On the front of the dilapidated hotel was a hand-painted sign: Tokyo Foreign Correspondents’ Club. A staff car ground to a halt in the dirt road outside and I followed two Allied colonels up the worn steps, through a set of glass doors to a lobby, where correspondents stood in telephone booths, dictating stories on the overseas lines. After a creaking ascent in the iron elevator, the old operator wrenched open the guardrail to reveal a hallway redolent with the smoke of pipes and cigarettes and cigars. Two Japanese busboys bowed, and swung open a further set of doors. A polyglot clamour emerged from within. The ballroom was crowded. A gleaming baby grand stood in the centre, a diplomat with a white bouffant and dinner dress sat upon its stool, holding uproarious court to an obsequious coterie. A clump of reporters harangued a U.S. Army major, who spread out his hands in apparent defence as their pencils jabbed the air around him. A pair of British naval captains stood with white caps under their arms, woollen socks pulled high, as they were cheerfully molested by two old ladies in grey chiffon and horn-rimmed glasses.
