of the house.”
“But taking care of the house takes a lot of time. Perhaps more time than your husband spends working.” He said it without thinking.
Something in her eyes seemed to light up, focus on him more intently. “My husband?” She laughed, but he didn’t hear any humor in it. “In the house, my husband only does work. But he leaves the house often; I almost never leave. And when he comes back, he starts to work again. He does not tell me what he does when he leaves. He does not talk to me.”
Alec took a sip of Scotch and felt something open up around him, between them, as if they had crossed some sort of line together by talking. Then he turned away and lay down on his stomach, afraid that if he looked at her too long, she might stop coming into focus.
“What about your children? Do you talk to them?”
She shook her head slowly. “My husband and I, we are not from Tokyo. Eh? We are from Tohoku, in the north—from avery small village. But our children, they are from Tokyo. And so, sometimes it is difficult to talk. Sometimes I think they are children of Tokyo, not of me.”
They were quiet after that, Alec knowing that she expected him to speak but not quite sure what to say. Finally she picked up her pen, went back to working on the account books.
But he knew something about her now, and he felt in her silence the truth of what she had told him. Watching her, he saw the tedium of her daily life; saw, too, the intensity of her excitement at his return and the chance for conversation. Dizzy, he rolled over and sat up. Mrs. Hasegawa stared up at him with curious, almost hesitant eyes. He smiled at her, took another sip of Scotch.
“I want to tell you a little about my friend Nobi,” he said.
HEADACHE
T he restaurant was distinctly European. Crystal chandeliers shed soft light throughout the dining room. Earthen-colored Tuscan floor tiles blended with chairs of mahogany and leather, giving the room a sense of opulence and comfort. Crisp and white, the tables stood at attention, uncrowded, inviting. Japanese waiters floated from place to place, attentive and discreet, cutting sharp figures in their starched black-and-white uniforms.
It was a business dinner, Alec’s first, and Boon was being no help at all. He sat as though in a trance, his fingertips touching in front of his half-closed eyes. A dessert menu lay open before him, but there was no motion in his face, not even a hint that anything was taking place within his head.
Alec was getting a headache. He imagined himself as an inverted pachinko machine, his shoulders and neck producing little silver balls of muscular tension, which, one by one, werebouncing their way up into his head. Noise reverberating in his brain. Levers clicking. Balls clattering. A cacophony of sound and pain. He looked around the table in the hope that someone else might be sharing his experience. It seemed unlikely. The two men from the Japanese electronics firm mirrored Boon’s neutral countenance. Imamura, the senior executive, sat like a schoolboy in church, his hands in his lap, his eyes cast downward. Occasionally he would glance furtively at his partner, Ayada, who was acting as both translator and
atendo,
caretaker and protector of the higher-ranking man.
Silence had overtaken the table as if by consensus. Heads had bent down to study the dessert menus and had not been raised again. Alec could not understand what had happened. The meal had gone smoothly up until then, formalities mixing easily with talk about baseball, women, and drinking. With each glass of wine, the faces of both Japanese men had evolved into deeper shades of red, while Alec soon believed himself to be a native speaker. His tongue felt loose, athletic. He was talking to Imamura about the benefits of bachelorhood. He was laughing with Ayada as they discussed the dangers of drinking too much sake before telling the bar hostess that her pert breasts were the only true national treasures of
“But taking care of the house takes a lot of time. Perhaps more time than your husband spends working.” He said it without thinking.
Something in her eyes seemed to light up, focus on him more intently. “My husband?” She laughed, but he didn’t hear any humor in it. “In the house, my husband only does work. But he leaves the house often; I almost never leave. And when he comes back, he starts to work again. He does not tell me what he does when he leaves. He does not talk to me.”
Alec took a sip of Scotch and felt something open up around him, between them, as if they had crossed some sort of line together by talking. Then he turned away and lay down on his stomach, afraid that if he looked at her too long, she might stop coming into focus.
“What about your children? Do you talk to them?”
She shook her head slowly. “My husband and I, we are not from Tokyo. Eh? We are from Tohoku, in the north—from avery small village. But our children, they are from Tokyo. And so, sometimes it is difficult to talk. Sometimes I think they are children of Tokyo, not of me.”
They were quiet after that, Alec knowing that she expected him to speak but not quite sure what to say. Finally she picked up her pen, went back to working on the account books.
But he knew something about her now, and he felt in her silence the truth of what she had told him. Watching her, he saw the tedium of her daily life; saw, too, the intensity of her excitement at his return and the chance for conversation. Dizzy, he rolled over and sat up. Mrs. Hasegawa stared up at him with curious, almost hesitant eyes. He smiled at her, took another sip of Scotch.
“I want to tell you a little about my friend Nobi,” he said.
HEADACHE
T he restaurant was distinctly European. Crystal chandeliers shed soft light throughout the dining room. Earthen-colored Tuscan floor tiles blended with chairs of mahogany and leather, giving the room a sense of opulence and comfort. Crisp and white, the tables stood at attention, uncrowded, inviting. Japanese waiters floated from place to place, attentive and discreet, cutting sharp figures in their starched black-and-white uniforms.
It was a business dinner, Alec’s first, and Boon was being no help at all. He sat as though in a trance, his fingertips touching in front of his half-closed eyes. A dessert menu lay open before him, but there was no motion in his face, not even a hint that anything was taking place within his head.
Alec was getting a headache. He imagined himself as an inverted pachinko machine, his shoulders and neck producing little silver balls of muscular tension, which, one by one, werebouncing their way up into his head. Noise reverberating in his brain. Levers clicking. Balls clattering. A cacophony of sound and pain. He looked around the table in the hope that someone else might be sharing his experience. It seemed unlikely. The two men from the Japanese electronics firm mirrored Boon’s neutral countenance. Imamura, the senior executive, sat like a schoolboy in church, his hands in his lap, his eyes cast downward. Occasionally he would glance furtively at his partner, Ayada, who was acting as both translator and
atendo,
caretaker and protector of the higher-ranking man.
Silence had overtaken the table as if by consensus. Heads had bent down to study the dessert menus and had not been raised again. Alec could not understand what had happened. The meal had gone smoothly up until then, formalities mixing easily with talk about baseball, women, and drinking. With each glass of wine, the faces of both Japanese men had evolved into deeper shades of red, while Alec soon believed himself to be a native speaker. His tongue felt loose, athletic. He was talking to Imamura about the benefits of bachelorhood. He was laughing with Ayada as they discussed the dangers of drinking too much sake before telling the bar hostess that her pert breasts were the only true national treasures of
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