he men in my country smoke too much. On trains, in restaurants , at temples, at home in the middle of the night— they reach for cigarettes first thing in the morning, before they eat breakfast, before they drink coffee, before they have kissed the women they claim to love, the women who sleep so quietly, who never smoke. The men in my country sleep too much. They sleep on trains, at bus stops, in cars, in meetings. They sleep, I think, because they work so hard. They study too much. They drink too much. Too much sake and whiskey and way too much beer, which, in those tiny glasses, one after another, adds up. They study and work and drink and go without sleep, looking worn-out, bone-tired, ready to collapse in a heap. The men in my country have black-black hair. And skin as smooth as a baby’s. They wear dark suits and white shirts and skinny dark ties that make them look like actors in a black and white film. They are a sober bunch. They are sober even when down-and-out drunk. And they so rarely smile that when they do, it is hard not to feel as if something miraculous just occurred, that such a smile could only mean one thing, that they’re in love, that these men are in love. The men in my country begin with Nozaki and end with Nozaki and circle back to Nozaki. And these are things I observe before meeting Nozaki so that in meeting him, the country and the man become entwined. These are the things I observe in the country that belongs to Nozaki, the country that I want to be mine. One night, at a Mediterranean restaurant, Nozaki orders scallops and green salad and coffee and dessert. It is strange but good to be eating in a place where all the food is out on the table open-faced instead of T ................................................................................ 74 covered up in small secret dishes, Japanese style, so good that I eat with great gusto, the scallops and the salad, all of it, and then, only then realize that the waitress has put the plate of greens on the table for both of us to share. Why didn’t you tell me? I ask him. Why didn’t you say something? Nozaki pours me another glass of wine, shrugs in that offhand way I like, and says he thought it was Marilyn-san’s style, that’s all, and the way he says it — using my name as is customary here instead of the pronoun you — makes me relax, third person distancing me from my crime. We drive, we eat, we cook, and we go to see films. One night in Matsumoto , we find that the twenty-four-hour parking garage where we parked his car earlier closed at midnight when we thought it would stay open till 2 a.m. It is 1 a.m. now. A taxi to Nozaki’s place would cost a small fortune from here. So I suggest we take a taxi to Sara’s house nearby, where I sometimes sleep in her extra room. Sara’s another teacher at the ABC School. She rents a small cottage from the Nozawa family, one that their parents will take over when they are old. We have to go through the family’s small yard to get to Sara’s cottage. Nozaki and I whisper as we open the gate, walking quietly over loose garden steps. But before I open the door, the family dog starts barking from inside the Nozawa’s house and won’t settle down. It is dark and I can’t see Nozaki’s face but I can tell he’s nervous, thinks this was a bad idea. The dog barks at everyone, I whisper. Don’t worry. It’ll be OK. In the spare room, we take the length of borrowed futons and Nozaki looks around at my belongings, minimal now, since I’ve boxed up and shipped most of my worldly items back to the United States. I have only a few books, a few clothes, a few dishes and CDs left and they’re split up between two places: here and the spare room at Natsume-san’s house. Marilyn-san is very neat, he says, and I am pleased by this, pleased beyond belief. We talk about music, novels, taste. We talk about the businessmen, people we...