I look at the telephone; I think about the telephone cord. Endless lengths of phone cable linking one telephone to another. Maybe somewhere, at some terminal of that awesome megacir-cuit, is my wife. Far, far away, out of my reach. I can feel her pulse. Another five minutes, I tell myself. Which way is front, which way is back? Which way is front, which way is back? I stand up and try to say something, but no sooner have I got to my feet than the words slip away. I stand up and try to say something, but no sooner have I got to my feet than the words slip away.

-translated by Alfred Birnbaum

When did I meet my first Chinese?

Just like that, my archaeologist begins sifting through the tell of my own past. Labeling all the artifacts, categorizing, a.n.a.lyzing.

And so, when was was that first encounter? As near as I can figure, it was 1959 or 1960. Whichever, whatever, what's the difference? Precisely nothing. The years '59 and '60 stand there like gawky twins in matching nerd suits. Even if I hopped a time machine back to the period, I doubt I could tell the two apart. that first encounter? As near as I can figure, it was 1959 or 1960. Whichever, whatever, what's the difference? Precisely nothing. The years '59 and '60 stand there like gawky twins in matching nerd suits. Even if I hopped a time machine back to the period, I doubt I could tell the two apart.

In spite of which, I persist with my labors. Doggedly expanding the dig, filling out the picture with every least new find. Shards of memory.

Okay, I'm sure it was the year Johansson and Patterson fought for the world heavyweight t.i.tle. Which means, all I have to do is go search through the sports section in old copies of The Year in News The Year in News. That would settle everything.

In the morning, I'm off on my bike to the local library. Next to the main entrance, for who knows what reason, there's a tiny henhouse, in which five chickens are enjoying what is either a late breakfast or an early lunch. It's a bright, clear day, so before going inside I sit down on the pavement next to the chickens and light up a cigarette. I watch the chickens pecking at their feedbox busily. Frenetically, in fact, so that they look like one of those old newsreels with too few frames per second.

After my cigarette, something's changed in me. Again, who knows why? But for what it's worth, the new me-five chickens and a smoke away from what I was-now poses myself two questions: First, Who could possibly have any interest in the exact date when I met my first Chinese? Who could possibly have any interest in the exact date when I met my first Chinese?

And second, What exactly is there to be gained by spreading out those What exactly is there to be gained by spreading out those Year In Newses Year In Newses on a sunny reference-room desk? on a sunny reference-room desk?

Good questions. I smoke another cigarette, then get back onto my bike and bid farewell to fowl and file copies. If birds in flight go unburdened by names, let my memories be free of dates.

Granted, most of my memories don't bear dates anyway. My recall is a d.a.m.n sight short of total. It's so unreliable that I sometimes think I'm trying to prove something by it. But what would I be proving? Especially since inexactness is not exactly the sort of thing you can prove with any accuracy.

Anyway-or rather, that being the case-my memory can be impressively iffy. I get things the wrong way around, fabrication filters into fact, sometimes my own eyewitness account interchanges with somebody else's. At which point, can you even call it memory anymore? Witness the sum of what I'm capable of dredging up from primary school (those pathetic six years of sunsets in the heyday of postwar democracy). Two events: this Chinese story, for one, and for another, a baseball game one afternoon during summer vacation. In that game, I was playing center field, and I blacked out in the bottom of the third. I mean, I didn't just collapse out of nowhere. The reason I blacked out that day was that we were allowed only one small corner of the nearby high school's athletic field, and so when I was running full speed after a pop fly I smashed head-on into the post of the backboard of the basketball court next to where we were playing.

WHEN I CAME TO, I was lying on a bench under an arbor, it was late in the day, and the first things I noticed were the wet-and-dry smell of water that had been sprinkled over the baked earth and the musk of my brand-new leather glove, which they'd put under my head for a pillow. Then there was this dull pain in my temple. I guess I must have said something. I don't really remember. Only later did a buddy of mine who'd been looking after me get around to telling. That what I apparently said was, That's okay, brush off the dirt and you can still eat it That's okay, brush off the dirt and you can still eat it.

Now, where did that come from? To this day, I have no idea. I guess I was dreaming, probably about lunch. But two decades later the phrase is still there, kicking around in my head.

That's okay, brush off the dirt and you can still eat it.

With these words, I find myself thinking about my ongoing existence as a human being and the path that lies ahead of me. Though of course these thoughts lead to but one place-death. Imagining death is, at least for me, an awfully hazy proposition. And death, for some reason, reminds me of the Chinese.

