“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.”
“Bad for your tummy. Something about all that air through the neck.” He gives me a glass, pours, clicks glasses and says “To the land of Japan which has given us many Daniels, one or two indirectly, and you, circuitously, a beautiful book,” and drinks. “I have to get out of this toasting rut. I can’t lift a glass of milk—”
“So the woman?”
“They let her in downstairs, since they knew her from before, and then she knocked and knocked on my door after she rang it to death. I finally said ‘Go home!’ and she sat on the doormat and started crying. A neighbor phoned me. I let her in, but hid the other woman in the kitchen. I thought I could get rid of her in a few minutes: take her downstairs, put her in a cab, after promising to see her for lunch the next day. But she wanted to stay over. Finally I said I’ll have to get the cops to drag her out or do it myself, and I actually grabbed her arm and dragged her along the floor to the door. The other woman — I’d met her that night — came out and said ‘Here I am, peekaboo, that what you wanted to see, Doreen, or maybe you’re still here because you’re hot to make it a threesome? Well get lost, you screwed-up bitch,’ and Doreen fled the apartment. I should have been more honest with her at once, introduced her to the other woman, which was this woman’s advice, but I thought she’d get hysterical. I even thought she might have a gun. She once ran over an old boyfriend but the jury decided it was a legitimate gripe. I’m through with messy relationships. The woman who chased her out turned out to be almost as bad. Manic dieter. Doesn’t work, affairs with unstable women. Just levelheaded from now on — scholars, professional women, and minimum age of twenty-five. I know I was occasionally drawn to the unpredictable erratic type because there was no chance of anything stable and sane developing with them. But you didn’t come here for a barrage of self-analysis from me. Though you’re the kind I need: peaceful, sensible, doesn’t willfully throw up good food. To you I can also say I shouldn’t be a satyr too. I can say it without your thinking I’m too egotistical, which I know I am. Unstable too, but I’m improving in both categories. I’m in analysis these days, but you probably know that.”
“You, the original anti-analysis man?”
“Dot didn’t tell you? Strange. And she says, my analyst, to be as open as I can when I can and the situation legitimizes it, not when it’s pure self-obsessive talk. So I’m going to tell you something which I hope won’t kill it for us tonight. Drink up.”
I sip.
“More, more — take a big gulp. And probably we should sit on the couch for this one — not the bed yet.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t say it. You might be ready but I might not be to hear it.”
“It’s important you do. I might let this go with someone else — a pickup, if there’s ever another one — or maybe I wouldn’t. I might be less egotistical and unstable than I was — my analyst thinks so — but I don’t know if I’m any more self-sacrificing and well-intentioned, except to someone I respect as much as you.”
“You have crabs.”
“Herpes. Good guess. It’s dormant now, but let’s not chance it flaring up overnight. If we use a condom it’s impossible for you to get it. And before, you said—”
“Hold it, hold it, hold it.”
“You don’t like them, or didn’t used to, and how could you? — but unlike some women, you don’t refuse to make love if I put one on.”
“Would you really even think twice about not telling a pickup you have herpes?”
“Yes. No. Wait, let me get your syntax straight. Would I really not? Would I really think twice? Be aboveboard, Peter. Since analysis — it’s actually been since analysis that I got herpes, but not from my analyst. Maybe from Yatsuko.