Japanese comes to live in Europe, for example, he is automatically excluded from the group. If he moves back a year later, his parents and family will no longer recognize him as one of them. Living among the Gaijin means becoming impregnated with the others' way of thinking and therefore becoming a Gaijin. Even his childhood friends will treat him like just another tourist.'
Various Shinto temples and holy places filed across the screen. The voice-off resumed:
'Their view of life and death is different from ours. The death of an individual is not very important here. What is worrying is the disappearance of a productive cell. To tame death, the Japanese like to cultivate the art of wrestling. Children are taught kendo at primary school.'
Two combatants appeared in the middle of the screen dressed like the samurais of old. Their chests were covered in articulated black plates and they wore oval helmets on their heads decorated with two long feathers next to their ears. They flung themselves at one another, uttering warlike cries, then started clashing their long kendo swords.
There were more images. A man sitting on his heels was pointing a short sword at his stomach with both hands.
'Ritual suicide, seppuku, is another characteristic of Japanese culture. It's certainly difficult for us to understand.'
'Not that television again. It's turning us into vegetables. We're all getting our heads stuffed with the same images. They don't know what they're talking about, anyway. Haven't you had enough of it yet?' exclaimed Jonathan who had been back for a few hours.
'Leave him alone. It does him good. He hasn't been up to much since the dog died,' said Lucie mechanically.
She stroked her son's hair.
'What's the matter, darling?'
'Sh, I'm trying to listen.'
'Just a minute. That's no way to talk to us.'
'No way to talk to you. Remember how little time you spend with him. It isn't surprising he's giving you the cold shoulder.'
'Hey, Nicolas. Have you managed to make the four triangles with the matches?'
'No, it gets on my nerves. I'm trying to listen.'
'Oh, well, if it gets on your nerves. . .'
Looking thoughtful, Jonathan started fiddling with the matches lying on the table. 'What a pity. It's educational.'
Nicolas was not listening. His brain was plugged directly into the television. Jonathan went into his room.
'What are you doing?' asked Lucie, following him.
'You can see perfectly well what I'm doing. I'm getting ready to go back down.'
'What? Oh no.'
'I haven't any choice.'
'Jonathan, tell me now, what is there down there you find so fascinating? I'm your wife, after all.'
He did not answer. He was avoiding her eyes and he still had that nasty tic. Tired of arguing, she sighed:
'Have you killed the rats?'
'My presence alone is enough. They keep their distance. Otherwise I pull this on them.'
He brandished a big kitchen knife that he had honed to a fine edge. Grabbing his halogen torch in the other hand, he went into the kitchen and over to the cellar door. On his back was a bag containing a good supply of provisions as well as his emergency locksmith's tools. He barely called out:
'Goodbye, Nicolas. Goodbye, Lucie.'
Lucie did not know what to do. She seized Jonathan's arm. 'You can't leave like this. It's too easy. You must talk to me.' 'For Heaven's sake.'
'How can I get through to you? Since you went down into that damn cellar you haven't been the same. We've no money left and you've spent at least F5,000 on equipment and books about ants.'
'I'm interested in locks and ants. I've a right to be.'
'No, you haven't. Not when you've got a son and a wife to feed. If all the unemployment money goes on books about ants, I'm going to end up . . .'
'Getting a divorce? Is that what you're trying to say?'
She let go of his arm, exhausted.
'No.'
He took her by the shoulders. His mouth twitched.
'You must have faith in me. I've got to see it through. I haven't taken leave of my senses.'
'Haven't taken leave
Various Shinto temples and holy places filed across the screen. The voice-off resumed:
'Their view of life and death is different from ours. The death of an individual is not very important here. What is worrying is the disappearance of a productive cell. To tame death, the Japanese like to cultivate the art of wrestling. Children are taught kendo at primary school.'
Two combatants appeared in the middle of the screen dressed like the samurais of old. Their chests were covered in articulated black plates and they wore oval helmets on their heads decorated with two long feathers next to their ears. They flung themselves at one another, uttering warlike cries, then started clashing their long kendo swords.
There were more images. A man sitting on his heels was pointing a short sword at his stomach with both hands.
'Ritual suicide, seppuku, is another characteristic of Japanese culture. It's certainly difficult for us to understand.'
'Not that television again. It's turning us into vegetables. We're all getting our heads stuffed with the same images. They don't know what they're talking about, anyway. Haven't you had enough of it yet?' exclaimed Jonathan who had been back for a few hours.
'Leave him alone. It does him good. He hasn't been up to much since the dog died,' said Lucie mechanically.
She stroked her son's hair.
'What's the matter, darling?'
'Sh, I'm trying to listen.'
'Just a minute. That's no way to talk to us.'
'No way to talk to you. Remember how little time you spend with him. It isn't surprising he's giving you the cold shoulder.'
'Hey, Nicolas. Have you managed to make the four triangles with the matches?'
'No, it gets on my nerves. I'm trying to listen.'
'Oh, well, if it gets on your nerves. . .'
Looking thoughtful, Jonathan started fiddling with the matches lying on the table. 'What a pity. It's educational.'
Nicolas was not listening. His brain was plugged directly into the television. Jonathan went into his room.
'What are you doing?' asked Lucie, following him.
'You can see perfectly well what I'm doing. I'm getting ready to go back down.'
'What? Oh no.'
'I haven't any choice.'
'Jonathan, tell me now, what is there down there you find so fascinating? I'm your wife, after all.'
He did not answer. He was avoiding her eyes and he still had that nasty tic. Tired of arguing, she sighed:
'Have you killed the rats?'
'My presence alone is enough. They keep their distance. Otherwise I pull this on them.'
He brandished a big kitchen knife that he had honed to a fine edge. Grabbing his halogen torch in the other hand, he went into the kitchen and over to the cellar door. On his back was a bag containing a good supply of provisions as well as his emergency locksmith's tools. He barely called out:
'Goodbye, Nicolas. Goodbye, Lucie.'
Lucie did not know what to do. She seized Jonathan's arm. 'You can't leave like this. It's too easy. You must talk to me.' 'For Heaven's sake.'
'How can I get through to you? Since you went down into that damn cellar you haven't been the same. We've no money left and you've spent at least F5,000 on equipment and books about ants.'
'I'm interested in locks and ants. I've a right to be.'
'No, you haven't. Not when you've got a son and a wife to feed. If all the unemployment money goes on books about ants, I'm going to end up . . .'
'Getting a divorce? Is that what you're trying to say?'
She let go of his arm, exhausted.
'No.'
He took her by the shoulders. His mouth twitched.
'You must have faith in me. I've got to see it through. I haven't taken leave of my senses.'
'Haven't taken leave
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