Читать книгу Miss Boo Is Sixteen - Margaret Lee Runbeck - Страница 5

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The morning he came for the interview about the job, his arms were loaded with bundles. Something which looked like a brick wrapped in newspaper. Something also wrapped in newspaper which turned out to be a book. A third thing wrapped in newspaper which he didn’t open throughout the encounter.

The bundles were the first thing I noticed about the small Japanese man. The second thing were his teeth. A mouthful of gleaming porcelain cubes which kept his lips from meeting, and gave him the expression of an astonished squirrel. I think he must have borrowed the teeth to make a fine first impression, for we never again saw him wearing them.

He weighed all of eighty-nine pounds, and his suit, of a mossy texture, was many sizes too big. With it, as he stood on the doorstep, he wore a Homburg hat, held up by his ears. His eel-colored eyes swam around alertly behind formidable horn-rimmed glasses which gave him a professional look.

I invited him in, not very hopefully. I had seen a great many applicants for the job during the last months. Some revealed the depths of their unsuitableness during the first interview, but some I rashly hired who stayed a few days, wreaking havoc on us. Now having exhausted the categories of couples (too expensive), widows (too morose), Scandinavians (too temperamental), attractive psychotics (too unpredictable) ... I was venturing into the Japanese, fast vanishing from domestic employment. But this prospect didn’t look very promising.

He said his name was Dr. Frank Frederick Ishinara. “Dr. only in Japan,” he explained. The title supported the professional glasses, but didn’t reassure about cooking and housework.

I showed him over the house, trying to make the kitchen as enticing as possible. He looked around disparagingly and made no comment, except about the eggbeater. “I buy new eggbeater,” he announced. “This kind no good.”

I introduced him to what might turn out to be his room and bath, and he said in his chirping voice, “Must have good light in room. Eyesight need very good light.”

Then we went into the small library of our house, to discuss salary and references. He held the three newspaper-wrapped bundles on his tightly joined knees, and when I mentioned references, he unwrapped the package which was shaped like a large brick. There was his whole history, saved and yellowed. In that bundle every month of the fifty years since he had come to America was accounted for.

He handed me the references one by one, treasured, tattered, but glowing. They read like nostalgic lyrics. My first thought was that, when he left us, my reference couldn’t possibly live up to the elegance to which he was accustomed. I’d have to get new engraved stationary, for one thing....

Of the twenty I glanced through before I called a halt, at least seventeen said in one way or another, “We did everything possible to persuade him to stay on with us. But he was determined to leave.”

Having just survived a shattering succession of help which lasted one week each, and most of whom had to be evicted with threats, and finally bribes, the thought of having someone so good that we would beg him to stay simply brought tears to my eyes.

While I was reading this entrancing collection of letters, Dr. Ishinara was unwrapping the second of his bundles. This turned out to be a small yellow book, decorated with a frisky dragon eating lettuce. Across the cover, in hand-lettered script was the title, “Food for Nutritive and Pleasing.”

He said modestly, handing me the book, “No obligation to engage author.”

He tried unsuccessfully to smile around his entrenched teeth. I took the book and opened it. A recipe book. Written by Dr. Frank Frederick Ishinara.

“Avocado recipes no good,” he said. “Confuse with artichoke.”

I could see why this might throw the recipes off, so I made a sympathetic noise. My heart was beating wildly, for here was offered help, like the title of his book, both nutritive and pleasing.

But I had partially promised the job to a large German woman. She had brought me a sample of apfelkuchen ... I would have to dispose of her; that was all. Even if I had to give her a week’s pay. But I heard myself being businesslike, which is always an unnatural and disastrous position for me to try to assume.

“I’ll have to let you know,” I was saying. “I think we’d like very much to hire you. But I must think it over, and make a few arrangements. You give me your telephone number, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“No phone number, Missus,” Dr. Ishinara said. “Maybe I telephone you tomorrow.” His eyes twinkled mischievously through his glasses. “Maybe I have to think over, also.” He arose with what I think is called alacrity, the pointed toes of his brown shoes (which must have been bought in 1913) glittering cheerfully.

“Very nice we talk,” he said regretfully.

I tried to hand back the book about food for nutritive, but he waved it off graciously. “I make you present,” he said. With every atom of my judgment screaming for me to reconsider, I let him out the front door. I knew I was making a mistake, but the large German woman had intimidated me, and I had practically promised. Could we engage both of them? I had a cartoonish vision of our house exploding, blowing us all through the roof.

“I’ll expect to hear from you in the morning,” I said faintly.

“House very much big,” he said, saving face just in case.

I closed the door and came back to the library, trembling with indecision. The little book lay on the desk, most appealing in its quaintness. It was apfelkuchen against book. Who was it that posed the choice between hyacinths and bread?

Suppose I had promised; it wasn’t a signed contract. There must be ways of changing one’s mind (as if I hadn’t tried two million at least in the course of my lifetime!)

