I didn't seem to need much sleep. Whatever the reason, I woke early - as usual - and took a few minutes to fire up the computer and log in on the internet.

For a brief instant, when the email program reported messages, my pulse increased and I felt an unjustified annoyance because it was taking several seconds for the mail to download.

My second reaction was annoyance at the first. Granted, I was hoping for some answers but the possibilities hardly justified a racing pulse and raised adrenaline levels.

My third reaction was almost one of relief. The first of the three messages received was a welcome to the Pacific Bay Network - pbn.net - which had been generated - automatically - by the server. Since it was accompanied by a lengthy set of instructions, advice and what appeared to be generally useful information, I created a folder to save it in and skipped to the second message.

The second - and the third - were simply 'Returned mail' messages informing me that two of the addresses I'd posted to were incorrect - meaning either they were out of date or, perhaps more likely, my own errors in entering the addresses.

In any case, I could check them again another time.

The relief - at not having ready answers - told me how unsure I was whether I wanted answers.

I shut the computer down again and went out to the bluff overlooking the ocean to wait for the sun to burn the fog away.

* * *

"When you're ready," the Captain's voice addressed me in a tone and pitch intended as unintrusive, "there's a rasher of bacon waiting and eggs to order."

I drew my attentions back from the waves and clouds and stood, feeling peaceful and rested. Captain Donavi was halfway to the bluff, leaning on his crutches and taking slow deep breaths of the salt breeze.

"I'd allow as how it was as good as being aboard again," he offered. "But, in all truth, the shore has its own smells quite different from open seas. And every port has its own scents, eh? Still, it's a lovely morn."

"It is lovely," I agreed. "Dan up?"

"Only half," the Captain confided. "But a cup of the black will put him right quick enough. How would you care for your eggs? Think as we should rob a couple of these scavenger birds to give the lad a taste of something different?" He didn't wait for an answer or opinion but continued. "Tried 'em once but found them a bit gamy for my tastes. Not that I could rob a nest on this leg, eh? More likely to fall and break the other one. Anyway, seeing as how you'll be busy for a bit, figured as it was my turn for the galley watch. If you'll trust me not to poison you, mate."

"Long as you're hobbled," I decided, "and can't go robbing sea chickens, I guess I can take a chance. Speaking of eggs, how do you feel about thousand year eggs?"

I accompanied the Captain back to the house, listening to his account of his first encounter with a blute - the Philippine version of a buried and aged egg. "And dam'me but the feathers tickled going down," he concluded as we entered the kitchen.

"Feathers?" Dan looked up from the paper.

The Captain and I exchanged a knowing glance, mutually deciding that blutes were not a topic Dan would be ready to appreciate - not before breakfast, anyway.

"So," the Captain boomed softly, "how many and how laid?"

"One will do," I requested. "Sunnyside's fine. Any toast?"

* * *

After breakfast, since there was no point in visiting the hospital with George home and the Captain here - Dan's and my fledgling regime had gone galley-west as they say.

We considered three-handed pinochle but the truth of the matter was that the pinochle games had been more for the sake of conversation than the games themselves. And, of course, the conversations had been more for the unstated purpose of exploring each other's identities, creating group bonding, finding balances and - not least - providing mutual support.

But this was true of a lot of group activities - whether friendly poker games, checkers, snooker ... or tribal dances or sweat lodges - which were much more about forming group structures under the guise of competition, cooperation or ritual than about the activities themselves. Even sharing a beer and a shuffle-board game after work - anthropologically speaking - was a group bonding activity as much as it was anything.

Sharing a house - even on a temporary basis - the pinochle games were an unnecessary formality ... but would probably resume anytime George could join us. Instead, we - unconsciously - were looking for a new balance, arranging our schedules and proportioning tasks.

The Captain, of course, was handicapped by the cast on his leg - not as badly as it had been. He was able to get around fairly well and could even remove the cast for short periods, as to take a bath for example. But it was still enough to limit his activities.

Dan - per his agreement with the doctor - was limiting his office time to half-days.

And, as far as cooking and housekeeping, there just wasn't that much to do ... particularly since Dan's regular cleaners had been in the day before ... and the yard work was handled by a neighboring teenager.