THERE WAS AN ELEMENTARY school for Chinese up the hill from the harbor (forgive me, I've completely forgotten the name of the school, so I'll just call it "the Chinese elementary school"), and I had to go there to take a standard apt.i.tude test. Out of several test locations, the Chinese elementary school was the farthest away, and I was the only one in my cla.s.s a.s.signed there. A clerical mix-up, maybe? Everybody else was sent somewhere closer. school for Chinese up the hill from the harbor (forgive me, I've completely forgotten the name of the school, so I'll just call it "the Chinese elementary school"), and I had to go there to take a standard apt.i.tude test. Out of several test locations, the Chinese elementary school was the farthest away, and I was the only one in my cla.s.s a.s.signed there. A clerical mix-up, maybe? Everybody else was sent somewhere closer.

Chinese elementary school?

I asked everyone I knew if they knew anything about this Chinese elementary school. No one knew a thing, except that it was half an hour away by train. Now, back then I didn't do much in the way of exploring, hardly ever rode around to places by myself, so for me this might as well have been the end of the earth.

The Chinese elementary school at the edge of the world.

SUNDAY MORNING two weeks later found me in a dark funk as I sharpened a dozen pencils, then packed my lunch and cla.s.sroom slippers into my plastic schoolbag, as prescribed. It was a sunny day, maybe a little too warm for autumn, but my mother made me wear a sweater anyway. I boarded the train all by myself and stood by the door the whole way, looking out the window. I didn't want to miss the stop. two weeks later found me in a dark funk as I sharpened a dozen pencils, then packed my lunch and cla.s.sroom slippers into my plastic schoolbag, as prescribed. It was a sunny day, maybe a little too warm for autumn, but my mother made me wear a sweater anyway. I boarded the train all by myself and stood by the door the whole way, looking out the window. I didn't want to miss the stop.

I spotted the Chinese elementary school even without looking at the map printed on the back of the registration form. All I had to do was follow a flock of kids with slippers and lunch boxes stuffed into their schoolbags. There were tens, maybe hundreds, of kids filing up the steep grade. A pretty remarkable sight. No one was kicking a ball, no one was pulling at a younger kid's cap; everyone was just walking quietly. Like a demonstration of indeterminate perpetual motion. Climbing the hill, I started sweating under my heavy sweater.

CONTRARY TO WHATEVER vague expectations I may have had, the Chinese elementary school did not look much different from my own school. In fact, it was cleaner. The long, dark corridors, the musty air.... All the images that had filled my head for two weeks proved totally unfounded. Pa.s.sing through the fancy iron gates, I followed the gentle arc of a stone path between plantings to the main entrance, where a clear pond sparkled in the 9:00 vague expectations I may have had, the Chinese elementary school did not look much different from my own school. In fact, it was cleaner. The long, dark corridors, the musty air.... All the images that had filled my head for two weeks proved totally unfounded. Pa.s.sing through the fancy iron gates, I followed the gentle arc of a stone path between plantings to the main entrance, where a clear pond sparkled in the 9:00 A.M. A.M. sun. Along the facade stood a row of trees, each with a plaque identifying the tree in Chinese. Some characters I could read, some I couldn't. The entrance opened onto an enclosed courtyard, in the corners of which were a bronze bust of somebody, a small white rain gage, and an exercise bar. sun. Along the facade stood a row of trees, each with a plaque identifying the tree in Chinese. Some characters I could read, some I couldn't. The entrance opened onto an enclosed courtyard, in the corners of which were a bronze bust of somebody, a small white rain gage, and an exercise bar.

I removed my shoes at the entrance as instructed, then went to the cla.s.sroom a.s.signed to me. It was bright, with forty fold-top desks neatly arranged in rows, each place affixed with a registration tag. My seat was in the very front row by the window; I guess I had the lowest number.

The blackboard was a pristine deep green; the teacher's place was set with a box of chalk and a vase bearing a single white chrysanthemum. Everything was spotless, a flawless picture of order. There were no drawings or compositions tacked up w.i.l.l.y-nilly on the bulletin board. Maybe they'd been taken down so as not to distract us during the test. I took my seat, set out my pencil case and writing pad, propped up my chin, and closed my eyes.

It was nearly fifteen minutes later when the proctor of the test came in, carrying the stack of exams under his arm. He didn't look anything over forty, but he walked with a cane and dragged his left foot in a slight limp. The cane was made of cherry wood, sort of crudely, the kind of thing they sell as souvenirs at the summit of a hiking trail. The proctor's limp was unaffected, so you noticed the cheap cane more. Forty pairs of eyes focused on this guy, or, rather, on the exams, and all was resounding silence.

