“No skyline?” I-wan repeated.
“It was all flat,” Akio said. “Every building was gone. I stared and stared, and I could not believe it. But there was nothing. Also I had not heard from Sumie — she was to wait in Yokohama.”
Akio laughed suddenly.
“But when the ship came near, I saw a small plump woman standing among the ruins of the dock. Sumie! Well, I could spare the rest!”
They laughed together.
“And immediately,” Akio went on, “everybody began to rebuild. So we have our skyline again. We know our fate, we Japanese — we are not cowards.”
The door opened. “Now, if you please,” the young woman said.
A large American man came out and behind him a small slight figure in a gray business suit. That was Shio. He looked like Mr. Muraki made young again.
“All right, Muraki,” the big American was saying in a great rumbling voice, “it’s up to you. Seventy-five thousand dollars, good U. S. money — but you take the risks of breakage.”
“There will be no breakage,” Shio’s high clear voice declared.
“Well, that’s your pidgin,” the American said. “G’by, pleasure to do business with you, ’m sure—” He put out a large red hand and Shio laid his small unwilling brown one in it for a second. When the door had shut behind the American, Shio wiped his hand, half secretly, on his handkerchief.
“Hah!” he said to Akio, smiling and showing very white teeth under his small black mustache.
Akio smiled. “This is Wu I-wan,” he said.
“Hah!” said Shio pleasantly. “My father wrote me about you. He spoke very highly. I am sorry I was busy.”
“It is nothing,” I-wan said politely.
He felt suddenly shy. Shio was really too much like Mr. Muraki.
“Will you come into the office?” Shio said.
They followed him into a square ugly room with gray cement walls and uncomfortable wooden furniture painted yellow, and the young woman poured tea for them. But there was no time to look about. Shio was unwrapping something on his desk.
“Look!” he said eagerly.
It was an ivory figure of the Chinese Goddess of Mercy. She stood two feet high, benign and exquisite, her tranquil presence diffused from quiet eyes and flowing ivory robes. She must be very old, for the ivory was creamed.
“Ah,” Akio exclaimed, “at last!”
“At last,” Shio said. He gazed at the beautiful statue. No one spoke. Then Shio said sorrowfully, “If only we could keep her! But she is to go to America with the rest. A museum has bought the collection entire.”
“The great Li collection from Peking?” Akio asked, surprised.
Shio nodded. Then he said in a lower voice, “But tell me — how is all in my father’s house?”
“Well enough,” Akio answered. He hesitated and I-wan caught his eyes looking at him as though he wished I-wan were not there. So in decency I-wan took up a newspaper that lay upon a small table near him and began to read it, so that he need not hear what Akio was now saying to Shio of family matters.
Then suddenly he heard through all he read, these words: “So now he is very angry and he says he will tell General Seki that the wedding may take place at once.”
These words I-wan heard and instantly understood. In the crash and confusion of his own being he sat staring at the ivory goddess, speechless. She stood facing them, enigmatic, benevolent, ageless, eternal. He clung to her. She was quite helpless, of course. People could do with her as they liked. But in Japan, in America, wherever she was, whatever happened to her, she would be herself, unchanged. “I am insane,” he thought, “thinking about ivory idols…. He wants the wedding at once….”
“You will go to your room first, and rest,” Shio was saying kindly.
“Yes, if I may,” I-wan said. His voice sounded thin and far off.
“Don’t hurry,” Shio replied. “Have your meal. I want to talk with my brother. Tomorrow I will show you your desk. Just now of course we are very busy. Treasures are pouring out of North China.”
What, I-wan thought, did that mean?
“This way, please,” the young woman said. He took up his bag and followed her across the street toward a long one-story gray building. This was the hostel.
“Earthquake-proof,” she said proudly.
She led him to the desk where a clerk whisked a card catalogue to his name.
“Room fifty-one,” he said.
He went to room fifty-one, and opened the door to a small cell of a room. There were a bed, a chair, a table, a washbowl stand. Floor and walls were gray cement.
He sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. He must write to Tama at once. He opened his bag and snatched out the paper and pen he had put in this morning. That quiet room seemed a thousand miles, a thousand years, away.
“Tama,” he began, “I have heard a terrible thing. Akio says—” He scribbled on and on incoherently, trying to tell her what to do — only what could he tell her? “Postpone — pretend to be ill, Tama — anything. Tama, could you run away? Think of something and write me. I can’t sleep or eat until I hear.”
He sealed it hastily, marked it for air mail, and rushed out to the desk to post it. When it was gone, he suddenly felt very faint. He must, after all, have something to eat.
He went into a restaurant and ordered a bean-curd soup and a little fish. As he waited he remembered the letter he had planned to write to Tama, when he was flying through sunshine over a blue sea. How different was the one now flying back to her, perhaps on that very plane on which he had come this morning! He felt a strange premonition that was like the memory of terror. He remembered his father bending over his bed and shaking him out of his dreams. He felt as though now, again, something had shaken him from a dream.
When he opened his eyes the next morning there was the sound of laughter in the hall outside his room. Young men were shouting with laughter. He heard them approach his door and pass, their laughter growing fainter as they went. A streetcar turned and screeched outside the window. He heard a crab vendor’s call, “Fresh crabs from the morning sea!”
He lay a moment, remembering the mood in which he had fallen asleep. His fears had woven themselves into broken dreams in which he and Tama seemed always about to meet, and yet he never found her. It was all not true, fears or dreams. Everything was going to be all right. He could trust her — that soft stubbornness of hers.
The sun falling through the bamboo curtains was making little dancing waves of light on the wall. He leaped out of bed. He was going to work so hard that Shio would tell Mr. Muraki how good he was, and then perhaps Mr. Muraki would let him marry Tama. Well, his own grandfather might say he would rather his son married a Chinese, but then he had often heard his father say that China and Japan should be allies and friends. He laughed silently as he brushed his hair carefully before the mirror. He agreed with his father!
Tama would have his letter today. Perhaps she would not expect so immediate a letter and would not go at once to Sumie? He paused, his hand on the door, framing mentally a possible telegram. No, it was impossible. He would trust to her going at once to Sumie to tell her there would be letters. He could trust Tama.
He went on to his restaurant breakfast almost blithely. If she answered also by airplane, he might have a letter tomorrow. He ate rice gruel and an egg and salted vegetables and drank a glass of American malted milk without knowing what he ate or drank, then rose and paid his bill and crossed the street to the Muraki building.
The door of Shio’s office was open and I-wan stood before it and coughed slightly.
“Come in!” Shio answered. His voice was so exactly like Mr. Muraki’s that I-wan felt a little daunted. But he went in. Shio was at his desk already, a small, intensely neat figure with spectacles and a close stiff black mustache. He looked a straight militant little man until one saw his eyes. Behind the heavy lenses his eyes were, for a Japanese, unusually large, and their gaze was as naive and mild as a child’s. The militancy was all on the surface and because he had gone to military school, as every Japanese man had to do.