that man's ear in such sharp focus. That must mean something.
Mustn't it?
The lightheaded hunger, the shattered spectrum of reality, the aimless drifting were all seductively pleasant, but something within him warned that this was dangerous. He must break out of it or be would die. Die? Die? Did that sound have any meaning?
A dense rivulet of humanity carried him out of the park through an entrance where two broad avenues intersected with a congestion of military vehicles, charcoal automobiles, clanging tramcars, and wobbling bicycles pulling two-wheeled carts loaded down with incredibly heavy and bulky cargoes. There had been a minor accident, and traffic was snarled for a block in every direction while a helpless Japanese traffic policeman in huge white gloves was trying to settle things between a Russian driving an American Jeep and an Australian driving an American jeep.
Nicholai was pushed forward unwillingly by the curious crowd that seeped into the spaces around the congealed traffic, intensifying the confusion. The Russians spoke only Russian, the Australians only English, the policeman only Japanese; and all three were engaged in a vigorous discussion of blame and responsibility. Nicholai was pressed against the side of the Australian jeep, whose officer occupant was sitting, staring ahead with stoic discomfort, while his driver was shouting that he would gladly settle this thing man-to-man with the Russian driver, the Russian officer, both at once, or the whole fucking Red Army, if it came to that!
'Are you in a hurry, sir?'
'What?' The Australian officer was surprised to be addressed in English by this ragged lad in a tarnished Japanese student's uniform. It was a couple of seconds before he realized from the green eyes in the gaunt young face that the boy was not Oriental. 'Of course I'm in a hurry! I have a meeting—' He snapped his wrist over and looked at his watch. '—twelve minutes ago!'
'I'll help you,' Nicholai said. 'For money.'
'I beg your pardon?' The accent was comic-opera British raj, as is often the case with colonials who feel called upon to play it for more English than the English.
'Give me some money, and I'll help you.'
The officer gave his watch another petulant glance. 'Oh, very well. Get on with it.'
The Australians did not understand what Nicholai said, first in Japanese to the policeman, then in Russian to the Red officer, but they made out the name 'MacArthur' several times. The effect of evoking the Emperor's emperor was immediate. Within five minutes a swath had been forced through the tangle of vehicles, and the Australian jeep was conducted onto the grass of the park, whence it was able to cross overland to a wide gravel path and make its way through astonished strollers, finally bouncing down over a curb into a side street that was beyond the jam of traffic, leaving behind a clotted chaos of vehicles sounding horns and bells angrily. Nicholai had jumped into the jeep beside the driver. Once they were free from their problem, me officer ordered the driver to pull over.
'Very well, now what do I owe you?'
Nicholai had no idea of the value of foreign money now. He clutched at a figure. 'A hundred dollars.'
'Ten dollars,' Nicholai amended quickly.
'Out for whatever you can get, is that it?' the officer sneered. But he tugged out his wallet. 'Oh, God! I haven't any scrip at all. Driver?'
'Sorry, sir. Stony.'
'Hm! Look. Tell you what. That's my building across the way.' He indicated the San Shin Building, center of communications for Allied Occupation Forces. 'Come along, and I'll have you taken care of.'
Once within the San Shin Building, the officer turned Nicholai over to the office of Pay and Accounts with instructions to make out a voucher for ten dollars in scrip, then he left to make what remained of his appointment, but not before fixing Nicholai with a quick stare, 'See here. You're not British, are you?' At that period, Nicholai's English had the accent of his British tutors, but the officer could not align the lad's public school accent with his clothes and physical appearance.
'No,' Nicholai answered.
'Ah!' the officer said with obvious relief. 'Thought not.' And he strode off toward the elevators.
For half an hour, Nicholai sat on a wooden bench outside the office, awaiting his turn; while in the corridor around him people chatted in English, Russian, French, and Chinese. The San Shin Building was one of the few anodes on which the various occupying powers collected, and one could feel the reserve and mistrust underlying their superficial camaraderie. More than half the people working here were civilian civil servants, and Americans outnumbered the others by the same ratio as their soldiers outnumbered the others combined. It was the first time Nicholai heard the growled
He was becoming ill and sleepy by the time an American secretary opened the door and called his name. Once in the anteroom, he was given a form to fill in while the young secretary returned to her typing, occasionally stealing glances at this improbable person in dirty clothes. But she was only casually curious; her real attention was on a date she had for that night with a major who was, the other girls all said, real nice and always brought you to a real fine restaurant and gave you a real good time before.
When he handed over his form, the secretary glanced at it, lifted her eyebrows and sniffed, but brought it in to the woman in charge of Pay and Accounts. In a few minutes, Nicholai was called into the inner office.
The woman in charge was in her forties, plumpish and pleasant. She introduced herself as Miss Goodbody. Nicholai did not smile.
Miss Goodbody gestured toward Nicholai's voucher form. 'You really have to fill this out, you know.'
'I can't. I mean, I can't fill in all the spaces.'
'Can't?' Years of civil service recoiled at the thought. 'What do you mean...' She glanced at the top line of the form. '...Nicholai?'
'I can't give you an address. I don't have one. And I don't have an identification card number. Or a—what was it?—sponsoring agency.'
'Sponsoring agency, yes. The unit or organization for which you work, or for which your parents work.'
'I don't have a sponsoring agency. Does it matter?'
'Well, we can't pay you without a voucher form filled out correctly. You understand that, don't you?'
'I'm hungry.'
For a moment, Miss Goodbody was nonplussed. She leaned forward. 'Are your parents with the Occupation Forces, Nicholai?' She had come to the assumption that he was an army brat who had run away from home.
'No.'
'Are you here alone?' she asked with disbelief.
'Yes.'
'Well...' She frowned and made a little shrug of futility. 'Nicholai, how old are you?'
'I'm twenty-one years old.'
'Oh, my. Excuse me. I assumed—I mean, you look no more than fourteen or fifteen. Oh, well, that's a different matter. Now, let's see. What shall we do?' There was a strong maternal urge in Miss Goodbody, the sublimation of a life of untested sexuality. She was oddly attracted to this young man who had the appearance of a motherless child, but the age of a potential mate. Miss Goodbody identified this melange of contradictory feelings as Christian concern for a fellow-being.
'Couldn't you just give me my ten dollars? Maybe five dollars?'
'Things don't work like that, Nicholai. Even assuming we find a way to fill out this form, it will be ten days before it clears AP&R.'
Nicholai felt hope drain away. He lacked the experience to know that the gossamer barriers of organizational dysfunction were as impenetrable as the pavements he trod all day. 'I can't have any money then?' he asked atonally.
Miss Goodbody half-shrugged and rose. 'I'm sorry, but... Listen. It's after my lunch hour. Come with me to the employees' cafeteria. We'll have a bite to eat, and we'll see if we can work something out.' She smiled at Nicholai and laid her hand on his shoulder. 'Is that all right?'
Nicholai nodded.
* * *
