And after all, the originals can still be sold in my shop. To connoisseurs, as for example Paul’s friends.
“You wrestle with yourself,” Paul observed. “No doubt it is in such a situation that one prefers to be alone.” He had started toward the office door.
“I have already decided.”
Paul’s eyes flickered.
Bowing, Childan said, “I will follow your advice. Now I will leave to visit the importer.” He held up the folded slip of paper.
Oddly, Paul did not seem pleased; he merely grunted and returned to his desk. They contain their emotions to the last, Childan reflected.
“Many thanks for your business help,” Childan said as he made ready to depart. “Someday I will if possible reciprocate. I will remember.”
But still the young Japanese showed no reaction. Too true, Childan thought, what we used to say: they are inscrutable.
Accompanying him to the door, Paul seemed deep in thought. All at once he blurted, “American artisans made this piece hand by hand, correct? Labor of their personal bodies?”
“Yes, from initial design to final polish.”
“Sir! Will these artisans play along? I would imagine they dreamed otherwise for their work.”
“I’d hazard they could be persuaded,” Childan said; the problem, to him, appeared minor.
“Yes,” Paul said. “I suppose so.”
Something in his tone made Robert Childan take sudden note. A nebulous and peculiar emphasis, there. And then it swept over Childan. Without a doubt he had split the ambiguity—he saw.
Of course. Whole affair a cruel dismissal of American efforts, taking place before his eyes. Cynicism, but God forbid, he had swallowed hook, line and sinker. Got me to agree, step by step, led me along the garden path to this conclusion: products of American hands good for nothing but to be models for junky good-luck charms.
This was how the Japanese ruled, not crudely but with subtlety, ingenuity, timeless cunning.
Christ! We’re barbarians compared to them, Childan realized. We’re no more than boobs against such pitiless reasoning. Paul did not say—did not tell me—that our art was worthless; he got me to say it for him. And, as a final irony, he regretted my utterance. Faint, civilized gesture of sorrow as he heard the truth out of me.
He’s broken me, Childan almost said aloud—fortunately, however, he managed to keep it only a thought; as before, he held it in his interior world, apart and secret, for himself alone. Humiliated me and my race. And I’m helpless. There’s no avenging this; we are defeated and our defeats are like this, so tenuous, so delicate, that we’re hardly able to perceive them. In fact, we have to rise a notch in our evolution to know it ever happened.
What more proof could be presented, as to the Japanese fitness to rule? He felt like laughing, possibly with appreciation. Yes, he thought, that’s what it is, as when one hears a choice anecdote. I’ve got to recall it, savor it later on, even relate it. But to whom? Problem, there. Too personal for narration.
In the corner of Paul’s office a wastebasket. Into it! Robert Childan said to himself, with this blob, this wu-ridden piece of jewelry.
Could I do it? Toss it away? End the situation before Paul’s eyes?
Can’t even toss it away, he discovered as he gripped the piece. Must not—if you anticipate facing your Japanese fellowman again.
Damn them, I can’t free myself of their influence, can’t give in to impulse. All spontaneity crushed… Paul scrutinized him, needing to say nothing; the man’s very presence enough. Got my conscience snared, has run an invisible string from this blob in my hands up my arm to my soul.