“No thanks,” he said throatily, shaking his head, “just the coffee.”
He walked unsteadily back down the length of the hut.
Self-consciously the men turned away from the King’s smoldering contempt. “I hope for your sakes, you sons of bitches, the war’s over for real,” the King said.
When the Colonel returned, a week later, Mema was shocked to see him look so ill. He interrupted her brusquely.
She stared at him incredulously. “I don’t understand.”
“We have — surrendered,” he began again. “The war is over. We have lost.”
“But that’s impossible,” Mema cried, brinked on insanity. “You told me — ”
“Apparently,” said the Colonel, “my — information was incorrect.”
“But then”—Mema stared at him, bewildered — “then they’ve — the English and Americans — they’ve beaten us, I mean — ” the words were almost too extraordinary to say, “you mean we’ve beaten you?”
“Yes.”
The Colonel grimly took off his Samurai sword and sat down.
“But that means — ” Mema sank onto a chair, staring at him, trying to understand. Then the thought burst through her: “Then Mac, my husband — ”
“You will have to speak in Japanese if you wish me to understand you!” the Colonel said curtly.
“Then my husband, what about my real husband?”
“He may be dead. He may be alive, perhaps he is!”
“Alive?” Mem repeated weakly.
“Yes.” The Colonel got up. “You are free to go.”
“Go where?” she burst out.
“Anywhere. With the loss of the war, my love for you is lost. The war is over. My love is over.”
“But, but, what shall I do?”
“That is your problem.”
Mema got up and weakly sat again, for her legs did not seem to be her own, trying to understand, trying to think, but it was too difficult. Too difficult. “Be patient with me, my husband,” she said. “The war is over and you — and we have lost.”
“I’ve said so,” the Colonel snapped. “This whole interview is distasteful.”
Mema didn’t hear the words, so locked was she in her nightmare. “Then what I think — I — will you please kill me, before, before you — commit hari kiri.” The tears were streaming.
“I’m not going to commit hari kiri,” said the Colonel contemptuously.
“But, but our code of honor, Bushido, you’re a Samurai…”
“I obey the orders of the Emperor. He has ordered that we surrender.”
The scales fell from Mema’s eyes and she saw him standing before her. In one clear instant she knew. She KNEW. “You’re afraid,” she gasped. “You’re afraid!”
“I’m not.”
The Colonel’s face was ashen.
“You’re afraid, you, the Samurai, you’re afraid.”
“I am going now. With my men. We have orders to assemble for transshipment for home.” He bowed curtly and walked, the heels of his polished boots clicked on the veranda steps and he began to walk down them.
“But what about me?” Mema gasped. “And our children?”
The Colonel stopped and looked back at her. “Angus is your child, not mine. And as for the girl, she’s a half-caste and a bastard. Do what you like with her.”
Mema stared at him blankly. “What?”
The Colonel’s fury lashed out. “It would be easy to kill you. Very easy. But you can live or take your own life. You damned whites! You’ve beaten us, but by my ancestors, I can have a little revenge by leaving you alive. Let’s both be honest — you bought yourself a soft life with your body. You’re no better than a whore. Rot in the stupid hell you believe in, for all I care.”
Then he walked down the path and his chauffeur bowed and he got into the car and the chauffeur closed the door and the car was lost in the Sumatran night.
Mema was crying now, piteously.
“Okasan,” piped Angus as he ran across the room. “Okasan, doshita naiterulno?”
Mema stared at him blankly, not understanding the gibberish words. “What did you say, darling?”
Angus stared at her frightened, not understanding the strange gibberish that his mother was speaking and not understanding her tears. So he said again, pathetically, “Okasan.”
And Mema forced her brain to think the words her son understood, Japanese words, only Japanese words, her son — the son of her and Angus McCoy, who might be alive, her true husband. “I don’t know, my son,” she said, the tears streaming.
Then there were more frightened little feet and then little Nobu was in her arms, whimpering; too young to know speech, but old enough to know terror and know that tears were frightening and that her mother was frightened, even as she.
And because Mema was crying, silently, helplessly, frighteningly, and moaning in a strange gibberish, Angus and little Nobu began crying too. Caught in her arms.
“Oh God,” Mema said aloud. “What shall I do? What shall I do?”
Peter Marlowe walked out of the Camp Commandant’s quarters and hurried towards the American hut. He replied automatically to the greetings of the men he knew and he could sense the constant eyes — incredulous eyes — that watched him. Yes, he thought, I don’t believe it either. Soon to be home, soon to fly again, soon to see my old man again, drink with him, laugh with him. And all the family. God, it’ll be strange. I’m alive. I’m alive. I made it!
“Hello, you fellows!” He beamed as he entered the hut.
“Hi, Peter,” Tex said as he jumped to his feet and shook his hand warmly. “Boy, were we glad to hear about the guard, old buddy!”
“That’s a masterpiece of understatement,” Peter Marlowe said and laughed. As they surrounded him, he basked in the warmth of their greetings.
“What happened with the Brass?” Dino asked.
Peter Marlowe told them, and they became even more apprehensive. All except Tex. “Hell, there’s no need to prepare for the worst. It’s over!” he said confidently.
“It’s over for sure,” Max said gruffly as he walked into the hut.
“Hello, Max, I — ” Peter Marlowe did not continue. He was shocked by the frightening look in Max’s eyes.
“You all right?” he asked, perturbed.
“’Course I’m all right!” Max flared. He shoved past and fell on his bunk. “What the hell’re you staring at? Can’t a guy lose his temper once in a while without all you bastards staring?”
“Take it easy,” Tex said.
“Thank Christ, I’ll be outta this lousy dump soon.” Max’s face was gray-brown and his mouth twitched. “And that goes for you lousy bastards!”
“Shut up, Max!”
“Go to hell!” Max wiped the spittle from his chin; he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of ten-dollar notes, then savagely ripped them and scattered them like confetti.
“What the hell’s gotten into you, Max?” Tex asked.
“Nothin’, you son of a bitch! The bills’re no goddam good.”
“Huh?”
“I just been to the store. Yeah. Thought I’d get me a coconut. But that goddam Chinee wouldn’t take my dough. Wouldn’t take it. Said he’d sold his whole stock to the goddam Camp Commandant. On a note. ‘The English Government promises to pay X Straits Dollars!’ You can wipe your goddam ass on the Jap bucks — that’s all they’re good for!”
“Wow,” Tex said. “That’s the clincher. If the Chinese won’t take the dough, then we’ve really got it made, eh, Peter?”