I Am a Japanese Writer

A DISH OF SPAGHETTI IN FRONT OF THE TV SET

I HEARD HURRIED steps in the stairway behind me. I was already fumbling for my keys.

“Didn’t Plato show up?”

“What Plato?”

His face grew dark.

“My rent.”

“You’ll get it…”

“I want it today!”

“But Mr. Zorba…”

“My name isn’t Zorba.”

I’d never seen him in a mood like this.

“We still have time.”

That drives him crazy every time.

“I don’t feel like chasing after you all night.”

“You’ll get your money, like every week.”

“Well, I didn’t get it this week.”

Poor guy — the fear of being ripped off! I can hardly put him off even a half day. Once I went to New York with friends, and he didn’t get his rent until three days later. That look of his! He went back down the stairs, murmuring peasant curses between his teeth. I opened the door, placed the rent money on the table, pulled off my clothes and got into bed. I had time for a little snooze, and I’d be up before he returned. That doesn’t happen every day. I even had time to make a spaghetti sauce out of garlic, onions and green peas, then eat it in front of the tv set as I watched an old Columbo episode. I discovered some low-rent wine in a bottle lying under the table — enough for one glass. Lucullus receives Lucullus. I sat down to the left of the set; I was both audience and antenna. The old TV and I know each other well. Actually, it’s more like a radio, since I can make out only vague shapes, though the sound is still good. The TV is perfect for Metropolitan Orchestra concerts, if you like that sort of thing, which I hate. Sometimes I listen, hoping for a miracle. Most of the time its gray eye stares at me in dumb accusation. Zorba is only good for demanding his money. Every time I ask him to get a better television, just to bug him, he acts like he doesn’t understand me. He can broadcast, but he can’t receive.