“Doctor Seyss-Inquart. Former Austrian Nazi, now in charge of Reich colonial areas, responsible for colonial policies. Possibly most hated man in Reich territory. Said to have instigated most if not all repressive measures dealing with conquered peoples. Worked with Rosenberg for ideological victories of most alarming grandiose type, such as attempt to sterilize entire Russian population remaining after close of hostilities. No facts for certain on this, but considered to be one of several responsible for decision to make holocaust of African continent thus creating genocide conditions for Negro population. Possibly closest in temperament to original Fuhrer, A. Hitler.”
The Foreign Office spokesman ceased his dry, slow recitation.
Mr. Tagomi thought, I think I am going mad.
I have to get out of here; I am having an attack. My body is throwing up things or spurting them out—I am dying. He scrambled to his feet, pushed down the aisle past other chairs and people. He could hardly see. Get to lavatory. He ran up the aisle.
Several heads turned. Saw him. Humiliation. Sick at important meeting. Lost place. He ran on, through the open door held by embassy employee.
At once the panic ceased. His gaze ceased to swim; he saw objects once more. Stable floor, walls.
Attack of vertigo. Middle-ear malfunction, no doubt.
He thought, Diencephalon, ancient brainstem, acting up.
Some organic momentary breakdown.
Think along reassuring lines. Recall order of world. What to draw on? Religion? He thought, Now a gavotte perform sedately. Capital both, capital both; you’ve caught it nicely. This is the style of thing precisely. Small form of recognizable world, Gondoliers. G. & S. He shut his eyes, imagined the D’Oyle Carte Company as he had seen them on their tour after the war. The finite, finite world.
An embassy employee, at his elbow, saying, “Sir, can I give you assistance?”
Mr. Tagomi bowed, “I am recovered.”
The other’s face, calm, considerate. No derision. They are all laughing at me, possibly? Mr. Tagomi thought. Down underneath?
There is evil! It’s actual like cement.
I can’t believe it. I can’t stand it. Evil is not a view. He wandered about the lobby, hearing the traffic on Sutter Street, the Foreign Office spokesman addressing the meeting. All our religion is wrong. What’ll I do? he asked himself. He went to the front door of the embassy; an employee opened it, and Mr. Tagomi walked down the steps to the path. The parked cars. His own. Chauffeurs standing.
It’s an ingredient in us. In the world. Poured over us, filtering into our bodies, minds, hearts, into the pavement itself.
Why?
We’re blind moles. Creeping through the soil, feeling with our snouts. We know nothing. I perceived this… now I don’t know where to go. Screech with fear, only. Run away.
Pitiful.
Laugh at me, he thought as he saw the chauffeurs regarding him as he walked to his car. Forgot my briefcase. Left it back there, by my chair. All eyes on him as he nodded to his chauffeur. Door held open; he crept into his car.
Take me to the hospital, he thought. No, take me back to the office. “Nippon Times Building.” he said aloud. “Drive slowly.” He watched the city, the cars, stores, tall buildings, now, very modern. People. All the men and women, going on their separate businesses.
When he reached his office he instructed Mr. Ramsey to contact one of the other Trade Missions, the Non-Ferrous Ores Mission, and to request that their representative to the Foreign Office meeting contact him on his return.
Shortly before noon, the call came through.
“Possibly you noticed my distress at meeting,” Mr. Tagomi said into the phone. “It was no doubt palpable to all, especially my hasty flight.”