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under the influence of Milo’s mood all evening, but that crisp new bill is still resting against his chauffeur’s cap. Under normal circumstances Milo does not speak so much to Junichi, and I can see that he is having trouble holding things together now. He is smiling hard but can think of nothing more to say. When Milo proposed his toast Junichi had put the brimming glass to his lips, but he didn’t drink. Milo, on the other hand, continues to pour furiously, filling my glass and his own. There are three bottles in the ice bucket and I fear we’ll have to drink them all.
    We sit quietly for a very long time, and as we do so a small group of Milo’s fans form a semicircle around the table. They all carry napkins in their hands, some of them holding pencils up, trying to catch my son’s eye. Both Junichi and I view them happily. We’ve been granted a momentary reprieve.
    As the fans move in, the chauffeur and I push our big chairs slightly back. Milo is very good with fans. He likes them and will take whatever time is necessary to please them all. They bend around him, asking questions, laughing easily at anything Milo wants to say. He puts his champagne glass to one young woman’s lips. She drinks greedily, bending farther down over my son.
    Junichi’s posture and position at the table have been constantly visible to me, but as I look now I see that the money is no longer resting on the brim of his cap. How could he have pocketed it and yet maintained his stiff posture, his formality? Though there are fans everywhere he takes the trouble to glance through the forest of human limbs between us and to look directly into my eyes. There is no mockery in his face, nothing changed, no lessening of his aloofness or increase in his disdain. Only Junichi knows whether the money is folded darkly inside his uniform pocket or crumpled under the belt of a thief.
    With the money gone and all this silliness raging around me I have no more energy to stay. Already it is late and I have stayed
too long. I push my chair back, standing. Milo and his fans are in a kind of choral repose, all smiling and swaying. Junichi’s hollow eyes follow me so I bow, letting him know that I respect the small defeat he has given me. He bows back but his blue uniform works like a spring, returning him quickly to his upright position.
    On the stairs that lead down to the bar’s entrance is a group of middle-aged foreigners, their Japanese host telling them that their table will be ready soon. They’re speaking English and thinking up nice things to say about Japan, yet I am too tired and have no time for them, no tricks on hand. I am willing to simply sidle past, but one, from their number, claws at my arm, attaching himself firmly to my elbow.
    â€œHey, buster,” he says, and I turn to the dismal eyes of the man from Des Moines.
    â€œOh hello,” I say, trying to smile. This is not supposed to be a place for tourists.
    â€œHelen, look here,” the man calls, and a mound of blue bursts from the part of the group that is farthest from us, closest to the top of the stairs.
    â€œOh my,” says his wife. She comes down to us, her face a cloud, but recognition soon clears it up. “Well, how nice,” she says. “No matter what the size of the city it’s still a small world.”
    â€œYou’ll never believe our bumbling,” the man tells me. “All that time waiting for a fellow to come along who speaks English and then we get ourselves turned around before you’re two steps away.”
    Helen has linked one of her arms through my free one. “No time wasted, though,” she assures me. “When we got off the train we found ourselves quite near the zoo. You’ve got some prize pandas there. Though we’d never have been able to see them if another nice gentleman hadn’t let us in line.”
    I stand speechless while the two of them hold me captive and