Countess-1a

THE BRIDGE OF DREAMS--THE COUNTESS

ACT I--SOTOBA KOMACHI

[Jack and Henry in Jack's New York apartment.]

JACK
I had to get out of that haunted house, Henry, after Laura rode off behind Tom Hazen on his motorcycle. But, since we'd finished Hostages on Horseback, I had no project. I decided to accept the offer my sister, Grace, made that Christine stay with her for a while. I knew she and Laura had already been talking on the telephone, and when she asked what to do if Laura wanted to see Christine I said, "Fine. Christine's as much her daughter as anyone's. But remind her that she's mine, too." I had a project in mind. Randall Best had been asking me to interview this "crazy old lady" he knew, perhaps to do a screenplay on her early life in Hollywood. I went to see him.

[Jack crosses to Randall's office, Randall rising to meet him.]

RANDALL
Ready to take on my Russian countess? Great! You know I wish both you and Laura well, Jack . . . hope you're back together soon. But . . . in the meantime . . . if you can meet with Natasha tomorrow afternoon. She said "send a bright young man." You're still young, aren't you, Jack? And bright? You'll get to talking to her and forget everything else. The most impressive woman I've ever known. And she's aged nicely. In her prime they say she knew Barrymore, intimately, even scandalously, and still dominated exotic fringes of the film-making world when well over forty, when there was plenty of gossip about her affairs with younger film makers--like Orson Welles. Then she decided to live alone--in a bizarre old mansion, with foreign servants--long enough ago for other legends to have accumulated. Nor are the Hollywood stories all, Jack. She's Russian by birth, but spent

her youth in places frequented by Russian nobility in Switzerland and France prior to the Revolution. After the Revolution, she had to leave Russia, and live by her wits. She spent years in Germany, finally working with Max Reinhardt. She may have come to America with him, but they say she knew Lenin in the early days of the Revolution, Hitler in the Munich beer hall days, Churchill as a young journalist. Then, after settling in America, she became a friend of President Roosevelt's, and an intimate of Joe Kennedy in his Hollywood days. She may even have had an affair with Babe Ruth. But Natasha's also been a good friend for years. You'll have some latitude in preparing a film version of her life—but she's the one you'll have to satisfy. And, first, you'll need to meet her. She'll be expecting you about 2:00 tomorrow afternoon.

JACK
[Speaking to Henry.] So I had my assignment. The next morning I took Christine over to Grace's, then drove the twenty miles or so out to that big old house near Encino where Natasha Rostovna lived. I pulled into a service station in Encino to get gas and check directions to the old Powers place.

ATTENDANT
Ho, yeah . . . where that crazy old lady lives. She comes in here . . . with that man of hers drivin' that old Bentley. She really looks grand, like a queen chauffeured by an admiral. Go about a mile on west, turn left, across the railroad, for maybe half a mile, then you'll see it up on the hill. You can't miss it.

JACK
For once it was true--you couldn't miss it. Off on the hill, it looked like Orson Welles' Xanadu. Then, from the time I turned off the highway, it was as if I'd fallen into a dream. As I got nearer, the vegetation began closing in, as if all of the smaller trees and shrubs were gathering in to prey upon the

house. As I walked up a long flight of stairs, where the flagstones could just barely be distinguished, to a half hidden, trellised wrought iron gate, I thought to myself, "I must be entering the spider's lair. Maybe I should run, before I get caught in her web." [He walks across the stage to the door, and lifts the heavy knocker. The sound echoes as if reverberating in an enormous empty box. He knocks again, then is so startled by a voice from behind him that he jumps.]

COUNTESS
Who comes knocking at an old woman's door? It must be John Curtis, Randall's young friend. Did I frighten you? [Her regal bearing makes her seem taller and younger, but her hair is absolutely white, braided in an old world style, the braids arranged as if as a crown. Her eyes are bright and penetrating. The door opens behind Jack, who jumps again, answered by a solidly built man, probably in his middle fifties. The countess laughs again, like a delighted little girl.] Well, Thomas, we're beginning, as good hosts should, by putting Mr. Curtis at ease. [To Jack.] You are a nervous young man. This is Thomas. He takes care of this place and me. We've been expecting you. Thomas will have things ready in the library. Please come in.

JACK
Said the spider to the fly.

COUNTESS
[Laughing again.] I like you already, Mr. Curtis. Didn't I know your father? In California politics? [As they follow Thomas in.] Or your grandfather, perhaps?

