suddenly dry.
“Haven’t you heard?” I-ko cried.
“I haven’t heard anything,” I-wan faltered.
“The Japanese are going to take Peking!” I-ko whispered.
“Peking!” I-wan repeated stupidly.
“Has there been nothing told even about that?” I-ko exclaimed. Around them Japanese were sitting at the small tables, talking and laughing, and drinking tea and wine. Above them the sky was blue, without a cloud. There were women in bright kimonos, and at one side sat a little group of Americans, having tea with an officer from the ship. And beside them the German woman sat, her plump elbows on the table. She had already drunk her beer, and now she sat eating small cakes.
“It was just troop movements, they said,” I-wan replied, looking away from her. No, but perhaps he had missed something. He did not always read the papers these days. He dreaded them. And Tama never spoke of such things. No, rather it was as if together they did not speak of them. But he could not tell I-ko this.
But I-ko was hurrying on. “Father foresaw everything weeks ago and cabled me. The Generalissimo wants me to come home. The army is being reorganized on a huge scale. There will be war! We will resist to the end. At last it has been decided!”
I-wan could scarcely comprehend what I-ko was saying in his low hurried whispering Chinese.
“But—no one knows—anything here,” he stammered. He felt as though his breath had been driven out o
f him. “There hasn’t been much in the papers—people are just going on—some mention of a little difficulty, but not—”
“These people!” I-ko said contemptuously. “The ones at the top don’t tell them anything. I tell you, I-wan, mobilization has begun. It’s going to be the greatest war of our history. I-wan, come home with me!”
“Now?” I-wan cried.
“Now!” I-ko said strongly. “I have money for your passage. We can get your ticket on the ship, if need be. Father told me—”
“But my family—” I-wan began.
“There are no claims on you now but this one,” I-ko insisted. “You have no obligations to any Japanese except to hate them forever!” I-ko’s teeth shone in a dramatic snarl, as white as a fox’s teeth. Even at this moment, while they stared at each other, I-wan could stop to remember that I-ko loved to be dramatic, and this made him the more cautious.
… Tama, I-wan was saying to himself, Tama was a Japanese and he loved her. She seemed more than ever gentle and faithful and good, now that I-ko had—had married such a one as this. He could not leave Tama. He would have to think what to do.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “I can’t see why—why should there be war? We aren’t enemies—”
“We are enemies!” I-ko answered firmly. “Where have you been, I-wan, not to know that this war has been hurrying upon us for months—years? Have you heard of the outrage at Lukow-chiao?”
“The papers said it would be amicably settled,” I-wan said.
“Settled! By the loss of Peking?” I-ko asked passionately.
“I tell you, they—they didn’t say it was like that,” I-wan stammered.
“Has your marriage made you Japanese, too?” I-ko demanded.
“No—no—” I-wan said quickly. “No—only it is so quick—I haven’t known—I have had no letters from home.” Why did he not retort, “Are you German?” But he did not want to hear I-ko say, “At least my wife is not a Japanese!”
“How do you know?” I-ko interrupted him. “Letters don’t get through here unread. I am sure Father did tell you and you never had the letters. He cabled me that he couldn’t understand why you wrote as you did, and that I was to stop and see what was wrong.”
“Mr. Muraki told me he had heard my father was taking a journey into Szechuan to see about organizing a branch bank!” I-wan exclaimed. “So I thought the letters were delayed.”
“There is not one Japanese you can trust!” I-ko declared. “Come, I-wan!”
They talked far longer than they knew, with long silences between.
Whenever they fell silent the German woman asked a question about something she saw. Once she exclaimed, “Ach, so—see the funny little people—they are so little, the Japs, are they not?”
Whatever she said it was I-ko who answered her and not I-wan. He scarcely heard her. He sat thinking and trying to realize what I-ko had told him had happened. The afternoon deepened and the sun was half-way to the sea. The hour was gone. The German woman was yawning. They rose, and she sauntered ahead of them to the ship.
The Americans were getting up now, too. Their clear, sharp voices carried across the tables as they talked to each other, oblivious to everyone else. Two of them were going with the officer, and the others were staying. A pretty girl cried, “Be careful, you two, in Shanghai! Red, take your hat off, when the air raids begin, so they can see your flaming top and know you’re not a Chinaman!”
A red-haired young man laughed.
“So long, Mollie! Sorry you aren’t coming, but I guess it’s no place for girls just now.”
The ship’s whistle roared in warning.
“Do you hear them?” I-ko demanded. “Everybody knows, I tell you, except these stupid common people in Japan. I-wan, hundreds of people have been killed—and it will only grow worse. Our whole country has to wake up—we have to fight as we’ve never fought!”
They were walking now to the ship. I-ko stopped.
“Will you come?” he demanded.
“I can’t,” I-wan said. “Not now—not like this—”
“Why not?”
“I can’t just—leave them—Mr. and Mrs. Muraki—they have been good to me—”
“They’re Japanese,” I-ko reminded him in a whisper.
“They’ve been good to me,” I-wan repeated.
