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fondness for their elders, whether they be ancestors, wise men, or teachers. An English teacher or an ecologist, a military strategist or an instructor of Western table manners – whomever – if they share with the Japanese something of their special knowledge and skills, they are never forgotten. Examples abound in Japan: Dr. William S. Clark who encouraged the young men of Meiji, “Boys, Be Ambitious!” (his statue can be found in Sapporo); W. E. Deming, the creator of “Quality Control,” which method revolutionized Japanese industry and proved no small contribution to the Japanese “economic miracle” (and who, it needs be said, died a near-forgotten man in the West, while in Japan he was universally mourned when he passed away in 1993). The list could easily go on.
    Another such gentleman was Sir William Rutland of Great Britain who was there at the beginning of Japan’s – and the world’s – electronic revolution, that is, the invention of the transistor. He was a dear “friend of Japan,” and after having made his crucial contributions to the nation was always received carte blanche whenever he visited his much beloved second home. (The reader might think here of Nixon’s later visits to China.)
    A serious and dedicated businessman – whose later life was spent representing a major cosmetics firm – Sir William – we’ll call him “Rutland” from here – was also something of a wit, a bon vivant, and an incurable romantic. (He shaved before showering.) His more than readable memoirs tell us less about his scientific researches than the amusing episodes and events of his much-blessed life. Among his many visits to Japan, he recounts one particularly memorable event: that time when he was inadvertently forced to spend a week as a boarder in the home of a resident foreigner, and was cast in the unexpected role of matchmaker – and almost instigated an international incident.
    It was October, 1964, only a few days before the Tokyo Olympics were to begin – that event that Japan took such great pride in, symbolizing as it did the nation’s post-war recovery (and the symbol of the symbol of which became the Shinkansen). Rutland’s reservation at the Hotel Okura was for opening day; it hadn’t occurred to him that the city would be over-filled with visitors. In a word, the ever-accommodating hotel was reluctantly forced to inform him that they were fully booked: there was no room at the inn. Checking at the British Embassy (where he was rudely interviewed by the Second Secretary of Protocol, who did not recognize Sir William until after the bad impression had been made), he chanced upon a notice board advertising a room to let. The room in which the apartment was located was being rented by a Christine Easton, a young woman working for a local firm. Rutland drove over immediately, announced himself, charmed his way in, and before Miss Easton knew it – she had a roommate. At 6,800 yen a week. (A comparably-sized apartment would cost six or seven times that amount three decades later.) If the attractive and charming Miss Easton could be said to have had one fault it was her being overly fussy and precise. She informed Rutland that she would shower from 7:15 to 7:20; that would be followed by breakfast; at 7:32 she would then brush her teeth for two minutes; and then the bathroom would be his; but from 7:42 to 7:54, she would need it again to put on her make-up and do her hair. Complications reminiscent of a Mack Sennett comedy ensued the following morning.
    The next day (keeping to the memoir, we revert to the present) is filled with the usual business appointments and conferences; in passing we are informed that Rutland was working on remote control devices. Leaving his host (most likely Sony), Rutland observes a young man taking photographs of the corporate headquarters. This is Steve Davis, an American architect,