When Captain Donavi began digging looking through the phone book to locate a hobby store and trying to decide which were conveniently located, Dan pulled himself away from the laptop long enough to offer directions, then produced his keys, tossing them to me with the suggestion, "You're licensed now, aren't you? How about ferrying our handicapped friend? I'd like to get a few things down while they're fresh on my mind."

"No problem," I agreed. "If we have any trouble, I'll call and you can report the vehicle stolen, okay?"

"Yeah, right," Dan laughed, dismissing the possibility. "It's okay, the car's insured and I can always bail you out."

"There are places," the Captain offered, "where a good bribe is better than bail. But I'll tell you about 'em another time, eh?"

"Anything we should get you?" I offered.

"Humh, can you get a take-out of sushi?"

"Probably," I agreed. "I'll see what we can scare up for lunch." Like I said, I'd created a monster - and it was swimming like a duck ... if you'll pardon the scrambled metaphors.

* * *

The first hobby shop didn't have much of what the Captain was hunting for. Somehow, with no evidence, I'd imagined him building ships in bottles - a traditional hobby according to folklore.

Instead, Captain Donavi was looking for brass sheet stock, square and round brass tubing, various sizes of small plastic tubing, an assortment of fittings, small pumps - both hydraulic and pneumatic, electric motors ... the list seemed endless. His list also included pocket-sized propane torches, files, small saws, shears and various pliers ... as well as an assortment of fuel tanks used on model airplanes.

The second store satisfied most the Captain's requirements and threw in a plastic toolbox and a couple of plastic compartment boxes. "I'd love to see it when you finish," the manager suggested. "Sounds interesting."

I really hadn't followed the conversation - too many of the details had been in what was effectively a foreign tongue - but the gist of it appeared to concern some form of clock ... with elaborate embellishments.

Art baroque was how the Captain described it. "We had a cargo container," he explained, "years ago for delivery to a broker in New York. Took it aboard in Hamburg, sealed and invoiced by the company's German factor. Got to New York and the blighters wouldn't accept delivery - some paper pusher from their head office wouldn't even let it be off-loaded. Seems there'd been a foul up, eh, and they'd shipped a load of miscellaneous parts - mostly broken.

"Couldn't off-load and couldn't dump it so thought we were stuck with it - decided to see if we could pass it for scrap at another port. Then, cruising down coast, we had engine problems - starb'rd shaft frozen and wound up stuck for an overhaul.

"Wasn't much to do waiting on the fitters to get us underway again, so I started poking through the scrap and got interested in all the bits and pieces, thought as I'd see what I could do with some of it. Built a crazy gadget that whirred and clanked turned gears and what not and drove my chief engineer bonkers. Had a lot of fun with it. Never did unload the scrap - kept it for parts at first, then used the container to keep some of my more interesting gadgets - kind of a hobby room, eh?

"Course, after a few years," Captain Donavi continued, "every port inspector on six continents has seen my gadget room. Hardly look at it anymore, 'less I insist." He paused for a moment, then added, "Always handy to have a nook or cranny or two where no-one bothers to check."

"Just in case you need to smuggle an elephant or two?" I guessed.

"No way, mate," the Captain grinned. "Elephants we keep in the for'ward chain locker."

But what was kept in the 'hobby room', he wouldn't say.

I didn't press.

* * *

As we came in, we could hear Dan on the phone.

"... yes, that's right ... No, I'd really appreciate it if you could fax that to my office number ... Absolutely, and I'll get back to you later ... I should be in the office by one - that's about four your time ... Okay then, that's great ... Yes, I certainly will ... I'll talk to you later then." Dan replaced the receiver and turned face us, smiling. "So, how'd it go? Find what you needed?"

"That we did, mate," the Captain agreed. "And a bit of lunch as well."

"Sushi?" Dan asked hopefully.

"You'll have your bit of fish, laddie," the Captain assured him as I carried the bags toward the kitchen. "And better besides. I've dolmas, tarmosalta, ..." The Captain was also taking an interest in Dan's education in international cuisine.

* * *

"I need your signature," Dan requested, his hand wavering between a final piece of maguro and a dolma stuffed with pińon nuts and minced lamb.

