He repeated his first, painful bow, and walked backwards leaving the room, closing the door as he left.
No one spoke.
Stimson looked at Roosevelt and finally said,
“Well there’s one man in this world who was more surprised than we were.”
Roosevelt nodded, “Ernie?”
“Mr. President, may I light the Smoking Lamp?”
The President smiled, and for the first time in days with a relaxed and real smile, as Roosevelt realized they were making history—or rather altering the course of history—for most of the world’s inhabitants. Although the Ambassador could not see it, Roosevelt had been sitting in his hated wheelchair. He rolled it out and said to Stimson,
“Henry, fetch us that box of Cubans, will you please.”
Stimson was happy to oblige and passed the box to the President who passed it to King, who in turn returned it to the Secretary of War.
After the happy ritual of cutting and teasing and lighting, all three men smoked, thinking.
“I limit myself to one per day, but one of the White House gardeners was telling me his grandfather told him that Grant smoked five per day—in this very room.”
Out of nowhere Stimson said, “I like Nomura; it’s a shame there’s not more like him.”
After a very, very long pause, Roosevelt changed the history of the world with three words, “Perhaps there are.”
“My biggest problem is not the Republicans but my party—I know what those fool Republicans will do, and they know what is expected of them, but my party is full of mad dogs—some even voted against my NIRA. Perhaps, just perhaps, there are more Nomuras in Japan. Look, all three of us have experienced—all too often—the madness of our own service, be that Army or Navy, and how these mad dogs fight each other with more and more crazy schemes.”
“Let me ask you one question and one question only. Just one. And think before you answer.”
Stimson and King looked at the President.
“If—if—if you had to cut a deal with this fellow or the Lisper, whom would it be?”
King looked at Stimson and King simply shrugged.
“I thought as much.”
Roosevelt added,
“And I agree, wholeheartedly. And the idea of a proper NIRA in all of Asia for commodities—well, I discussed precisely that idea myself with Morgenthau in ’37. I could retire and become a consultant to various nations of the world. Perhaps I could correct their ailments or perhaps I would simply turn up my nose. For example, I could tell one country that she needed to move out tens of millions of her population. I could make them disarm. Now that could be of real value—and Asia has no fucking Supreme Court, and no Sutherlands, and no Brandeises, and no fucking Schechters. That’s the wonderful thing about being a politician—we are the modern-day gods.”
Dusk was entering the room and Roosevelt’s tone softened.
“Modern mechanics are shrinking the world a little every day—when it used to take four days to travel from New York to Los Angeles by Pullman, now on the latest DC-3 it is just 17 hours and you get the pretty registered nurses as well on the modern DC-3s, not those fat, smelly and lazy Pullman porters.”
Stimson reflected,
“Insane as it sounds, perhaps the Japanese have actually done us a favor. I know it sounds mad. But perhaps we’ve been looking through the wrong end of the telescope. Let’s dissect the Asia we have today: Indochina—dead,—it’s a French possession and the French are dead, the Germans have seen to that; Dutch East Indies—same; Malaya, Singapore, Hong Kong, Burma, India—well, we all know our charming Winston; and that leaves our Asian possessions of the Philippines and the Hawaiian Islands.”
“Now, just suppose, just suppose for one second that we were to ally ourselves with the Japanese. Perhaps this could possibly be a dream made in heaven. Let’s step backwards; what are the causes of our disagreements with the Japanese? Well, there is China; of interest to us, but it will never be truly strategic until the Chinese start acting like the Japanese and start becoming disciplined and organized. Then there is French Indochina—can either of you explain why we give a flying fuck about French Indochina, because I can’t? Then there is our possession of the Philippines. We’ve actually been a little too clever and we’ve backed the Japanese into a corner; there is really not a lot that they could do but this preventive attack, and that is precisely what it is—a preventive attack. And we’ve done these preventive attacks ourselves. We have taunted the Japanese mercilessly—we’ve blocked their use of the Panama Canal, an illegal act if ever there was one; we’ve cut off their oil; we have totally fucked them in the ass. So we’ve done just about everything we can to drive them to desperate measures.”
A literate fly on the wall would have noticed—likely with approval—the change of the language: “Japs” had been replaced with “Japanese” and there were no longer any bad puns about nipping the “Nips.”
“Now, if, and I realize it is the world’s largest ‘if,’ but if we come to an understanding with the likes of Nomura, perhaps, just perhaps, we can move forward.”
Stimson tilted his head and looked at the other two cigar smokers.
“It will cost us nothing to try. I’m sure glad I am wearing my lucky shoes today,” Roosevelt said.
“Henry, have Grace call the Embassy and get the Ambassador back here.”
An hour later, a very confused Japanese Ambassador was invited to sit on one of the two yellow damask sofas and to try one of the President’s excellent Cubans. Still wearing his black mourning suit, Nomura assumed he was to be executed—that the President had discussed the situation with the Secretary and the Admiral and that the decision had been made to forthwith put him up against the wall outside the Oval Office and have the Marine guard fire away. And Nomura was resigned to his fate; after all was it not Nomura who had failed both his Emperor and the emperor of his host country? Very, very slowly he came to realize that the three men were not talking about execution but about redemption.
“Kishi,” the President said, even though his nickname was actually “Kichi.”
“I’ve spent the last hour talking about the situation with Hank and Ernie, and we wanted to ask you just one question.”
The President puffed on his cigar.
Feebly, Nomura nodded; it was all he could muster.
“What are your country’s plans in Asia? I mean what if—and it is a huge if—what if we were to work together? How would that benefit the United States?”
Nomura nodded and then asked—actually it was more he pleaded—if he could cut and start his cigar.
Ever the gracious host, Roosevelt nodded, “Please do.”
The three men saw how Nomura’s hands were shaking as he tried to cut the end of his cigar. After a moment, Stimson leant forward, took the cigar from him and cut the end of his cigar for him. Nomura’s eyes blinked away tears at this simple human kindness.
Roosevelt said, without sarcasm and with genuine humor, “All three of us are at your disposal this evening.”
Like an old priest late for mass, Nomura quickly lit his cigar. He took precisely five puffs, and had regained just enough composure to commend the excellent quality of the cigar to his host.
Roosevelt nodded politely.
“I will not waste the time of you three gentlemen. But I must start by telling you that the government in Tokyo is riven with disagreement—many of them are like drunken samurai. Boasting, threatening, berating. Then, the next day, all apologies. It is horrible, most horrible.”