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banter about. The maître d’ is calling them to their table, so they reluctantly say good-bye. “English is the international language,” Helen assures me. “You certainly have proven that.”
    â€œWe’ve got the tower penciled in for tomorrow,” says Harold. “I understand the view from there is terrific.”
    I stay on the stairs for a long time after they’ve gone, leaning hard against the wall. I have to wonder how many of the others I’ve wronged have finally thought that the mistake was their own. How many others, after hours of circling the city, have said to themselves, “Why hadn’t I listened when that nice man was talking? Why hadn’t I paid more attention?” Of course it is in the nature of some people to put the blame for things on themselves. I wanted people to wonder why a man would so purposefully point them in wrong directions, and it occurs to me now that perhaps all my deeds have missed their marks. What a depressing thought! The bar, as I leave it, is full of foreigners, each one knowing where he is and where he is going. I can hear the party of the people from Des Moines and I can hear the silly din of the celebrities, the Japanese movie stars and friends of Milo’s as they herald each other’s accomplishments, all talking their nonsense. All I wanted was the simple pleasure of knowing that I had wronged slightly, now, some of those who had wronged me in the past. But from now on I’ll not know if it is I or themselves that they blame.
    The cashier is calm-looking in her little cage near the door so I call to her, saying good night, and then I walk outside into the cold dark. Lord, lord, how many times must I get myself into these things? An old man playing his games, dredging up bits of petty bitterness. Why can’t I learn to leave people alone, let them be as they will, let them be American if they must, or military or weak? Recently I have felt that I am on the cusp of a change in my life, but nothing, it would seem, moves me out of the trough I am in. It is colder now, and later than it usually is when I leave the larger bars and head back toward the Kado. People stand out in the street trying to hail taxis. Perhaps when I sleep tonight, I, like Scrooge, will be awakened by a dead friend’s ghost, and tomorrow I’ll be singing happily, a changed man with a wonderful change of heart. Perhaps, but I doubt it.

    The Kado’s sign clicks off even while I’m walking toward it, so it must be late. A breeze is pushing bits of paper at the passersby, dusting the freezing streets. When I arrive at the bar everything’s dark. “Hello, Hana! Let me in, Sachiko!” I say, rapping my knuckles lightly on the Kado’s red door. Now that I’m safely away from those others I’m beginning to feel better.
    â€œ Oi ! It is late,” I call.
    There is no sound from within the bar; could it be they’ve gone? If the customers leave early, they themselves sometimes do, but I could have sworn I saw the lights go off. “Sachiko, Sachiko,” I say, but the handle’s hard lock won’t give much. They must have gone early. The front door is the only way out and there is no light pouring from the crack beneath it. This happens more and more often and leads me to wonder if the business is bad.
    At the side of the street the wind has pushed papers up against the curb. There are taxis streaming by but they are occupied. Nevertheless I’ll wait until I see the luminous handle glowing in a dark windshield, then I will raise my hand and the cab will stop for me, its automatic door opening, the driver exhibiting mechanical manners. I will go, I think, to Sachiko’s room and wait for her there. But first, the problem of getting a taxi. This side street is a good place, for there are no others waiting. All the taxis that come by here are occupied, though. Certainly Sachiko could have waited, or