"Sure," I agreed, puzzled. "What for?"

"Uhm, do you mind if I don't tell you?" Dan selected the dolma, rising from the table, returning a moment later with a piece of plain typing paper.

"Sign your old signature first," Dan asked. "Just relax and let your hand do it - the way you described at the hospital."

I did, then looked at the unfamiliar signature - it was still just a smooth but illegible scrawl.

"Now sign as Alex," Dan prompted.

The Tambeau signature was more readable ... less practiced.

"You have an idea, eh?" the Captain inquired.

"Still vague," Dan admitted. "But ... we'll see." He declined to explain further.

I didn't press - it was obvious that Dan was on to something ... but it wasn't something he wanted to reveal yet.

Besides, I was still feeling somewhat annoyed at how I'd reacted to the e-mail messages. I know, they say "hope springs eternal" ... but I wasn't sure what I was hoping for. Or, just maybe, I was a little afraid of what I might find. What was that other piece of folk wisdom? "When ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise?"

And then there was always Pope - who, come to think of it, was also named Alexander - who'd written; "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing; Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring; There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again."

In any case, I apologized to myself, I was due to meet my clients at three and I still needed to finish a few arrangements.

* * *

"Watashi wa Tambeau desu," I introduced myself with a respectful bow before offering my business card to each of the five.

In return, I was introduced to Kondo san - the kai cho or company president, Mori san and Kishi san - both bu cho or division chiefs, Ito san - his function was not identified and, last, Shoji san who had called to make the final arrangements. Each offered his card and we exchanged a few pleasantries before the next introduction.

There was no suggestion of recognition in any of their faces. Of course, the secret of betting on long shots is simple - never expect an immediate pay-off ... and don't bet something you can't afford to lose. In this case, since I had nothing to lose, it had been an easy bet

The fact that no first names had been offered was perfectly in keeping with Japanese custom where first names were used only by very close acquaintances - or, of course, by children or within families. In like fashion, I had introduced myself using my last name only. The san - a term of respect which substituted for the English 'Mr', 'Mrs', 'Ms' or 'Miss' - was applied only when addressing someone else but never when using one's own name.

Kondo san wasn't an old man but did show gray at the temples and stood using a cane for support. We didn't shake hands - not a Japanese custom - but his stance, cane aside, was ramrod straight and his eyes had the look of seeing more than most. Kondo san was attired in a dark blue suit with almost invisible thin red lines, a white shirt and dark blue tie. A small fire opal pinned the tie in place.

Mori san was close in age to his superior but heavier built and shorter with an awkward smile I suspected covered a nervous excitement. His charcoal gray silk suit was impeccably tailored, his shirt sporting a thin blue stripe with a three-tone blue striped tie.

His counterpart, Kishi san was the tallest of the five and at least a decade younger than Kondo san or Mori san. Kishi san wore his hair longer than the others, sported gold, wire-framed glasses and sported a blue silk shirt with a paisley tie featuring a Warner Brothers cartoon characters. I estimated his age as late thirties, his attire as late twenties.

Ito san was the youngest of the five - probably in his twenties - and, next to Kishi san, looked like a ball next to a stick. His round face was smooth and unblemished except for the accent of a thin mustache. In lieu of a business suit, Ito san was dressed in pressed levis and a knit shirt. A second glance confirmed that the Izod alligator on the pocket was actually a pair of alligators, one mounting the other. A wonderkind, I suspected - possibly a programming or engineering genius. Certain someone valued sufficiently for his abilities to have a few idiosyncrasies overlooked.

Shoji san - in his late twenties - was medium height, medium build and medium dressed. A business suit but not as well tailored nor as expensive as his three older companions - a salaryman, probably middle management and probably the functional gopher for the group. His English was more fluent than it appeared at first, suffering primarily from a lack of self-assurance. That and a lack of practice in idiomatic conversation, perhaps.

The problem with learning any language is that you can only learn so much in a classroom. Plus the fact that classrooms teach 'correct' language but do not teach how to converse in idioms or dialects - or slang, if you prefer.

