e imitai desu, o-negai," and you're off like a bat out of hell.
What you have just said, literally, is, "This place to, wish to go is, if you please." Don't brood about that, however, and don't look out the window unless you have a strong heart. The driver is proceeding on his embattled way, along the hidari side rather than the migi. He passes jam-packed, snorting, smoking buses, most of them bearing the warning THEN PROCEED WITH CAUTION, without advising what to do before THEN. He leans fondly on the horn, scatters a crowd patiently waiting to board a streetcar, breaks into an open stretch, and pushes the accelerator to the floor.
All hell has broken loose. Papa-san has to depend on the conversation dictionary, which is hard to read at such jiggling speed, but which contains a phrase that means "So much don't run!" You will be thankful when you can order, "That corner at stop." The ¥70 and Y80 cabs are cheap transportation, and not worth it.
Japan will have to do something about its traffic, if not about the tootling. The toll of deaths and injuries on Japanese roads in 1952 appears low, at first glance, in a country of eighty million population—4,696 dead and 43,234 injured. But this was an alarming increase of 41.2 percent over the figures for 1951, and on the basis of the total number of vehicles, it means that one out of every 138 vehicles has killed somebody. If we had a comparable death toll in America, which had more than forty-two million cars that same year, we should have killed off more than three hundred thousand persons on the highways.
But motoring in Japan can be takusan fun, and it is the best way to see the real country, away from downtown Tokyo. Road signs are bewildering, road maps scarce, and you should learn to convert kilometers into miles. As I have said before, you need a guido. Come back now with Papa-san, rolling down the Tokaido with what Richi-san calls the Su-ports Car Crub. The membership of this group is very cosmopolitan, and the same could be said of its membership card. The latter shows a torii gate, emblematic of Japan; it bears English text; and at the bottom, with a fine cosmopolitan flair, is printed: "Pour le Grand Sport."
We are now beyond Yokohama, and there are stretches of green countryside, colorful villages, rice paddies, and chuckholes in the pavement a foot deep. It is very nice wezzer, indeed, the kind of wezzer that brings Japanese out for "cherry-viewing," "moon-viewing," or a plain American-style pikunikku. It is top-down weather.
"Papa-san?"
"Yes, Richi-san?"
"Don' put on cover?"
She is asking if I am not going to put up the top. I say no, I wouldn't be caught dead with the top up on a day like this, and ask her if she is cold.
"Not cold, Papa-san. But hair bu-roke."
I tell Richi-san that a wind-blown bob is quite fashionable in the States, although I really don't know, because I've been away from there quite awhile now. And everybody knows how women's styles are—all time changee-changee.
"Papa-san, today morning I'm forget some'sing, ever'-sing. Ba-ad head, don' you?"
Richi-san never asks, "Don't you think?" but just, "Don' you?" The "think" is understood. I would be less than a gentleman if I told this small girl, "Yes, I think so." I insist that she has a very good head. She is learning English quite fast.
"No, Papa-san—ba-ad head! Today morning I'm forget sun gu-rasses anda camera. Engrish speaking, Papa-san, 'hat you say—somebody's house?"
"Somebody's house? I don't get the connection."
"Maybe anybody's house. Papa-san don' understand anybody's house?"
"No—I mean yes, I don't understand."
"Watsamatta you, Papa-san?" and she taps her forehead. "Somebody's house—anybody's house! Maybe srang speaking!"
"Slang? Oh—you mean nobody home?"
"Yiss, of-a course, Papa-san."
Now, where did she learn that? It dates back to "Twenty-three Skidoo" and other nifties of the eens. Papa-san is still chuckling to himself a couple of kilometers later. Not another sports car is in sight. Nothing to make it certain that we are still on the right road....
"You think this is right, Richi-san?"
"Right? Migi, Papa-san?"
"No, not that kind of right. You see, we have several words in English, all pronounced 'right.'" (What was that I said about haré and haré?) "One means migi, the opposite of hidari. One is spelled w-r-i-t-e, like when you write a letter. Understand?"
"Oh, Papa-san, I'm forget! Day behore yesterday come to my room a retter, Kyobashi aunt and husband—'hat Engrish speaking—maybe unc'? Yiss, Kyobashi aunt anda unc' retter writing, speaking, 'Harro, Papa-san, sank you verree much.'"
"Well, that's certainly nice of your Kyobashi aunt and uncle, Richi-san. You tell them hello for me, please. Now... we have another word, r-i-t-e, but we won't go into that now. When I say, 'Is this right?' I mean are we still on the right road? Is this the road to Hakone?"
"Papa-san, stop. I'm-a risten."
"You'll what?"
"I'm-a risten," says Richi-san, cupping her ear.
That's plain enough. She will ask a question, and listen for the answer. We stop. She hails the nearest person, a woman wearing a kimono.
They bow. The air is filled with greetings and salutations and pleasant amenities. Each chatters at length while the other nods, interjecting occasional "Ah, so?" sounds along with "Ha-ha!" and "So desu ne?"
The minutes pass. Papa-san fills his pipe and smokes. He thumbs idly through the Japanese dictionary and observes that kami means not only the hair Richi-san fears will be all bu-roke by the wind, but also the Romanized spelling kami means deity, paper, the head, and season. Probably to season food, because it also says, "to add one thing to another." This is all very interesting, but meanwhile the other sports cars are somewhere down the highway, collecting points, and we are very probably on the wrong road. Now Richi-san thanks the woman, and the woman thanks her. Both bow several times and repeat, "Sumimasen" which means "I'm sorry to have bothered you." They say, "Sayonara." We finally get under way again.
Richi-san turns to me, her small face glowing with good will.
"Ver-ree kindness, Papa-san! Good-a heart—don' you?"
"Yes, I think she must be a very kind woman, Richi-san, and she has a good heart. But what about the road to Hakone?"
"Oh, Papa-san, Hakone road she don' know." You can lose an awful lot of Sports-Car-Club runs that way, in this charming country....
Take me out
to the
Besuboru game
IN the Japanese spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love, cherry-viewing, and besuboru. If you have been here long enough, you will recognize at a glance that besuboru means just what it says—baseball. The "U's," like so many "U's" in the Japanese language, are as silent as was Mudville on that storied afternoon when the
