His motor engine purred into a stop in front of your gate. The food and trinkets hanging on the grilles cover his face and you assumed he was the Indian who lent money to your neighbors some time back. But when he approached closer, you got a better look of him. Yellow, helmeted, hankied, and bomber-jacketed. He rest his arm on the concrete column. Pwede magtanong? May I ask something? You moved your eyebrows the way all Filipino did when saying yes without uttering a word. Meron bang Japaneeze dito? He gestured his arm pointing in the general direction of your neighborhood. Is there a Japanese here? His accent was barely there but when he said Japaneeze, it confirmed your suspicion. Slowly, you shook your head. Wala. None. Wala, he echoed and got back to his motor.