Brrm! Brrm! [antikvár]

ONE Before the English girl exploded into his life like the torch of a flame-thrower through the slit of a pill-box, Suzuki had been leading the dream existence of every young Japanese man in Lx)ndon. When dealing with the natives it was tiresome to feign pleasure at clumsy jokes about how his name was the same as that of a motor-cycle. But it would have been impolite not to, and anyway, he did not have to give his name very often. If he had been working for a big company he would have had to sit down on the other side of the table from the local people and Exchange Views, which would have meant an exchange of names. The same name as the motor-cycle: Oh yes, most amusing. Btrm! Brrm! Ha ha. The famous English sense of humour, in Suzuki's experience, consisted largely of asking you to share their delight at a mortal insult. No doubt he was missing the nuances. But Suzuki did not work for a big company. He was the assistant manager of the other Japanese bookshop: not the big, general one in St Paul's Yard, the small, more specialised one on the other side of the Cathedral, towards the river. English people came in there to flick through the art books, ask how