2 September 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 3

The Japanese Colleague

by ALEX SHISHIN

"It's an Affirmative Action thing," said Jay Hamilton, Minoru Taniguchi's old friend and new colleague, who was African-American. "Not that any of the faculty will say it to our face."

Minoru followed Jay up the stairs.

It was a hot September evening. The sprawling western New England state university was not yet in session. Except for Minoru and Jay, Junkins Hall is empty.

"Like grad school, Minoru! You're affirmed thanks to A.A.—nothing to do with your superior intellect." Jay's laugh echoed in the dimly lit corridor housing the English department. "Your office will probably be over there. Hey, are you okay if the department sticks you with teaching Asian-American lit?"

"I'm a Victorian specialist," Minoru said.

"They stuck me with Black lit surveys, and I'm Renaissance. Like I live and breathe Renaissance. Black lit. It's cool by me—but man! White people hate it when they think we coloreds are invading their territory."

"I won't teach basic Japanese," Minoru said. "I've done enough."

"It won't happen. Expect lots of frosh composition for the next million years. Here's McCormick's office." They stopped by a wooden door like every other, except this one said the occupant was department head. "Surprised she's not here. She lives for the job. Basically okay, but not a shaker and mover."

"We've talked on the phone," Minoru said.

"Our poet-in-residence." Jay said as they moved on. "Only known as Neuopatha. She's been down since leaving her girlfriend."

With over fifteen years in the United States, all of them on the East Coast, Minoru was used to same-sex love relationships. "That's too bad," he said.

"Even Affirmative Action can't help," Jay said. "You know why we're here, Minoru? Oversupply of women. It's the era of the man of color."

"I really appreciate you getting me in," Minoru said.

"The old college tie," Jay laughed.

Caught between the artificial openness and the social exclusiveness of their doctoral program, Minoru and Jay, the only non-Whites, had bonded quickly. They were, otherwise, as opposite as friends could be. Minoru loved the outdoors while Jay, bookish even for a graduate student, claimed an allergy to fresh air and preferred interiors—libraries, museums. Minoru listened to jazz and rock; Jay only liked classical. Jay was a political activist—his only outdoors activities were protest rallies—while Minoru took the outsider's detachment to American politics. Minoru had shoulder length hair and a wispy mustache; Jay had pruned his face and head entirely. They had not corresponded in the five years following their graduation. Minoru, living in New York City and teaching part time at various universities, had been surprised to get Jay's letter about the tenure-track post.

"It was actually this guy Reardon who got you in," Jay said, tapping the paper nameplate saying "Matthew D. Reardon, Professor." Some of us call him Rear End. But he was brilliant, I must admit, in fighting for you. We were stuck between you and another guy, and Reardon clinched it. He said the department would shine with a Japanese colleague teaching English to native speakers. He lived in Japan, you know. "

"I didn't," Minoru said. "Introduce me."

"Introduce yourself," Jay said. "We're not on speaking terms right now. Committee friction. Nothing racial, if you want to know. He's touchy."

—

The following day, in the late afternoon, Minoru visited Professor Reardon in his cigar reeking office.

Reardon greeted him with, "What do you think of the Emperor system? I think Hirohito was a goddamn war criminal. Should've hung him and trashed the whole goddamn thing."

Reardon was tall and very thin. Minoru guessed he was in his early sixties. He wore blue jeans, held up by suspenders. His striped yellow shirt, missing the top button, exposed abundant white chest hair. The flying white hair on his head, his unkempt mustache and the sad blue eyes bulging out at him through the gold wire rim glasses made Minoru think of him as a cross between Albert Einstein and a badger.

"I have mixed feelings about the emperor system," Minoru said. He had been through this before in America. "One hides feelings like mine in Japan—"

"Just trying to see if I feel like talking to you." Reardon waved a hand as if swatting invisible flies. "Sit down. Have a cigar."

"I don't smoke," Minoru said, sitting in the wooden swivel chair opposite Reardon's cluttered desk.

"Have one anyway. They're Cuban. Goddamn crime, this American boycott. Cubans can't get proper medicines for their sick babies. This goddamn country is the world's biggest kid killer. Did you know that?"

"No," said Minoru who felt a deep foreigner's affection for the US. His eyes swept Reardon's cramped and disorderly office. His library was a mixture of literary texts and books on politics. A large poster of Malcolm X was taped in an odd space between the end of a bookshelf and the window. He saw no family photographs.

