I could only stare and stare. He looked exactly as he always had, except, to be sure, for the cutaway and striped trousers. His thick auburn hair was parted in the middle, as always. His fingernails were beautifully manicured, as always. The same old Charlie. At the bottom of his vest, as always, he was wearing the old button of the Xerxes Society. Fratres Semper.
You realise, Hen, he began, in that soft, modulated voice of his, why I have had to keep my identity secret. He bent forward and lowered his voice. She’s still on my trail, you know. (She, I knew, referred to his wife whom he couldn’t divorce because he was a Catholic.) It’s she who’s behind all this. You know … He gave me one of those big slippery horse-winks such as George Marshall had employed.
Here be began to twiddle with his fingers, as if rolling a little ball. At first I didn’t catch on, but after he had repeated the gesture a number of times I realized what he was hinting at.
Oh, the pel…
Here he raised a finger, placed it to his lips, and almost inaudibly, went Shhhhhhhhh.
I extracted the pellet from my vest pocket and unrolled it. Charlie kept nodding his head gravely, but making not a sound. I handed him the message to read; he handed it back to me and I read it attentively. Then I passed it back to him and he quickly burned it. The message was in Japanese. Translated, it meant: We are now inexorably united in brotherhood. The end is the same as the beginning. Observe strict etiquette.
There was a telephone call which Charlie answered in a low, grave voice. At the end he said: Show him in in a few minutes.
Obsipresieckswizi will be here shortly. He will go with you as far as Yokohama.
I was just about to ask if he wouldn’t be kind enough to be a little more explicit when suddenly he swung round in his swivel chair and thrust a photograph under my nose.
You recognize her, of course? Again he put his finger to his lips.
The next time you see her she’ll be in Tokio, probably in the inner court. Here he reached down into the lower drawer of his desk and brought forth a candy box labelled Hopjes, the kind that Mona and I had been peddling. He opened it gingerly and showed me the contents: a Valentine greeting, a strand of what looked like Mona’s hair, a miniature dagger with an ivory handle and a wedding ring. I examined them intently, without touching them. Charlie closed the box and put it back in the drawer. Then he gave me a wink, flipped his vest flap and said Ohio! I repeated it after him: Ohio!
Suddenly he whirled around again and thrust the photograph under my nose. It was a different face this time. Not Mona, but some one who resembled her, some one of indeterminate sex, with long hair which fell over the shoulders, like an Indian’s. A striking and mysterious face, reminiscent of that fallen angel, Rimbaud. I had an uneasy feeling. As I gazed, Charlie turned it over; on the other side was a photograph of Mona dressed like a Japanese woman, her hair done up m Japanese fashion, her eyes slanted upwards, the lids heavy, giving the eyes the appearance of two dark slits. He turned the photos back and forth several times. In awesome silence. I was unable to figure out what significance to give to this performance.
At this point an attendant came in to announce the arrival of Obsipresieckswizi. He pronounced the name as if it were Obsequy. A tall, gaunt man entered swiftly, went straight up to Charlie, whom he addressed as Mr. President, and began a voluble speech in Polish. He hadn’t noticed me at all. It was lucky he hadn’t because I might have made a grave slip and called him by his right name. I was just reflecting how smoothly things were going when my old friend Stasu, for it was none other than he, stopped talking as abruptly as he had begun.
Who is this? he demanded in his curt, insolent way, motioning to me.
Take a good look, said Charlie. He gave a wink, first at me, then at Stasu.
Oh, it’s you, said Stasu, extending his hand grudgingly. How does he fit into the picture? he said, addressing the President.
That’s for you to determine, said Charlie blandly.
Hmm, mumbled Statu. He’s never been good at anything. He’s a failure through and through.
We know all that, said Charlie, thoroughly unruffled, but just the same. He pressed a button and another attendant appeared. See that these men get to the airport safely, Griswold. Use my car. He rose and shook hands with us. His behavior was exactly that of one holding such a high office. I felt that he was indeed the President of our great Republic, and a very shrewd, capable President to boot. As we reached the threshold he shouted: Fratres Semper! We wheeled around, saluted in military fashion, and repeated:
Fratres Semper!