JACK
We're not related to that Curtis. My grandfather was an Ohio farmer. Went to the Civil War from that Ohio farm. No, I guess that was my great grandfather.

COUNTESS
[Again the laugh.] I don't believe I go back that far.

JACK
[As if to Henry.] Thomas led the way down a long hall, to a room at the end, obviously the library, which looked out over the whole valley from a panoramic window at the rear, providing the opposite view from the one I'd seen from below half an hour before. I could see a cattle truck threading its way along the ribbon of highway I'd been on, the purple foothills in the background. The scene was breathtaking no doubt why the house had been built there. [To the countess.] That's quite a drop. You must have to be careful about walking in your sleep. [Her laugh again.] That's an impressive old fountain in the courtyard, too. It's as if the house had been built around it.

COUNTESS
Actually, it's one of the few things I added. And yes, it came from Spain--but not the Alhambra. Do sit down. Thomas, we'll take tea. [Watching Jack examine her books.] Are you familiar with the poetry of William Butler Yeats, Mr. Curtis?

JACK
I know a few of his poems from anthologies I used in college, "Sailing to Byzantium," "Among School Children," "Lapis Lazuli." [He recites the opening and closing lines of "Sailing to Byzantium."] I've always intended to read more some day.

COUNTESS
Yes? Well that will be your first assignment. [To Thomas.] Thomas, give Mr. Curtis that collected edition of Yeats. The dark blue book on the second shelf. I once met Mr. Yeats. In London. When he was old and I was . . . younger. But several years before he died. How little it meant to me at the time, and how much it means to me now. He has taught me much of

what I know about being old. Oh, not in that brief meeting! But he did talk to me. He was talking to someone else when we were introduced-- then to us--then to me. I took pride in having that kind of presence in those days. He commented on his age and my youth though I was no innocent girl, was perhaps about your age now--and he must have been over sixty. We talked about French poetry. I hadn't read any of his work at the time, but his comments provoked me to buy one of his books the next day--and I've been reading him ever since. Now I see it as my duty to pass his wisdom on to you--there, in his book. You know parts of "Sailing to Byzantium," so something of his advice on dealing with mortality . . . on growing old.

JACK
I understand that poem to advise turning from lust to art as one gets too old for lust. I hope putting it that way isn’t offensive to you. [A door opens and a young Oriental woman enters.]

COUNTESS
Oh . . . come in, Shoko, and meet Mr. Curtis, a delightful young man who's come to live with us for a while.

JACK
No, no . . . just here today . . . and then who knows . . .

COUNTESS
As I look at you two young people, I could imagine "the young in one another's arms." While you're still young enough for lust. But you couldn't imagine an affair with me, could you, Mr. Curtis? Yet I feel the beginnings of . . . something. Though you needn't lock your bedroom door . . . against me.

JACK
[To Shoko.] She's teasing me, and you, too. But I don't need another affair right now . . . I've had trouble enough recently.

COUNTESS
So you, too, have your memories. That's nice. You must tell us about your affairs. Shoko and I like good love stories, don't we? Still, I'm most interested in sailing to Byzantium these days. We'll talk about that after you've read some more Yeats.

JACK
[Looking at the strange characters on the backs of two shelves of books.] Do you read Chinese, too?

COUNTESS
'I do, a little. I have The Book of Songs and The Analects there. [Stands and walks over to touch the books.] And I labored through both . . . years ago. But my fluency is in Japanese. Most educated Japanese can read as much Chinese as I can, I think. Wouldn't you say so, Shoko? [A brief nod.] Most of the characters are the same. These books are almost all in Japanese. [She takes a slender paperback from the lower shelf.] I'm especially fond of modern Japanese novelists--have known a number of them. You're a well read young American. Have you read any of Yukio Mishima? [Jack shakes his head.] He may be the most interesting writer now at work in the whole world. Very prolific. Very perceptive. Very provocative. I have one of his books here. Shoko and I met him in Japan two years ago. Have you ever been to Japan, Mr. Curtis?

JACK
Once, briefly. During the Korean War. Three days in Tokyo.

COUNTESS
You must go again. But go knowing what you're looking for, this time. Read some things first. To read young Mishima should be exciting for you. I say "young"--he must be about your age . . . might be a little older. Japanese always look younger than they are. How old do you think Shoko is?

JACK
[Looks at Shoko appraisingly, as she moves over to sit on a cushioned bench in front of the bookcase, near the countess.] [To himself.] So . . . Japanese. [To the countess.] Early [Then fudging a little.] . . . no, I'd say middle . . . twenties.

