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out so that his image was as hazed as the countryside rolling by outside。
'It was impossible for me to sleep in that place … even after I had been satiated。 I hope I am being delicate enough； young lady。'
'Perfectly；' Yukio said。 Nicholas wondered what the old man would think if he heard the way she threw words around。
'It was my habit to read late at night … I am an insatiable reader。 Have been all my life。 But one night I felt restless enough to put my book down … I was reading Moby Dick。 In English； mind you … I don't trust translations； you lose too much … and take a stroll through the first floor。
'Click…click。 Click…click。 I heard the tiles as he moved them。 I sat next to him and watched。 In those days I was certainly a brash young man。 Not rude； mind you。 I was far too well brought up by my parents。 But I had a spot of … what shall I say？ … the impetuosity of youth； yes？
'Now this man was older than I am today； a good deal older； I would say； but then I am an abysmal judge of age so you must not go by roe。 Still； he was old。 Anyone who saw him would certainly say that； yes。
'The odd thing about him was that his nails were so long that he was obliged to wear sheaths to protect them from breaking。 These sheaths were something I had read about before。 The mandarins were fond of wearing them； as an affectation； I had always supposed； during the turn of the century。 However this was the late 19305。 Who in China still kept their nails thus？ No one； I had thought。 Now I knew differently。
'Usually these sheaths were of lacquer but these； if my eyes did not lie； were made of gold。 Solid gold。 But how could this be？ Tasked myself。 How could the nails support such a weight？ Still； I know gold and there was no doubt。
' 〃Why have you e here？〃 asked the man without looking up。 Click…click； went the tiles。 Click…click。
'I was so startled that for a moment I could not find my voice and he was obliged to prompt me。 〃e； e；〃 he said。 Just like the click…click of his tiles。 The same cadence。
' 〃Can't sleep；〃 I said； still rather tongue…tied。
' 〃I never sleep；〃 he said。 〃But that is because of my advanced age。〃 He looked up at me。 〃When I was your age； I never missed a night。 Perhaps that is why I don't miss it now。〃 He spoke in a rather peculiar dialect。 It was Mandarin all right；
but the inflections were odd； some nouns clipped at their ends； and so on。 I could not place where he was from。
' 〃I don't often have this trouble；〃 I said； still the dazzling conversationalist。 〃But you're not that old。〃
' 〃Old enough to know that I am going to die soon。〃
' 〃Oh； I doubt that。〃
'He eyed me critically。 〃Well； sentiment is never very accurate。〃 He began to stack up his tiles； nine to a pile。 〃But there is no need for concern。 I have no fear of death。 In fact； I will happily leave here now。 I do not want to see what is ing。〃
' 〃ing？〃 I said like a half…wit。 〃What is ing？〃
' 〃Something terrible；〃 he said。 His hands on the small lacquered folding table looked like shining alien artifacts； newly unearthed。 〃A new type of bomb with a power beyond anything you can imagine。 With enough force to destroy an entire city。〃
'I shall never forget that moment。 I sat as still as a statue； barely breathing。 I remember hearing the chirruping of a cicada so clear and near that I thought it must have got itself trapped inside the house。 Oddly； I found myself wanting to get up and find it； to free it into the vast darkness which surrounded us。
'I could not move。 It was as if his words had pierced my heart； riveting me to the chair in which I sat。
' 〃I don't understand；〃 I said with a kind of opaque astonishment。
' 〃It is not likely that you would；〃 he said； finishing stacking his tiles。 Then he put them away into an inside pocket of his robe。
'He rose and； for an instant； I thought I might have known him or at least seen him at another； previous time。 But I think now it was just the light which made it seem so。'
'What happened then？' Yukio asked。
'What happened？' The old man looked momentarily nonplussed。 'Why； nothing。 Nothing at all。 〃Good evening to you； sir；〃 he said in his somewhat formal way。 〃I wish you pleasant dreams。〃 Though how he could have meant it after what he had just told me I could not imagine。
'The place was very still after he left and； slumped back in my chair； I imagined I could hear the sound of the grass growing outside where the tree frogs slept。 A cloud of mosquitoes whined against the netting。
'At some time I must have gone upstairs … though I have no real remembrance of doing so … to Ishmael and Ahab and the Pequod； though I could not well concentrate on even so great a world as Melville's that night。
'His words ran around my head as if he had somehow engraved them upon the grooves of my brain with a cunning scalpel。〃
'But how could he have known？' Nicholas asked。 'At that time not even the Americans who eventually prised the Manhattan Project knew。'
The old man nodded。 'Yes；' he said slowly。 'That is often what I ask myself。 From that day in August when I stood on that secluded hillside and felt the earth shake and the sky burn with colour and heard the heat wind ing； I have asked myself that same question。 How could he know？'
'And what is the answer？'
The old man looked at them and smiled wanly。 'There isn't one； my friend。' The train was slowing as it came out of a downgrade。 Cinders flew； whirled up and around by the wind eddies created by their passage。 He stood up and bowed to them； long hands clasped against his flat stomach； nails like translucent chopsticks。 'My station；' he murmured。 Time to get off。'
'Hey！' Nicholas said。 'Wait a minute。' Forgetting； in his anxiety to know more； his modes of speech； lapsing into the mon formation； it lacked the necessary respect a younger person must show towards his elders。 It did not matter； however； for the old man had gone； swinging lithely down off the car even before the train had e to its full panting stop。 Clouds of steam obscured the windows。
Nicholas came back down the aisle； slumped down in the seat next to Yukio。 'Too late；' he said。 'Too late。'
Now the train picked up speed for the last part of the journey towards Shimonoseki。 It was quiet in the car。 Even Yukio was silent。 She stared at her hands while he looked out of the window。
The night was aflame。 They were passing fairly close to one or another of the southern cities … he had no idea which one …which had been turned into a supportive structure for a vast
oil refinery。 Giant flames leaped and spewed into the darkness like the corona of the sun seen close up in a kind of silent hellish dance。 It seemed an inhuman place to work or live； a desolate dreamscape from which there was no exit。 It went on and on as they travelled； the lines of red and orange lights leading in inevitable precise rows towards the refinery's main building bulking blackly against the skyline； the bloated billowing flames。
'What did you think of the old man's story？' Yukio said。
He turned his head。 'What？'
〃The old man。 Did you believe him？'
For some reason he thought of So…Peng。 'Yes；' he said。 'I did。'
'I didn't。' She crossed her legs at the knees； very American。 'Something like that couldn't have happened。 Life's just not like that。'
They spent the night in Shimonoseki； so near the water that they could hear it though they could not see it for the thick ground fog。 Horns hooted mournfully； deepened by the night air； made somehow mysterious。
She lay with her head on his bare chest； her night…dark hair spread in a fan across his pale flesh。 He was a long time falling asleep。 He felt her breathing gently； rhythmically through his fingertips； the weight of her on his sternum and rib cage。 He wondered what it was about her that drew him so powerfully。 And could not even decide why it seemed so important for him to know。
Yukio stirred and it seemed a part of him。
'What is it？' he asked her。
'Oh； nothing。' Her voice was very soft。 'I was just thinking of a story。 It's the one my mother told me。 The only one I remember。 Want to hear it？'
'Yes。'
'Well； once upon a time there was a lady。 She lived in a castle in Roku…No…Miya。 W