-
When he left Kuniko's apartment building, the long rays of the afternoon sun were beating down on the concrete parking lot. He sighed, thinking about the long walk to the bus-stop in the scorching heat and the sweaty wait once he got there. The line of shiny cars parked by the building caught his eye, and among them, the flashiest of all, a dark green Volkswagen cabriolet. He thought it strange that anyone who lived here should have a car like that, but he never guessed that it might belong to the seemingly hard-up woman in the apartment he'd just left.
So, he'd come to a dead end. He would have to start over and try interviewing the five men who had been absent from the factory on Tuesday night. He could begin doing it tomorrow, but if that didn't pan out, he'd have to admit defeat and tag along with Kinugasa. He frowned to himself as he marched off into the steamy afternoon.
6
-
Kazuo Miyamori was sprawled on the upper bunk, studying his Japanese textbook. In addition to the trial of working in the factory, he had set himself two new tests: one was to get Masako's complete forgiveness, and the other, to learn enough Japanese to accomplish that. But these new tasks were different from the simple, repetitive chore of delivering rice to the assembly line; they had a certain attraction to them.
'My name is Kazuo Miyamori.'
'My hobby is watching soccer.'
'Do you like soccer?'
'What sort of food do you like?'
'I like you.'
He lay on his stomach, whispering each sentence over and over
until his eyes wandered to the narrow strip' of window visible from this angle. The brilliant orange of a summer sunset lit up the clouds hanging below a band of deep indigo. As he watched, the light faded from the clouds and the sky darkened; he wanted night to come quickly, so he could see Masako again.
He hadn't talked to her since that day. It would be too painful if he tried to say something and she ignored him. But he had gone back later and retrieved what she'd thrown into the drainage ditch that night. He fished a silver key from under his pillow and squeezed it in his hand. The cool metal gradually warmed in his palm, and he smiled to himself, thinking that this was just how his heart had warmed to Masako.
If he were to tell any of the other men, they'd laugh at the idea of falling for a woman who was so much older. They'd probably tell him to pick one of the Brazilian women. So no one needed to know. Perhaps he was the only one who could sense the special quality this woman seemed to have; and perhaps she was the only one who could understand what was special in Kazuo. If he could just get to know her, he was sure they'd understand one another. He grasped the key as if it were a charm capable of making his wish come true.
He had strung the key on a silver chain and begun wearing it around his neck. It was such an ordinary object, he doubted even Masako would realise it was the key she'd thrown down the drain. Although he was twenty-five, the little charm made him feel like a high-school boy in the throes of his first crush; and it never occurred to him that his feelings might be nothing more than an attempt to find some comfort in the inhospitable country his father had come from. All he knew was that he was unlikely to find another woman like her, even in Brazil.
Kazuo had gone back to the culvert early the next morning. Unlike the Japanese women who worked part-time in the factory, the Brazilian employees generally didn't get off until 6.00 a.m. From then until 9.00 when the day shift came on, the factory was completely deserted. Kazuo had taken advantage of this gap to search the drain.
He was fairly sure he knew where to look, and he was very curious to know what Masako could have dropped down that hole. From the sound it had made hitting the bottom, he guessed it must have been a metal object that wouldn't have washed away. He waited until the last few students and office workers had hurried by on the way to the station, and then used all his strength to drag one section of the concrete cover off the ditch. The morning sunlight sparkled on the surface of the sluggish, murky water which, until now, had flowed quietly in the dark. Kazuo peered into the hole. The water was black and foul but shallower than he'd imagined. Somewhat reassured, he quickly slipped over the edge and dunked his feet, tennis shoes and all, into the stream. Dark, pungent muck splashed up on his jeans, and as he sank ankle deep in the mud he realised he had ruined his Nikes. Still, he bent down low enough to see a metal key holder decorated with a black leather insert that had become wedged under a crushed plastic bottle. He reached down into the lukewarm water and pulled it out. The corners of the leather insert were rubbed white; the holder contained a single silver key. As the sunlight glinted off it, Kazuo saw that it was an ordinary house key. It struck him as odd that Masako should take such pains to dispose of something like this, but these thought s were soon forgotten in th e pleasure of having recovered something that had belonged to her. He detached the key and slipped it into his pocket before throwing the ruined holder away.