COUNTESS
That's right! Isn't it, Shoko? [A brief nod.] Most Americans think she's in her late teens. That's what brought Mishima to mind, this question of age, as I thought of one of his plays we saw when we were in Tokyo last--when we met him. He was very affable, with a strange, broad laugh--yet very remote. He knows the Western classics--is fond of Plato. You should read his Forbidden Colors, but it may not have been translated yet. [Smiles.] He knows Yeats, too, though not as well as he thinks. The play we saw was one of Mishima's modern Noh plays, Sotoba Komachi. The old Noh play was based on a legend about a 9th-century Japanese poetess, and great beauty, famous for her cruel treatment of her lovers, who was finally punished by living to be old and ugly, and haunted by the spirit of a lover she had driven to his death.

JACK
La belle dame sans merci. [The countess smiles.]

COUNTESS
I identify with Komachi, don't I Shoko? [Shoko smiles.] So I'll recite one of her poems for you . . . to repay you for your Yeats. [She strikes a pose.] "Hana no iro wa/ Utsurinikeri na/ Itazura ni/ Wa ga mi yo ni furu/ Nagame seshi ma ni." [She looks at Jack for a long moment, then laughs.] It goes like this in English, "The colors of the flowers fade away, and they wither, while I spend my days in this world meaninglessly, and the long rains are falling." Isn't that about right, Shoko?

SHOKO
Yes, Okusan. You know Komachi well.

COUNTESS
So, you see, Komachi was interested in the effects of age, too. But it's what Mishima has done with this legend that interests me. We'll look at that, later. I'll want to re-read it first. [She puts the book on the coffee table beside her chair, on top of three or four others already lying there.]

JACK
It's about some of your experiences when you were younger that I have particularly come to hear.

COUNTESS
When I was younger? Yes. Who's interested in an old woman? Poor Komachi. Well, it was the idea for a film script that took me to Japan the first time . . . back in 1923 . . . the year of the great Tokyo earthquake. So nothing came of it. You've probably never heard of Junichiro Tanizaki, either. [Jack shakes his head. He looks at Shoko, who indicates he should indulge the countess, so settles back with his tea.] Well, Mishima is the fourth generation of great 20th-century Japanese novelists. The tradition in Japanese fiction goes back 1000 years to Lady Murasaki and The Tale of Genji, but the modern Japanese novel comes from Soseki's work early in this century, as he adapted what he learned from European fiction. But he died in his forties, before I went to Japan--so I never met him. From what I know of his work, I might have liked him best of all, for he was a very proud man. I've always liked that.

SHOKO
Most older people in Japan consider Soseki our greatest novelist, and Kokoro his greatest novel.

COUNTESS
So I would qualify. But I've met all three of the others--Tanizaki, Kawabata, and, finally, Mishima--and I'll tell you about my "affair" with Junichiro Tanizaki . . . in return for a story of yours. You might say the affair was never consummated . . . but he's still very much alive--older than I am, I suppose--and, since he's a writer, it still goes on. He published perhaps his greatest novel, Thin Snow, just a few years ago. I have copies of most of his books there on the shelf this book came from. [She pats the Mishima book on the table by her side.] See the set of books at the end of that shelf? That's his version of The Tale of Genji, in modern Japanese, and autographed. I met him when we went to Japan to make a film adapting the story of how the jealousy of the Lady Rokujo killed Genji's wife, Aoi. I was to play Rokujo, and Tanizaki was to write the script. So you may find something of your own experience in this little story. We were also to do two of Shakespeare's plays in Tokyo, a late summer run of Antony and Cleopatra and Macbeth in the fall. I was introduced to Junichiro at dinner shortly after Antony and Cleopatra opened.

JACK
Could many Japanese understand the English?

COUNTESS
No, but many knew some Shakespeare in Japanese translation, and Junichiro's English was better than most. He'd read Macbeth, he said, but had neither seen nor read Antony and Cleopatra before. He was effusive in praising my Cleopatra, but also the little Japanese I'd acquired--so I wondered how seriously to take him. But, since I was the star of the play, he was attracted to me, and since he was a well-known writer--and our writer--I was attracted to him. He asked me places, so I began to spend my afternoons with him. He was about my age

. . . about your age now . . . still young enough. And when I first met him he had evidently just separated from his first wife, so was probably as emotionally in limbo as you've indicated you may be. I heard he'd given his wife to a friend who had become interested in her, at dinner one night--"If you want her, take her." Like Shakespeare with the Dark Lady in the sonnets. I've always liked that . . . sign of generosity. We hope that your story, when we get to it, will be as good, don't we Shoko?

