Betty said in a low voice, “Personally, I do not believe any hysterical talk of ‘world inundation’ by any people, Slavic or Chinese or Japanese.” She regarded Robert placidly. She was in complete control of herself, not carried away; but she intended to express her feeling. A spot of color, deep red, had appeared in each of her cheeks.

They ate for a time without conversing.

I did it again, Robert Childan informed himself. Impossible to avoid the topic. Because it’s everywhere, in a book I happen to pick up or a record collection, in these bone napkin rings—loot piled up by the conquerors. Pillage from my people.

Face facts. I’m trying to pretend that these Japanese and I are alike. But observe: even when I burst out as to my gratification that they won the war, that my nation lost– there’s still no common ground. What words mean to me is sharp contrast vis-à-vis them. Their brains are different. Souls likewise. Witness them drinking from English bone china cups, eating with U.S. silver, listening to Negro style of music. It’s all on the surface. Advantage of wealth and power makes this available to them, but it’s ersatz as the day is long.

Even the I Ching, which they’ve forced down our throats; it’s Chinese. Borrowed from way back when. Whom are they fooling? Themselves? Pilfer customs right and left, wear, eat, talk, walk, as for instance consuming with gusto baked potato served with sour cream and chives, old-fashioned American dish added to their haul. But nobody fooled, I can tell you; me least of all.

Only the white races endowed with creativity, he reflected. And yet I, blood member of same, must bump head to floor for these two. Think how it would have been had we won! Would have crushed them out of existence. No Japan today, and the U.S.A. gleaming great sole power in entire wide world.

He thought: I must read that Grasshopper book. Patriotic duty, from the sound of it.

Betty said softly to him, “Robert, you’re not eating. Is the food misprepared?”

At once he took a forkful of salad. “No,” he said. “It is virtually the most delicious meal I have had in years.”

“Thank you,” she said, obviously pleased. “Doing my best to be authentic… for instance, carefully shopping in teeny-tiny American markets down along Mission Street. Understand that’s the real McCoy.”

You cook the native foods to perfection, Robert Childan thought. What they say is true: your powers of imitation are immense. Apple pie, Coca-Cola, stroll after the movie, Glenn Miller… you could paste together out of tin and rice paper a complete artificial America. Rice-paper Mom in the kitchen, rice-paper Dad reading the newspaper. Rice-paper pup at his feet. Everything.

Paul was watching him silently. Robert Childan, suddenly noticing the man’s attention, ceased his line of thought and applied himself to his food. Can he read my mind? he wondered. See what I”m really thinking? I know I did not show it. I kept the proper expression; he could not possibly tell.

“Robert,” Paul said, “since you were born and raised here, speaking the U.S. idiom, perhaps I could get your help with a book which has given me certain trouble. Novel from the 1930s by a U.S. author.”

Robert bowed slightly.

“The book,” Paul said, “which is quite rare, and which I possess a copy of nonetheless, is by Nathanael West. Title is Miss Lonelyhearts. I have read it with enjoyment, but do not totally grasp N. West’s meaning.” He looked hopefully at Robert.

Presently Robert Childan admitted. “I have never read that book, I fear.” Nor, he thought, even heard of it.

Disappointment showed in Paul’s expression. “Too bad. It is a tiny book. Tells about man who runs column in daily paper; receives heartache problems constantly, until evidently driven mad by pain and has delusion that he is J. Christ. Do you recall? Perhaps read long ago.”

“No,” Robert said.

“Gives strange view about suffering,” Paul said. “Insight of most original kind into meaning of pain for no reason, problem which all religions cope with. Religions such as Christian often declare must be sin to account for suffering. N. West seems to add more compelling view of this, over older notions. N. West possibly saw could be suffering without cause due to his being a Jew.”

Robert said. “If Germany and Japan had lost the war, the Jews would be running the world today. Through Moscow and Wall Street.”

The two Japanese, man and wife, seemed to shrink. They seemed to fade, grow cold, descend into themselves. The room itself grew cold. Robert Childan felt alone. Eating by himself, no longer in their company. What had he done now? What had they misunderstood? Stupid inability on their part to grasp alien tongue, the Western thought. Eluded them and so they took umbrage. What a tragedy, he thought as he continued eating. And yet—what could be done?

Former clarity—that of only a moment ago—had to be drawn on for all it was worth. Full extent not glimpsed until now. Robert Childan did not feel quite as badly as before, because the nonsensical dream had begun to lift from his mind. I showed up here with such anticipation, he recalled. Near-adolescent romantic haze befuddling me as I ascended stairs. But reality cannot be ignored; we must grow up.

And this is the straight dope, right here. These people are not exactly human. They don the dress but they’re like monkeys dolled up in the circus. They’re clever and can learn, but that is all.

Why do I cater to them? Due solely to their having won?

Big flaw in my character revealed through this encounter. But such is the way it goes. I have pathetic tendency to… well, shall we say, unerringly choose the easier of two evils. Like a cow catching sight of the trough; I gallop without premeditation.

What I’ve been doing is to go along with the exterior motions because it is safer; after all, these are the victors… they command. And I will go on doing it, I guess. Because why should I make myself unhappy? They read an American book and want me to explain it to them; they hope that I, a white man, can give them the answer. And I try? But in this case I can’t, although had I read it, I no doubt could.

“Perhaps one day I’ll have a look at that Miss Lonelyhearts book,” he said to Paul. “And then I can convey to you its significance.”

Paul nodded slightly.

“However, at present I am too busy with my work,” Robert said. “Later on, perhaps… I am sure it wouldn’t take me very long.”

“No,” Paul murmured. “Very short book.” Both he and Betty looked sad, Robert Childan thought. He wondered if they, too, sensed the unbridgeable gap between themselves and him. Hope so, he thought. They deserve to. A shame—just have to ferret out book’s message on their own.

He ate with more enjoyment.

No further friction marred the evening. When he left the Kasouras’ apartment at ten o’clock, Robert Childan still felt the sense of confidence which had overtaken him during the meal.

He meandered down the apartment house stairs with no genuine concern as to the occasional Japanese residents who, on their way to and from the communal baths, might notice him and stare. Out onto the dark evening sidewalk, then the hailing of a passing pedecab. And he was thereupon on his trip home.

I always wondered what it would be like to meet certain customers socially. Not so bad after all. And, he thought, this experience may well help me in my business.

It is therapeutic to meet these people who have intimidated you. And to discover what they are really like. Then the intimidation goes.

Thinking along those lines, he arrived at his own neighborhood and finally at his own door. He paid the chink pedecab driver and ascended the familiar stairs.

There, in his front room, sat a man he did not know. A white man wearing an overcoat, sitting on the couch reading the newspaper. As Robert Childan stood astonished in the doorway, the man put down his newspaper, leisurely rose, and reached into his breast pocket. He brought out a wallet and displayed it.