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the 1812 War. And also the aboriginal art: a group of vegetable-dyed goat-hair rugs.
I myself, the man said, prefer the art of the cities.
Yes, Childan said eagerly. Listen, sir. I have a mural from WPA post-office period, original, done on board, four sections, depicting Horace Greeley. Priceless collector's item.
Ah, the man said, his dark eyes flashing.
And a Victrola cabinet of 1920 made into a liquor cabinet.
Ah.
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And, sir, listen: framed signed picture of Jean Harlow.
The man goggled at him.
Shall we make arrangements? Childan said, seizing this correct psychological instant. From his inner coat pocket he brought his pen, notebook. I shall take your name and address, sir and lady.
Afterward, as the couple strolled from his store, Childan stood, hands behind his back, watching the street. Joy. If all business days were like this. . . but it was more than business, the success of his store. It was a chance to meet a young Japanese couple socially, on a basis of acceptance of him as a man rather than him as a yank or, at best, a tradesman who sold art objects. Yes, these new young people, of the rising generation, who did not remember the days before the war or even the war itself -- they were the hope of the world. Place difference did not have the significance for them.Android 2.1 Tablets
It will end, Childan thought. Someday. The very idea of place. Not governed and governing, but people.
And yet he trembled with fear, imagining himself knocking at their door. He examined his notes. The Kasouras. Being admitted, no doubt offered tea. Would he do the right thing? Know the proper act and utterance at each moment? Or would he disgrace himself, like an animal, by some dismal faux pas?