I might have stayed on at the Ishimotos’ inn forever— working hard, drinking during the evenings with my fellow employees, practicing my English on the Westerners who passed through town—had it not been for the visit of Paul and Ann Warren, the wealthy American store owners from Wisconsin.
The Warrens arrived in May of 1907, just after the rainy season, before the country was paralyzed by summer humidity. They were staying in the inn’s finest quarters, a ten—tatami mat room with its own private adjoining bath. I first saw them on the day they arrived. They stood in the lobby with the third member of their party, who appeared to be their guide. This man, whose name I learned later was Bill, was considerably younger than the Warrens. He looked to be in his middle thirties, although at that time, with Americans, it was hard for me to tell. He was, like Mr. Warren, dressed casually in linen pants and a loose cotton shirt, but on him the clothes looked somehow ill-fitting. Although he had a rough command of the Japanese language, his proficiency was nowhere near the level to which we had grown accustomed in the service of such prominent guests. This weakness was immediately apparent. As I waited with two other employees to carry the Warrens’ luggage, the young man turned to Mr. Ishimoto and said, “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Bill Harmon. I am Mr. Warren’s interpreter, as well as his anus.”
We looked at each other and bit our lips. Mr. Harmon didn’t notice our reaction.
“You have a lovely inn here,” he continued. Then, turning to us, “I assume these room boys are a gift?”
Now some giggles escaped from our mouths, and Kagane, who was standing directly to my left, hit me with the back of his hand. There was even a glint of amusement in old Ishimoto’s eyes.
“Not exactly,” said the proprietor. “They are too valuable for me to part with. But I hope you’ll find their services satisfactory.”
At dinner that night, I watched the Warrens and their interpreter closely. Mr. Warren—a handsome, fit, middle-aged man with silver hair and tanned skin—thanked each person who brought him a dish or refilled his tea. Mrs. Warren, who seemed less comfortable with Japanese delicacies like sashimi, was still clearly delighted by the colorful presentations of the food and the hustling, perfectly synchronized staff. At one point, as I was removing a plate from her setting, she glanced up at me and touched her fingers to her neck. “My, you’re a handsome boy!” she said, blushing. “Good thing you don’t understand me.”
But I did understand—that, and much of the rest of the conversation. Mr. Warren was telling Mr. Ishimoto— slowly, allowing for the garbled translation—about building his chain of hardware stores in Wisconsin and Michigan. He had started out with just one about twenty years earlier, and had parlayed his earnings from the first Warren’s to open another, then another, then another, until he finally had some thirty-one stores. He was so wealthy by that time that he no longer had to oversee the daily operations of the company. The Warrens’ oldest son had taken over this responsibility, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Warren to travel. Only parts of this story, however, were related by Harmon, who was getting red-faced from the sake, and so I would subtly, when Mr. Ishimoto looked in my direction, translate the missing pieces.
The Warrens spent their first few days in Karuizawa the way most tourists did—going to hot springs, visiting the temples, shopping in the stores by the railroad station. Then one morning, Mr. Warren wished to go golfing, and so I drove him, along with Harmon and Kagane, to the new golf course just outside the town limits. Mr. Warren and Harmon were golfing, I was caddying, and Kagane carried everyone’s lunch. They had just finished playing the first three holes when Mr. Warren started sneezing uncontrollably.
“Damn allergies,” he said, eyes watering. Then: “Bill, I forgot my medication. Could you ask one of these boys to go back and get it?”
The interpreter turned to face us and said, “Mr. Warren is having trouble with his nostrils.”
Kagane stared at Harmon in bewilderment.
“His nostrils, his nose!” said Harmon, waving his arms. “They are causing tribulation!”
Kagane looked at me now, and I shrugged. Finally, Harmon turned to Mr. Warren. “I’m sorry, sir, they don’t seem to understand me.”
I stepped forward and said in my most careful English, “I understand, sir. You have allergies and you need your medication.”
Even in the midst of his sneezing fit, Mr. Warren stared at me in surprise. “You speak English!”
“Yes, sir,” I said self-consciously. “But only a little.”
“Well … .” And then he sneezed again. “Why didn’t you let on before?”
“You had Mr. Harmon, sir. But since I am aware of your condition, please excuse me while I return to town. Will Mrs. Warren know where you keep your medication?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Warren, and with that I left for the inn, where I startled Mrs. Warren by asking in English for her husband’s medication. I then sped back out to the golf course, and within a few minutes of Mr. Warren swallowing his pills, the sneezing fit subsided. For the rest of the morning, as they completed their round, he spoke to me in English—much to the consternation of Harmon, who kept giving me looks of displeasure.
When we returned to the inn that evening, news of my intervention had spread among the staff. I had always been held in a certain esteem because of my English, and this small incident suddenly made me a hero. The Warrens saw me differently as well.
The next evening, after my shift, I was sitting outside with Kagane near the employee quarters, which were about a hundred feet behind the inn. Mr. Warren came ambling back there about 10 o’clock, under a moon so bright I’d seen him from the moment he’d stepped outside. “Junichiro!” he called out as he approached, and
