that Masters’ woman would be along a bit later.
They had played strip poker to while away the time, and soon the major was so cock eyed drunk that he was barely able to read the cards. Masters had really stacked them after that. Within a short time, the major was almost naked and pulling up the blanket being used as a tablecloth around his waist to keep from chattering from the cold. The girl, who did not know what in the devil the game was all about, was taking off her clothes and laying them on the pile building up beside Masters. She struggled to the end to keep her breasts from being exposed, even to the point of giving up her panties first, and finally they were bared, half mooned, dusky melons with large, proud paps which tightened from the cold, and she had called the owner, who slipped a small, charcoal burning hibachi under the kotatsu to keep them warm.
It was fortunate that Masters’ whore had finally come, for the major was not so drunk that he could not see the glint in Masters’ eyes as he stared at the naked girl seated next to him ...
Kimiko’s mother served tea and sweet, coconut cakes, then sat down and chattered away at her daughter. But Kimiko listened with only one ear, for her attention was principally focused on Masters and her father struggling courteously to talk to each other.
As soon as it was politely possible, she led Masters outside and they sat on a bench overlooking the small plot of land her father had been working.
“Over there,” she pointed to a hill a couple of miles away, “is the home of Ito, my husband.” She rested her head against the wall of the hut and lifted her face towards the dying sun, closing her eyes to reminisce.
She remained silent as though caught up by swells of memory which overwhelmed her, reaching far into each corner of her brain and focusing an intense light on the pictures that years could never dim, pictures which had been taken out countless times to be burned deep into memory cells, so that slipping from mind to awareness was an automatic, effortless action. Finally, her eyes opened.
“My parents had seven children, Mr. Masters. I was next to the youngest. This piece of land,” she motioned at the garden, perhaps twenty five by fifteen feet, “was all they had. Underneath it is rock, and we searched every day for earth to build it up. We were very poor. Three of my brothers and sisters died when they were quite young, another brother was lost at sea in the navy, and a sister was killed during an airplane bombing at Osaka. The only one left is a sister who lives in Sendai.”
Masters nodded. “I can see that life here must have been a hard one. But it’s difficult for me to picture you as having been a country girl.”
“It was Ito who was responsible, although he came from a family which was even more impoverished than ours. There were eleven children, of whom two died in infancy. Education was an absolute luxury. About five miles down the road is a small schoolhouse where most of the children would attend until they were twelve or thirteen years old, then they would seek work on a large farm or in the villages. Work was hard to find, so most of them helped their parents in the garden.”
Her lips parted in a wistful smile. “I have heard many Americans comment on how beautifully our fields were tended. There were always so many children to help that a weed could not exist in this land.
“Ito was three years older than me, and we left school about the same time. He was thirteen years old then. As he was the oldest son, he labored very hard in the fields.”
Her eyes closed again and her voice lowered. “I was fourteen years old when he told me I would be his wife. I was very happy, and in the evenings when work was ended he would eat quickly and come for me so we could sit up there,” she pointed, eyes still closed, to a ledge about thirty feet up, “and talk of what we wanted from life.
“There was never any money, so Ito searched until he found a farmer who had books. In a land of hard working people, I never saw a boy work so long and so hard as he did to get those books. During the first few hours we were able to meet each week, he insisted that we study together.”
Her eyes opened. “I do not know how he did it, but before he was nineteen years old he passed a test for draftsmanship and was offered a post in Kyoto as a junior draftsman.”
She turned to him. “In your country it is not unusual for a poor boy to advance, so this story must seem rather trite.”
“I was poor when I was a kid, too. The whole world was poor.”
Kimiko was jolted. “Forgive me, Mr. Masters, if I offended you in any way.”
“You didn’t offend me. But go ahead - continue.”
It took her a moment to recollect herself. “Well,” she went on, “to us, it was like finding gold on the street. We were married immediately, then went, halfway on foot, to Kyoto. It took eight days to get there, and until Ito drew his first pay, we slept in parks and alleys, and soon afterwards I found work in a factory. In a few months we were enormously rich.” She fought off a tear. “When I look back, we had saved perhaps the sum we spent for our lunch on the way here.”
Masters looked up, realizing that she had understood his reaction at the restaurant.
“But to us,” she continued, “it was everything in the world. Ito, however, would not permit us to save any more. He insisted that we spend it for night school. We could have had a nice room with a kitchen, but no - we lived in a hovel as large as the shed there and spent the money to learn.
“Then Hiroko was born, but I kept on working and we were very, very happy. Ito was promoted twice, becoming the foreman of his section, and we rented two beautiful rooms with a kitchen - and even sent home small sums to our parents. But always we had to go to school. Once I said it cost too much to have a woman watch over Hiroko while I was at school, and Ito became angry - so I never said it again.
“Then Ichiro was born...” Her voice trailed off.
“Your son?” prompted Masters.
Kimiko rose and almost ran through the garden to an outcrop of rock, pressing her face against it. Masters stood up, surprised, then followed her. He saw that she was trembling. He placed a hand on her arm.
“What is it, Mrs. Tanaka? Are you ill?”
She shook her head, and Masters moved to one side to see her face. She turned it from him, but not before he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Soon she controlled herself with a great effort, and reached into a pocket to take out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. “It is nothing,” she said, and from the firmness of her voice he knew that the conversation was ended. She suddenly observed that it was getting dark. “Come, it is time to eat now.”
In honor of the American guest, her mother had prepared a large bowl of sukiyaki, vegetables fried with onions and lightly seasoned with sugar, soya sauce, and a few drops of sake. It was kept warm by a candle burning underneath, and next to the bowl was a platter of thin slices of raw meat, each the size of a half dollar.
Kimiko served Masters, placing bits of meat on top of the vegetable mixture to heat as they ate, and putting only small portions onto his plate so that the meat was always warm and not overcooked.
“My father,” said Kimiko, when Masters finally leaned back with a satisfied sigh, “asks why you have come to Japan.”
Masters answered Mr. Ishkawa himself. “To visit. I had been here in nineteen-fifty-two during the Korean action, and liked it.”