JACK
[Smiling.] It wasn't quite that voluntary, but we may have this "generosity" in sharing our women with friends in common.

COUNTESS
If you come to know his work, you'll find him obsessed with strong, even sadistic, women--he idealizes their perversity. My Cleopatra had won good reviews, and, as always, I was inclined to stay in character off stage. I was imperious with Junichiro, if you can imagine that . . . playing to his masochistic streak without knowing it. I could get almost nowhere with Russian, or even French, so used Japanese as much as I could, but he used English when Japanese wasn’t working--so we had frequent occasion to laugh at our language misunderstandings.

JACK
I would assume that Japanese is very difficult to learn.

COUNTESS
[Smiling at Shoko.] Shoko could teach you--if you have five years or so. Most importantly, though, Tanizaki had the status and connections to introduce me to the "real Japan," and, responding to my interest, he undertook my education in things Japanese. I fell in love with Japanese art, aesthetic attitudes . . . and literature. I was something of a scandal to him, I suppose, an actress with an international "reputation," but he prided

himself on his European manners and attitudes, and never indicated there was a problem. Still, there came to be one. [Pauses.] Do you see that jade lion on the table there? Looks more like a cat than a lion, perhaps. I suppose I've collected these other cats in the room on that principle. But that one rules the rest. Please . . . go look at it. [Jack gets up, walks over to the table, and picks up the little green statue, seven, perhaps eight, inches tall.] See those eyes? The hypnotic quality? Look into those eyes and imagine you're a Japanese novelist--and that I'm much younger--that we're alone in my hotel suite at the Imperial Hotel, and I've just told you that, instead of going to Kyoto with you after Antony and Cleopatra closes--as you'd invited me to do--I was going to climb Mount Fuji with the lion . . . the young naval officer who'd just given me that lion earlier that day. If I'd stayed in my room in that hotel Frank Lloyd Wright had built so well that it withstood the Tokyo earthquake I could have looked out of my window to see Tokyo in ruins. But I wasn't there. I was with the lion.

JACK
Oh? And how did you meet this "lion"?

COUNTESS
Junichiro had introduced us, and this conflict developed thanks in good part to appetites he himself had cultivated. [She looks at Jack.] Now what would you have said? "Tell him that, if he wants you . . . ." How does that go? [She comes over to take the little statue from Jack, and looks into its eyes.] He said that, of course, it was my decision. Then, before long, he politely excused himself and left. It was years before I saw him again. By then both of us were older and wiser, and he never mentioned it. Now, all I have are the memories, the books, and this jade lion--all of which I treasure very highly. What did I do? Went with the lion, of course. I'll tell you that story . . . perhaps after I've re-read Mishima's Sotoba Komachi.

JACK
Do you have that in English translation as well?

COUNTESS
I do. But you want to know about my life in Hollywood--when I first came into this house, as a guest--not my experiences in Japan, don't you? [Jack nods, and smiles.] I won't disappoint you, Mr. Curtis. We'll save some things for tomorrow, and tomorrow . . . and tomorrow. We've prepared rooms for you, a room to sleep in and a room to work in, though you're free to work in this room, if you wish--consult its books. Its cats might inspire you. We'll get whatever you need tomorrow.

JACK
I have a young daughter, Christine, who'll soon be six years old. She's staying with my sister, in Los Angeles, but I can't be away from her for long . . . nor do I want to be.

COUNTESS
So you must bring her, too. There's plenty of room. Shoko and Thomas and I live alone by choice, but would enjoy having a little girl in the house . . . [To Shoko.] wouldn't we? If not, we won't hesitate to tell you. I'll see you at dinner. [She leaves.]

SHOKO
Come, she has made up her mind. It will be fine.

JACK
[To Henry.] I remember thinking--as Shoko led me down the long hall to my room, explaining where the bathroom was, what time dinner would be, and other house rituals--I was going to like it there. Perhaps I was even becoming enamored of a seventy-year-old woman, as I watched a twenty-four-year-old move down a dark hallway in front of me. At breakfast the next morning the countess insisted I go get Christine--that very day.

COUNTESS
[At breakfast the next morning.] Your daughter should be here with you, Jack. I may call you Jack, I hope? And you say she loves her cat . . . Midnight? Then bring Midnight as well.

