Fukushuu D Minna No Nihongo <99% PREMIUM>

“ Fukushuu ,” he said, tapping his bag. “ Minna No Nihongo no fukushuu. ”

Kenji’s Vietnamese assistant, Lan, had laughed when she saw him hunched over it last Tuesday.

“ Kenji-san ,” she said, “ sono nihongo, kanpeki desu. ” (That Japanese is perfect.) Fukushuu D Minna No Nihongo

“ Daijoubu desu ka? ” she asked. Are you okay?

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

That night, he opened Fukushuu D and attacked the conditional forms.

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. “ Kenji-san ,” she said, “ sono nihongo, kanpeki desu

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.