The workbook had tried to break him. But in the end, he had turned its revenge into his own victory.
“I am,” he muttered. “A grammar dragon. With three heads. Nakereba naranai .” Fukushuu D Minna No Nihongo
Kenji wasn’t a student anymore. He was thirty-four, a former automotive engineer from Nagoya who had been transferred to a joint venture in Ho Chi Minh City six months ago. His Japanese colleagues had warned him: “Learn English. Or better, learn Vietnamese.” But Kenji had pride. He was the one from the headquarters. He should not be struggling to order phở without pointing. The workbook had tried to break him
Kenji chewed his pen. Furereba? Futtara? The book’s revenge was subtle: furu (to fall) becomes futtara (if it falls). He wrote it down. Then he wrote a second sentence below the answer box, on the margin: “Yuko-san ga isogashikereba, watashi wa matsu.” (If Yuko is busy, I will wait.) “A grammar dragon
“ Fukushuu ,” he said, tapping his bag. “ Minna No Nihongo no fukushuu. ”
(If my work ends early, I will come again. Because I want to talk with you.)