Part 5
Yoshoto, if not more so. M. Yoshoto then offered to show me to my room, which, he
explained (in French) had recently been vacated by his son, who had gone to British
Columbia to work on a farm. (After his long silence in the bus, I was grateful to hear
him speak with any continuity, and I listened rather vivaciously.) He started to
apologize for the fact that there were no chairs in his son's room--only floor cushions--
but I quickly gave him to believe that for me this was little short of a godsend. (In fact, I
think I said I hated chairs. I was so nervous that if he had informed me that his son's
room was flooded, night and day, with a foot of water, I probably would have let out a
little cry of pleasure. I probably would have said I had a rare foot disease, one that
required my keeping my feet wet eight hours daily.) Then he led me up a creaky wooden
staircase to my room. I told him on the way, pointedly enough, that I was a student of
Buddhism. I later found out that both he and Mme. Yoshoto were Presbyterians.
Late that night, as I lay awake in bed, with Mme. Yoshoto's Japanese-Malayan dinner
still en masse and riding my sternum like an elevator, one or the other of the Yoshotos
began to moan in his or her sleep, just the other side of my wall. It was a high, thin,
broken moan, and it seemed to come less from an adult than from either a tragic,
subnormal infant or a small malformed animal. (It became a regular nightly
performance. I never did find out which of the Yoshotos it came from, let alone why.)
When it became quite unendurable to listen to from a supine position, I got out of bed,
put on my slippers, and went over in the dark and sat down on one of the floor
cushions. I sat crosslegged for a couple of hours and smoked cigarettes, squashing
them out on the instep of my slipper and putting the stubs in the breast pocket of my
pyjamas. (The Yoshotos didn't smoke, and there were no ashtrays anywhere on the
premises.) I got to sleep around five in the morning.
At six-thirty, M. Yoshoto knocked on my door and advised me that breakfast would be
served at six-forty-five. He asked me, through the door, if I'd slept well, and I answered,
"Oui!" I then dressed--putting on my blue suit, which I thought appropriate for an
instructor on the opening day of school, and a red Sulka tie my mother had given me--
and, without washing, hurried down the hall to the Yoshotos' kitchen.
Mme. Yoshoto was at the stove, preparing a fish breakfast. M. Yoshoto, in his B.V.D.'s
and trousers, was seated at the kitchen table, reading a Japanese newspaper. He
nodded to me, non-committally. Neither of them had ever looked more inscrutable.
Presently, some sort of fish was served to me on a plate with a small but noticeable
trace of coagulated catsup along the border. Mme. Yoshoto asked me, in English--and
her accent was unexpectedly charming--if I would prefer an egg, but I said, "Non, non,
madame--merci!" I said I never ate eggs. M. Yoshoto leaned his newspaper against my
water glass, and the three of us ate in silence; that is, they ate and I systematically
swallowed in silence.
After breakfast, without having to leave the kitchen, M. Yoshoto put on a collarless
shirt and Mme. Yoshoto took off her apron, and the three of us filed rather awkwardly
downstairs to the instructors' room. There, in an untidy pile on M. Yoshoto's broad
desk, lay some dozen or more unopened, enormous, bulging, Manilla envelopes. To me,
they had an almost freshly brushed-and-combed look, like new pupils. M. Yoshoto
assigned me to my desk, which was on the far, isolated side of the room, and asked me
to be seated. Then, with Mme. Yoshoto at his side, he broke open a few of the envelopes.
He and Mme. Yoshoto seemed to examine the assorted contents with some sort of
method, consulting each other, now and then, in Japanese, while I sat across the room,
in my blue suit and Sulka tie, trying to look simultaneously alert and patient and,
somehow, indispensable to the organization. I took out a handful of soft-lead drawing
pencils, from my inside jacket pocket, that I'd brought from New York with me, and laid
them out, as noiselessly as possible, on the surface of my desk. Once, M. Yoshoto
glanced over at me for some reason, and I flashed him an excessively winning smile.
Then, suddenly, without a word or a look in my direction, the two of them sat down at
their respective desks and went to work. It was about seven-thirty.