"You should know it, Dr. Taniguchi!" Reardon said. "Talk to your friend Dr. Hamilton. We've been in demonstrations together."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. The reason I don't have family pictures here, Minoru—if I can call you that—the reason I don't have any—" He swatted invisible flies again. "I can read your mind, son—my Japanese wife lives in Tokyo. My only daughter hates my guts."

"I'm sorry—"

"Shikata ga na," Reardon said. "That's secondary." He picked up a half smoked cigar, padded his hand about the desk, looking for matches. "What's primary—" He put down the cigar. "What's primary is where are you staying? And who's feeding and fucking you."

"I'm staying in a motel on Route 6," Minoru said. He wanted to leave.

"Get there by car?"

"University bus."

"I'll give you a lift." He padded, padded searching for his keys.

—

"It's too goddamn hot for suits and ties; why do you wear that stuff?" Reardon said as they drove along Route 6 in Reardon's red vintage Volkswagen convertible.

"I wanted to look nice. I'm new. This is a beautiful car."

"Sure, I understand. Your hair's long anyway. Not that it's anti-establishment these days—I restored this machine myself. It's 1964. Every last bolt is 1964. I've got a 1951 Frazer Manhattan four door convertible I'm restoring—I know a great bar."

"There's my motel, Professor Reardon."

Reardon turned off on to a side road and drove the red Volkswagen into the wooded countryside.

Minoru resigned himself to a wasted evening and, possibly, a drunken driving catastrophe.

Presently they entered a village where the town hall, library, a used bookstore and two churches were planted around the central green.

"New East Warwich, founded in 1723," Reardon said parking.

"The silence reminds me of villages in Japan." He swatted the air with his right hand. "This bar—it's down the alley—they let me smoke cigars. "

"Hello Professor Reardon. Welcome Professor Taniguchi!" The bar's owner, a former student, said as they entered.

Reardon ordered a pitcher of beer and said, "Welcome to New England, Minoru. News travels fast."

"Like Japan," Minoru said.

Reardon lit his cigar, blowing the smoke away from Minoru. The ex-student brought a pitcher and two frosted glass mugs. Reardon filled Minoru's to the top and his to only half.

"When I think drinking and driving I take the VW. That way I watch it. What brought you—A—to this goddamned country and—B—to Victorian Lit?"

"I like America. I lived in Great Neck when I was a kid, " Minoru said. "My dad was a businessman. I hardly knew Japan until high school. My folks wanted me to have some Japanese education. I lived with my uncle and aunt in Tokyo. "

"Must've been rough going as a returnee." Reardon poured beer into Minoru's glass.

Minoru nodded, remembering the days he was being bullied and wishing to be back in Great Neck. "Few people understand, Professor Reardon."

"Yeah, I've been a misfit all my life. I'm supposed to be a Dickinson scholar, that's what they hired me as, but I spend my time writing about politics—when I'm not writing textbooks. Drives the university crazy. Call me Matt. I'm called Rear End behind my back. Kompai!"

He clinked Minoru's mug with his. The two men spontaneously shook hands.

"About Victorian Lit, Minoru—"

"The year we lived in London I saw a Pre-Raphaelite exhibition at the Tate. I was twelve. Later I discovered Dickens and Hardy. It's such a rich period."

"Very—" Reardon nodded. "Ask me how I feel about Japan."

"How do you, Matt?"

"Love it, hate it," Reardon said leaning back in his chair, his cigar in hand. "You know what I mean, Minoru." He leaned forward suddenly, bringing his face up to Minoru's. "You know the expression Academic Apartheid?"

"Yes, I know the book by—"

"It was actually coined by another guy in the Asahi Evening News in 1986—But that's secondary—"

Reardon's face became flushed. The bulging eyes from inside the wire-rimmed glasses staring at him frightened Minoru.

"Talk about it some other time, son—"

—

Jay lived fifty miles from the university, in the town where his wife was an assistant professor at a liberal arts college. Minoru saw little of him. He developed a warm working relationship with the poet-in-residence (happy with her new girlfriend) but, as with the mostly White and female department members, no real friendship. Frequent lonely moments brought Minoru to Reardon's cigar reeking office.

"The lady I'm living in sin with wants to meet you," Reardon said one Friday in October. "Drive out to the house Friday afternoon." (Minoru had bought a used Pontiac from a local dealer whom Reardon had recommended.) "Bring a change of clothes."