The proctor mounted the stand in front of the cla.s.s, placed the exams on his desk, then plunked his cane down on the side. He checked that all the seats were filled, coughed, and glanced at his watch. Then, clamping both hands on the edges of the desk as if to hold himself down, he lifted his gaze straight to a corner of the ceiling.

Silence.

Fifteen seconds and not a sound. The kids all tensed and held their breath, staring at the stack of exams; the lame-legged proctor stared at the ceiling. He was wearing a light-gray suit with a white shirt and a tie of eminently forgettable color and pattern. He took off his gla.s.ses, wiped the lenses with a handkerchief, very deliberately, and put them back on.

"I shall be acting as your test proctor," the man finally spoke. Shall Shall. "As soon as you receive your exam booklet, place it facedown on your desk. Do not turn it over. Keep both hands flat on your lap. When I say 'Begin,' you may turn it faceup and begin. When there are ten minutes remaining before the end of the test period, I shall say to you, 'Ten minutes left.' At that time, check your work to see that you have not made any minor errors. When I say 'Stop,' that is the end of the test period. Turn your examination booklet facedown and place your hands on your lap. Is that understood?"

Silence.

He looked at his watch again.

"Well, as I see that we have ten minutes before the beginning of the test, I'd like to have a little talk with you. Please relax."

Phew, phew. There were several sighs.

"I am Chinese and I teach at this school."

MY FIRST CHINESE!.

He didn't look look Chinese. But what did I expect? What was a Chinese supposed to look like? Chinese. But what did I expect? What was a Chinese supposed to look like?

"In this cla.s.sroom," he continued, "Chinese students the same age as yourselves all study as hard as you do.... Now, as you all know, China and j.a.pan are neighboring countries. In order for everyone to enjoy happy lives, neighbors must make friends. Isn't that right?"

Silence.

"Of course, some things about our two countries are very similar and some things are very different. Some things we understand about each other and some things we do not. But isn't that the same with you and your friends? Even if they are your friends, some things they cannot understand. But if you make an effort, you can still become close. That is what I believe. But in order to do that, we must begin with respect for each other.... That is the first step."

Silence.

"For instance. Suppose many, many Chinese children went to your school to take a test. Just as you yourselves are doing now, sitting at Chinese children's desks. Think about this, please."

Hmm.

"Suppose that on Monday morning, all of you go back to your school. You You go to your desks. And what do you see? You see that there are doodles and marks all over your desks, chewing gum stuck under the seat, one of your cla.s.sroom slippers is missing. How would you feel?" go to your desks. And what do you see? You see that there are doodles and marks all over your desks, chewing gum stuck under the seat, one of your cla.s.sroom slippers is missing. How would you feel?"

Silence.

"For instance, you," he said, turning to point right at me, me with the lowest registration number, "would you be happy?"

Everyone looked at me.

I blushed bright red and shook my head.

"So you see," he said, turning back to the cla.s.s again, as everyone's eyes shifted back to the front of the room, "you must not mark up the desks or stick gum under the seats or go fooling around with what's inside the desks. Is that understood?"

Silence.

"Chinese children speak up louder when they answer."

Yes, came forty replies. Or, rather, thirty-nine. My mouth wouldn't open.

"Well, then, heads up, chests out."

We looked up and swelled to attention.

"And be proud."

SOME TWENTY YEARS ON, I've completely forgotten the results of the test. All I remember is the school kids walking quietly up the hill and the Chinese teacher. That, and how to hold my head up with pride.

THE TOWN WHERE I WENT to high school was a port town, so there were quite a few Chinese around. Not that they seemed any different from the rest of us. Nor did they have any special traits. They were as different from each other as could be, and in that way they were the same as us. When I think about it, the curious thing about individuals is that their singularity always goes beyond any category or generalization in the book. to high school was a port town, so there were quite a few Chinese around. Not that they seemed any different from the rest of us. Nor did they have any special traits. They were as different from each other as could be, and in that way they were the same as us. When I think about it, the curious thing about individuals is that their singularity always goes beyond any category or generalization in the book.

There were several Chinese kids in my cla.s.s. Some got good grades, others didn't. There was the cheerful type and the dead-quiet character. One who lived in an almost palatial spread, another in a sunless one-room-kitchenette walk-up. Really, all sorts. Though I never did get especially close to any of them. I wasn't your let's-make-friends sort of guy. j.a.panese or Chinese or anything else, made no difference.

I did, however, meet up with one of them ten years later, though I probably shouldn't get into that just yet.

Meanwhile, the scene shifts to Tokyo.