Around nine, M. Yoshoto took off his glasses, got up and padded over to my desk with
a sheaf of papers in his hand. I'd spent an hour and a half doing absolutely nothing but
trying to keep my stomach from growling audibly. I quickly stood up as he came into
Yoshoto, if not more so. M. Yoshoto then offered to show me to my room, which, he
explained (in French) had recently been vacated by his son, who had gone to British
Columbia to work on a farm. (After his long silence in the bus, I was grateful to hear
him speak with any continuity, and I listened rather vivaciously.) He started to
apologize for the fact that there were no chairs in his son's room--only floor cushions--
but I quickly gave him to believe that for me this was little short of a godsend. (In fact, I
think I said I hated chairs. I was so nervous that if he had informed me that his son's
room was flooded, night and day, with a foot of water, I probably would have let out a
little cry of pleasure. I probably would have said I had a rare foot disease, one that
required my keeping my feet wet eight hours daily.) Then he led me up a creaky wooden
staircase to my room. I told him on the way, pointedly enough, that I was a student of
Buddhism. I later found out that both he and Mme. Yoshoto were Presbyterians.
Late that night, as I lay awake in bed, with Mme. Yoshoto's Japanese-Malayan dinner
still en masse and riding my sternum like an elevator, one or the other of the Yoshotos
began to moan in his or her sleep, just the other side of my wall. It was a high, thin,
broken moan, and it seemed to come less from an adult than from either a tragic,
subnormal infant or a small malformed animal. (It became a regular nightly
performance. I never did find out which of the Yoshotos it came from, let alone why.)
When it became quite unendurable to listen to from a supine position, I got out of bed,
put on my slippers, and went over in the dark and sat down on one of the floor
cushions. I sat crosslegged for a couple of hours and smoked cigarettes, squashing
them out on the instep of my slipper and putting the stubs in the breast pocket of my
pyjamas. (The Yoshotos didn't smoke, and there were no ashtrays anywhere on the
premises.) I got to sleep around five in the morning.
At six-thirty, M. Yoshoto knocked on my door and advised me that breakfast would be
served at six-forty-five. He asked me, through the door, if I'd slept well, and I answered,
"Oui!" I then dressed--putting on my blue suit, which I thought appropriate for an
instructor on the opening day of school, and a red Sulka tie my mother had given me--
and, without washing, hurried down the hall to the Yoshotos' kitchen.
Mme. Yoshoto was at the stove, preparing a fish breakfast. M. Yoshoto, in his B.V.D.'s
and trousers, was seated at the kitchen table, reading a Japanese newspaper. He
nodded to me, non-committally. Neither of them had ever looked more inscrutable.
Presently, some sort of fish was served to me on a plate with a small but noticeable
trace of coagulated catsup along the border. Mme. Yoshoto asked me, in English--and
her accent was unexpectedly charming--if I would prefer an egg, but I said, "Non, non,
madame--merci!" I said I never ate eggs. M. Yoshoto leaned his newspaper against my
water glass, and the three of us ate in silence; that is, they ate and I systematically
swallowed in silence.
After breakfast, without having to leave the kitchen, M. Yoshoto put on a collarless
shirt and Mme. Yoshoto took off her apron, and the three of us filed rather awkwardly
downstairs to the instructors' room. There, in an untidy pile on M. Yoshoto's broad
desk, lay some dozen or more unopened, enormous, bulging, Manilla envelopes. To me,
they had an almost freshly brushed-and-combed look, like new pupils. M. Yoshoto
assigned me to my desk, which was on the far, isolated side of the room, and asked me
to be seated. Then, with Mme. Yoshoto at his side, he broke open a few of the envelopes.
He and Mme. Yoshoto seemed to examine the assorted contents with some sort of
method, consulting each other, now and then, in Japanese, while I sat across the room,
in my blue suit and Sulka tie, trying to look simultaneously alert and patient and,
somehow, indispensable to the organization. I took out a handful of soft-lead drawing
pencils, from my inside jacket pocket, that I'd brought from New York with me, and laid
them out, as noiselessly as possible, on the surface of my desk. Once, M. Yoshoto
glanced over at me for some reason, and I flashed him an excessively winning smile.
Then, suddenly, without a word or a look in my direction, the two of them sat down at
their respective desks and went to work. It was about seven-thirty.
Around nine, M. Yoshoto took off his glasses, got up and padded over to my desk with
a sheaf of papers in his hand. I'd spent an hour and a half doing absolutely nothing but
trying to keep my stomach from growling audibly. I quickly stood up as he came into
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