Reardon lived next to a birch tree forest, not far from the bar where they had had their beer, and where Minoru had nearly passed out thanks to inebriation and Reardon's cigar. Still embarrassed by this, he promised himself not to lose face in front of Reardon's girlfriend.

Looking at the big white colonial house with adjacent red barn and carriage house, all restored by Reardon himself, Minoru, who had lived only in apartments, could not believe that, as Reardon had told him, he had bought the place "for a song" twenty years ago. The red Volkswagen was parked in the wide turnaround driveway in front of the house. In front of it was another Volkswagen, a blue hardtop. When he parked his Pontiac, a tall and attractive blonde woman of about forty got out of the blue Volkswagen. She shook his hand after he got out.

"I'm Mandy Martin, Matt's live-in," she said smiling.

"I got the impression this was a men only thing, so I'm off to Cape Cod for the weekend. I hope you're not offended."

"No, not at all—" Minoru said, trying not to show that he was relieved.

"I'll make Matt invite you for one of my coq au vin parties, " she said. "And, look, a word to the wise," she said lowering her voice. "Matt's a difficult guy even when sober. Take anything he says drunk with a grain of salt. He's really, really a saint at heart, or I wouldn't be with him."

With that, Mandy Martin got into her blue Volkswagen, waved her hand out the window and drove away. Reardon pushed open the screen door and stepped out on to the porch.

He was in his usual blue jeans and suspenders and wore a blue work shirt. Cigar in his mouth, hands at his sides, he watched his girlfriend's car disappear. Then he called out, "Hey Minoru, I want to show you something."

Reardon led Minoru to the barn. He tossed his cigar into a bucket of water in which other cigar butts floated. Then he slid open the big red door and flipped a switch inside. Overhead lights came on. Minoru beheld the white convertible with its top down.

"My Frazer. Every bit of it 1951."

"It looks brand new," Minoru said. He glanced around the neat mechanic's clinic that his friend had built inside the ancient barn.

"I can read your mind, Minoru," Reardon said. "The prurient order of this place compared to the holy disorder of my hole at school. Well, this is where I live. This is where the soul comes alive. I write textbooks, not boring scholarly tomes, because those bastards sell. I write them for babies like this. All I need now is a whatsit. That's technical talk for thingamajig. A little wingwang is all I need. Then she's done. Six years of hard labor and research."

"Did you paint it yourself?"

"Naw. A shop in Hartford does the painting. I don't have the facilities. I just do the body work and mechanical stuff. "

"Wow," Minoru said.

"I already have collectors bidding for this baby. When I finish a car I'll sell it to a worthy collector. Too much responsibility to keep rare cars. Hate responsibilities. Let's get drunk."

—

The oak living room floor they sat on with the bottle of whiskey was carpetless. The furniture, Reardon said, was all bought second hand and restored by him. Minoru noticed that there was not a single bookcase in the huge living room. ("Got a library upstairs if you want to see books," Reardon said suddenly.) One side of the living room was devoted to trophies, plaques and framed photographs of the restored cares that won them.

"My all time favorite was that 1934 Auburn coupé. An old farmer drove it out here and offered it to me for five grand. I took one look and wrote him a check. First owner. Drove it every day since in 1934. Not one dent! I had it restored in four months! It needed a paint job for sure and new upholstery. I don't do upholstery either. I got this pal, an Audurn-Cord-Duesenberg specialist—You're not interested, are you?"

"I'm overwhelmed," Minoru said. "This is new to me—"

Reardon waved his hands in the air. Cigar ash fell on the oak floor. "I'll restore your car if you like—You got a girlfriend?"

Reardon, who had been sitting in a full lotus position, lay down on the floor in a pose that reminded Minoru of statues of the dying Buddha.

"I'm off girlfriends for a while," Minoru said, sitting cross-legged and wishing he could sit in one of the living room's two rocking chairs. "I had a girlfriend in New York. We were fine until I asked her to marry me. She panicked and we broke up."

"Typical Reardon woman." Reardon drank.

"Mandy seems nice," Minoru said. "I like the stew she made for us."

"Trouble with me is I only appreciate good women in retrospect. Goddamn it, don't you ever be a womanizer, son."

"I'm pretty much an all or nothing man," Minoru said. "A bit of a Victorian prude, I guess."

"The more power to you. You like sitting on the floor?"

"Not really."

"Well, don't then, goddamn it!"

"I'm also plain tight-assed."

After saying that Minoru knew he was drunk.