JACK
So I drove in to get Christine. Grace and I talked about Laura; then Christine and Midnight and I drove back to Encino. Within three days it was as if we'd always lived in that strange, beautiful castle--and the countess was responding to this blithe spirit with obvious pleasure. She clearly enjoyed having the child with her. And she kept me busy. The second day I was there (after the day she'd granted me to pick up Christine), I spent reading Yeats. Then, that evening, we talked about Yeats until she'd worn me out. I decided that, even if nothing else came of it, I’d enjoy our reading books together. She'd been living with her Yeats for half of her life, of course. She had another advantage--reinforcing her status as master in our relationship--of reading in other languages. That came home to me a week or so later--the day after we celebrated Christine's sixth birthday--as I came into the library to find her in her chair by the window with the book she'd taken from the shelf that first afternoon in her lap . . . just staring off across the valley. [To the countess.] Have you re-read that play . . . by Mishima?

COUNTESS
[Startled, but looks up and smiles.] Yes. And I'm ready to talk about it. Sit down, Jack. [Hands him the book.] Mishima will rank as one of the great novelists of this century, is a fine short story writer, and the most successful dramatist in Tokyo this very year. And still a young man. That volume of modern Noh plays includes the play I was telling you about, his version of a play written by . . . [She takes the book and thumbs through a few pages.] Kwanami Kiyotsugu, in the 14th century, about an old woman who lived in the 9th century . . .

SHOKO
[Comes in with Christine.] Pardon me, Okusan. Would you like some of the lemonade . . . we just made.

COUNTESS
[Looks at Christine.] How thoughtful of you. But suppose we move out to sit on the patio. [They settle there.] I'll give Shoko a quiz like I've been giving you on lines from Shakespeare. Who wrote these lines: "Iro miede/ Utsurou mono wa/ Yo no naka no/ Hito no kokoro no/ Hana ni zo arikeru?"

SHOKO
[Smiling.] Another poem by Ono no Komachi, Okusan, a famous tanka by the same poet you quoted the other afternoon.

COUNTESS
Can you translate it for Jack, or should I?

SHOKO
I'll try--though your English would do Komachi greater justice. "Iro miede . . . Colors appear . . . to fade . . . in this world, in the flower of the heart of man." But "iro" may mean . . .

COUNTESS
I wouldn't change a word! [Christine is listening as seriously as Jack.] Komachi lived over a thousand years ago. We know she was a great poet, but is also said to have been a great beauty, desired by every man who saw her, one of whom became famous for his persistence. She forced Shii no Shoshu to come a hundred nights to woo her, and he died the last night. He was then thought to haunt her as she grew old and ugly--the story of Sotoba Komachi. Mishima sets his version of the play in a modern city park, in Paris. He has Komachi, an ugly old woman . . . about my age . . . picking up cigarette butts, and a poet . . . about your age . . . criticize her for interfering with

lovers who meet in the park. Komachi insists they know nothing about love, and gradually draws the poet into an imaginative experience in which he sees her as the archetype of the young female beauty she once was. At the climax of the experience, as she tells him he will, he dies--so Komachi is still the sorceress, with the poet, not her lover, as the victim. You see how this applies to what we've been discussing in Yeats' poetry, and to your trying to interpret my life story?

JACK
You mean in trying to re-capture youth from old age?

COUNTESS
Well, I do identify with Komachi. I was often pursued by men in whom I had no interest, madly proclaiming their love, and must have seemed cruel to many of them. I warn you that, now that I'm old, I'd like to try my sorcery on you. I'll tell you stories of my young loves, but beware of the temptation, as poet, to capture my youth. It might destroy you. [Laughs again.] I may even be the reincarnation of Komachi like the Flying Dutchman--the old woman who lures the young poet to his death. I’ll tell you the story of my most memorable experience in Japan . . . in my mating with the lion.

JACK
The young naval officer who stole you away from Tanizaki?

COUNTESS
Yes. I, too, was constantly surrounded by men, as most actresses are some of whom are indispensable, of course, but most simply a nuisance . . . like flies. I had met some attractive men in Japan . . . but nothing serious had come of any of it . . . until I thought I had fallen in love with that Japanese naval officer, and . . . [She pauses for a moment.] and may have driven another to his death. As officers, they were aristocrats.

