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“Let me see — That one. Was going with a very wealthy Japanese journalist — I’ll tell you why I mention her wealth — a short time after we broke up, and she gave it to me. Along with a book”—he pulls one off the Gallimaufry shelf—“on how to teach yourself Japanese in three easy weeks, as she wanted to buy us tickets to Japan together soon as I could fit it into my work plans. Didn’t work out.” He hands me the language book. “Got to know one word, but not from that. Soshi. Small. Or toshi. She said she was a little above average height by Japan’s standards, but here was considered tiny, and compared to me, a pygmy, so she gave herself that name for me to use. Not toshi or soshi. Something else, and I think the feminine version of it. I called her it once — was very embarrassed doing it — and though I told her it was thought an insult to be called that here, bright as she was she didn’t mind and she even laughed. Moshi. Skoshi. I think the last one’s it. She also gave me a book of Japanese poems—”

“By the same translator?”

“Who’s that?” Looks. “Never heard of him. The poems were done by the famous one. Been around for years. A very dear old geezer who once did a catalogue intro on Japanese rock gardens for the museum.”

“But it’s so bizarre you have this man’s book. I met him at Diana’s tonight. I thought he was a sculptor or lumberjack.”

“Take it then. I read one story and got bored. I’m not saying it was your friend’s fault. I simply don’t like Japanese fiction, modern or otherwise. Take the language book too.”

“Why would I want it?”

“Did you talk to him much? Is he married? There was no chance of his calling you — nothing like that? It was just routine cocktail party hooey?”

“No, he said he would call, but—”

“Then he will. Why wouldn’t he? So take the language book — take both books and anything else here that’s Japanese. Not the art books and dolls. Then when he calls, say a few words in Japanese to him. Maybe to perplex him or as a joke. Or say hello in Japanese the first time he calls, then switch to English. And why not some Japanese art books? The ones made there, no matter of whose, are as beautiful as anything the Dutch produce, and I can always get replacements at fifty percent off. First that poetry book.” He goes through the shelves. “Right — she borrowed it because it had the en face originals on some poems she was suddenly dying to read, and then we broke up and she never returned it. No great loss. But the art books—”

“This is silly. I don’t want any.”

“But I want you to have them. This is our Japanese night. I’ll even get out sake and warm it. I have the special cups.”

“It’ll make me sick again.”

“Then beer. Japanese is the best for an upset stomach or to keep one away. Very mild, made from rice. I have some in the fridge.”

“Still from those Japanese journalist days?”

“No, though I did learn the upset stomach remedy and preventive from her and I got to like their beer even more than I had before I met her. Japanese and Dutch beer. Never made the connection between beautiful art books and great beer before, but there it is — though I never dated a Dutchwoman for more than a night nor heard of a Dutch wine made from cheese. Have you?”

“I’ll take the Japanese stories but that’s all,” and I put the language book back on the shelf.

“But I insist. And a painting book.” He pulls out a book that must be two feet long and three inches thick. “This is for you. Astonishing color reproductions. Now you can’t refuse a present. Serendipity call it. You meet this Japanese man—”

“He’s not Japanese.”

He takes the anthology from me. “He doesn’t look Japanese to you, and the name?”

“Not at all. And Krin?”

“I know of several Daniels who are Japanese. The Hawaiian senator for one. Anyway, you meet him and it leads to your owning a hundred-dollar book, and after December 31st, a hundred twenty-five. And the language book.” He gets that book out. “I want you to be a hundred percent Japanese tonight. Language, painting, literature, drinks. I even have a Japanese pleasure book, hand-illustrated about seven hundred years ago. I should keep it under dehumidified glass. I’m getting a beer, you get the pleasure book. Oversize shelf, green binding, so thick, looks old. I also have Japanese champagne.”

“I’ll share your beer.”

“No you won’t. I want my own.” He goes into the kitchen. I follow him. “You’re supposed to be looking for that book. It has a few practicable things in it we can try, for most are for a couple supple as pizza dough and the man hung like a horse.”

“For now, let’s stay occidental and modern, except for the beer. If I can ask, who phoned? Family or more personal?”

“Someone I don’t see anymore, but hear her? — oh boy. Right after the one after the journalist. Too crazy and young. She once wanted to come over when I had someone here, and when I said ‘Not possible, I’m very tired—’” He opens two bottles of Japanese beer. “Pilsner or regular glass?”

“Bottle will do.”