"You're no tight-ass. I can't stand tight-asses. Go sit in that rocking chair. You've been eyeing it. Dates from the 1920s."

Minoru sat in the rocking chair. Reardon pulled the other rocking chair across from him and sat.

"Can't offer you one of Fidel Castro's finest?"

"Why not?" Minoru accepted the cigar from the wooden cigar box Reardon had taken from the floor.

"I've precut it." Reardon held out his lighter. "Smoke slowly and don't inhale. That's it. Like it?"

"I do," Minoru said. "I used to smoke a pipe but gave it up. Another girlfriend hated it."

"Girlfriends—" Reardon muttered. "What're you working on these days, publish or perish wise?"

"Oh, something on Hopkins and Yeats. I'm presenting it at MLA."

"The passionate priest and the celibate dandy."

"It's giving me some trouble," Minoru said.

"Don't tell me about it. I've served my time doing that stuff. You miss Japan?"

"I don't know. My parents retired to Australia. I have no siblings or real friends back there. Do you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. Desperately sometimes." Reardon's two big eyes, not quite focusing on Minoru, were bloodshot. "My best and worst times. I was young when I went. Ph.D. at twenty-three. Yeah, twenty-three. My first foreign experience—"

Minoru nodded, rocking gently back and forth in the 1920s rocking chair.

"Worked for a technical university outside Nagoya—Fantastic faculty; lot's of friends—Had a great time drinking and womanizing. Then, wham, I was married and with a kid on my hands. Got serious. Moved to Kobe and a place where they promised me tenure—eventually. Jealous, petty ass, racist, lying assholes—! The English department hated foreigners. Got them all fired—best and the brightest first."

"I lasted one year at a junior college in Tokyo and went back to graduate school," Minoru said, not wishing to remember. "I was bullied by English teachers who didn't know English."

Reardon rocked furiously. Cigar ash fell all over his shirt and jeans. Minoru almost made a reference to D. H. Lawrence's "The Rocking Horse Winner" but checked himself—he was not yet stupidly drunk.

"There was an asshole whom we gaijin teachers called Mr. Eggplant. He looked like one. There was another asshole whom we called Tuna Lips. They used to scream, 'Speak Japanese, this is Japan!' Then there was this prick Tsubashi, who had an M.A. from somewhere in Wyoming. Pretended to be my friend and stabbed me in the back. Spread the lies about my Ph.D. being faked. He was the America expert, so-called, and people believed him. " Reardon stopped rocking and sat perfectly still in the rocking chair. His face was red. He stared at Minoru. "The owners of the university had ties to former war criminals. Unit 731 types. Live vivisection."

"That's awful," Minoru said. "Weren't there any good people?"

"Oh yeah. Good people who stood up for me—Whatever for—"

He slid from the rocking chair back down to the floor. He found his empty glass and refilled it.

"I like it down here he said. Have another." He raised the whiskey bottle in the air, dexterously poured whiskey into Minoru 's glass.

"The good people stood up for me, Minoru. But there were too many assholes. They were young assholes then. Now they're old assholes—Guestroom's upstairs on your left. It's got a shower—God, I miss Japan!"

Reardon passed out.

—

"Granola? Bacon and Eggs?" called Mandy Martin from the renovated dining room when Minoru, showered, shaved and slightly hung-over, came downstairs at half past ten.

"Miso soup?" Reardon called.

The couple sat next to each other, drinking coffee. Mandy's hand was on Reardon's leg.

"Coffee, tea? Surprised to see me?" Mandy beamed.

"Yes I am," Minoru said though he had seen her blue Volkswagen when opening the guestroom's French windows for fresh air. "Can I have granola and coffee please?" He sat down at the other end of the table.

"An auspicious day," Reardon said. He too had showered and changed. He was not smoking.

"I've got to tell Minoru why I came back so soon," Mandy said enthusiastically as she brought Minoru his granola and coffee. "I found Matt's whatsit."

"Actually a thingamajig. Let's be specific."

Mandy smiled broadly at Reardon. "I was driving through Newbourne, that's the little town just next to Cuomo, and I had an inspiration. A flash of genius. I detoured over to Able Bob's. That's the best antique car supply in New England—"

"On the whole goddamn East Coast!" Reardon said.

"I had an inspiration that this time Bob might have the thingamajig."

"Nobody had it. We surfed the Web and nobody but nobody had it. "

"And there it was in the window! Only Able Bob's was closed."

"Man's day to go fishing come hell or high water."

