"Sir, here is your wine," the waiter said wearily, setting down the cup, chopsticks, wine pot, and dishes.
I turned to the table, arranged the things, and poured some wine. The North was not my native place, and yet here in the South, also, I was looked upon as a stranger. No matter how dry and powdery the snow flies over there, or how soft and clinging it is here, it was none of my concern. I felt sad and melancholy, but I took a draught of wine with pleasure. It tasted excellent and the fried bean curd was nicely cooked. It was a pity that the pepper sauce was very weak; the people of the city of S did not know what hot things were.
I suppose it must have been because it was early in the afternoon that the restaurant was so quiet and so unlike a restaurant in atmosphere. I had already finished three cups of wine, but the other four tables were still vacant. Looking at the deserted garden, I felt my loneliness and desolation increase, though I did not wish for the intrusion of other patrons either. When I heard an occasional footstep on the stairs I could not help feeling a little resentful, and was relieved to see that it was only the waiter. I drank two more cups of wine.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs again. "It must surely be some customer this time," I thought, for the steps were much slower than the waiter's. When I thought that he must have reached the top of the stairs, I looked up very reluctantly at this chance companion of the wine shop, and then stood up with surprise. I did not expect to meet here a friend—if he still allowed me to call him friend. For the man who came up was without a doubt a former schoolmate of mine and a colleague in my teaching days. Though his features had changed somewhat, I had no difficulty in recognizing him. His movements, however, were noticeably slower than they
