of, what I’m searching for.”
It was now the month of May. Nobuko wore a
kimono embroidered with a purple jacaranda bloom, with a gold obi. At last she
felt in harmony with nature’s designs.
“All I want, Renate, is not to be a
good-for-nothing.”
Renate painted a portrait of her. While Renate
worked Nobuko watched her freedom of movements, freedom of dress, her quick
responses and inventive language.
And then it was time to leave.
From New York she wrote on purple tissue paper
because the sun was absent. She sent Renate photographs. “Two are loud and
embarrassing for commercials, but the small one is in a funny way old-fashioned
and natural, so this is for my dear person Renate. I have understood very well
what you have explained about independence. It is obvious that life and career
in Japan must be much easier and less strenuous, but I consider myself so
fortunate to be able to taste the bitter sweet of freedom. Vaulting ambition in
theatrical experiment and the obsession not to be a good-for-nothing in
addition to impatience and restlessness cause me a lot of worry.”
Another letter came in orange tissue paper
because the sun was out: “My plant, just a simple rubber plant, is growing
energetically, and it does tell me spring is here. I know this is the end of my
very dear and most thrilling season of life. Imean to leave America and plunge
into the Japanese theatre world, and this is a very strangely complex feeling.
Youth, Passion, Dreams and a long long future… They are quite frightening to
me. Such a great responsibility. If I were to end up as a good-for-nothing.
Renate, the other night I was awe-stricken, truthfully, when I realized that if
you love someone else dearly, for example my parents, my sister… You can’t even
have the last freedom that you possess, the free choice of death…”
Renate could see Nobuko bound in her enveloping
kimono, the wide sleeves like closed wings against her body, the feet in white
cotton and sandals, seeking to shake off the ritualistic past, the thoughtful
meditative forms, the contained stylizations, and she wondered whether she
could emerge from centuries of confinement.
Nobuko wrote: “I could not write you yesterday
because it was raining and I did not find any pearl grey paper to match.”
THE FRENCH CONSULATE WAS HOUSED in a
pseudo-Spanish house at the topof the Hollywood Hills. It conformed in no way
to the Hollywood expectations about a French Consulate. The French Consul was a
novelist, his wife wrote biographies, the secretary who opened the door did not
look like Brigitte Bardot, the desk at the entrance was plain, the rooms were
not furnished in Louis XVI style, nor in the fourteenth-century style, nor
Empire.
The bar was concealed by New Orleans shutters.
There were old Turkish rugs on the tile floor. The pillows around the fireplace
were from Thailand. There were French modern paintings on the walls and a
Russian icon. The black lacquer furniture was pseudo-Chinese.
The secretary was not coquettish. She was
dressed in a plain black sheath and wore two yards of dime store pearls. She
led Renate to the living-room. On the way to the living-room Renate noticed the
table covered with magazines. They were not risque. They were art magazines,
one of them on the new churches built in France with abstract Christs and
abstract Madonnas painted by modern painters.
The Consul stood near the door. He was slight
of build, with large sea-green eyes, a southern skin, and a mouth whose design
was marred by a contraction of the upper lip which gave him an air of sneering,
or of pouting, a twist which gave his whole face an ambiguous expression. He
might have been a conventionally handsome man, but this sneer gave him a
slightly sinister air.
Renate was to learn later in the evening that
it was due to a wound he had received during the war, and then she was
distressed to think she had judged his character from his facial design and
that this design had
It was now the month of May. Nobuko wore a
kimono embroidered with a purple jacaranda bloom, with a gold obi. At last she
felt in harmony with nature’s designs.
“All I want, Renate, is not to be a
good-for-nothing.”
Renate painted a portrait of her. While Renate
worked Nobuko watched her freedom of movements, freedom of dress, her quick
responses and inventive language.
And then it was time to leave.
From New York she wrote on purple tissue paper
because the sun was absent. She sent Renate photographs. “Two are loud and
embarrassing for commercials, but the small one is in a funny way old-fashioned
and natural, so this is for my dear person Renate. I have understood very well
what you have explained about independence. It is obvious that life and career
in Japan must be much easier and less strenuous, but I consider myself so
fortunate to be able to taste the bitter sweet of freedom. Vaulting ambition in
theatrical experiment and the obsession not to be a good-for-nothing in
addition to impatience and restlessness cause me a lot of worry.”
Another letter came in orange tissue paper
because the sun was out: “My plant, just a simple rubber plant, is growing
energetically, and it does tell me spring is here. I know this is the end of my
very dear and most thrilling season of life. Imean to leave America and plunge
into the Japanese theatre world, and this is a very strangely complex feeling.
Youth, Passion, Dreams and a long long future… They are quite frightening to
me. Such a great responsibility. If I were to end up as a good-for-nothing.
Renate, the other night I was awe-stricken, truthfully, when I realized that if
you love someone else dearly, for example my parents, my sister… You can’t even
have the last freedom that you possess, the free choice of death…”
Renate could see Nobuko bound in her enveloping
kimono, the wide sleeves like closed wings against her body, the feet in white
cotton and sandals, seeking to shake off the ritualistic past, the thoughtful
meditative forms, the contained stylizations, and she wondered whether she
could emerge from centuries of confinement.
Nobuko wrote: “I could not write you yesterday
because it was raining and I did not find any pearl grey paper to match.”
THE FRENCH CONSULATE WAS HOUSED in a
pseudo-Spanish house at the topof the Hollywood Hills. It conformed in no way
to the Hollywood expectations about a French Consulate. The French Consul was a
novelist, his wife wrote biographies, the secretary who opened the door did not
look like Brigitte Bardot, the desk at the entrance was plain, the rooms were
not furnished in Louis XVI style, nor in the fourteenth-century style, nor
Empire.
The bar was concealed by New Orleans shutters.
There were old Turkish rugs on the tile floor. The pillows around the fireplace
were from Thailand. There were French modern paintings on the walls and a
Russian icon. The black lacquer furniture was pseudo-Chinese.
The secretary was not coquettish. She was
dressed in a plain black sheath and wore two yards of dime store pearls. She
led Renate to the living-room. On the way to the living-room Renate noticed the
table covered with magazines. They were not risque. They were art magazines,
one of them on the new churches built in France with abstract Christs and
abstract Madonnas painted by modern painters.
The Consul stood near the door. He was slight
of build, with large sea-green eyes, a southern skin, and a mouth whose design
was marred by a contraction of the upper lip which gave him an air of sneering,
or of pouting, a twist which gave his whole face an ambiguous expression. He
might have been a conventionally handsome man, but this sneer gave him a
slightly sinister air.
Renate was to learn later in the evening that
it was due to a wound he had received during the war, and then she was
distressed to think she had judged his character from his facial design and
that this design had
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