I knew the aristocratic Russian or German officer caste of World War I Europe--the dueling code, death before dishonor. But bushido, the samurai code, requires more. [Pauses.] And the Japanese see homosexuality--as they do suicide--very differently from Europeans. There's a homosexual tradition in Japan, from the cultivated sensibility of the Heian period, through the development of the samurai code, the rise of the onnagata in kabuki drama, the kamikaze pilots of World War II, to Mishima's Confessions of a Mask and Forbidden Colors.

SHOKO
Do you think this is a proper story for a small child to hear, Okusan? [Christine is soberly listening to the countess.]

COUNTESS
[Looks at Shoko, then Christine, then Jack, and smiles.] I leave that to her father, though I feel it's worse to send a child away. Her innocence will protect her from ideas she's too young for. But she's six years old now . . . aren't you, dear? Ready for anything. [Christine smiles back.] But listening to stories is a thirsty business--we may need more lemonade. [Christine proudly refills the glasses, then moves to sit by Jack as the countess continues.] I'll tell you how I missed the Tokyo earthquake--the 1st of September, 1923--before any of you were born. That earthquake was one of the most devastating disasters in human history. You've heard of it, surely. [Jack nods.] And I almost missed it. It was through Junichiro I first met Captain Yamamoto, later Admiral Yamamoto--mastermind of the Pearl Harbor attack--killed near the end of the war when his plane was ambushed in the Philippines by American P-38s. I was as distressed by that news as by any I heard during the entire war. He was a handsome young officer, courtly and distinguished. He'd studied in America, so his English was better than that of most Japanese, and he thought he knew America very well. Perhaps he did.

JACK
They say he knew he was waking a sleeping tiger--but did it!

COUNTESS
He pursued me elegantly. We went everywhere together, to shop at the fashionable specialty stores, to Nikko, to those interminable kabuki performances. He tried to explain the artistry of the onnagata to me after one performance of the lion dance, where a geisha is possessed by the spirit of a lion and comes back to dance in the lion's form. He introduced me to the man who danced the role--a very convincing geisha. That same day we saw that jade statue in a shop. The next afternoon he came to my room at the Imperial Hotel, presented me with the jade lion, and invited me to spend the few days I had free after Antony and Cleopatra closed in Hakone with him--to climb Mount Fuji. How absolutely abandoned, I thought, going on such an adventure with this handsome navy man. I told him I'd be delighted. I was under the spell of the lion.

JACK
But that is a special experience, isn't it--to climb Mount Fuji?

COUNTESS
Yes. The Japanese custom is to climb Mount Fuji at night, then eat breakfast on the summit as the sun comes up. I was told it was the best time of year to climb the mountain. Isoroku picked me up at my hotel early Thursday afternoon, in an automobile driven by a younger man in uniform I took to be his orderly. The two hour drive to Hakone was a pleasant outing, and Isoroku was solicitous to point out things of special interest, but talked to the driver more than he did to me, and the tones in which they spoke seemed casual, given their relationship. When I hinted at this, Isoroku was surprised and amused, saying that, no, the driver wasn't his orderly but a fellow officer, and good friend, and introduced him as Lt.

Shinji Okuyama. We arrived at Hakone a little before dinner time, the hotel a picture postcard image, nestled against a hill, overlooking that beautiful lake. I wasn't surprised that we had separate rooms but that Isoruku's was next to Shinji's, not mine. I thought, "Well, we'll see." We planned the ascent for that first night, but had time for a leisurely dinner, since the climbing falls between ten and dawn. We went by car to the fifth station--at 6000 feet, halfway up the mountain from which you proceed on foot. It's not a demanding climb. I'd climbed the Matterhorn--on a brief vacation with Thomas Mann--and found this just an extended hike. We began about 10:30, and were at the top half an hour before sunrise, about 4:00 a.m. The view from the top, as the sun came up out of the sea, was incredible--worth the whole trip to Japan.

JACK
But then you had to climb back down.

COUNTESS
Yes. The trip down was in daylight, but, though early morning, hot enough to make me thankful the ascent had been at night. I'd become addicted to the Japanese bath, and sought out the bathroom as soon as we got back to the hotel. My Western sensibilities were catered to by letting me bathe alone. The long soak in hot water was perfect for transforming exhaustion into a nebulous euphoria. On the way back to my room I thought, "Now might be the time to test Isoroku's intentions," and, under the pretext of informing him the bath was free, I slid back the door to his room. I had thought I might surprise him in the nude--part of what made me yield to the impulse--but I was surprised to discover them both in the nude. They hadn't seen me, but, as I stepped back to draw the door shut, I stumbled slightly, and half imagined Shinji had caught sight of me from the corner of his eye. But I pretended just to be knocking, and called out, "The bath is free now, Isoroku san."

