This Scorching Earth. Donald RichieЧитать онлайн книгу.
her. Heavens, the Major probably had honorable intentions!
Gloria put her face under the shower. She was awake and clean. Her early-morning fears were already down the drain. She'd scrubbed her long legs and her flat stomach until they were red, and she felt much better for it. Muncie seemed just as far away as it actually was. She was in the Glamorous Orient and was one of the most glamorous things in it. The hot water gave out and put an end to further reflections for the time being.
As she dried, she said to herself very softly: "No, not really beautiful, you know, but interesting looking, awfully interesting." She had no doubt that this was what they—the men—said about her, and she also had a fairly accurate idea of what the women said. Holding the towel, she thought of the hundreds of days she'd been in Japan. Each had begun with a shower, and almost every one had ended with a man. She couldn't even remember them all.
"This is a rare and sober moment, Gloria," she told herself, and tried to remember all the men she'd ever known in her entire life.
In such moments as this she'd often thought of compiling a little history. Nothing too elaborate—just the man's name, the date, and the place, if she could remember it. Single spaced. About a dozen sheets should do it. Then she could subdivide the total and cross-reference it according to the different nationalities. There was the attache at the French Mission, the nice British sergeant at the Union Jack Club, that lovely Italian correspondent. ... Then, after she had divided them, she could take percentages. Of course the Americans would win, but it would be interesting to find out by how much.
But it was hopeless. She had forgotten too many. As she tied her robe she decided that the only immoral thing was her forgetting. This comforted her. That was her only sin, to have forgotten anyone with whom she had shared what one very earnest second lieutenant had once called "the holy happiness." He was Southern and had religion, she remembered; afterwards he'd tried to baptize her with what was left of the whisky.
Well, she'd start a diary soon. That should help her memory. Each entry burned and the ashes stomped on and eaten as soon as written. No lurid details—just the name and her thoughts for the day. What names would not grace its pages! Who would be next?
This was a favorite game, but the odds were hopelessly against her. It never turned out the way she hoped. That gorgeous Depot sergeant was virtuous; the dark correspondent at the War Crime Trials had gone completely Japanese; and the cute little dancer with the USO hadn't liked girls very much. Alas, one always remembered the failures best.
The next just might be Private Richardson, also from her own office. The only trouble was that they'd built up a kidding relationship which rather well precluded their ever getting within five feet of each other. Besides, she'd heard he had a Japanese girl. Really, it was sinful the way they had become such competition. (Wonder what our brave boys would say if we started running around with Japanese men?) Oh, well, she'd just have to wait and see about Private Richardson.
Back in her room she carefully turned her back to Sonoko and put on her pants, brassiere, and slip. The girl was plumping up the same pillow for the tenth time that morning.
"You have a boy friend, Sonoko?" she asked.
Sonoko giggled, covered her mouth with her hand, and said: "Nebah hoppen."
"Oh, some day it will," said Gloria airily, zipping her dress up the side. "A nice .. . farmer."
Sonoko giggled from across the room.
A farmer! Gloria had never even met a farmer, not the kind with dirt under his fingernails and sweat in his armpits, that is. That was another way she could cross-file her little history: occupations. Except that it wouldn't be quite fair. Her wishes hadn't always been observed in the matter. It was the white-collar boys, the lieutenants and up that she always got tangled with. They were somehow so much easier. They spoke her own language, and they were always available, being as neurotic as she.
How, she wondered, did one go about meeting a farmer, a truck driver, a boxer? The lower classes were always so damned suspicious. Enlisted men the same way. And, at least, you could trust an officer to keep his mouth shut, which was more than you could expect from sergeant on down. Except, perhaps, Private Richardson.
She wondered if part of his attraction didn't come from his being Private Richardson. She tried to think of him as Major Richardson—General Richardson. Sure enough, some of the brightness faded. A part of the attraction? It was apparently the whole thing. Well, she'd just have to see. Now, when could she snare him? Tonight perhaps?
Oh, no! She sat down on the bed, one foot in high-heels. No, not tonight. All morning long she had felt that all was not well with the world, and now she remembered why. Carried away the night before, she had said yes when Major Calloway had suggested dinner and the opera this evening. He had seemed such a dear after their dozen-odd Scotches. Now, in the merciless light of day, she saw him in his true form.
"Not a deer, but a boar," she said to herself. But even this reminder of ready wit didn't cheer her. Here she'd gone and ruined a perfectly good Saturday night, just to be brought home and pecked on the lips. Much too late to do anything about it. After all she was the Colonel's secretary, and he was the Colonel's executive officer.
"Well, we're obviously made for each other," said Gloria, wriggling into the other shoe. "The Fates are against us."
She stood up and put on the last finishing touches before the mirror. Sonoko, looking as though she was about to start fluffing the pillow again, peered shyly over her shoulder. The pancake make-up, the mascara, powder, and lipstick were all understood by Sonoko. It was in the last-minute attentions that mystery lay. She watched while Gloria deftly unclotted two eyelashes, cleaned a tiny speck of lipstick off one of her front teeth, and gave herself a final spray of scent. If she ever wore make-up, Sonoko often thought, she would do just as Miss Wilson did, even if she had to put lipstick on her teeth in order to take it off. It was in these final intuitive touches that all true art lay.
Gloria saw the steel-rimmed spectacles over her shoulder and handed Sonoko the atomizer. "Go on," she said, "only don't waste it. It's Sin Incarnate or some such thing, and I'd never be able to afford it if the PX didn't mark it down ninety percent. Go on. Dozo."
Sonoko giggled, holding her hand in front of her teeth, and carefully put the atomizer back on the table. Gloria waved good-by and started for the door. The giggle suddenly stopped, and the dark eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles grew wider.
Gloria smiled politely, one hand on the doorknob: "What is it, Sonoko?"
Her room girl swallowed, then said: "You no forget—o-pahti tomorrow?" It was midway between a declaration and a question.
Suddenly Gloria understood. Oh, god! She had forgotten—but completely! So, as was usual with her under these circumstances, she shook her head, smiled in a special way that wrinkled her nose, and said: "You bet your life I didn't forget, little old Blue Sonoko. I can hardly wait." And for Sonoko's more immediate comprehension she added a bit of pantomime.
They parted with bobbing on one side and nose-wrinkling smiles on the other.
Waiting for the elevator, Gloria felt like kicking herself. Now she perfectly remembered accepting an invitation which at the time seemed to be for some vague, indefinite future. She'd been half-asleep, still in bed, defenseless. Now she was trapped. Oh, well, so she was trapped—so what? She could always learn something. And if tonight was going to be wasted with the Major anyway, she might as well have something to look forward to when she woke up Sunday morning.
Her own nature never failed to delight her. So philosophic. She always said there was so much to be learned from the little things in life—then laughed herself sick; but, nevertheless, it was true—there was. Now, a lot of other American girls under like circumstances would have pleaded off—sick headache or the like. Not Gloria—true blue, she stuck to her word, and what's more, damn it, she'd enjoy herself even if it killed her.
Not that it was likely to. In fact it might be fun—afterwards. She could tell about the quaint little paper house; how meekly she took off her shoes; the good, good soup—like Mother used to make—and the squealy little dishes