The only way to really learn a language is to live with it. To live with the people who speak it, live like the people who speak it and understand why they speak and why how they speak affects how they live and why how they live affects how they speak. None of which can be crammed in a text book because it isn't words but postures and foods and buildings and climates and dress, dance, music, traffic, customs, ... all the thing which make a people ... and which make one people different from another people.

The Judeo-Christian story of the tower of Babel - while charming - was also completely unnecessary. Even if, somehow, for one brief instant, we did all speak the same language ... it wouldn't take three days - or even three hours - for us to be developing separate dialects to suit the needs of different climates, different customs and different diets. Look at kids - they do it every day ... just because of the need to be different from their elders.

At any rate, the difficulty of language was the reason - or one of the reasons - why I was present as their guide.

Thus, once the introductions and courtesies had been appropriately concluded, "Honorable sirs," I offered, "understanding you have expressed a desire to visit Alcatraz, may this one suggest that it would be well to proceed?"

In making arrangements, I'd allowed time for the inevitable courtesies as well as the delays involved in gathering and motivating any group larger than one but, even so, I had no desire to arrive late at the pier and find the tour boat already departed.

I shouldn't have worried because, as soon as the suggestion was made, my party was ready to depart, delayed only by my further suggestion that Ito san should avail himself of a jacket. Even in summer, it was cool on the Bay.

Transportation - a limo arranged by Bay Tour Services - was waiting downstairs. The limo driver - Leroy Marks - and I had spoken on the phone earlier but hadn't had a chance to meet previously. Leroy was young - college age - dressed in a dark blue blazer over a white shirt and gray slacks ... but no tie. Complexion and features suggested a mixed afro-hispanic ancestry.

We shook hands, then briefly confirmed our previously-discussed arrangements while Leroy held the limo doors for our guests.

Once the five were seated, I took the jump seat behind the driver's position where I could both face my clients for ease of conversation and, turning, keep an eye on where we were.

Leroy handled the limo very smoothly to deliver us directly to the embarkation point along Fisherman's Wharf before proceeding to some less crowded location to wait for our return.

In addition to the limo, Bay Tour Services had also supplied a pocket cellular to contact Leroy when the car was needed. Plus a company credit card and enough cash to cover miscellaneous expenses.

The tour tickets I had already arranged - and paid for - by phone and all that remained was to pick them up, sign the credit slip and tuck the receipt in my bag. Which left me on the dock with five Japanese gentlemen waiting for the boat to unload their previous tour.

Predictably, only Kondo san lacked a camera. Mori san and Shoji san were carrying 35mm cameras, Kishi san favored a compact video camera while Ito san was sporting one of the new digital cameras, with a set of flashcards in his pocket instead of rolls of film.

"Shashin o totte itadake masen ka?" Mori san requested, bowing and extending his camera.

"Do itashi mashite," I assured him - it would be my pleasure to take his picture - accepting the camera and waiting while the five arranged themselves with the boat and docks as a backdrop.

I took two shots, then repeated the process with Kishi san's video camera, Ito san's digital and, finally, Shoji san's film camera. It was a process which was repeated many times during the afternoon.

It has been suggested that the Japanese enjoy their vacations much more when their films are returned from the developer than while they are vacationing. Since Ito san's camera required no development, I wondered momentarily if his pleasure was increased by not being delayed or if he was only satisfied after printing hardcopy?

Still, clicking shutters aside, Japanese tourists were among the best behaved in any country and from any country ... It was just when you encountered large groups of them that they seemed somewhat overwhelming - probably the effect of too many cameras.

Once the boat left the dock, my charges relaxed measurably, looking more like they were on vacation for a change.

While the four with cameras were prowling the three decks, I took a seat with Kondo san to enjoy the view from the relative comfort of the glass-enclosed main deck.

"You speak most excellently, Tambeau san," the older man complimented me. "You have lived much in Japan, hai?"

"Please forgive me," I responded, "but I do not know." It was an honest answer but also demanded at least a brief explanation which I added, concluding with: "Daijobu desu." - meaning "it isn't important."

Kondo san hissed politely at my explanation but did not press for further details.

"This Alcatraz," he changed the subject, pronouncing the difficult name with care, "it is no longer used, hai?"