"So I found a bed and breakfast and was there when Bob opened."

"And he wanted only twenty bucks! He could've asked for forty, a hundred! The man's a Socialist!"

"Bob Moskowitz is a sweet man. A saint."

"What is it anyway?" Minoru asked.

"This," Mandy said, opening a box on the table.

Minoru stared at the ivory gearshift knob with delicate dark spider web cracks running through it.

"Frazer Manhattan, 1951!" Reardon exclaimed, then put his arm around Mandy's waist.

Immediately after breakfast Minoru excused himself.

"That paper. I've got to get to it."

They saw him out with invitations to stay with them again soon.

At the end of the driveway, he looked back. Reardon and Mandy, arms around each other, waved.

Minoru sighed and drove out.

—

Two weeks later, Reardon, disheveled and eyes bleary from drink, told Minoru in the dim English Department hallway, "Cancel the weekend hike. Mandy left me. Moved out."

"Sorry—" Minoru said. "Anything I can do—"

"Well, good buddy, there's nothing anyone can do. Except punch me in the face for blowing the best thing to happen to me. You feel like doing that for me? I'm serious. Do me good."

Minoru shook his head.

"Then best leave me alone. I've got some serious self-pity to deal with." He pressed Minoru's arm and disappeared into his office.

—

"Can you give me a ride down to New York?" Minoru said to Jay on the telephone. It was the day before the Modern Language Association conference's commencement at the start of winter vacation. "My Pontiac blew a gasket."

"If you don't mind listening to Vivaldi for three hours. We'll come by at ten. Got to do some shopping before everything starts.

Jay's wife, Marcia, a beautiful African-American with close-cropped hair, was also a Renaissance scholar. Over the blare of Vivaldi, she (the driver) and Jay chatted endlessly about things that Minoru could not comprehend.

Minoru nodded off several times. He had been sleeping badly, trying to finish the conference paper, which he now believed was rubbish. He imagined himself humiliated by pointed questions and well-articulated objections. Unless people went easy on him because he was Japanese, treating him like a twelve-year-old.

"What's with Reardon about his girlfriend?" Jay called over his shoulder.

"What—?" Minoru said.

"I mean, he's had women leaving him every week and it never phased him. This is different. Rear End was actually getting easier to work with on that committee. Now, he's depressed and useless. First time I've seen him not care about what he's doing. You're the closest to a friend he's ever had on the faculty. Thought you'd have some insights. McCormick is very concerned."

"I know as much as anyone," Minoru said.

Jay nodded grimly. "It's scary. He looks like my dad after mom died. Before his stroke."

"Honey!" Marcia's long hand with red fingernails massaged the back of Jay's shaved head.

Minoru looked away.

"Manhattan coming up," Jay said. He asked if Minoru was staying at the downtown hotel where the conference was being held.

"Actually, I'm going to Great Neck. I usually stay at an inn there when I come to New York. I'm skipping tonight's banquet."

"I'll take you to Penn Station," Marcia said. "We'll come to your presentation."

"About Reardon—" Jay said.

"Honey," Marcia said.

—

After being checked in by Mrs. Waters, the Talbot Inn's manager, a round woman of about sixty, Minoru had planned to spend the afternoon walking around town, visiting his old neighborhood and former high school. Instead, he sat at the big oak desk in his room and revised his paper. By 6 p.m., when he should have been eating dinner at a restaurant once frequented by F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, his manuscript was covered with cross-outs and marginal notations that were also crossed out and written over. By three in the morning, Minoru's head was aching. He looked out the window. It was snowing. If only he could be snowed in. The paper was now unintelligible. He had started to scribble in Japanese, something he never did, and was appalled at how many kanji he could no longer properly write. His presentation was to be at 10 a.m. He fell asleep at the desk, waking at around eight-fifteen.

His mind was clear. He knew if he left immediately and walked at a brisk pace he would have enough time to catch a train to Manhattan and then a cab to the hotel. Minoru telephoned the hotel and asked for the chairperson of his panel and told him he had a terrible fever and could not make it. He called the hotel again and asked for Jay and Marcia's room. He got Marcia who said, "Good heavens, Minoru! We'll drive right over. Hang this conference—"

"Please don't," Minoru said. "It's probably just a cold. Anyway, I used to live here. I know where to go. I have friends."

"Okay—Keep us informed, Minoru."