JACK
[Looking down at Christine, who has climbed into his lap, and trying to judge her reactions to the story.] Quite a surprise.

COUNTESS

There was a little rapid and confused Japanese, then Isoroku's gruff and strongly accented, "Arigato. We will meet you at dinner." I felt I'd been dismissed, and, returning to my room, set about packing to return to Tokyo. But, as I inquired about connections, they were inconvenient-- which may have saved my life. And I found my curiosity getting the better of me. I had little to fear from these Japanese officers, evidently, and I might learn something. So, by the time they came down I had decided to watch the actors in this little drama for my own edification and amusement--a cynical and entirely unadmirable motive, I'll admit, but one to which I have yielded on a number of other occasions . . . and which I have almost never regretted.

JACK
You might wonder why he had invited you.

COUNTESS
[Smiles.] That's not the end of the story. They seemed nervous when they arrived but expressed this differently. I was an actress, after all, and think I gave a convincing performance of a delighted female tourist who'd just seen the sunrise from the top of Mount Fuji. Then I began asking questions about their military training, how long they'd known one another, samurai traditions and how they applied to naval service . . . where they might be at sea for months . . . without women. Once into it, I was absolutely enjoying myself. Isoroku responded candidly, quoting passages from the Hagakure--written about 1700 by his namesake, Jocho Yamamoto, and much admired by Mishima as well--as having shaped his own samurai values. Shinji began to draw back, however, turning the conversation

to our experience on Mount Fuji, and what the mountain, in its various moods, meant to a Japanese. When he said that he, too, had seen my performance as Cleopatra, I asked about the psychology of the onnagata, remarking that in Shakespeare's London the part of Cleopatra would have been played by a boy.

JACK
Were you suggesting homosexuality might be environmental?

COUNTESS
Perhaps. They were both knowledgeable about Greek culture, so I asked their opinion of Plato's theories of love. Shinji began backing off again, but Isoroku began asking some questions of his own, and seemed genuinely disappointed when Shinji finally said he was tired from the climb, and they both conducted me to my room. The day's events having left me a little uneasy, I rolled up the extra futon to prop myself up to read, though I found myself reflecting upon other images and ideas than those on the pages before me. Then I was surprised to see my door quietly sliding open, and even more surprised to find myself looking into the eyes of the lion. My door, too, had been left rather carelessly unlatched, but he latched it as he came in, bowing to me. He was wearing the hotel kimono, and slippers . . . which he left by the door, but on the inside.

JACK
The plot thickens. [Looking down at Christine.]

COUNTESS
He motioned me to be quiet, indicating there was no cause for alarm, came to sit on the tatami mat next to me, and said, "Now I've had my bath . . . and gotten into the wrong room." He smiled. "It must be strange for a Western woman here in Japan. You are so open, so free--which we don’t expect from women--talking about Plato's Symposium. I've studied that

book. Now try to be that wise woman for me." "Diotima?" I asked. "Yes. Teach me, as she did Socrates, about love. I will answer questions you ask, as he did . . . those your lips ask, and also those your eyes ask." I knew this game very well . . . and had always enjoyed it. I began to laugh at such transparent flattery, but then we felt the first tremors, a severe shaking of the whole room, enough to topple the flower arrangement in the tokonoma. We grabbed each other on impulse, and I felt the strength of his arms in that embrace. I gasped, "What was that?" Again I saw the eyes of the lion. "A jishin. 'Earthquake?' These islands were all volcanoes. No great concern . . . usually." But he didn't release me. His face was close to mine and we were looking deeply into each other's eyes. I offered no resistance. "Isn't there?" I responded, and tried to manage a laugh, but he closed the distance, kissed me firmly on the lips, and pushed me back onto the folded futon. There were three distinct sets of tremors while we were engaged in this "combat," each heavier than the last, and I really did feel that the world might be coming to an end.

JACK
So, a very memorable experience.

COUNTESS
[Smiling.] You can imagine how surprised I was by this "attack upon my virtue" by a man I had just been convinced was homosexual. His sexual impulses in this instance, if I was any judge, were exceedingly normal, as were my own. The earth's passions seemed to subside with our own, and, in that moment of tranquility, my spirit went out to Shinji. I asked Isoroku, "What about Shinji?" Arranging his robe, he went down the hall to check. The earthquake had tumbled us about pretty severely, and the whole hotel was buzzing. When Isoroku returned I tried to make light of it. But he was in no mood for nonsense, muttering "Hairemasen! . . . I can't get in."

