Fall, 1958. "You must show us the real Japan," said Stephan, looking about the hotel lobby--the French windows, the Italian floors, the American cash register. "Yes, you must guide us," said Angus. "We will positively penetrate those cunning paper doors."

Already we were calling each other by our first names, indicating the relief that the PEN Conference was over, that they were no longer obliged to be Mr. Spender, distinguished British poet, and Mr. Wilson, eminent British novelist. Relief--and the prospect of leaving disappointingly modern Tokyo and discovering what Stephan called "the real Japan."

"No," said Alberto Moravia, who was joining us only because he did not want to be left behind. "Tokyo is real. Tokyo is real Japan."

I agreed. Not, however, with his reasons. These I had already discovered, having noticed him at the celebrated temple looking only at the attractive young guide, at the famous view regarding the excursioning schoolgirls, and at the holy shrine delighting in and then disappointed by the flapping skirts of the priests. Further, I had been pressed into interpreting for him with a young lady who worked as a cashier and was not averse to foreigners, particularly if they had written Woman of Rome.

The Italian author had taken us both to the Queen Bee Night Club where he had Scotch, she had créme de violette and I had a coke.

"Ask her if she honors me with a dance."

"Would you honor him with a dance?"

"Yes."

Once back, he said: "She is a good dancer. You tell her."

"You are a good dancer."

"But you haven't danced with me," she said.

"No, that's what he said."

"That you haven't danced with him?" she asked.

"No, no. That you are a good dancer."

"You want to dance with him?"

"What she say? What she say?"

Despite my interpreting, Moravia was successful in his aims. I received his gratitude. "You are my only help," he said, holding me with his dark gaze, his warm Italian smile. She received a crocodile bag.

Having discovered the real Japan, Moravia now wanted to stay in Tokyo. The other two, having not as yet discovered it, had no such reasons for remaining.

In a bar, late, with the poet, I said: "Stephan, don't you think we could go now? Which one do you want?"

He gazed benevolently first on the left, then on the right. "Oh, it is so difficult to choose. I really don't know. The problem is, you see, if you take one, then the other feels so terribly left out. And that would be unkind." Being unkind called for the strongest censure.

But it was late and I was tired. "No, it wouldn't. People who hang out in places like this are quite accustomed to being left out."

"Oh, but it is so nice to sit here, choice unmade, but pregnant as it were."

"You could take both," I suggested.

"To that hotel?" He smiled at my absurdity. "Besides, it is so pleasant here, so . . . well . . . cuddly, don't you think?" And he smiled, gripped hard, closed his eyes.

So I said: "Of course we're keeping the help up. They want to close. It does seem a bit unkind." Instantly he was standing. "Oh, how perfectly dreadful. Why didn't you tell me?" Shortly we left and he took neither.

With Angus the question of choice never arose. He peered about in the gloom and said, "We have places like this back home. Why are they always so dark? Don't tell me. I know. Same reason I keep the lights low at home. Wrinkles, my dear. Wrinkles." Then, eyes on the dim ceiling: "Oh, home. Would I were there. Dear Tony, what do you suppose he is doing now?"

With Stephan irresolute and Angus nostalgic, there was nothing to keep them in the capital. They were ready to be diverted by authenticity, and be quit of the summer heat of Tokyo. And the following evening we were in the coolness of Koya-san, holy mountain, which I had decided was the real Japan--dozens of temples, some with pagodas, lots of paper doors, a whole cemetery.

Their reaction to the real Japan was not, however, happy.

"Are we supposed to sleep there?" asked Stephan in dismay, looking at the thin futon spread on the hard tatami. "Are we supposed to eat that?" asked Angus with disgust, looking at the frozen tofu. "We take a bath there?" asked Moravia in disbelief, staring at the bubbling cannibal pot, the goemonburo in which he was supposed to immerse himself. And when my literary trio saw the real Japanese toilet, an enameled chasm, they turned away without a word.