He had a continental breakfast and went up to his room. He was depressed and the last thing he needed was solitude. He put on his overcoat and scarf, made sure his cell phone was off, and went downstairs again. "In case of calls—" he said to Mrs. Waters. "Say I'm seeing a doctor—Look, I'm supposed to be somewhere—"

"I know what to say," said Mrs. Waters.

Minoru's peregrinations took him to the train station. Looking absently at the schedule, a thought occurred to him—to call Reardon's daughter. Reardon had given Minoru her business card and had off-handedly said, "Call her whenever you're in New York. Tell her that Dad, what's his name, says hi." That was something he had no intention of doing. Now he was fishing the card out of his wallet.

—

Mari Reardon had spoken to him in halting and grammatically weak but enthusiastic Japanese, saying her father had told her about him; could they meet somewhere?

Switching to English she had said: "I was planning to see the Cézanne retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art. Could I meet you there about eleven thirty. I'll be wearing blue jeans and a pretty ordinary coat. Wait. I've got extra long frizzy dark brown hair. I'll take my scarf off and untie my hair when I'm inside. I don't look anything like my father."

Watching the snow flurry from the train Minoru wondered if any MLA people would come to look at Cézanne. What if he ran into Jay and Marcia?

Then his thoughts wandered elsewhere. Why was he, at age thirty-eight, who so much wanted marriage, denied the pleasure? Were his standards too high? Was there something wrong with him? Was it his nationality? Was it America? Should he find a Japanese matchmaker in New York and simply arrange an omiai?

These were his thoughts when he took the taxi to MoMA and when he saw the wonderful cape of frizzy dark brown hair that could only belong to Mari Reardon, who he guessed was in her late 20s. He beheld the small oval face with its slightly dimpled chin, its small mouth and kind eyes for a moment before waving. The eyes brightened; the lips parted into a wide smile. They shook hands.

—

Over lunch at MoMA's Restaurant Sette, Minoru remarked, "I am amazed by your knowledge of Cézanne. Were you an art history major at university?"

"I never went. Too much academia in my life. All my relatives on both sides are academics. Mom is a professor in Tokyo. "

"Really?"

Yes. At a major university. I took a course in computer graphics at the School of Visual Arts and that was it. I'm a computer graphic designer." Minoru remembered reading it on her business card.

"I'm worried about your father," Minoru said abruptly.

"Dad thrives on worrying people," Mari said. "He thinks everyone hates him. People love him. Bob Moskowitz—Abe Bob's—"

Minoru nodded.

"Bob adores dad's work with cars. Did you ever meet Mandy Martin?"

"Briefly."

"She's my good friend. She stayed with me after leaving dad. Until she got work—she is also a graphic designer. Dad really hurt her."

Minoru was quiet.

"I shouldn't be telling you this; but it's something you might as well know. Dad had an affair with some eighteen-year-old from a local liberal arts college. He said the girl could be another Emily Dickinson with his guidance. Idiot! Mandy loves him silly—even now. By the way, did he say I hate him, or something like that?"

"Something like that."

"We e-mail each other every day. God, what a liar," Mari said. "Come on, let's go. I have to meet someone at five. Meanwhile, let's doing something. The snow's let up. You like walking?"

"Very much."

"So do I."

Minoru stood. Mari let him take her hand to help her up. They went out.

The snow flurry turned into sleet. They wound up in a Starbucks drinking cappuccino.

"I've had a lifetime to go over this," Mari said. "I was born in Japan but I was really young when we came here. Mom finally left dad after I finished high school. Dad became an erotomaniac. Mom thinks it was delayed post-traumatic stress connected to dad's old university in Kobe. You know about that?"

Minoru nodded.

"And did Dad say he was some kind of playboy before he got married?"

"Something like that."

"It's not true. He was a frightened and innocent guy when he met mom. I shouldn't be saying this—Mom took Dad's virginity. She told me so before leaving for Japan."

"I see." Minoru sighed.

"Poor Mandy," Mari said. "I'm really pissed off! Sorry—We should talk about something else. "

"Ms Reardon," Minoru began, then paused to consider his words. "I am honored that you shared this with me. No—let me start over. I did something bad today. Not only did I not give my paper at MLA, I lied to my friends and betrayed my department. I want to make up for it. Maybe I can help Matt. His sadness is serious. "

"Dad's e-mails are only about that car he restored. He says he never felt better," Mari said. "The liar—"

"Couldn't you come up to see him?"

