That night, Kenji opened the workbook to Fukushuu D one last time. He looked at the battered page, the crossed-out particles, the desperate marginalia. He smiled.

Fukushuu D was where grammar went to die. Each question was a trap: Choose the correct particle. Convert the verb to te-form. Write a sentence using “kara” because.

Kenji took a breath. He had practiced this sentence during Fukushuu E (the next review section, even harder), but the grammar held.

“ Shigoto ga hayaku owattara ,” he said slowly, “ mata kimasu. Yuko-san to… hanashitai kara. ”

“ Kenji-san ,” she said, “ sono nihongo, kanpeki desu. ” (That Japanese is perfect.)

To anyone else, it was just a grid of blank lines, polite illustrations of office workers, and conjugation tables for te-iru forms. To Kenji Tanaka, it was a battlefield.

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.