“Harry.” Alice Beechum offered her hand for a kiss. She was pink as a petit four offering a taste. Pink as a Gainsborough portrait, pinker than pink with an exuberant mass of ginger hair. On the Tokyo stage, actresses who played Europeans wore ginger wigs. Alice’s blue eyes and ginger hair were her very own, and Harry also remembered breasts with the tang of Chanel.
“Lady Alice. I saw your husband this morning.”
“Yes. He was so worked up when he got home, he was ready to strangle puppies. He told me he gave you quite the rocket. He was very proud. Then he went off to toss medicine balls or something with his pals.”
“You’re not a popular man at the British embassy, Harry,” DeGeorge said.
“I’ll slit my throat.”
“Get in line.”
Willie was sipping tea, but for everyone else at the table “tea” meant martinis or Mount Fujis, gin with a peak of frothed egg white. Harry wondered, would this be his social circle for the duration if he missed the plane? The expats of the Imperial bar? DeGeorge, who dripped acid like a wreck leaking oil?
Willie asked, “What would they do to you? You’d be enemy aliens, but there are conventions about this sort of thing. They wouldn’t put you in jail.”
“Or make us learn Japanese,” DeGeorge said. “I’d rather be behind bars.”
“This conversation is absolutely sparkling,” Alice Beechum told Harry. “But I was wondering, how is that little Michiko of yours?”
“Speaking of…” Willie said.
Harry’s heart sank when he followed Willie’s eyes to a young Chinese woman making her way toward the table. She wore a silk cheongsam with a pattern of peonies, her hair was twisted into a chignon set off by an ivory comb and her eyes were bright with hope. Harry had to say that she was a little chubby, a bad sign since it suggested that she was real and Willie truly loved her. She was, in short, a disastrous complication for a man who should be traveling light. The problem was that Germans were such romantics. Not as romantic as Japanese; the Japanese preferred sad endings and suicide. But what Willie needed after China was a Wanderjahr on a beach somewhere, or searching the desert for philosophy, anything but dragging some poor Chinese girl to Nazi Germany.
“Iris is a teacher,” Willie said after introductions. “We’re hoping she’ll be able to continue doing that in Germany.”
“I suppose that would be up to the local Gauleiter or Gruppenführer,” Harry said.
“Yes.”
“Have you tried the Mount Fuji?” DeGeorge asked Iris. “It was invented here.”
“Inventing alcoholic drinks is a major pastime of the expatriate community,” Harry said to her. “Where did you teach?”
“At a missionary school,” she said.
“Iris’s father is a Methodist minister,” Willie said. “Her mother went to Wesleyan College in the United States, and her oldest brother is a graduate of Yale.”
“Well, your English sounds better than mine,” Harry said. Even the cupped echoes of Iris’s Chinese intonation were charming.
“What university did you attend, Harry?” Willie asked.
“Bible college.”
“But you chose not to become a missionary?” Iris said.
“I did publicity for Paramount and Universal. Pretty much the same thing. Are you enjoying the hotel?”
“It doesn’t seem Japanese,” Iris said.
“Not at all. Like Valhalla with Oriental lamps. But the emperor is a major shareholder, and that makes it Japanese enough.”
“Earthquake-proof,” DeGeorge added. “That’s all this tourist needs to know.”
“How is Michiko?” Willie tried to steer the conversation.
“Yes,” Alice said, “we all want to know. Is Michiko doing a little flower arranging or is she whisking tea?”
“There’s a gal who could whisk the balls off a bulldog,” DeGeorge said.
“According to Willie, she has musical interests,” Iris said.
“Contemporary music,” Harry said.
“Iris plays the piano,” Willie said. “Mozart, Bach.”
“Michiko plays the record player. Basie, Beiderbecke.”
“That calls for another round.” DeGeorge summoned the waiter.
“Is there any news on the negotiations in Washington?” Willie asked.
“The U.S. wants Japan out of China. Japan wants to stay. It’s the old story of the monkey and the cookie jar. He can’t get his hand out without letting the cookie go, so he doesn’t get the cookie or his hand. Now, Harry may have a different version, he’s the number one defender of the Japanese.”
“I just think there were lots of hands already in that cookie jar. British, Russian and American.”
“You know what I hear, Harry? The Japs are selling the Chinese cigarettes laced with opium.”
“Well, the British once fought a war in China to sell opium. The Japanese are great admirers of the British.”
“He really is incorrigible,” Alice Beechum said.
“You never thought of being a missionary?” Iris asked.
“Maybe I should,” Harry said. “It’s a good racket. Missionaries stole Hawaii.”
“Not everybody sees it that way,” DeGeorge said.
“Because they read Time, published by the son of a China missionary. The American people are fed stories about Chiang Kai-shek as though he’s Washington at Valley Forge. The most sanctimonious lobby in the United States is China missionaries, and if we have a war, it will be due in good part to them.”
“You really have no sense of morality at all, do you, Harry?” DeGeorge said.
Iris bowed like a flower in the wind and changed the subject. “Michiko sounds very interesting. I so look forward to meeting her.”
“That depends on how long you’re going to be here, I suppose. Willie?”
“Perhaps for a while. The embassy is slow about giving us our papers.”
“Willie has his papers, but the embassy is holding back mine,” Iris said. “They say he should go, and I would follow.”
Willie said, “They’ll never give her papers once I go.”
“What’s their reason for stalling?”
“They claim that the background of any foreign applicant must be investigated for unhealthy political involvement. That’s natural, I understand. But there are no investigative German agencies in China, and it seems any such investigation would have to be carried out by Japanese authorities. Although Germany and Japan are allies, there seems to be a lack of cooperation.”
“Imagine that.”
“That’s why we’re turning to you, Harry. You have influence with the Japanese. I saw this morning at the Chrysanthemum Club how you swayed them. They might approve Iris for you. Then, if they sent an approval to the German embassy, something would happen. Otherwise, they may force me to go alone.”
“Why does Harry have influence with the Japanese, that’s what I want to know,” DeGeorge said.
Harry took the deep breath of a surgeon reluctant to cut. “Willie, your embassy gave you good advice. Get Iris someplace like Macao, then you go home to Germany and wait. According to the führer, the war will be over in a week or two.”
“What if it’s not?”
“Yes,” Alice Beechum said. “What if, for some unlikely reason, it’s not?”
“A year or two. True love can wait.”
Willie’s cheeks turned red. “Anything can happen. Harry, you have to help.”
“I didn’t get her into this. You could have had the honeymoon without the preacher. You could have had your fun and said good-bye. You could have left Iris in China with enough money to buy her safety.”
“I am not a prostitute.” Tears sprang down Iris’s face.
“Money is not just for prostitutes,” Harry said. “The Bible says, ‘For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’ The Portuguese are a kind and worldly people, and they’re neutral. Portuguese Macao is probably the safest place on earth.”