"If only I didn't have this crazy workload." Mari looked at her watch. "Taniguchi-sensei, I have only half an hour. Sorry, I must catch a cab."

"I should return to Great Neck. I'm supposed to be sick."

"I'd like to talk more," Mari said in English as they hurried out. "I have this date I can't break off—It's not a heavy date—He's a friend I have to see—"

Minoru raised his hand to an approaching taxi. It stopped.

"Thank you for listening," Mari said. "Thank you—Oh, I better get in."

Before closing the door she smiled and said something Minoru couldn't catch.

On the train from Penn Station he pictured the informal dinner Mari Reardon would have with her friend. It would evolve into an informal invitation to her apartment or his, then an informal night in bed together. In the morning they would still be casual friends, not lovers.

He was lonelier than Matt Reardon.

—

On a Wednesday night in February Jay telephoned Minoru to say that Reardon had had a heart attack at a meeting and was now in Emergency at University Hospital.

Minoru's first thought—it shamed him—was that he might see Mari Reardon again.

He had lost her business card and could not ask Matt Reardon for another—Matt Reardon who shunned him with his swatting hands and, "Not now—later."

Minoru drove his Pontiac to University Hospital and went to Emergency.

Over twenty people had collected there because of Reardon's heart attack. Jay was there. So was McCormick and the poet-in-residence with her partner. So was the president of the Black Students' Union. So was the taciturn Pakistani graduate student. So were a number of undergraduates. There were also men and women, ill at ease, who Minoru gathered were Reardon's classic car friends. A bearded man from that group greeted Minoru by taking his hands in both of his. "I'm Bob Moskowitz—Able Bob's. Matt told me all about you. When he's better, we're all going fishing together. That's a promise."

Presently a nurse walked up to the group, stiff and correct in her white uniform. "Professor Reardon, right? He's out of danger right now—"

Cheers.

"Keep it down. This is a hospital. He's out of danger right now. He's still critical. That means he cannot have any visitors except essential people. Close relations and his significant other. Professor Reardon is sleeping now. It is getting close to 10 o'clock. If you go home and get some sleep it's okay."

No one moved. Two new people, the blond graduate couple from Minnesota, came in and anxiously inquired, "How is he?"

"I didn't know Matt was this popular," Minoru said to Jay.

"One hates to admit it, but, indeed, he's like a movie star to some people. Thought you knew."

"I'm always the last to know anything, I'm afraid," Minoru said.

Around eleven Mari Reardon and Mandy Martin arrived together. Mandy towered over Mari. Reardon, Minoru remembered, had once remarked: "I like tall ladies. In bed you never run out of lady."

Mari came over to Minoru and said, "I'm glad you're here." Then she went over to Registration and spoke to a nurse. The nurse nodded and wrote something down. "Professor Reardon is sleeping," she said "He can have very brief visits. Close relations and significant other only."

Mari took her Mandy's hand.

Somewhere within the groggy collection of Reardon's friends someone sobbed. This was a petite, short-haired blond girl of about eighteen who had come in unnoticed.

"Oh dear—" Mandy said. She strode over to the girl and put a protective arm around her. "You qualify as a significant other too," she said. This was directed to the nurse.

"You three will have to go in one at a time and you can't disturb him," the nurse said. "You'll have only a few minutes."

The nurse had been trained in respecting lifestyle differences, Minoru reflected.

Fifteen minutes later the three were down again. Mandy Martin's arm circled the short blonde girl's shoulder. The girl's face was pink with grief.

"Mari, I'm taking this lady home with me," Mandy said.

"You're okay—?"

"Perfectly fine," Mari said. "I'll be in touch."

When Mandy and Reardon's "Emily Dickinson" had passed through the revolving glass door, Mari turned to Minoru and said in Japanese, "I have to trouble you, I'm afraid. I need a ride to the train station. I can catch the first morning train for New York in an hour."

"No trouble," he answered in Japanese.

Out in the brisk February air, Mari continued in Japanese,

"I must apologize for the risqué manner in which I spoke of my parents when we met."

"I found it refreshing," he said in English, then wished he had chosen better words.

"I also have to say something else," she said, switching to English. "My dinner date was only that and nothing else."

"It's not my business," Minoru said.

"I'm not a prude," Mari went on. "I like sex as much as anybody—maybe more so. But I have a thing about relationships. How shall I say it?"

"All or nothing?" Minoru said.

"That's right. I wish you'd called."

Minoru's hand touched hers. She grasped it.