It was not, I agreed, adding that there had been various proposals to turn the barren island into a gambling casino, a theme park and a high security luxury housing complex. The last proposal I remembered from a magazine article where - though I couldn't remember where or which magazine - an artist-renovated Alcatraz was turned into a tropical island paradise ... in total disregard for the prevailing climate, the bay fogs and the consistently cool breezes which had once prompted Mark Twain to remark that "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco."

"I think," Kondo san smiled softly, "this rock is not valuable real estate."

As we approached the island, what had been picturesque from shore was becoming less and less attractive up close. The rock itself was monolithic and foreboding while the buildings topping it held less appeal than a surface of barnacles. "No, not valuable," I agreed. The idea of the prison island being transformed into anything was difficult to encompass.

"In Japan," Kondo san considered, "this would be valuable territory. Maybe we buy and take home, iya?"

"Hai," I agreed, smiling at the joke. The days of the Japanese buying any piece of real estate they could finagle were over but the thought - and the motivations - remained. "If I may ask, Kondo san, your business here has gone well?"

"One does not become wealthy counting eggs," Kondo san quoted. "In time, much may eventuate," he paused for a moment, considering what to say. "The camera of Kishi, it is new design. Much improved. We discuss marketing to Amerika. For small company, is difficult to compete without partners. Much potential."

"Thus," I suggested, "it furthers one to cross the great waters."

"Even so," Kondo san agreed. "But - you will please pardon - this one has talked business much of late and the subject tires."

"Forgive this one's most impertinent inquiry," I apologized. "This one shall speak of other topics."

* * *

Once the boat had docked, the climb to Alcatraz proper - the prison rather than the rock - was slippery, damp with salt and fog. I tried to keep position to steady Kondo san - in case he slipped - while simultaneous translating the tour guide's remarks. I also omitted most of the more inane jokes - some simply because they wouldn't translate and others because they were too dumb for belief.

Kondo san - despite his cane - had less trouble with the steps than I.

Inside, we toured one of the cell blocks where my charges acted more like children than adults, mugging through gripped bars while they took each other's pictures. Even Kondo san unbent at one point, standing outside the cell containing his four employees, a ring of keys in one hand and the cell door held with the other, while I snapped away with four cameras.

Then the entire charade was repeated with a scowling Kondo san inside and the other four outside.

The keys, of course, were simply props and had nothing to do with the cells which had been locked and released remotely, either individually or in banks.

* * *

Back on the boat, my party had had their fill of the famous prison and were ready to think about dinner, asking me for suggestions. Not sushi, I suspected - that would be like going to Kobé for a hamburger.

On the other hand, Fisherman's Wharf and it's environs abound in fine restaurants, representing dozens of nationalities. Unlike many nations, America has no single national cuisine - instead, Americans indulge in the best cuisine of all by borrowing - and improving on - the cuisines of the world. At the same time, America also has several cuisines which are unique, ranging from Texas barbecue to Alaskan Inuit cooking, the drawback being that most of these - like other regional delicacies - are best enjoyed in their native climes.

But, while San Francisco boasts the best sourdough in the world, it was hardly the proper basis for an entire meal.

Instead, I suggested a Creole restaurant - a variety of dining which was both unique to the Americas and unusual enough to impress my clients but which was also readily available in the immediate neighborhood. Explaining Creole cooking, however, was difficult to translate, leaving me rendering 'crayfish' as prawns - ebi - which they are not and totally at a loss to explain jambalaya except as a fish stew ... which it is but only in part.

In the end, I was able to render enough in rough translation to interest their palates and, since the location I had in mind wasn't distant, I used the cellular to tell Leroy - our driver - that it would be several hours before the car was needed and to suggest that he should break for dinner.

* * *

Beef steak - in Japan - can cost $70 to $80 a pound. That's raw in the market, not cooked and served in a restaurant. Granted, that's the price for beer-fed Kobé beef but - at twenty times U. S. prices - beef is not a mainstay of the Japanese diet. The problem, of course, is that everything is high in Japan and government controls on imports, especially on food items, insure that prices stay that way.

