The Heat of the Sun

Texas, drenching jubilant workers black; a dust storm approaching an Oklahoma
farmhouse, while a Model T in the foreground struggles to escape along an arrow-straight highway.
    We staged exhibitions, published books, and contributed copiously to federal archives; critics – and more than a few political activists – valued our work highly, but neither of us
earned much money. Inevitably, we were forced to supplement our income with commercial work. Le Vol was dubious, even disgusted, when I urged these projects upon him. Often, I knew, he was tempted
towards sabotage, and I did my best to make sure he did not turn the tourist guides, industry promotions, and magazine features that paid for more than gasoline and steaks in cheap diners into
parodies of what they were meant to be. Resignedly, he followed me to Alabama for a piece on beauty pageants (‘Miss Southern States’), to California for a guidebook to Beverly Hills
( Mansions of the Stars ), to Lake Superior for a brochure on a shipping line. For Life we went to London; for National Geographic to Anchorage, Havana, and Guatemala City.
    Then came Nagasaki. It was April 1937.
    ‘What is this place?’
    The Lincoln had come to rest on a gravelled drive. The chauffeur held open a door for us. With an air of triumph, he gestured towards a veranda wreathed in vines. The house was modest but
prosperous.
    ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ said Le Vol. ‘I wrote to the American consul. He insisted we stay.’
    The chauffeur, waddling ahead with our luggage, led us into the long, low bungalow. On the threshold of the hall, following his lead, we removed our shoes. Lining the walls were framed
photographs of past consuls, stiff-collared gentlemen with moustaches. My father’s eyes watched us, and I wondered that Le Vol should not exclaim, startled by a picture that looked so much
like me; but then, I had no moustache and wore no stiff collar.
    My room was comfortable, if furnished sparsely: whitewashed walls, white-quilted bed with mosquito netting, cherrywood dresser with spindly legs. Beside the bed was a bookcase. Briefly, I
inspected sun-faded spines: Alain-Fournier, Le Grand Meaulnes ; E. M. Forster, The Longest Journey ; Henry James, The Ambassadors ; Pierre Loti, Madame
Chrysanthème .
    The blinds were drawn and I raised them, revealing a broad lawn that stretched to a line of conifers: my father’s lawn. Breathing deeply, I imagined rain that had slithered down the glass
in the days when Teddy Roosevelt and Emperor Meiji were alive, and so was my father.
    Far out on the lawn, a lean gentleman stood against the sunset. He had set up an easel and stood painting; what he painted I was too far away to see, but I imagined the subject as suitably
Oriental: sprays of pink blossom surrounded him on the trees. Dressed in a cream suit with a panama hat, he had about him the air of an imperial official, retired to indifferent leisure. He stepped
back, surveying his handiwork, before, as if he sensed me watching, he turned towards the house.
    That night we dined on mats at a low table, where a bent-backed old woman supplied us abundantly with noodles, rice, seaweed, and fish in delicate strips. The consul, whose
name was Clifford T. Arnhem, had assumed a silken robe and sat comfortably in a half-lotus; beside him, with downcast eyes, a Japanese girl of the geisha type knelt, unmoving. Scented breezes blew
in from the gardens; lights flickered in paper lanterns.
    ‘Your health, good sirs, and welcome.’ Mr Arnhem raised a tumbler of sake. A twinkly-eyed old roué who had, I gathered, taken this posting a decade earlier after long years in
the State Department, he sported a curling white moustache and a red cravat, arranged, I suspected, with meticulous care. Dark spots stood out on the backs of his hands.
    ‘Kiku and I,’ he added – the girl would not eat with us – ‘have few guests in these troubled times. But Mr Sharpless, you look uncomfortable – and you an old
hand in the Orient, I hear.’
    ‘Hardly.’ I feared Mr Arnhem was mocking me. My legs, unsuited for crossing, jutted out at an awkward angle, and I displayed no talent for chopsticks. Eyeing the steaming bowls, I
wondered if many consuls had adopted so thoroughly the customs of the natives. I had been right about his painting: pictures signed C. T. A. hung all over the consulate; most were
watercolours and all were executed, with little finesse, in the style known as Japonisme –