philip_k_dick_-_the_man_in_the_high_castle

alconies, the soaring yet modern columns, the pastel colors, the uses of varied textures . . . it all
made up a work of art. He could remember when this had been nothing but rubble from the war.
The small Japanese children out playing watched him without comment, then returned to their
football or baseball. But, he thought, not so the adults; the well-dressed young Japanese, parking
their cars or entering the apartment buildings, noticed him with greater interest. Did he live here?
they were perhaps wondering. Young Japanese businessmen coming home from their offices. . .
even the heads of Trade Missions lived here. He noticed parked Cadillacs. As the pedecab took him
closer to his destination, he became increasingly nervous.
Very shortly, as he ascended the stairs to the Kasouras' apartment, he thought, Here I am, not
invited in a business context, but a dinner guest. He had of course taken special pains with his
attire; at least he could be confident of his appearance. My appearance, he thought. Yes, that is it.
How do I appear? There is no deceiving anyone; I do not belong here. On this land that white men
cleared and built one of their finest cities. I am an outsider in my own country.
He came to the proper door along the carpeted hall, rang the bell. Presently the door opened.
There stood young Mrs. Kasoura, in a silk kimono and obi, her long black hair in shining tangle
down her neck, smiling in welcome. Behind her in the living room, her husband, with drink in
hand, nodding.
'Mr. Childan. Enter.'
Bowing, he entered.
Tasteful in the extreme. And — so ascetic. Few pieces. A lamp here, table, bookcase, print on
the wall. The incredible Japanese sense of wabi. It could not be thought in English. The ability to
find in simple objects a beauty beyond that of the elaborate or ornate. Something to do with the
arrangement.
'A drink?' Mr. Kasoura asked. 'Scotch and soda?'
'Mr. Kasoura — ' he began.
'Paul,' the young Japanese said. Indicating his wife. 'Betty. And you are — '
Mr. Childan murmured, 'Robert.'
Seated on the soft carpet with their drinks, they listened to a recording of koto, Japanese thirteenstring
harp. It was newly released by Japanese HMV, and quite popular. Childan noticed that all
parts of the phonograph were concealed, even the speaker. He could not tell where the sound came
from.
'Not knowing your appetites in dining,' Betty said, 'we have played safe. In kitchen electric oven
is broiling T-bone 'steak. Along with this, baked potato with sauce of sour cream and chives.
Maxim utters: no one can err in serving steak to new-found guest first time.'
'Very gratifying,' Childan said. 'Quite fond of steak.' And that certainly was so. He rarely had it.
The great stockyards from the Middle West did not send out much to the West Coast any more. He
could not recall when he had last had a good steak.
It was time for him to graft guest gift.
From his coat pocket he brought small tissue-paperwrapped thing. He laid it discreetly on the
low table. Both of them immediately noticed, and this required him to say, 'Bagatelle for you. To
display fragment of the relaxation and enjoyment I feel in being here.'
His hand opened the tissue paper, showing them the gift. Bit of ivory carved a century ago by
whalers from New England. Tiny ornamented art object, called a scrimshaw. Their faces
illuminated with knowledge of the scrimshaws which the old sailors had made in their spare time.
No single thing could have summed up old U.S. culture more.
Silence.