The Heat of the Sun

questions ready. I was irritated but not worried. Le Vol would do the talking; my task was to take notes, and
afterwards put them in order. ‘You don’t think he’ll tell us much, do you?’
    ‘This is where you come in, Sharpless. The human touch. Old pals, aren’t you?’
    ‘Hardly. What’s he doing in Nagasaki, anyway?’
    ‘Inspecting the shipyards, says Mr Arnhem.’
    I expected we would be called up to Yamadori’s suite, and was confused when the young men fell into formation by the elevators. A counter clicked from top floor to ground. The desk clerk,
straightening his jacket, joined the line of young men; Le Vol rose and prodded me to my feet, just as the doors slid back to reveal a stately figure illumined in the mirrored box.
    Yamadori had changed since the Manhattan days. The Playboy of the Western World had vanished beneath a military bearing. There was something of the samurai about him. The huge, toad-like head,
with its livery lips and staring eyes, had stiffened, like a carving; a tight collar circled the jowly chins, and his squat, broad torso had been shoehorned into a blue uniform, heavy with
epaulettes, medals, and braid.
    The boys, the desk clerk, and Le Vol and I bowed as the prince strutted forward. A sword in an elaborate, curving scabbard jutted from his left hip, and his boots were high and gleaming.
Emerging behind him were three impassive servants, each in grey-green military uniform.
    Yamadori, with a faint smile, inclined his head to Le Vol and me, then turned to the desk clerk and barked harsh-sounding words in Japanese. The exchange ended with Yamadori dealing the fellow a
blow and the fellow, cringing and cowering, accepting his fate as if it were deserved.
    ‘My secretary,’ the great man explained, ‘has been delayed in Tokyo – government business, you understand. He was to have joined us this morning. But, it seems, is late.
Come.’ He snapped his fingers and pointed not to the elevator, but to a far wall of the lobby. Dutifully, with hotel staff bowing all the while, we trailed after the prince and his retinue.
Carved doors, sleekly lacquered, loomed from dark-papered walls; young men, like compliant machines, opened them at our approach, revealing an antechamber of glowing marble. Confused, I stole a
glance at Le Vol as we made our way down a curving staircase into a windowless, subterranean realm.
    Everything below was as fine as in the lobby, but stark and simple: Japanese, not Austro-Hungarian. Broad corridors, lit dimly by lanterns, stretched in several directions. The air was humid,
oppressively so, and I heard, from somewhere out of sight, a soft lapping of water.
    ‘A bathe!’ cried Yamadori. ‘Always the best way to begin the day, don’t you find? Especially when one has spent the night not in sleeping but in talking on the telephone
to this minister and that.’ He sighed. ‘But such are the times. Soon, none shall sleep.’
    A servant opened a slatted door.
    ‘We’ll change in here,’ declared Yamadori.
    ‘Prince’ – Le Vol, I could see, was losing patience – ‘we arranged an interview.’
    ‘Mr... Levi , is it not?’ – Yamadori smirked – ‘you will appreciate that I am a busy man. Here we are, imperial affairs at a critical pass, and I choose to
speak to two Americans.’
    ‘What better time,’ Le Vol swept on, ‘to explain yourself? China’s changed everything, for Japan and for the world. You know that, don’t you? Once you were exotics,
charmingly so. The world wished you well. Now we see you as beasts, ravening beasts.’
    Yamadori’s nostrils flared and he spoke rapidly to a servant, who skittered forward and took Le Vol’s arm.
    ‘The interview will be dull for the photographer,’ said Yamadori. ‘Besides, am I to be depicted in the act of bathing? Your American audience would find it indelicate. This
hotel has a tea chamber, Mr Levi, with most diverting woodblocks on the walls.’
    Le Vol protested, but the servant’s grip was firm.
    ‘Your friend is a man of political passions,’ Yamadori observed when we were alone. He seemed amused.
    ‘But fair,’ I said, ‘and just. He’s not here to judge.’
    ‘And nor are you?’
    In the room with the slatted door, a bench, varnished darkly, ran around the walls; there were hooks for hanging clothes. Through a wide opening at the far end of the room was a steaming
pool.
    I had thought servants would be on hand to undress Yamadori, but he tugged