There were no lights on the plane, not even inside. Neither of us spoke for some time. Finally Stasu broke into a torrent of Polish. It sounded strangely familiar to me yet I was unable to make out a word except Pan and Pani.
Talk English, I begged. You know I don’t speak Polish.
Make an effort, he said, it will come back to you. You spoke it once, don’t act dumb. Polish is the easiest language in the world. Here, do this … and he began making sibilant, hissing sounds like a serpent in rut. Now sneeze! Good. Now gargle! Good. Now roll your tongue back like a carpet and swallow! Good. You see … there’s nothing to it. The rudiments are the six vowels, twelve consonants and five diphthongs. If you’re dubious, spit or whistle. Never open your mouth wide. Suck the air in and push your tongue against your closed lips. Like this. Speak fast. The faster the better. Raise your voice a little, as if you were going to sing. That’s it. Now close your palate and gargle. Fine! You’re getting it. Now say after me, and don’t stutter: ‘Ochizkishyi seiecsuhy piaifuejticko eicjcyciu!’ Excellent! You know what that means—’Breakfast is ready!’
I was overjoyed with my own fluency. We rehearsed a number of stock phrases, such as: Dinner is served, the water is hot, there’s a strong breeze blowing, keep the fire going, and so on. It was all coming back to me readily. Stasu was right. I had only to make a little effort and the words were there on the tip of my tongue.
Where are we headed for now? I asked in Polish, just to vary the rigmarole.
Izn Yotzxkiueoeumasysi, he replied.
Even that long word I seemed to remember. A strange language, this Polish. It made sense, even if one did have to perform acrobatics with one’s tongue. It was good exercise, it limbered up the tongue. After an hour or two of Polish I would be more than fit to resume my study of Japanese.
What will you do when we get there? In Polish, of course.
Drnzybyisi uttituhy kidjeueycmayi, said Stasu. Which meant, in our own vernacular, Take it easy.
Then he added, with a few oaths which I had forgotten, Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Wait for orders.
In all this time he hadn’t said a word about the past, about our boyhood days on Driggs Avenue, about his good-natured old aunt who used to feed us from the ice-box. She was such a lovable creature, his aunt. Always spoke—in Polish, that is—as if she were singing. Stasu hadn’t changed a bit. As sullen, defiant, morose and disdainful as ever. I recalled the fear and dread with which he inspired me as a boy—when he lost his temper. He was a veritable demon then. Would grab a knife or a hatchet and make for me like lightning. The only time he ever seemed sweet and gracious was when his aunt sent him to buy sauerkraut. We used to filch a bit on the way home. It was good, that raw sauerkraut. The Poles were extraordinarily fond of it. That and fried bananas. Bananas that were soft and over-sweet.
We were landing now. Must be Yokohama. I couldn’t make out a blessed thing, the whole airport was enveloped in darkness.
Suddenly I realized that I was alone in the plane. I felt around in the darkness but no Stasu. I called to him softly, but no answer. A mild panic seized me. I began to perspire profusely.
Getting off the plane two Japs came running forward to meet me. Ohio! Ohio! they exclaimed.
Ohio! I repeated. We tumbled into rickshaws and began moving towards the city proper. There was no electricity, evidently—nothing but paper lanterns, as if for a festival. The houses were all made of bamboo, neat and trim, the sidewalks were paved with wooden blocks. Now and then we crossed a tiny wooden bridge, such as one sees in old prints.
It was just beginning to dawn as we entered the precincts of the Mikado’s palace.
I should have been trembling now but instead I was serene, perfectly composed, prepared for any eventuality. The Mikado will turn out to be another old friend, I said to myself, pleased with my sagacity.
We dismounted before a huge portal painted in fiery colors, changed into wooden clogs and kimonos, prostrated ourselves a few times, and then waited for the portal to swing open.
Noiselessly, almost imperceptibly, the big portal finally swung open. We were in the midst
