Cecil Beaton and I went to pick him up. Truman had originally come with Cecil, who had known all about the necessary visas and acquired one. "It is so nice here, Truman," he said. "You will like it." Cecil had already spent three days. Truman had already lost three days of a two-week stay. "I doubt that very much," said Truman. "This country that is very chintzy about its visas." He glared about the airport. "All I can say is that you certainly wouldn't know they'd lost the war."

"One of the things the matter is that no one here is taller than Truman," Cecil told me the next day. We were waiting for the American author. I was taking them sight-seeing. "He needs someone taller than he is. It tends to keep him in line. Otherwise, it was fine. All the chairs fit him. Even the toilets."

Truman, when he appeared, did not, however, think it fine. Complained. The water tasted funny. Was I absolutely certain that it was all right to drink? I was? Well, I'd better be. It was all on my head--his subsequent illness, death, who knew what?

On the Ginza Truman talked about New York and Paris. In the Hama Detached Palace grounds, about Fontainbleau and the Villa d'Este. On the boat up the Sumida, about friends in far places that neither Cecil nor I knew, and, in Asakusa, about his wretched publisher.

But then he suddenly turned, peered about at the lanterns, the distant temple, the cherry blossoms. "Why," he said with some surprise, "it is a veritable fairy-land." The appreciation lasted for a time and he bought an imitation geisha wig. "Oh, no, not for me, my dear. For fun!"

On the way back to the Imperial he entertained us with stories. All were grisly. An especial favorite of his, he told us, was the one about a mother and son. They were like pals, went every place together. Then one day, out on the pier of some Long Island estate, people saw them feeding the birds. The gulls collected in great flocks. She was waving her umbrella in presumed greeting. Investigators later found them there, their eyes picked out, faces almost unrecognizable. They had indeed been "feeding the birds."

"You know, he told me that story in London last year, and again on the flight over," said Cecil later, shaking his head. "It seems to have some meaning for him."
"Anti-pally mothers," I said.
"Or sons," said he.
"At any rate, it is pro bird. Earlier you said that one of the things the matter was that no one was taller than him. What are the other things?"
"Oh, no," said Cecil kindly, mouth pursed with concern. "You are not to take his saying things so seriously. He is like that, you know."
"He is?"
"Why yes, of course," said Cecil smiling, as though revealing to me one of the facts of life. "You wait, after we have gone out of an evening he will much improve."

So we went out of an evening. Cecil enjoyed himself and was seemingly quite pleased with the results. Truman wasn't. He was rude, sent the boy back, spat out: "Little pussycats!" and went off to bed.

One of the things the matter, as Cecil would have said, was that Truman had nothing to do. He had decided to come because Cecil was coming. At the last moment he got The New Yorker to finance the trip by suggesting he interview Marlon Brando, now on film location [for Sayonara] at Nara but at present too busy to see him.

Cecil on the other hand was so busy that he had little time for Truman. His trip was financed by Vogue and he was supposed to be photographing Japanese high society. Since Japan has no high society except for a few potted royals and the sedate wives of robber barons he was busy indeed--searching everywhere. Consequently Truman was much alone, a state which did not agree with him.

"Hello," he drawled into the receiver. "It's me again. Bet you think I don't do anything but telephone. But I am so bored. I cannot tell you how bored I am. So I just called up to have a chat . . ."

I told him I would like to chat but that I couldn't right then. "Oh, really?" Disbelief followed by resentment. "Well, in that case." Then, anxious at being once more alone: "Still, just a minute or two is all right. Right? You know what Barbara Hutton said last time when I was there?" I did not know what she had said but I soon learned.

What I did not understand about Truman was how anyone could come to a new country, any country, and pay so little attention to it. He was supposed to be some sort of a reporter, at least he was reporting for his magazine, but he stayed entirely in the Imperial, ate there, slept there. And, he never asked a question.

"But he's always like that," said Cecil, wondering at my complaint. "You really do not know him very well, do you?"
"No," I said.
Several days later I was to take Truman out shopping. I phoned up from the lobby. "I am not going," said the small, petulant voice. Asked why not, he sighed and with the air of beginning a very long story said: "Well, I was washing my hair . . ." Then he stopped. "My neck. It's my neck." I said that the Imperial had a stable of masseurs. "I would not let them touch me," said Truman virtuously. "But you may come up," he added.

Instead, I inveigled him down. We sat in the coffee shop. Truman was cross, tired, bored--he looked ten years old, and acted it. "I don't see why you came here anyway," I said.
He looked at me wonderingly. "Why, to do Brando, of course."
"Not to see Japan?"
"Why, no," he said, as though mystified that anyone should think anything so unlikely. Then he looked at me severely. "Look, I have seen Japan. And I may just as well admit that I do not like a country that has little cocks."
"I beg your pardon?" I said.
"Little cocks, little cocks!" he repeated irritably, his high tight voice carrying through the coffee shop. "This country has little cocks. Not a single ten-penny among them!"
"A what?"
"A ten-penny!" he said, then seeing that I did not understand the expression and pleased, as always, to be explaining, his expression softened, a slight smile appeared, and--now that it was much too late--he lowered his voice.
"A ten-penny? Why, that's what we call them down South. You see, you get it there and you lay it on a table or something and if you can line up ten pennies in row on its back, then it's called a ten-penny. Understand?"

I understood. Pleased, Truman then told me again what Barbara Hutton had said, went on to other topics of equal interest and was in good temper when we said goodbye.

The mood did not, apparently, last. When the interview with Brando came out in The New Yorker I saw that the black mood had returned and that the actor was being made to pay for all that Japan, or perhaps Truman himself, wasn't. Yet, a note from Cecil seemed to indicate otherwise. "Saw Truman at a party. Charming as usual. So full of Japan. Told most wonderful stories of Asakusa, of Kyoto. Made it all so real. Says he is thinking of doing a book."