Lt. J. Malcolm Morris - The Wise Bamboo

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Text originally published in 1953 under the same title.

Pickle Partners Publishing 2016, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publishers Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Authors original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern readers benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE WISE BAMBOO

BY

J. MALCOLM NORRIS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS

This book is dedicated

to

my whole damn family

This book will not prove anything to anyone. It is presented for amusement only.

I have recorded events as I remember them happening. If anyone chooses to remember them differently, I have no quarrel with him.

The Imperial Hotel was built for the Japanese by Frank Lloyd Wright, the American architectural genius. The Grand Opening was held at noon on September first, 1923 and five minutes later Japan was struck by the worst earthquake that history has ever known. Some think this was a device cleverly arranged by the Japanese to demonstrate that the building was earthquake-proof as claimed but I am certain it was the anger of the gods.

I was born under the sign of Aquarius, the water bearer, and the astrologers will tell you that this is a corker of a sign under which to be born. Aquarius people hold winning tickets in raffles, find money, are at the right place at the right time and, most important, they always manage to have things figured out in no time at all. It is all very well for the astrologers to feed you this sort of thing, but they might do well to check into a few more case histories. I have just finished a tour of six years as the manager of the Imperial Hotel and still have not figured the place out. I will admit freely that the hotel fascinates me, but cannot name a single reason why I should like it. I departed from it still considering it to be much like a person who has every characteristic which should make loathing him a pleasure but whom I cannot dislike in spite of myself. And then, there are the Japanese people. Not even a Japanese born under Aquarius could figure them out.

I did not seek the position of manager of the Imperial Hotel. In November, 1945 I was assigned to take charge of it as a billet for senior officers of the Allied occupation forces in Japan. I was a lieutenant in the Army then and as such had learned to do as I was told. I did remain in the job for five years after I became a civilian in December, 1946 but by then I had become so deeply involved in the operation that I had to stay around just to see what could possibly happen next.

I arrived at the hotel in the evening. It was so dark that the building appeared to be just a large, black blotch. But then the moon came out from behind a cloud, brightening the lily pond before the entrance into a shiny rectangle of silver and silhouetting the north and south wings so that they looked like two great claws projecting forward from the center dome of the building. My first impression of the Imperial Hotel was that it looked like a giant crab eating a stick of chewing gum with the tinfoil still on it.

I was wearing combat equipment, musette bag on my back, bayonet on my belt and carbine slung on my shoulder. The Japanese management had a reception committee to meet me and after several speeches of welcome had been made X was presented with a huge bouquet of flowers. With this added to my burdens X was escorted by the committee down a series of long, winding corridors to the room which had been specially prepared for me.

The committee left me at the door and I was immediately besieged by a flock of roomboys and room maids who unloaded me, unpacked my equipment, drew a bath, laid out my toilet articles, brought me a menu, brushed me off, turned down the bed. So many of them invaded the room and they moved so rapidly that all I could do was stand in the center and watch them go whizzing past. Each time one of them passed me, he or she would skid to a halt, bow graciously and say, Hello, sir. I tried to ask them to stop but they spoke no more English than I did Japanese. I finally cornered the roomboy who seemed to be in charge.

Look, I said, everything very nice. Now okay. Now go. Everybody go.

He bowed and said, Hello, sir. Then he dashed off and, returning in a moment, presented me with my razor. I gave up, took a seat and let them run down until there was nothing more they could possibly find to do. Then they lined up in a squad, bowed solemnly, said in a chorus, Hello, sir, did a left face and marched out of the room in single file. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The next morning I bounced out of bed full of enthusiasm for the new job. The roomboy took my breakfast order, drew a bath, and I stepped into the first tub I had seen in six months. It was a great luxury after the cold water showers which had been the only bathing facility in Manila. As I was busy soaping myself there was a knock on the door and, without waiting for an answer, a pretty Japanese girl in a lovely kimono pushed the door open and started to walk into the room carrying my breakfast tray. I yelled at her to get out and she stopped with a puzzled expression on her face. Then she shrugged her shoulders and resumed her entrance. I yelled at her several times more and then, when I saw it was having no effect, I picked up the soap and made as if to throw it at her. She uttered a shocked little scream and quickly backed out of the room. I could tell by the expression of her face that she was saying to herself, What bath Buddha sent us?

I was disconcerted by this lack of respect for my privacy and took the matter up with Mr. T. Inumaru, the president of the Imperial Hotel Company. Mr. Imunaru was a lively man in his late fifties, a mature ball of fire, short and compactly built and with a leonine cast to his features. His command of English was excellent though he spoke with an accent and in a staccato rhythm.

He explained to me that the room maids conduct was perfectly proper by Oriental standards, that the Japanese have a saying, The nude is often seen but never looked at. I told him that I did not care to be either seen or looked at and that henceforth we would consider room 12 (my quarters) to be a small part of the United States transplanted to Japan and within its confines western customs would prevail. He sent for the housekeeper, a little old elf whose constant bowing made him seen even smaller than he was. With Mr. Inumaru translating, I explained that, regardless of Japanese customs, it would embarrass me if a room maid entered my quarters while I was not properly dressed. Therefore, the system of knocking on doors and entering before an answer was given must cease at once. Just to make certain that he understood, I had him repeat the instructions in Japanese to Mr. Inumaru. When he finished, Mr. Inumaru looked at him silently for a moment, turned and looked at me, then looked back at the housekeeper.