Japanese Portraits: Pictures of Different People by Donald Richie

danced.
    She paused and her mother nodded fiercely, as though she had been contradicted.
    And then Michael has started coming early to the discotheque and wanting to take her home after, wanting to hold her hand, wanting to dance close, that sort of thing. She hadn't been too concerned about this. She'd just wanted to dance and he was a very good dancer. And she wanted to keep her relationship with him the way it was. And he didn't.
    She stopped, looked down at her hands. She was a beautiful young woman. Then I noticed that her knuckles were white—her hands were clasped that tightly. It was difficult for her to talk like this, to a stranger, in front of a crowded station.
    - Anyway, Midori gave him my address and telephone number. I don't suppose she meant any harm. I never asked her to. And I don't see her any more. I stopped going there.
    And then, she continued, the trouble began. Michael had started to call. This was awkward because he knew no Japanese and she knew very little English. So, after a time, she just took to hanging up.
    Then he started calling at odd times, like in the middle of the night. And though she didn't understand very well what he was saying, it seemed to be that he wanted to take her back to America, wanted to marry her, that he loved her.
    - I don't know what to do. He found the house somehow and came late last night. He knocked on the door for hours, it seemed like. My mother and I—my father's dead, we live together—hid in the bathroom till finally he went away. Then the phone began again. We ran out of the house, the two of us. We came here and then I saw you.
    She stopped, her story told.
    Her mother continued. They couldn't call the Japanese police, you see. It was none of their concern. And they would simply say that the girl here had got what she'd asked for.
    And she felt sorry for this poor American, too. Until he'd fallen in love he had probably been nice enough. And so, wouldn't I do something, please? After all, we were fellow Americans, weren't we, he and I?
    After a pause during which I tried to find something to say, I asked: Do you know anything about Michael—where he lives, for example?
    - Oh, some camp or other, said the daughter.
    - He's a soldier?
    - Yes, and he comes to Roppongi on Saturdays. So it isn't as bad as it could be, you see. He can only get out then. So we only need worry on Saturday nights. But, of course, he can phone whenever he wants.
    I considered, standing there in front of the station, wondering what I could do. At that point Kazuko's mother suddenly remembered her manners.
    - Isn't his Japanese good, though? He must have studied for years. Very intelligent, probably. Why, he speaks better than we do, doesn't he, Kazuko?
    And while the beautiful Kazuko nodded in agreement I felt very sorry for these two women, innocently victimized by American Love, yet still mindful of Japanese Good Manners.
    - If he's a soldier then the army ought to make him stop, I said.
    - But I wouldn't want to get him into any trouble.
    I looked at her. Why not? I asked: He's certainly made trouble enough for you.
    - Yes, but he couldn't help it. He's had a difficult life, you see. He just misunderstood. I was being nice because I felt sorry for him.
    I wondered how she had come to know about his difficult life, and she, as though guessing this, began to rummage in her purse.
    - I've got a picture of him, one of those machine-made things. After we danced one night.
    She handed me a small square photograph—face down, which is the way one is handed things in Japan. Across the back I saw, penciled in a Western hand: Michael White.
    Then I turned it over. Michael White was black. A pleasant-looking young GI in civvies, mouth half-open, eyes smiling, having a good time. I now understood.
    - What should I do? she asked.
    What, indeed? And what should I do?—someone picked out of the crowd for my presumed nationality, suddenly linked