“Well, I’ve never met the guy. He’s a year older than she is and he’s a computer engineer. Works at one of those three-letter places—IBM or NEC or TNT, I don’t know. I’ve seen his picture. A nothing kind of face. Not my taste, but then I don’t have to marry him.”

“Where did he graduate from? Does he have a house?”

“How should I know?”

“Well, would you please meet him and find out about these things?”

“No way. I’m busy. Ask him yourself when you meet him in two weeks.”

Finally, though, I had no choice but to meet my sister’s computer engineer. She was going to pay a formal visit to his family’s home the following Sunday, and she wanted me to come with her. I put on a white shirt and a tie and my most conservative suit. They lived in an imposing house in the middle of a nice residential neighborhood in Meguro. The 500CC Honda I had seen in the photo was parked in front of the garage.

“Nice swordfish.”

“Please,” she said, “none of your stupid jokes. All I’m asking is that you restrain yourself for one day.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His parents were fine people, very proper—maybe a little too proper. The father was an oil-company executive. Since my father owned a chain of gas stations in Shizuoka, this was by no means an unthinkable match. The mother served us tea on an elegant tray.

I offered the father my calling card, and he gave me his. Then I managed to dredge up all the proper phrases to explain that I was here to represent my parents, who were unfortunately unable to attend, owing to a previous engagement; we hoped that on some future date acceptable to both parties they might be allowed to pay their formal respects.

He replied that his son had told him much about my sister and that, meeting her now, he saw that she was far lovelier than his son deserved. He knew we came from an upstanding family, and as far as he and his wife were concerned they had no objection to the “present discussions.” I imagined he must have had our family background thoroughly investigated, but he couldn’t possibly have found out that my sister had not had her first period until she was sixteen and that she was chronically constipated.

Once the formalities ended without mishap, the father poured me a brandy—pretty decent stuff. As we drank, we talked about jobs of various kinds. My sister poked me now and then with the toe of her slipper, warning me not to drink too much.