They did not like the noted cemetery either. "Grey wouldn't have made much of this," sniffed Angus. "Oh, I don't know," said Stephan. "The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea," he observed, looking at the other tourists.

He was attempting to keep up our spirits. This was necessary since Moravia was unhappy. After the inedible dinner, the impossible bath, a night of insomnia on the dreaded mats and the terrors of the toilet, after the hideous breakfast he had turned and snapped at the other two writers.

"Agh, so easy for you! So fortunate homosexuals. You run down beach, you find simple fisher lad, you come back radiant. But, agh, we heterosexuals. The hope, the failure. So difficult."

"What beach?" asked Stephan.

"There, there," said Angus soothingly. "He is missing his cashier."

I looked sympathetically at the sufferer. Here we were in the real Japan and his manhood was steadily accumulating. And not, apparently, only that. He was not hungry, pushed away his tofu, his color was bad. "I am ill," he said.

He looked ill. To cheer him up I told him that women were now admitted to Mount Koya, though they had not been before. But even the later sight of two sturdy females in climbing boots just outside our paper windows did not rouse him.

Feeling responsible, I managed to discover the nature of the complaint, went to the drugstore and bought some medicine, the kind marked strong. But he would not take it. Already he was breathing on his chopsticks, then polishing them, inquiring into the nature of the local water, then dismissing news of its safety with a wave of the hand. Now he refused the medicine.

"If you don't take the medicine you won't get well," I said, guide turned doctor. "And part of your trouble is that you aren't drinking enough water." But to this he only shook a gloomy head. "Idiot--water make me more ill."

Eventually lack of water, food, medicine, proper toilet facilities and female companionship rendered the Italian writer prostrate--he lay on his side, panting. Angus and Stephan exchanged worried glances and went shopping. I called the doctor.

The local practitioner was not certain that he wanted to treat a foreigner, particularly one with this complaint. But I persisted, spoke warmly of Woman of Rome, and he reluctantly agreed. So there Moravia was, on his side again, and the doctor was applying a clyster.

"Agh. Tell him he hurts."

"He says you hurt."

The doctor said he was sorry but that usually people performed this operation on themselves. Otherwise it was practiced only in hospital or upon the unconscious. And would I please help. "Here, hold this."

But the author of Woman of Rome did not like my helping. He turned his dark gaze upon me. He did not like my being there. He did not, in fact, like me. Here I had dragged him into the wilderness, had made him ill and was now enjoying his degradation.

"Tell him to relax."

"The doctor said you are to relax."

"You shut up!"

Despite the patient, the operation was a success and when the two British authors returned from the expedition--Stephan had bought some attractive Buddhist prayer beads, Angus had found nothing Tony would have liked--the Italian novelist was sitting up on a number of stacked cushions, drinking tea.

"Well," said Angus, "I see that at least one of us has, er, penetrated, ha ha, into the real Japan."

After that I took them down the mountain to Shirahama, a resort town where they had canned orange juice, mattresses, expensive steaks and sit-down toilets.

They were much happier than they had been in the real Japan. Even Moravia brightened up and told long stories about women in Rome. Told them, however, not me. Not only did he tell me no stories, he did not speak to me--ever again. And when we returned to Tokyo he apparently found someone else to interpret for his love affairs and his illnesses alike.

One by one the unlikely trio left the country, and I would have heard nothing further had I not met Stephan a year or two later. He was remembering our search for the real Japan.

"Such a good guide too. Even procured a bit, I believe."

"No, he found the cashier all by himself."

"Well, at least you provided the enema. And, oh, how tiresome Angus was, going on about penetrating."

Then, as if reminded: "Did you know that Moravia is writing about his stay here?" Long pause while Stephan looked at the French windows, the Italian floors. "Anyway, one story is about this dreadful American in Tokyo whose only pleasure is in forcing unprincipled women on famous and unwary visitors." Another pause, then: "There, now. Alberto has truly himself penetrated, don't you think?" And his pink laugh tinkled. Then he remembered to look sad and serious and said: "But it is a bit unkind, isn't it?"