MY NEXT CHINESE-that is, not counting those high-school Chinese cla.s.smates whom I didn't especially speak to-was a shy girl I got to know at a part-time job during the spring of my soph.o.m.ore year. She was nineteen, like me, and pet.i.te, and pretty. We worked together for three weeks during the break.

She was exceedingly diligent about work. I did my part, working as hard as I could, I suppose, but whenever I peeked over at her plugging away it was pretty obvious that her idea and my idea of applying oneself weren't the same animal. I mean, compared to my "If you're going to do something, it's worth doing it well," her inner drive cut closer to the root of humanity. Not that it's much of an explanation, but this drive of hers had the disturbing urgency of someone whose whole worldly existence was barely held together by that one thread. Most people couldn't possibly keep up with the pace she maintained; sooner or later they would throw up their hands in frustration. The only one who managed to stick it out to the very end working with her was me.

Even so, we hardly spoke a word at first. I tried a couple of times to strike up a conversation, but she didn't seem particularly interested in speaking, so I backed off. The first time we actually sat down and talked was two weeks after we started working together. That morning, for half an hour, she'd been thrown into something of a panic. It was unprecedented for her. The cause of it all was a slight oversight, one small operation out of order. Sure, it was her fault, her responsibility, if it came to that, but from where I stood it seemed like a common enough mishap. A momentary lapse and-glitch! Could have happened to anyone. But not to her. A tiny crack in her head widened into a fissure, eventually becoming a gaping chasm. She wouldn't, she couldn't, take another step. At a total loss for words, she froze in place. She was a sorry sight, a ship sinking slowly in the night sea. Could have happened to anyone. But not to her. A tiny crack in her head widened into a fissure, eventually becoming a gaping chasm. She wouldn't, she couldn't, take another step. At a total loss for words, she froze in place. She was a sorry sight, a ship sinking slowly in the night sea.

I cut short what I was doing, sat her down in a chair, pried loose her clenched fingers one by one, made her drink some hot coffee. Then I told her, It's all right, there's nothing to worry about, nothing's too late to remedy, you just redo that part again from the beginning and you won't be so far behind in your work. And even if you are a little behind, it won't kill you. Her eyes were glazed, but she nodded silently. With some coffee in her, she began to calm down.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

That lunch break, we talked about this and that. And that was when she told me she was Chinese.

WHERE WE WORKED was a tiny, dark, small-time publisher's warehouse in Bunkyo Ward, downtown Tokyo. A dirty little open sewer of a stream ran right beside it. The work was easy, boring, busy. I got order slips, which told us how many copies of what books to haul out to the entrance. She would bind these up with cord and check them off against the inventory record. That was the whole job. There was no heating in the place, so we had to hustle our buns off to keep from freezing to death. Sometimes it was so cold I thought we wouldn't be any better off shoveling snow at the airport in Anchorage. was a tiny, dark, small-time publisher's warehouse in Bunkyo Ward, downtown Tokyo. A dirty little open sewer of a stream ran right beside it. The work was easy, boring, busy. I got order slips, which told us how many copies of what books to haul out to the entrance. She would bind these up with cord and check them off against the inventory record. That was the whole job. There was no heating in the place, so we had to hustle our buns off to keep from freezing to death. Sometimes it was so cold I thought we wouldn't be any better off shoveling snow at the airport in Anchorage.

At lunchtime, we'd head out for something hot to eat, warming ourselves for the hour until our break was up. More than anything, the main objective was to thaw out. But from the time she had her panic, little by little we found ourselves on speaking terms. Her words came in bits and pieces, but after a while I got the picture. Her father ran a small import business in Yokohama, most of the merchandise he handled being bargain clothing from Hong Kong. Although Chinese, she herself was j.a.panese-born and had never once been to China or Hong Kong or Taiwan. Plus, she'd gone to j.a.panese schools, not Chinese. Hardly spoke a word of Chinese, but was strong in English. She was attending a private women's university in the city and hoped to become an interpreter. Meanwhile, she was sharing her brother's apartment in Komagome, or, to borrow her turn of phrase, she'd fallen in with him. Seemed she didn't get along well with her father. And that's the sum total of what I found out about her.

Those two weeks in March pa.s.sed along with the sleet of the season. On the evening of our last day of work, after picking up my pay from accounting and after some hesitation, I decided to ask my Chinese co-worker out to a discotheque in Shinjuku. Not that I had any intention of making a pa.s.s at her. I already had a steady girlfriend since high school, though if the truth be told we were beginning to go our separate ways.

The Chinese girl thought it over a few seconds, then said, "But I've never been dancing."

"There's nothing to it," I said. "It's not ballroom dancing. All you have to do is move to the beat. Anyone can do it."

