crystal—Will would very much like to see him in a rubber apron ladling out soup to butchers and their ilk in a street-market noodle shop, the kind with the bare electrical bulb hanging dangerously on a filament.
“Terrible news, isn’t it? ” Will says.
“This too will pass.” Dominick dismisses him with a slow wave of his marble-white palm. Will finds himself wondering if those hands have seen any labor more arduous than the writing of a thank-you note on cream bond or the lifting of a champagne bowl. He watches the two of them whispering together. They belong together (were it not for the accident of their family relations) but he supposes such a pairing would combust, their pale electricity extinguishing the other.
Dominick says suddenly, “It’s not all bad for Trudy and me, you know. The Japanese are closer to us than the English. At least they’re Orientals.”
Will almost laughs and then realizes that Dominick is serious.
“But you’re the least Oriental person I know,” he says mildly.
Dominick narrows his eyes. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.
Trudy intervenes. “You’re both talking nonsense. Don’t talk about this beastly nationality matter—it makes me ill.” She brushes Will’s hair back from his face. “All I know is that the Japanese are a very peculiar people.”
“You should not say such things,” Dominick says. “You should not.”
“Oh, bother! ” Trudy says. “Have another drink and shut up.”
It is the first time Will has seen Trudy get irritated with Dominick. She wants to go shortly thereafter and they leave, but not before she gives Dominick a quick kiss on the cheek to let him know he’s been forgiven.
On Sunday they wake and go to town for dim sum. There is an odd tension in the air, and the wet markets are filled with grim shoppers filling their bags. They go home and listen to the radio and eat a simple dinner. The amahs are flitting about, chattering nonstop, and it’s giving Will a headache. The office rings up and says that work is suspended until further notice. That night, he and Trudy slip and slide in their sleep, waking each other in their restlessness, breathing loudly.
Monday, December 8. The rude brrring of the telephone. Angeline wakes Trudy and Will with the news that her husband has just received word of a broadcast to all Japanese that war with Britain and the United States is imminent. The engineers have been ordered to blow all bridges leading into the territory. Then, as they digest the news still groggy from sleep, they hear the air-raid sirens, and then, terribly, from a distance, then closer, the whing and whine of aircraft and the dull thud of bombs. The phone rings again. All Volunteers are to be in place by three in the afternoon. They turn on the radio and Will gets dressed as Trudy watches him from the bed. She is pale and quiet.
“It’s madness for you to go out in this,” she says. “How are you going to get to the office? ”
“I’ll drive,” he says.
“But you don’t know what condition the roads are in. You might be hit by a bomb or someone might . . .”
“Trudy,” he says. “I have to go. I can’t just sit by.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “And I don’t want to be alone.”
“Let’s not quarrel,” he says gently. “Call Angeline. Then go over to her house. Have her send her boy to escort you. And I’ll ring you there when I’m able. You should probably stock up on some food as well.”
He kisses her cool cheek and leaves.
In town, he drives by the King’s Theater. It still seems to be operating. My Life with Caroline is the feature and there are, astonishingly, a few people queuing up for tickets.
When he reports to HQ, it’s abuzz with activity, men jostling for space and supplies, with a sense of urgency he has not seen before. Outside, it’s eerily quiet but for the intermittent boom of bombs. He sits and waits for his assignment. There’s a map over a desk
“Terrible news, isn’t it? ” Will says.
“This too will pass.” Dominick dismisses him with a slow wave of his marble-white palm. Will finds himself wondering if those hands have seen any labor more arduous than the writing of a thank-you note on cream bond or the lifting of a champagne bowl. He watches the two of them whispering together. They belong together (were it not for the accident of their family relations) but he supposes such a pairing would combust, their pale electricity extinguishing the other.
Dominick says suddenly, “It’s not all bad for Trudy and me, you know. The Japanese are closer to us than the English. At least they’re Orientals.”
Will almost laughs and then realizes that Dominick is serious.
“But you’re the least Oriental person I know,” he says mildly.
Dominick narrows his eyes. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.
Trudy intervenes. “You’re both talking nonsense. Don’t talk about this beastly nationality matter—it makes me ill.” She brushes Will’s hair back from his face. “All I know is that the Japanese are a very peculiar people.”
“You should not say such things,” Dominick says. “You should not.”
“Oh, bother! ” Trudy says. “Have another drink and shut up.”
It is the first time Will has seen Trudy get irritated with Dominick. She wants to go shortly thereafter and they leave, but not before she gives Dominick a quick kiss on the cheek to let him know he’s been forgiven.
On Sunday they wake and go to town for dim sum. There is an odd tension in the air, and the wet markets are filled with grim shoppers filling their bags. They go home and listen to the radio and eat a simple dinner. The amahs are flitting about, chattering nonstop, and it’s giving Will a headache. The office rings up and says that work is suspended until further notice. That night, he and Trudy slip and slide in their sleep, waking each other in their restlessness, breathing loudly.
Monday, December 8. The rude brrring of the telephone. Angeline wakes Trudy and Will with the news that her husband has just received word of a broadcast to all Japanese that war with Britain and the United States is imminent. The engineers have been ordered to blow all bridges leading into the territory. Then, as they digest the news still groggy from sleep, they hear the air-raid sirens, and then, terribly, from a distance, then closer, the whing and whine of aircraft and the dull thud of bombs. The phone rings again. All Volunteers are to be in place by three in the afternoon. They turn on the radio and Will gets dressed as Trudy watches him from the bed. She is pale and quiet.
“It’s madness for you to go out in this,” she says. “How are you going to get to the office? ”
“I’ll drive,” he says.
“But you don’t know what condition the roads are in. You might be hit by a bomb or someone might . . .”
“Trudy,” he says. “I have to go. I can’t just sit by.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “And I don’t want to be alone.”
“Let’s not quarrel,” he says gently. “Call Angeline. Then go over to her house. Have her send her boy to escort you. And I’ll ring you there when I’m able. You should probably stock up on some food as well.”
He kisses her cool cheek and leaves.
In town, he drives by the King’s Theater. It still seems to be operating. My Life with Caroline is the feature and there are, astonishingly, a few people queuing up for tickets.
When he reports to HQ, it’s abuzz with activity, men jostling for space and supplies, with a sense of urgency he has not seen before. Outside, it’s eerily quiet but for the intermittent boom of bombs. He sits and waits for his assignment. There’s a map over a desk
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