Shibumi

Captain Thomas's head was down; he was already scanning the folder on the forthcoming trial. 'What?'

'I want to visit General Kishikawa. May I?'

'I can't do anything about that. He's a Russian prisoner. You'll have to get permission from them.'

'Well, how do you get to see him?'

'I haven't yet.'

'You haven't even talked to him?'

Captain Thomas looked up blearily. 'I've got six weeks before he goes to trial. The Leopard of Luzon, goes up tomorrow. Go see the Russians. Maybe they can help you.'

'Whom do I see?'

'Shit, boy, I don't know!'

Nicholai rose. 'I see. Thank you.'

He had reached the door when Captain Thomas said, 'I'm sorry, son. Really.'

Nicholai nodded and left.

In months to come, Nicholai was to reflect on the differences between Captain Thomas and his Russian opposite number, Colonel Gorbatov. They were symbolic variances in the superpowers' ways of thinking and dealing with men and problems. The American had been genuinely concerned, compassionate, harried, illorganized... ultimately useless. The Russian was mistrustful, indifferent, well prepared and informed, and ultimately of some value to Nicholai, who sat in a large, overstuffed chair as the Colonel stirred his glass of tea thoughtfully until two large lumps of sugar disintegrated and swirled at the bottom, but never completely dissolved.

'You are sure you will not take tea?' the Colonel asked.

'Thank you, no.' Nicholai preferred to avoid wasting time on social niceties.

'For myself, I am addicted to tea. When I die, the fellow who does my autopsy will find my insides tanned like boot leather.' Gorbatov smiled automatically at the old joke, then set down the glass in its metal holder. He unthreaded his round metal-rimmed glasses from his ears and cleaned them, or rather distributed the smudge evenly, using his thumb and finger. As he did so, he settled his hooded eyes on the young man sitting across from him. Gorbatov was farsighted and could see Nicholai's boyish face and startling green eyes better with his glasses off. 'So you are a friend of General Kishikawa? A friend concerned with his welfare. Is that it?'

'Yes, Colonel. And I want to help him, if I can.'

'That's understandable. After all, what are friends for?'

'At very least, I would like permission to visit him in prison.'

'Yes, of course you would. That's understandable.' The Colonel replaced his glasses and sipped his tea. 'You speak Russian very well, Mr. Hel. With quite a refined accent. You have been trained very carefully.'

'It's not a matter of being trained. My mother was Russian.'

'Yes, of course.'

'I never learned Russian formally. It was a cradle language.'

'I see. I see.' It was Gorbatov's style to place the burden of communication on the other person, to draw him out by contributing little beyond constant indications that he was unconvinced. Nicholai allowed the transparent lactic to work because he was tired of fencing, frustrated with short leads and blind alleys, and eager to learn about Kishikawa-san. He offered more information than necessary, but even as he spoke, he realized that his story did not have the sound of truth. That realization made him explain even more carefully, and the meticulous explanations made it sound more and more as though he were lying.

'In my home, Colonel, Russian, French, German, and Chinese were all cradle languages.'

'It must have been uncomfortable, sleeping in so crowded a cradle.'

Nicholai tried to laugh, but the sound was thin and unconvincing.

'But of course,' Gorbatov went on, 'you speak English as well?' The question was posed in English with a slight British accent.

'Yes,' Nicholai answered in Russian. 'And Japanese. But these were learned languages.'

'Meaning: not cradle?'

'Meaning just that.' Nicholai instantly regretted the brittle sound his voice had assumed.

'I see.' The Colonel leaned back in his desk chair and regarded Nicholai with a squint of humor in his Mongol-shaped eyes. 'Yes,' he said at last, 'very well trained. And disarmingly young. But for all your cradle and post-cradle languages, Mr. Hel, you are an American, are you not?'

'I work for the Americans. As a translator.'

'But you showed an American identification card to the men downstairs.'

'I was issued the card because of my work.'

'Oh, of course. I see. But as I recall, my question was not whom you worked for —we already knew that—but what your nationality is. You are an American, are you not?'

'No, Colonel, I am not.'

'What then?'

'Well... I suppose I am more Japanese than anything.'

'Oh? You will excuse me if I mention that you do not look particularly Japanese?'

'My mother was Russian, as I told you. My father was German.'

'Ah! That clarifies everything. A typical Japanese ancestry.'

'I cannot see what difference it makes what my nationality is!'

'It's not important that you be able to see it. Please answer my question.'

The sudden frigidity of tone caused Nicholai to calm his growing anger and frustration. He drew a long breath. 'I was born in Shanghai. I came here during the war—under the protection of General Kishikawa—a family friend.'

'Then of what nation are you a citizen?'

'None.'

'How awkward that must be for you.'

'It is, yes. It made it very difficult to find work to support myself.'

'Oh, I am sure it did, Mr. Hel. And in your difficulties, I understand how you might be willing to do almost anything to secure employment and money.'

'Colonel Gorbatov, I am not an agent of the Americans. I am in their employ, but I am not their agent.'

'You make distinctions in shading which, I confess, are lost upon me.'

'But why would the Americans want to interview General Kishikawa? What reason would they have to go through an elaborate charade just to contact an officer with a largely administrative career?'

'Precisely what I hoped you would clarify for me, Mr. Hel.' The Colonel smiled.

Nicholai rose. 'It is evident to me, Colonel, that you are enjoying our conversation more than I. I must not squander your valuable time. Surely there are flies waiting to have their wings pulled off.'

Gorbatov laughed aloud. 'I haven't heard that tone for years! Not only the cultivated sound of court Russian, but even the snide disdain! That's wonderful! Sit down, young man. Sit down. And tell me why you must see General Kishikawa.'

Nicholai dropped into the overstuffed chair, voided, weary. 'It is more simple than you are willing to believe. Kishikawa-san is a friend. Almost a father. Now he is alone, without family, and in prison. I must help him, if I can. At very least, I must see him... talk to him.'

'A simple gesture of filial piety. Perfectly understandable. Are you sure you won't have a glass of tea?'

'Quite sure, thank you.'

As he refilled his glass, the Colonel opened a manila folder and glanced at the contents. Nicholai assumed that the preparation of this file was the cause of his three-hour wait in the outer offices of the headquarters of Soviet Occupation Forces. 'I see that you also carry papers identifying you as a citizen of the USSR. Surely that is sufficiently uncommon as to merit an explanation?'

'Your sources of information within SCAP are good.'

The Colonel shrugged. 'They are adequate.'

'I had a friend—a woman—who helped me get employment with the Americans. It was she who got my American identification card for me—'

'Excuse me, Mr. Hel. I seem to be expressing myself poorly this afternoon. I did not ask you about your American papers. It was your Russian identity card that interested me. Will you forgive my vagueness?'