They said nothing until they were in the parking lot. Then Mari said, "That was easy."

"I wish this had happened under happier circumstances."

"Everybody says he'll be all right. A full recovery. The bastard—"

Inside Minoru's Pontiac Mari buried her face in her hands and wept.

"Daddy—! I don't want him to die now. Not now—"

Minoru touched her shoulder. Mari Reardon kissed him on the mouth.

—

Two years later he was on the telephone with Mari, whom he had married after a short courtship. He still lived in his old apartment and she in New York. She was planning to move up and restart her business in New England after his tenure was confirmed—which was this afternoon.

"I am not worried," he was saying. "Matt tried to disqualify himself but the tenure committee absolutely wanted his input. Jay's on the committee. I don't know how they're getting away with this."

"I have champagne for when you arrive. Tomorrow for sure?"

"Maybe I'll drive up tonight. I should be getting a call from McCormick any minute."

Afternoon became evening. McCormick called.

"I'm sorry, Minoru," she said.

Still not believing it, that he had been denied tenure, he got into his Pontiac and drove without apparent direction. Entering Reardon's driveway, Minoru saw only Mandy Martin's blue Volkswagen. He turned back to town.

Was it his publications? His MLA fiasco? How could Matt Reardon fail to protect him?

In town he went to Corsaro's Napoli Café where smoking was banned and he like to hang out. He ordered a carafe of red wine. He carried it to his usual place by the far wall. His mobile phone rang. He shut it off. He couldn't face Mari.

Jay came in, glanced around and sat with Minoru. He had to catch his breath.

"This is a case of discrimination if ever I saw one." Jay drank Minoru's water. "We'll sue. The university will back down. They've got to. This'll make headlines and they don't want that. "

"What happened?" Minoru asked.

"The poet-in-residence and I resisted to the last. But we were outvoted."

"And Matt? I guess he was disqualified from voting."

"That motherfucker! Pardon the colloquialism—but that no good motherfucker!"

"He kept quiet, didn't he? I don't blame him. He had to—"

"Quiet? That man led the attack on you. He went up and down on your publications and your teaching skills. And he brought up MLA. He also said he knew an Indonesian who'd do for Affirmative Action. I wish he'd died—"

"You don't," Minoru said.

"Oh yes I do! I saw him in his office. I've got to say it even if he is your father-in-law. He was laughing all over the place. I'm sorry to be telling you this."

"You're my best friend and I let you down." Minoru said. "I'm sorry about MLA."

"That's nothing," Jay said. "We'll fight this until we win."

Minoru shook his head. "I need to think. I'm sorry, Jay. I am so sorry. I need to be alone for a few hours. Can I call you later?"

"Sure— I understand." Jay stood. "Don't drive, Minoru. I'll get you. I'm working late. Are you all right—?"

Minoru nodded. He wanted to joke about not being the type to commit ritual suicide but couldn't. "I'll be here, Jay. Thanks."

He thought back to his wedding at the Shinto shrine in New Jersey, remembering Mari in Kimono, Matt Reardon and Mandy Martin, Jay and Marcia, Mari's mother and her new husband. He remembered the conversations with Reardon when he was convalescing and how they had gone fishing with Bob Moskowitz.

Reardon came in. He was not the pale and skeletal man whom Minoru had driven home from the hospital. He did not look like a man who had ever had a heart attack—or who had recently betrayed his son-in-law.

"Hey there, Minoru." He did not sit.

Minoru looked away.

"You heard. Well, okay—I'm a bastard. My daughter's right."

"Go away," Minoru said. "I don't hate you. I realize you're getting senile. But please go away."

"Senile my ass! I nailed you with all the logical powers in me."

"Go away," Minoru said.

"The truth is, son, you're not good enough."

"Fuck off!"

Surrounding conversation ceased. Minoru did not care.

"Fuck off!" he said louder.

"Heard you the first time. I know classic car restorers who are pretty good; but either you're real good or you're no good—Hear me through—This isn't your scene, Minoru. You'll be an okay, but never a great Victorian specialist. There're too many Victorian specialists in America, don't you see? You'll be an assistant professor all your life, man. And Mari—she can't do her work out here—Let me finish—Go to Japan. You'll be cherished. Mari will blossom! Don't you see what I'm saying?"

"You've been waiting years to mess up a Japanese guy. "

"I did this because I love you, son."

"Fuck off," Minoru said.

Reardon shrugged, patted Minoru's shoulder, and walked out.