This Scorching Earth. Donald Richie

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СКАЧАТЬ the stairway, on the street level, the crowd was less dense. Both soldiers passed through the Allied entrance, and Michael started down the street.

      "Hey, Mac," called the older one, "come on. Let's have ourselves a real time. Come on!"

      Michael did not not turn around until he reached the street corner. By then the old soldier with the red nose was standing there, stupidly looking around him.

      Shinjuku was where the farmers came, and Michael was glad he was stationed there. Around the station, street stalls lined the gutters, and opposite them stood small open shops. Sides of red beef hung from the ceilings on hooks; whole fish, brittle and dusty, fastened through the gills, lay against the walls; and the floors were covered with barrels and boxes. In the stores were country people carrying large bundles carefully wrapped in pieces of cloth. The bright colors of other parts of town were missing. Instead there were the somber blues and browns and grays, the slight checks and stripes of country people's clothing.

      Whole families loaded with bundles struggled through the crowds, calling to each other at times. Cocks in wicker cages crowed, and pigs in baskets squealed. Some little children, playing a game like hide-and-seek, ran skilfully between the passing legs.

      Further along the street the stalls disappeared. There was no more room for them on the sidewalks. The buildings were taller now and the busy intersection was the center of Shinjuku. There were small hardware-shops, teashops, small theatres, and geta-shops where rows of wooden clogs and sandals stretched in lines of yellow unfinished wood, white in the sunlight.

      Michael smelled the clean rice smell of the Japanese. In close quarters it tended to grow musty, but in the open air the smell was exhilarating. He smelled something else, and it reminded him of Haruko—as did everything Japanese. He finally located it. A Japanese war veteran, with one leg and one arm gone, was standing on the corner in his clean white robe and field cap. His long hair was beautifully parted, and Michael could smell the same rich odor of pomade that he had associated up until now only with Haruko.

      Further on was an antique store. There were English signs in the window as well as a suit of ancient Japanese armour, a hand-wound phonograph, and a Petty-girl calendar. An elderly American couple, man and wife apparently, and a young lieutenant were looking in the window.

      "Oh, but it can't be. It just can't. Not here, not right out in the open," said the woman in little screams, her white hair upswept and held in place by several lacquered geisha combs. She was uncommonly white.

      "Well, my dear, as they say in New York, step in and try it on," said the elderly gentleman, also quite white.

      "But not here, not here where we've combed every alley for years. Not a real piece of celadon. I simply can't believe it."

      "That's what it looks like, ma'am," said the lieutenant. "Let's go in and see."

      "But you know it couldn't be. You just don't find, things like that—except in Korea, of course."

      The lieutenant took off his cap and ran his fingers boyishly through his brown, curly hair. "Well, I don't know much about stuff like pottery, ma'am. But you never can tell." He put one hand rakishly on his hip and with a bow, like an Oriental shopkeeper—or his idea of one—indicated the door.

      Michael purposely chose this moment to salute. The lieutenant, with a glance of alarm, put on his hat and saluted in return. By that time, however, Michael was past.

      The lady laughed merrily. "Oh, Lieutenant, your hat's on sidewise. You look just like Napoleon."

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