“Then I tell you this,” I-ko retorted. “As your elder brother speaking for our father, you are to come as soon as you can. That means days, I-wan—not weeks. And hours are better than days, I tell you.”
The crew was busy on the decks. The passengers were mounting the gangplank.
“Hours,” I-ko repeated. “Of all countries, you cannot stay in Japan. It’s—indecent!” He put a hand hard on I-wan’s shoulder and shook it a little. “Good-by, then—for a few days only. Meanwhile, I will write you at once the truth about all I see.”
I-wan did not answer. He stood watching while the ship began to edge away from the shore. From the deck he saw I-ko’s wife wave her yellow-gloved hand. He took off his hat and bowed. The ship moved, turned south, and then west … He had asked I-ko nothing, and I-ko had told him nothing. They were further apart than ever.
He returned to his home by train that same night. When he entered the house in the morning Tama came to meet him with soft welcoming cries and they walked together along the garden path. He thought with fresh disgust today of I-ko’s wife. And yet it came to him how Japanese Tama looked. In the old days of her girlhood he had not thought of her as looking very Japanese in her school clothes and her leather shoes. She seemed then only a young girl.
“You wear kimono and geta now all the time,” he said abruptly.
She gave him a laugh soft with apology.
“Do you mind? They are so comfortable!”
He could not say he minded, since until now he had not noticed. Certainly the bright orange-flowered kimono was very becoming to her apricot skin and dark eyes. At the door she dropped to her knees as though she were his serving maid and untied his shoes and took them off and then slipped over his feet the loose cloth house slippers always ready. He had protested often at this service until she had persuaded him that it was a way of expressing her love for him.
“I do it for no one else,” she insisted.
So he had grown used to it, and indeed there had come to be a sweet intimacy in the sight of her dark head bent before him. Today he thought, “But no other woman would ever do it.”
At that moment Jiro came running to meet him. “Where is Ganjiro?” he asked him, for the two were always together.
“Asleep,” Jiro replied.
Tama had continued to make Jiro wholly Japanese in his dress and looks, and even in the way she brushed his hair. I-wan said abruptly, “Jiro’s feet are beginning to turn in from wearing geta. Get him some leather shoes, Tama.”
“Before he goes to school?” she looked up in surprise. “But they are so expensive.”
“I don’t care,” he returned. “Get them.”
She did not answer, but he could see in the way she hushed Jiro’s exclamations of joy that she did not approve of this. And then he caught sight of the maid crossing the room toward the kitchen with Ganjiro asleep on her back. And he, knowing Tama would think him only more unreasonable, went on.
“And why is the baby strapped like that to the maid’s back when he can walk? His legs will be as short and crooked as Bunji’s.”
Here she was indignant.
“I-wan, I beg you—not in the presence of Jiro. And it is a good way to care for a little child. He is warm and safe while he sleeps. The even temperature of her body keeps him from catching cold.”
“Put him in his bed—I won’t have him strapped like that,” he insisted.
He saw in her eyes that he was indeed being unreasonable. She sighed and then smiled.
“Of course, you are very tired,” she said gently. “A whole night on the train! Jiro, go away until I call you.”
“I am not tired
,” I-wan retorted.
Nevertheless he said no more. Perhaps he was unreasonable. Certainly it astonished him to find in himself a feeling that today it would be a pleasure to be able to quarrel with Tama. But it was impossible to quarrel with her. She would not answer him. She went quietly about to placate him, and then she went away for a few minutes as though to give him time to recover himself. He could almost imagine that she withdrew to remember what she had been taught to do when a man, her husband, is irritable. In the past when she had so considered him, invariably she came back with a flower or a sweetmeat or a pot of freshly brewed tea, to make him feel her especial attention. He had always been ashamed of his rare moods of ill-temper. But today he felt irritated with this very seeming pliability of hers, which made allowance for everything he did, and yet, he knew, yielded nothing to any change.
He ate his meal in silence, full of such thoughts, yet hating himself, too. For Tama was not changed. She was what she had always been, the same fresh, naïve, happy creature, the same compound of childishness and sophistication, the same confusion of old and new. And her only fault was that she always did faithfully what she had been taught to do. It occurred to him suddenly that this was true of every Japanese—each one did as he was told to do. But whose was the final command? The spirit of the people, fostered by—what? The Emperor? He had often seen the pictures of the Emperor and Empress. They were in the sacred shrines of every schoolhouse and public building—two doll-like immobile creatures. No, they too did only as they were told. It now seemed to him that the whole nation was trained in the same mold. And into this mold would go also his own two sons!
He rose abruptly. He must get to his office. Then he could not find his hat. And Tama had left the room a moment before.
“Where is my hat?” he demanded of the maid, who came in with tea.
The baby was no longer on her back. At his voice she looked frightened as though she did not know what to expect.
“Hah!” she breathed distractedly, and began running about hunting for the hat in absurd places. He grew impatient.
“My hat, Tama!” he shouted. She came in quickly, Ganjiro in her arms, crying.