This Scorching Earth. Donald RichieЧитать онлайн книгу.

      TOKYO LAY DEEP UNDER A BANK OF CLOUDS WHICH moved slowly out to sea as the sun rose higher. Between the moving clouds were sections of the city: the raw gray of whole burned blocks spotted with the yellow surfaces of new-cut wood and the shining, felt-like tile of recently constructed roofs, the reds and browns of sections unburnt, the dusty green of scarcely damaged parks, and the shallow blue of occasional ornamental lakes. In the middle was the Palace, moated and rectangular, gray outlined with green, the city stretching to the horizons all around it.

      The smokes of household fires, of newly renovated factories, of the waiting, charcoal-burning taxis rose into the air, and in the nostril-stinging freshness of early autumn the bitter-yellow smell of burning cedar shavings blended with the odor of roasting chestnuts. In the houses bedding was folded into closets, and the mats were swept. Beneath the hanging pillars of the early-rising smoke there was the morning sound of night-shutters thrust back into the houses' narrow walls.

      Behind the banging of the shutters was the sound of wooden geta—the faint percussive sound of walking—and the distant bronze booming of a temple bell. Jeeps exploded into motion, and the tinny clang of streetcars sounded above the bleatings of the nearby fishing boats. A phonograph was running down—Josephine Baker went from contralto to baritone—and a radio militantly delivered the Japanese news of the day.

      A few MP's in pairs still strode the partly empty streets, and a single geisha, modest in bright red and rustling silk, hurried, knees together, to her waiting morning-tea. Greer Garson luxuriated, her paper face half in the morning sun, and a man dressed like Charlie Chaplin, a placard on his shoulders, began his daily advertising.

      In the alleys the pedicabs all stood motionless, and around the dying alley fires the all-night drivers yawned and warmed their hands both in the fires and in the morning sun. The early farmers led their horses through the city.

      An empty Occupation bus, with "Dallas" stenciled neatly on both sides, made its customary stops—the PX, the Commissary, the Motor Pool—but no one rode. The driver, in cast-off fatigues, smoked one of the longer butts from the several packets he had. An Occupation lady, very early or else very late, tried unsuccessfully to hail a passing jeep.

      The blank windows of the taller buildings now caught the rising morning sun and cast reflections—a silver flash of spectacles, a passing golden tooth, or the dead white of a mouth-mask. The food shops opened, and the spicy bitterness of pickled radish mingled with the soft and delicate putrescence of fish, mingled with the odors of the passing night-soil carrier, his oxen, and his cart.

      The rolled metal shutters of the smaller shops were locked, but before the open entrances of larger buildings MP's stood and waited, their white-gloved hands behind their backs, their white helmets above their white faces. They stood before the main Occupation buildings, opposite the Palace, across the street and moat—the gray Dai Ichi Building, the square Meiji Building, the tall and pale Taisho Building, and the squat Yusen. To the south rose the box-like Radio Tokyo and, in all directions, the billets of the Occupation. The American flag floated high above them all.

      The clouds had drifted out to sea, and the city lay beneath the sun. The pedicab drivers went home, and the carpenters began their work; the geisha sleepily sipped their tea, and the housewives served the morning soup. The railroads, holding the city in their net, brought more and more people into the stations and then returned to bring yet more. The sun and smoke rose into the air, and the radios shouted into the sky, while the streetcars rattled, and the auto horns honked, and the fishing boats cried, and the railroads filled up the city.