This was more than just a good houseman and cook being offered to us. This was adventure; you couldn’t help knowing that. You might not guess what kind of adventure it would be, but it would surely be some kind. What, I wondered, had been in the third bundle? It was flat and square ... Probably I would never know. The words in many handwritings on the sheets of embossed paper danced in my memory. “He is an original and charming cook,” one had said. “He is scrupulously clean” ... “no bad habits” ... “faithfulness itself” ... “cheerful and willing” ... I must have been mad to have let him out of the house.

I tore upstairs for my car keys. The usual dragnet search through all my handbags and pockets produced nothing. I slit open the sealed envelope where I keep the extra keys (the sealing is supposed to help me treat these more respectfully as spares).

I backed the car out of the drive and roared down the street. It has always seemed a great advantage that the bus is only two blocks away ... but now that fact was a big menace. He had probably caught a bus immediately. I could see him in my mind, sitting with his demure knees gripped together, riding farther and farther out of our life.

No eighty-nine pounds of picturesqueness, with two newspaper-wrapped parcels clutched in his arm, was waiting at the bus stop. He had caught the bus and I had lost him. Lost him by trying to be sensible and businesslike as people are always urging me to be. The peril of common sense which doesn’t come natural is that it waylays you perversely at the very moments when it should be thrown to the winds. There are persons for whom common sense is not sensible, and I am one such.

Other people were waiting at the stop, looking impatient. That indicated that no bus had passed recently! I jumped out of the car and ran over to them. “How long have you been waiting?” I gasped to nobody in particular. They brightened up, thinking this was some quixotic way of offering strangers a lift.

“Ten minutes at least ... maybe fifteen ...”

“Did you see a Japanese gentleman? Small ... with large teeth?”

Now they knew I wasn’t kind; I was merely crazy. They shook their heads and turned away. I hurried back to my car and drove it aimlessly around and around the blocks surrounding our house.

Then I saw him. Toddling along at a rapid pace. I pulled up at the curb beside him. He looked at me, not quite recognizing me. Also something was different about him, so we both stared blankly. His face had a totally different expression. He looked like a very young infant. Then I knew what the difference was. He had removed the teeth.

He beamed at me. “I take nice long walk,” he said. “Ten-cent-fare stop twelve blocks nearer town. Mariposa Road.”

“Please ... I wish you’d come back,” I said. “I don’t have to think anything over.”

“You like engage me?” he asked delightedly.

“I’d like it very much.”

“Then we be engaged,” he said. “I pleased also much.” He tipped his Homburg hat courteously.

“Come, get in the car,” I said.

A look of horror came over his babylike face. He stared at me a long moment, and I could see that the job was tottering in uncertainty. I had made an awkward and disgraceful mistake. If I didn’t know it was improper for us to ride together, he wasn’t sure by any means that he could afford to associate himself with such ignorance. Then he decided to forgive my accidental faux pas.

“I walk back to house, Missus,” he said with dignity.

“Very good,” I said, trying not to sound like a butler.

He started off at a sprightly pace, a very little and very ancient man who had obviously never considered growing old. Already I loved the spirit of him. But I knew our family would all have to prove our right to love him. For his dignity wouldn’t permit any too easy familiarity of affection.

I stopped the car suddenly at the corner flowerstall. They had showery bouquets of chrysanthemums on display. I must carry home a bunch for him to arrange; chrysanthemums would be an acceptably subtle welcome for a little Japanese gentleman, wouldn’t they? That transaction took me not more than five minutes, I am sure.

So I was quite unprepared for what happened when I put my key in the front door. It opened instantly. And there, beaming as if ten years of serving us lay behind the gesture of opening the door, was Dr. Ishinara. In an immaculate white coat. “I run home through alleys,” he said genially. “I surprise Missus?”

“But ... but ...?” I couldn’t frame the question so I rudely pointed at the white coat.

“I bring coat in package,” he said. “I think maybe Missus like engage right away quick.”

“But how did you get into the house?”

Now all the beam went out of the infant-like face. “I scold Missus. You leave back door open! Now that very bad way to be.” He glared at me fiercely. “Anybody come in, Missus. Very bad.”

I tried to apologize, meekly handed the flowers over to him, and retreated. I could see that already he had taken over the house. If we intended living in it, we were going to have to behave ourselves.

I ran upstairs and into my bedroom, breathless. Within an hour the destiny of all of us had been placed in a tiny pair of Japanese hands. I knew I had more than hired a cook. I had given us all into his keeping. We, and everything in our house, now belonged to him, for better or for worse.

A warm sunshine of well-being spread through my bones. Dr. Frank Frederick Ishinara ... what on earth would we call him?

I must go down in a few minutes and explain the routine of the house to him. Then I must send him away to bring his bags. I would give him taxi money, of course, so there could be no slip-up ... no changing of mind. I wished I could go down to San Pedro Street and help him pack his belongings. He must be at least seventy years old, I thought. Or maybe even older. What would the rest of the family say?

Downstairs I heard the slightest shuffle in the hall. Then a respectful, cheerful, incredible little chirp.

“Missus?” he said.

I looked over the banisters down into the foreshortened hall. An incredibly kind little face peered up at me. The formidable glasses were gone. He was not a professor now; he was our cook.

“Runch is leddy,” he announced fiercely, defeated but unbowed by his r's and l's.