Hokkaido Highway Blues

roll free of the port and, tooting its horn in a mocking way, turn out to sea.
    Cursing, I waded back into the world of schedules. It was in the middle of this escalating mood of aggravation that a small voice appeared beside me. “Excuse me,” it said. “May I practice my English with you?”
    This happens now and then. Usually, I try to be a good sport, but at inopportune moments like this it is difficult. The man, a pinch-nosed professor type, began reeling off a string of questions. They must have a checklist or something.
    “Where are you from? What is your name? Do you have a hobby?”
    “Look,” I said, “I’m a little busy right now. I’m trying to—”
    “How old are you? What is your blood type? Are you married? What is your salary?”
    “My salary?”
    “Yes, I hear that you foreigners make too much money in Japan.”
    “Well,” I said, “in my country it is considered rude to ask someone— especially a stranger—how much money he makes.”
    “Three hundred thousand yen a month? Four hundred thousand? Five hundred thousand?”
    Here I was, folding and refolding my maps, trying to figure out my next move, and this nattering gnat of a man was trying to engage me in a dialogue about my income. He spoke what I call Random English, dictated more by the abrupt firing of synapses than by anything approximating a plan.
    “Foreigners can’t eat pickled plums,” he said. ‘And you are very racist. In America, you treat the blacks bad just because they aren’t as intelligent as other people.” (How do you respond to something like that?) ‘And you killed all of the Indians.“
    I sighed. “There are still Indians in North America.”
    “No there isn’t. I saw a show on NHK. You killed them all.”
    At this point I decided to simply ignore him in the hope he would just shut up and go away. Or burst into flames and run screaming from the building. Either would have been fine.
    “In America,” he said, “the workers cannot read and write. This is why you are having problems with productivity.” He smiled sweetly at me, as though offering fatherly advice. “But I like Clint Eastwood. Do you know Clint Eastwood?“
    “Not personally.”
    “I like very much the Macaroni Westerns. Do you like?” And then, in a sudden shift: “Tell me, when writing a letter, do you use P-S or B-S at the end? I understand that one is considered slang and the other is a way of—”
    “It’s P-S.”
    “B-S?” he asked.
    “P-S. P as in pneumonia and s as in psychotic.”
    “Ah,” he said. “I see.”
    I said nothing. I was now actively ignoring him, if such a thing is possible. “Perhaps my English is very poor,” he said. “You see, I am under the weather.” He waited for sympathy and, receiving none, continued. “I am a headache,” he said.
    Yes, you certainly are.
    Then, as I was just about to roll up my maps and climb on the next ferry regardless of where it was going, I noticed that Shōdo Island was circled in red several times on my map. Mr. Migita, back when we were plotting my ascent of Japan, had made special, forceful mention of this island. Beside it on the map, I had written a cryptic note: circles. What did this mean? I was suddenly struck by an irresistible urge to find out. The island was at the other end of the Inland Sea entirely. To get to it, I could take a coastal ferry, or I could hitchhike along the north shore of Shikoku and then make a short hop across.
    “—and that was when I decided to study English conversation,” said the little man beside me, winding down some story or other.
    “Tell, me,” I said. “Is the northern coast of Shikoku scenic? Is it worth traveling along?”
    “Oh, yes,” he said. “Very beautiful.”
    That settled it. I thanked him for the scintillating conversation and caught a streetcar back into town.
     

13
     
    IT WAS HOT on the road out of Matsuyama. The day was swimming with humidity, fetid and sticky. There was a film of muggy sweat on everything. The palm trees hung limp in the heat like wilted flowers. Even the buildings seemed to perspire. I walked along the highway under a scalding sky that was white with haze, my face as slick with perspiration as a honey-glazed donut.
    “Thank God,” I said when a car finally pulled over.
    Yoshiaki Kato was a telephone salesman who had recently gone into business for himself. Because he spent a lot of time on the road, he knew all the shortcuts. He made endless detours, meandering through