FIRST, WE WENT and had some beer and pizza. No more work. No more freezing warehouse. What a liberating feeling! I was more jovial than may have been usual; she laughed more, too. Then we went to the disco and danced for two whole hours. The place was nice and warm, swimming with mirror b.a.l.l.s and incense. A Filipino band was pounding out Santana covers. We'd work up a sweat dancing, then go sit out a number over a beer, then, when the sweat subsided, we'd get up and dance again. In the colored strobe lights, she looked like a different person from the shy warehouse stock girl I knew. And once she got the hang of dancing, she actually seemed to enjoy it. and had some beer and pizza. No more work. No more freezing warehouse. What a liberating feeling! I was more jovial than may have been usual; she laughed more, too. Then we went to the disco and danced for two whole hours. The place was nice and warm, swimming with mirror b.a.l.l.s and incense. A Filipino band was pounding out Santana covers. We'd work up a sweat dancing, then go sit out a number over a beer, then, when the sweat subsided, we'd get up and dance again. In the colored strobe lights, she looked like a different person from the shy warehouse stock girl I knew. And once she got the hang of dancing, she actually seemed to enjoy it.

When we'd finally danced ourselves out, we left the club. The March night was brisk, but there was a hint of spring in the air. We were overheated from all that exercise, so we just walked, aimlessly, hands in our pockets. We stopped into an arcade, got a cup of coffee, kept walking. We still had half the school break ahead of us. We were nineteen. If someone had told us to, we would have walked clear out to the Tama River.

At ten-twenty, she said she had to go. "I have to be home by eleven." She was almost apologetic.

"That's pretty strict," I said.

"My brother thinks he's my guardian protector. But I guess I can't complain, since he's giving me a roof over my head." From the way she spoke, I could tell she really liked her brother.

"Just don't forget your slipper," I said with a wink.

"My slipper?" Five, six steps later, she burst out laughing. "Oh, you mean like Cinderella? Don't worry, I won't forget."

We climbed the steps in Shinjuku Station and sat down on a platform bench.

"You know," I said, "do you think I could have your phone number? Maybe we can go out and have some fun again sometime."

She bit her lip, nodded, then gave me her number. I scribbled it down on a matchbook from the disco. The train came in and I put her on board and said good night. Thanks, it was fun, see you. The doors closed, the train pulled out, and I crossed over to the next track to wait for my train bound for Ikebukuro. Leaning back on a column, I lit up a cigarette and thought about the evening. From the restaurant to the disco to the walk. Not bad. It'd been ages since I'd been out on a date. I'd had a good time and I knew she had a good time, too. We could be friends. Maybe she was a little shy, maybe she had her nervous side. Still, I liked her.

I put my cigarette out under my heel and lit another one. The sounds of the city blurred lazily into the dark. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. Nothing was amiss, but I couldn't shake this nagging feeling. Something wasn't right. What was it? What had I done?

Then it hit me, right when I got off the train at Mejiro. I'd put her on the Yamanote Loop Line going the wrong way I'd put her on the Yamanote Loop Line going the wrong way.

My dormitory was in Mejiro, four stops before hers. So she could have taken the same train as me. It would have been all so simple. Why had I taken it upon myself to see that she got on a train going the opposite way around? Did I have that much to drink? Was I thinking too much, or only, about myself? The station clock read 10:45. She'd never make her curfew. I hoped she'd realized my mistake and switched to a train going the right way. But I doubted she would have. She wasn't that type. No, she was the type to keep riding the train the wrong way around. But shouldn't she have known about this mistake from the start? She had to know she was being put on the wrong train. Great, I thought. Just great.

IT WAS TEN AFTER ELEVEN when she finally got off at Komagome Station. When she saw me standing by the stairs, she stopped in her tracks with this expression, like she didn't know whether to laugh or fume. It was all I could do to take her by the arm and sit her down on a bench. She put her bag in her lap and clutched the strap with both hands. She placed her feet straight out in front of her and stared at the toes of her white pumps. when she finally got off at Komagome Station. When she saw me standing by the stairs, she stopped in her tracks with this expression, like she didn't know whether to laugh or fume. It was all I could do to take her by the arm and sit her down on a bench. She put her bag in her lap and clutched the strap with both hands. She placed her feet straight out in front of her and stared at the toes of her white pumps.

I apologized to her. I told her I didn't know why I'd made that stupid mistake. My mind must have been elsewhere.

"You honestly honestly made a mistake?" she asked. made a mistake?" she asked.

"Of course. If not, why would I have done such a thing?"

"I thought you did it on purpose."

"On purpose?"

"Because I thought you were angry."

"Angry?" What was she talking about?