In contrast, at $20, a sourmash-marinated T-bone accompanied by a side order of Creole shrimp, corn relish, crisp pickled baby okra, hot sourdough bread and assorted trimmings was a banquet served for pennies as well as an adventure for my Japanese clients. The jambalaya - a mixture of crayfish, ham and sausage in a spicy stew - was equally well received while the pepper-hot crayfish diable - particularly after my guests realized that crayfish were not prawns - was a sensation in more senses than one.

"Not to tell my wife," Mori san pleaded, patting himself comfortably, "or she will reset my treadmill for extra laps."

"Maybe you hire a concubine to work it off," Kishi san suggested.

At my request, our waiter had produced a plate with a half-dozen raw crayfish which Ito san was busily photographing, commenting that a better close-up lens was needed for the next model.

"Exercise aids digestion," Kondo san commented. "We will walk and see some of the sights, hai?"

It was a directive, not a suggestion and Kondo san's four juniors took their marching orders seriously, rising from the table and arranging themselves to follow Kondo san's lead.

Lead Kondo san did, setting a brisk pace along the sidewalk for several blocks until we reached Ghiradelli Square, home - or museum - of one of our more famous chocolate manufacturers. The sun in the west was still a half-hour from the horizon but the breeze off of the bay was already cool.

"Perhaps," Kondo san suggested - and it was a suggestion this time, "we might spend some time visiting a few of these most interesting shops. Tomorrow," he added for my benefit, "we will have time for serious purchases but I believe there is a most unusual art gallery near the restaurant, hai?"

Which art gallery Kondo san had in mind, I didn't know. There were a variety in the area. In any case, I dutifully took the lead, guiding them back toward Fisherman's Wharf.

This being a Friday evening, the crowds were thickening but, given Japan's population density, crowds were nothing unfamiliar. Neither were the street performers - some of whom were critically compared to Nő and Bunraku performances ... critically but not necessarily complimentary.

Ahead, along our current route, I spotted one street 'performer' whom I'd particularly noticed during my previous explorations of the area. This one was ... well, unique seemed an appropriate term.

At the moment, clad in camo fatigues with green and gray face paint blotches obscuring his dark complexion, the 'performer' was crouched in a cul-de-sac formed by the corner of a building and a chain-link fence. His concealment was further aided by several branches of shrubbery held in his hands, making him appear - to a casual glance - as a not very important part of the scenery.

"Honorable gentlemen," I addressed my companions. "In a moment, I believe an individual will jump behind you with the intention of startling and surprising you. A form of koshaku, if you wish. May I suggest a response ..." I briefly outlined my proposal while leading them toward and past the lurker, carefully ignoring his presence.

As we passed, the camouflaged lurker did leap up and out with a shouted, "Gotcha!" ... but the reaction was not precisely what he expected.

Instead of reacting in fright - a perfectly natural response - my oriental companions swiveled with a precision which would have done credit to a trained drill team, four of them raising their cameras and snapping shots, the fifth - Kondo san - bowing slightly and commenting dryly: "Most amusing."

The street performer - being startled rather than the startler - almost fell over backwards from the onslaught of four cameras and one polite bow.

To give the performer credit, however, he recovered his composure quickly enough, laughed and returned the bow, acknowledging how well the tables had been turned. "It really is a jungle out there," he commented. "And, sometimes," his teeth shown white as he grinned, "even the lion gets bit by the prey."

I translated the remarks, to the delight of my charges.

As I concluded, Ito san managed a credible imitation of a roar before adding his bow to his companions'.

Of course, the incident required photographs, each of my charges posing in various postures with the performer ... and each tipping him heavily and thanking him effusively for his 'delightful performance.'

Even Kondo san - who was not carrying a camera - insisted on shaking hands - western style - and complimenting the performer on his excellent concealment, suggesting that perhaps his 'art' would be just the thing to enliven a board meeting. "We disguise you as a chair," he suggested. "Then you shout loudly when anyone becomes boring in their arguments, hai?"

Kondo san also offered a generous tip. For some reason, I had the strange feeling that the performance had suggested possibilities of some sort to the chairman for which he was expressing his gratitude.

