It was the end of the second day of meetings at the Haijima factory. A dozen of us went out to dinner at an Italian restaurant near the hotel. Restaurant’s name was Kahari, which doesn’t sound Italian, but they served grappa, so it must have been an Italian restaurant. The fact that they insisted on putting an egg (poached so softly that only the thinnest of membranes contained the yolk) on top of my spaghetti notwithstanding.
A good time was had by all. Many conversations about ill-conceived ideas fuelled by grappa, which is a spirit slightly more noxious than kerosene, in my opinion. One of my colleagues and I went back to the hotel ahead of the others. In the lobby, some type of sports team still in their blue uniforms was checking in. Baseball, I’m guessing, though I’m not entirely sure. The team name was Japanese but many of the players spoke English, though they were perhaps of African or Arab lineage. Two players got into the elevator with us. One tall young man with braided hair propped his arm against the elevator door the minute it closed, and then rested his head on his arm. “I don’t think we’re ever going to win again,” he said to his teammate. “What does this make it? Eight games?”
Then we arrived at my floor and I exited the elevator without hearing any more of their tale of woe.
