The sleek woman was inspecting me, taking in my ancient cashmere V-neck and the velvet leggings I’d thought would be okay for dinner. Her gaze lingered on my feet. Yes, they are larger than yours, that’s good nutrition and my American half, I thought angrily before remembering the tiny hole in my left sock.
At dinner, Mrs. Yogetsu, the innkeeper, seated the elite couple at the head of the communal table. Mrs. Chapman and I were placed in the middle, surrounded by a sea of empty spaces.
My dinner tray looked very promising. Buck-wheat noodles swam in broth that smelled deliciously of garlic and ginger. Small porcelain plates were filled with a jewel like assortment of sashimi, as well as sweet black beans, sesame-flecked spinach, lotus root, and other artistically arranged vegetables. The only foods that made me nervous were tiny dried sardines meant to be eaten whole and paper-thin slices of raw meat I suspected was horse, a regional specialty.
Mrs. Chapman’s whisper drew me away from my worries. “I can’t use chopsticks. Do you think I can get a fork?”
“Don’t worry. It’s like working a hinge.” Even though grace hadn’t been said, I slipped my chopsticks from their paper wrapper and showed her how to make the subtle, pincer-like movements. As she followed my lead, two new guests slid into the cushioned places across from me. I made a slight nod of greeting to a young salaryman wearing a heavily creased navy suit that looked like a cheap cousin to the senior man’s. After a panicky look, he bowed back. And then I longed to be small enough to fit into my lacquer soup bowl, because settling in right next to him was the naked giant I’d met in the bathroom.
2
He looked good in clothes, too. From beneath my lashes I took in slouchy corduroy trousers and a hand-knit Arran sweater. His hair was wet, so he must have made it into the bath after all.
“I’m sure to lose circulation in my toes before dessert, don’t you think?” the foreigner said in a hearty tone to the elegant couple.
“Alcohol helps,” the senior salaryman said. “Drink a lot and you will be able to sit on the floor for hours.”
“Is that a charming Irish accent I hear?” Mrs. Chapman beamed at the fair-haired man.
“Scottish. We all sound alike to Yanks,” the man groaned.
“Mr. Glendinning is from Glasgow, home of all that’s right in the land!” said the young, rumpled-looking salaryman with whom he was sitting.
“Keep that up and I’ll take you home, Yamamoto-san. Golfing in the afternoon—”
“And blazing at night!” crowed Mr. Yamamoto, whose manner changed when he turned to the big boss and switched to Japanese. “Mr. Nakamura’s room is not too uncomfortable, is it? And Mrs. Nakamura, she is surely tired after the long train ride. Too many people standing around your seat, neh?”
“We’re glad to be here, and you made acceptable arrangements,” Mrs. Nakamura replied in near-perfect English, inclining her beautiful face toward the foreigner. “Hugh-san, we Japanese believe that sometimes the simplest things are the most comfortable. And I wanted very much for you to see the nostalgic way of life.”
As I sucked down the savory noodles and broth, I considered Hugh Glendinning. Although his name was straight out of Brideshead Revisited, his accent wasn’t. I thought about the working-class Glasgow accents I’d heard in the movie Trainspotting and concluded that also didn’t fit. Hugh Glendinning’s rolling Rs and rounded vowels fell into their own uncharted territory.
“You’re with these people? Did you meet them through one of the tourist agencies?” Mrs. Chapman’s drawl jerked me out of my linguistic reverie.
“We work together in Tokyo. I’m going through the holidays alone, so Mr. Nakamura and his wife were kind enough to include me on their trip. I drove up separately thinking I would save time. It turned out that I could have read Tale of the Genji in the time it took!”
He was talking about Japan’s longest and most famous novel, a weighty tome written in the eleventh century that would probably still be sitting on my nightstand in the twenty-first. Somehow, I doubted he’d finished it either.
“Is that your Lexus in the parking lot?” Mrs. Chapman’s shrewd eyes rested on Hugh Glendinning.
He grinned. “The export model’s called Lexus—here it’s the Windom. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“It’s just Jinglish,” I said, and everyone turned to look at me. “You know, the new language created by Japanese people to express cross-cultural ideas. Here, a department store is spelled depaato, and a white-collar worker like you would be called sarariman. Or salaryman.”