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sense of disgust with his homeland had certain identifiable political components. In the march, he held a banner which he couldn’t read. The other marchers were very polite to him. Many wanted to shake his hand. Yukiko told him later of the rumor that he was Tom Hayden.
    For three months they conducted an uneasy liaison. Yukiko could never quite forgive Ransom for being American. Ransom could not quite buy into her program, although when he first arrived in Japan he was desperate to attach himself somewhere, and would have liked to believe in a system that would relieve him of his own confusion. He had once fought for C.O. status back when Vietnam was still an issue, although the draft had already ended and everyone pointed out to him that it was just a formality. He wanted to make a stand, but no one was interested.
    Yukiko ordered a Coke and asked Ransom why it was that gaijin were inevitably attracted to all the quaint and reactionary aspects of Japanese culture. “Like the martial arts.”
    â€œI’m sure you have a theory.”
    â€œYou know,” she said, “I could never understand the route you took between my place and yours. It seemed roundabout. Then I figured out that you were avoiding the McDonald’s on Kawaramachi-Imadegawa. It spoiledyour idealized Japanese vista—pagodas and misty mountains.”
    Ransom didn’t choose to argue the point. “What are you doing here, anyway? This isn’t exactly your scene.”
    â€œI have an appointment.”
    â€œYou mean a date?”
    â€œIt’s none of your business what I mean.”
    She looked around significantly, then saw who she was looking for—Carl Digger, investigative journalist. He discreetly beckoned her over, and she merely nodded to Ransom as she was leaving.
    Yukiko was a thorough bore, but then, so was Buffalo Rome. Ransom was angry at himself for not having gone home hours before, for having had an absurd affair, and now an absurd non-conversation with this would-be Madam Mao. Everybody in this place had a shtick, himself included. Suddenly his life felt like a shabby waste, as if a paper screen had been pulled back to reveal a vast landscape of pain and regret.
    He ordered a scotch and drank it off. Without saying goodbye to anyone he headed out. The narc, at his post by the door, stopped him. “Do you know where I can buy some marijuana, man?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œGroovy. Where?”
    â€œThailand.”
    Outside were some fifty bikes, Ransom’s Honda 350 among them. He was putting on his helmet when he heard his name called. Marilyn was walking up the street on high heels, holding her long coat closed in front to conceal her skimpy cabaret togs.
    â€œI was afraid I wouldn’t find you.”
    â€œThat’s nothing to be afraid of.”
    â€œI tried to call you.”
    â€œI don’t have a phone.” Ransom fingered his keys.
    â€œI know. Listen, we have to talk.”
    â€œYou talk, I’ll listen.”
    â€œCould we go someplace for a drink? Not here.”
    â€œI’m tired, Marilyn. I’ve got to get home.” He threw his leg over the seat and unlocked his handlebars.
    â€œIt’s about Miles.”
    â€œIf you’re feeling guilty about screwing Miles, I commend you, but I am not in the mood to commiserate.”
    â€œIt’s about his motorcycle. I think I know who did it.”
    â€œJoin the club.”
    â€œIt’s not who you think. Can’t we go somewhere?”
    â€œI’ve got to go home.” Ransom put his key in the ignition.
    â€œIt was yakuza,” Marilyn said.
    â€œYakuza? Why would the yakuza demolish Miles’s bike? That’s a great idea, Marilyn.”
    A group of Japanese students emerged from Buffalo Rome. Two of them were supporting a third, who was moaning and comatose.
    Ransom asked if he was okay.
    Just drunk
, they said. They rolled off down the street as a