and you haven’t looked at it?”
“No. I didn’t get the chance,” Moran could truthfully say.
“Well, call me later, will you?”
“Okay. I’ll try to get to it this afternoon.” The hotel story would cover, Moran realized. If when he got back only socks and torn school paper were in the envelope, the transfer could have occurred any time during his absence. “But there is a bit of a problem.”
“What?” Guade said, all attention.
“You can’t get into business hotels till after 4:00 p.m. You have to leave by 10:00 a.m. and you can’t come back before 4:00.”
“Well, why don’t you check on Weaver, using whatever they have here?”
“No. I’m going to Asakusa to sight see, or maybe to Meiji Shrine, or maybe both. But I’ll call you tonight. I’ll get to it as soon as I get back to the hotel.”
“Okay, okay. Call any time after 9:30 or so.”
“Well, it may be later than that.”
“Any time. Just call.”
“Were you pleased with his answer to your question?”
“Not pleased. Confused. I’ll pursue it at lunch. Call me tonight.”
“Yes. Yes,” Moran answered, a bit irritated at Guade’s constant directives.
Outside the building he caught a cab to Shimbashi station. He decided Asakusa was too far away, on the other edge of the city, and so settled for Meiji Shrine, even though that meant riding the JNR loop line which was always crowded and somewhat confusing. At the station Moran ate a bowl of noodles, a far cry from Guade’s doubtless elegant luncheon with Wells. On the other hand, Wells might not enjoy it. A consummate fencing match, Guade anxiously dropping bits of information and Wells easing past them, foisting them off on the mysterious Weaver. Even the name seemed right—Weaver. Moran made his way upstairs to the JNR line. For some reason there were fewer English signs on that line but Moran managed to get to Harajuku, the stop for Meiji. He followed the crowds through the extraordinarily wide gravel walkways. He was careful to step over the timber in the doorway to the shrine. It was either irreligious or unlucky to step on the sill, he remembered, and Moran felt neither and both. When he got to the inner court of the shrine, he was approached by an elderly Japanese gentleman who was, remarkably, unkempt and not recently shaven.
“I must beg your acquaintance and indulgence,” the old man said, “for my English is all inadequate, but I need to practice.”
Moran stiffened for the inevitable questions. The afternoon suddenly seemed sultry. The breeze died away and the open spaces seemed occupied by heavy, humid air that would have to be penetrated for exit.
“You perhaps have looked into these cuts and nicks on these august timbers.”
Moran noticed them only because the old man pointed them out.
“They were made by hurled coins. At new Years, our most celebration time thousands of we Japanese come here to make an offering to the shrine. The ones in the back have to throw their offerings. Hence these marks. Isn’t it interesting to you?”
Moran knew the old man had memorized the speech and he wondered if the fellow knew what he was saying, or had only gotten a native speaker to coach him on the sounds. “Yes, very interesting,” Moran said, moving away from the interior court.
The old man followed. “How long have you been in Japan?”
“Not very long,” Moran answered.
“Why did you come?”
“I teach here, or rather in Kansai.”
“When will you leave Japan?” The old man went on. So the questions as well as the speech were memorized.
“Not for a while,” Moran said, consciously speeding up his pace on the gravel.
The old man hastened to keep up. “What did you expect Japan to be like. Do you like we Japanese?”
“Ah yes. Yes.” Moran said, “Very much. You are very civilized.”
“Thank you. I must leave now. I have enjoyed our English conversation. But my English is so poor. I must harder and harder at it. Thank you, again.”
“Thank you for the information,” Moran said to the old man who was already in a deep bow. The old man stood up, reached into his pocket and held out his card for Moran to take.
“My meishi,” the old man said, “you may call on me any time.”
Moran was familiar with this custom. He should now proffer his own meishi but that would lead, he was certain to more, endless English conversations. “Thank you, I’m sorry I don’t have a card to give you.”
“That is correct and satisfactory to me.” The old man bowed again and back stepped, bowing. Involuntarily Moran returned the effort. In the still air he and the old man continued this back stepping and bowing until Moran felt his shoe bang into the top edge of the sill to the shrine.
3.
At 9:30 p.m. Moran called Guade’s room, but there was no answer. He called again at 10:00, and at 10:20. Still no answer. At 10:40 he called the front desk to ask if there were message for him from Guade.
“Professor Guade has checked out from the hotel,” the clerk said in slow, hyper-articulated English.
“Checked out? You mean left?”
“So. So, so,” the clerk answered.
“He is no longer at the hotel, is that it?”
“Yes. He has gone.”
“Where did he go?”
“Pardon?”
“Where did he leave for?”
“For?”
“Never mind. Did he leave a message for me, Professor David Moran. Perhaps an envelope?”
“Just a minute, please.”
Moran watched the blinking neon of the station area through his window. The business hotel room was barely five by ten feet.
“Did you say, Molan?”
“Yes, Molan. Molan,” Moran answered emphasizing the Japanese miss-pronunciation.
“There is a phone number on the paper marked for Professor Molan. Would you like it?”
“Yes, please.”
When the clerk gave it to him Moran thought he recognized the exchange—an area near Shinjuku station. Guade must have found cheaper accommodations. But a European woman answered with a simple “Hello.”
“Is