As if talking to himself, he said, "The door is jammed." Then he said to me, "I get no answer." As nearly as I could understand his Japanese, he thought Shinji might have been hurt, or knocked unconscious, in the violence of the quake, and that he'd have to force entrance into his room. The earthquake was heaviest in Tokyo, and on a line running down through Yokohama. People were up and down the halls, listening to one another's radios, speculating on what the conditions must be in the city, by the time Isoroku returned with tools he had borrowed from the hotel kitchen, saying he and Lt. Okuyama must immediately report for duty at their base in Yokosuka.

JACK
Officers would feel that responsibility in such circumstances.

COUNTESS
I went with him as he then proceeded to force the lock on the door, and, as he slid the door back, to be confronted by the sight of Lt. Okuyama sitting cross legged in the middle of the room, crumpled forward, and swimming in his own blood. A long knife, or, as I was told later, a samurai short sword, was pierced through his neck, jutting out the back, one hand still wrapped around the handle, the other fallen in the pool of blood, his stomach cut open from one side to the other, the bowels spilling out between his legs. I cried aloud and jumped back into the hall in revulsion, as Isoroku fell forward on his knees before his friend, and broke into long, deep sobs. These sounds attracted others, who came clamoring up, but when they got a view of this spectacle they fell into hushed silence. The manager of the hotel took charge closing the room back up and notifying the authorities. It was he who first suggested that Shinji had taken his own life in despair at the disaster that had befallen his country. Isoroku, almost absentmindedly, agreed--though the anguish in his eyes told a different story. I tried to console him, but he paid me almost no attention.

JACK
I try to imagine what the experience must have meant to him.

COUNTESS
After arranging for me to stay at the hotel until I could get in touch with my company, almost as if I were luggage he was leaving, Isoroku left for Yokosuka. I never saw him again. I only heard his voice once more, when he called to tell me of plans he had made for me to rejoin my company. But I never returned to Tokyo that time. The director reached me by telephone to say he'd arranged to return to Los Angeles later in the week, would have my maid pack and have my things on the ship, since the film was definitely off. I told him that I couldn't leave . . . because of Isoroku. He laughed at first, then tried to explain that, whatever might have happened, there could be no future in the relationship--and he'd be too busy to bother with me now. From the moment I had heard Isoroku's voice on the telephone, I had known that--that it was over. Cordial, but withdrawn, he had treated me like a stranger, who had no part in the things that now occupied him. He suggested I return home until Japan could again be more hospitable.

JACK
So you returned to America?

COUNTESS
Yes no more my home than Japan. But I brought back an interest in things Japanese--the culture, the language, the literature--and a greater insight into the nature of love. No matter how distantly met Isoroku and I were, my love might have bridged the gap, I felt, except for his own deeply ingrained biases. But I do have the memory. And the cat . . . his jade lion. It does remind me of him. We never met again, but I heard about him from time to time--then often during the war. When I heard about his death, I cried, seeing in memory my

lion king, who'd shown an interest in what a Russian woman could teach him about Platonic love--if not quite what Diotima taught Socrates. And the images of the passion of the earthquake are mixed in memory with those of that younger officer, sitting in his own blood. I'd come into their lives briefly--to wreak havoc. As I've become old as Komachi did the spirits of these young officers sometimes visit me in my lonely hours--as I sit in my library and stare at the jade lion that has outlived them both. Back in Los Angeles, a friend remarked, "I heard you caused an earthquake in Japan." I broke into hysterical laughter . . . and had trouble getting stopped. [She gazes at Christine affectionately.] Do you think that story will corrupt this young child's moral values?

JACK
It doesn't appear so. [To Henry.] I saw that Christine had fallen asleep in my lap.

HENRY
So that's the way you found a home . . . at Shangri-la.

JACK
That evening, after I'd gone to bed, but was still reading, I saw the door to my room opening very quietly. A young woman slipped in, barefoot and in her robe, as if directly from the bath, as in the countess's story, making me think perhaps she was able to recapture the seductive powers of her youth, to haunt me as she'd said Komachi haunts the poet in Mishima's play. That young woman said, "You must know you can't take everything the countess tells you in her stories as true. I don't believe she had such an experience with Admiral Yamamoto. But it may be she believes she did. And her stories are always interesting." Then I heard the comfortable sound of a bathrobe dropping onto the rug before the young woman climbed into the bed. California is known for its earthquakes, too.