Outside the futile duty of coaxing the girl to participate in Midbin’s sessions I had no obligations except those I took upon myself or could persuade others to delegate to me. Hiro Agati declared me hopelessly incompetent to help him in the kiln he had set up to make “hard glass,” a thick substance he hoped might take the place of cast iron in such things as woodstoves, or clay tile in flues. He conceded I was not entirely useless in the small garden surrounding their cottage where he, Mrs Agati—an architect, much younger than her husband and extremely diminutive—and their three children spent their spare time transplanting, rearranging, or preparing for the following season. Dr Agati was not only the first American Japanese I had ever met; his was the first family I had known who broke the unwritten rule of having only one child. Both he and Kimi Agati seemed unaware of the stern injunctions by Whigs and Populists alike that disaster would follow if the population of the country increased too fast. Fumio and Eiko didnt care, while Yoshio, at two, was just not interested. The Agatis represented for me one more pang at the thought of banishment from the haven. Since I knew neither chemistry nor architecture, our conversation had limits, but this was no drawback to the pleasure I took in their company. Often, after I was assured I was welcome there, I sat reading or simply silent while Hiro worked, the children ran in and out, and Kimi, who was conservative and didnt care for chairs, sat comfortably on the floor and sketched or calculated stresses. Gradually I progressed from the stage where I wanted decision on my application postponed as long as possible to one where I was impatient to have it over and done with. “Why?” asked Hiro. “Suspense is the condition we live in all our lives.” “Well, but there are degrees. You know about what you will be doing next year.” “Do I? What guarantees have I? The future is happily veiled. When I was your age I despaired because no one would accept the indentures of a Japanese. (We are still called Japanese even though our ancestors migrated at the time of the abortive attempt to overthrow the Shogunate and restore the Mikado in 1868.) Suspense instead of certainty would have been a pleasure.” “Anyway,” said Kimi practically, “it may be months before the next meeting.” “What do you mean? Isnt there a set time for such business?” Sure there must be, I had never dared ask the exact date. Hiro shook his head. “Why should there be? The next time the fellows pass on an appropriation or a project, we’ll decide whether there’s room for an historian.” “But ... as Kimi says, it might not be for months.” “Or it might be tomorrow,” replied Hiro. “Don’t worry, Hodge,” said Fumio, “Papa will vote for you, and Mother too.” Hiro grunted.