I wondered - idly - if performance art always paid so well.

* * *

Following the street encounter, we did visit a number of shops and, as my charges began to become package laden, I called Leroy with a request to come by and collect their purchases.

Finally, when everyone had tired of souvenirs - since the items they purchased were principally small gifts for friends and colleagues - we returned to their hotel and repaired to the hotel lounge to relax, to plan tomorrow's itinerary and, naturally, to share a drink to close the evening.

It had been scarcely seven hours since I had met them but, for me, that seven hours had been a good day's work ... and tomorrow would be longer.

At their request, we would meet in the morning, at ten, and begin with a trip to the Marine Mammal Research Center across the bridge in Marin County. After visiting the Marine Center, the next item on the agenda would be lunch, followed by some serious shopping - as opposed to this evening's casual shopping. Later, they requested, if I would be so generous, they would greatly enjoy another dinner ... of whatever cuisine I cared to recommend.

And, following dinner, they would like to see some of the city's nightlife. This final request, I decided, would require some research ... but, if I recalled correctly, Caesar would be working the morning shift and, unless I had seriously misjudged him, should be able to suggest some interesting locations. Or, for that matter, Leroy might have a few suggestions.

Since it was the end of the evening, I allowed myself a brandy, having stayed with iced tea and sodas previously.

* * *

As I left the hotel, intending to take BART back to Daly City, I found Leroy still waiting.

"Figured you might like a ride," Leroy suggested. "And I can pick you up tomorrow - Ms Ostrander said you were out in Daly City, right?"

"That's right," I agreed. "Sure, that would be fine. It's not out of your way, I hope."

"Not far," he assured me. "I have to drop the limo off to be serviced and cleaned anyway. How you like the guide business so far?"

"Definitely interesting," I admitted, climbing into the front seat. "Why didn't you come in and join us?"

"Against the rules. Chauffeur stays with the car except in emergencies. Besides, wouldn't be proper. Class distinctions and all that."

"Oh?" I hadn't thought about that. "Doesn't that bother you?"

"You kidding, man? This is a cushy job - plenty of time to read ... or study." He patted a sachel of books on the seat. "Pays great. Beats the hell out of flipping burgers. Besides, you've got the hard part - all I have to do is drive where you say and then relax while you shepherd the clients around. Anyway, I've seen you bowing to them - a lot - does that bother you?"

"No," I admitted. "It's just common courtesy - Japanese style. And, like you said, the pay's good."

"Better than you expect," Leroy suggested. "I've driven Japanese gentlemen before. They're very generous with the tips. Is it true that tipping isn't common in Japan?"

"That's true," I agreed. "Almost totally unknown. Why?"

"Just that they're generally very generous," he explained. "Maybe because they don't know how to tip?"

"Ah," I thought about it, "not chippu, - a tip - but okuri mono - a gift. Yes, that does make sense. They wouldn't tip for normal services - but probably do here because it's expected. More likely, what you're being offered is a gift, a thank you for your courtesy and service. I take it you try to make them feel comfortable and all?"

"Of course," he agreed. "Told you, this is a good job. I like to keep the clients happy."

"And they're expressing their appreciation."

"Sounds like a tip to me," he decided. "Not that I'm complaining."

While he drove, I asked questions about the various types of people he chauffeured for, getting thumbnail sketches of various nationalities and a few rather pungent appraisals of some - that Germans did tend to bark orders, that Australians were always inviting him in for a 'cold one, mate' and that the British were friendly and tipped but only with careful precision while the Japanese were the most distant but also the most generous.

* * *

Home - at Dan's - I spent a few minutes recounting the day's events, then excused myself - it had been a long day and I was ready for sleep.

I had seen a lot of faces during the course of the day, representing half the nations of the world. And I had received friendly similes - often from women but a few from men - but no signs of recognition.

Conversations with my clients aside, I had spoken - briefly - with a German couple needing directions, chatted with a Spanish lady chaperoning a handful of teenagers, exchanged comments with an Argentine businesswoman, and offered an explanation to a turbaned Sikh.

It had been almost a week since I'd woken up in the hospital - and, if I didn't know who I had been, at least I was feeling comfortable with who I was.