-
That evening, he arrived at work earlier than usual and lingered by the door waiting for Masako to appear. He would have liked to wait for her along the route from the parking lot, to see her coming by the deserted factory, but he knew that was out of the question. He mustn't scare her any more than he already had. No, that wasn't right, he realised, smiling to himself: he was the one who was scared, scared of doing something to make her dislike him even more - it was this he dreaded more than anything else.
He stood next to Komada, the health inspector, pretending to be checking his time card as he kept watch. At last she appeared, at the usual time, her tall frame bending quickly to put her black bag down on the red industrial carpet as she slipped out of her tennis shoes. For a moment she glanced up at Kazuo, but, as before, her gaze seemed to pass through him, fixing on some point on the wall beyond. Nevertheless, with that one look, Kazuo felt a sort of simple, basic pleasure, like watching the sun rise.
She retrieved her bag and greeted Komada before turning her back to let her run the roller over her clothing - an oversized green polo shirt and a pair of jeans. Breathing slowly and evenly to control the throbbing he felt when she was near him, Kazuo took advantage of the health inspector's drill to stare at her figure. The careless way she dressed looked almost masculine, but he liked her slimness and the way her face seemed to have been stripped of any excess. As she passed by he steeled himself and spoke to her.
'Good morning.'
'Good morning,' she said with a look of surprise. As she disappeared into the lounge, he closed his hand around the key that hung from his neck and said a word of thanks. She had said good morning! Just then, the office door opened, as if someone had been waiting for him to finish this little formality.
'Miyamori. I'm glad you're here. Could I see you a moment?' The plant manager beckoned to him from the door. At this hour, there was usually no one in the office but the elderly watchman. Kazuo was surprised to see the manager here so late but even more surprised to find that an interpreter was waiting for him when he entered the place. 'Could you come back here at midnight? The police want to ask you a few questions.' Having made this request for the interpreter to relay to Kazuo, he turned toward the reception area at the back of the office where one of the Japanese employees was being questioned by a thin-looking man, apparently a detective.
'The police?' Kazuo said.
'Yes, that's him over there.'
'He wants to talk to me?'
'That's right.'
Kazuo's heart skipped a beat. Masako had reported him. The room seemed to go dark as he realised he'd been fingered. He knew it had been self-centred to ask her not to tell, but he never thought she could lie to him like that. He'd been an idiot to think she would let him off the hook.
'Okay . . .' he muttered in Portuguese. Despondently, he made his way back to the lounge. Masako stood there on her own, smoking a cigarette by the vending machines. Neither the woman they called the Skipper nor the fat one named Kuniko had shown up yet, so she apparently had nobody to talk to; and ever
since the pretty one, Yayoi, had stopped Coming to work, something about Masako seemed different, as though she'd cut herself off from everyone and everything. Still, Kazuo couldn't stop himself from going up to talk to her, his voice shaking with anger.
'Masako-san.' She turned to look at him, and he struggled to make his meaning clear in Japanese. 'Did you tell them?'
'Tell them what?' She folded her thin arms in front of her and stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise.
'The police .. . have come.'
'The police? Come about what?'
'You promised, didn't you?' he managed to say, and then stopped, watching her eyes. She pressed her lips together, returning his stare, but said nothing. Eventually he turned, his shoulders drooping, and headed for the changing area. He would probably be arrested and lose his job, but he was much more upset by the idea that Masako had broken her word to him.
If they were going to question him at midnight, just as he was due to start work, he would need to change now. He found the hanger that held his uniform. Since they were forbidden to wear any jewellery or other personal effects on the factory floor, he removed the chain that held the key and carefully slipped it into his pants pocket. Clutching the blue work cap that the Brazilian employees wore, he returned to the lounge. Masako was standing just where he'd left her, apparently waiting for him. She too had changed while he was gone, but wisps of hair stuck out from her net, suggesting she had hurried.
'Wait,' she said, catching hold of his beefy arm as he passed, but he ignored her and headed for the office. If she had reported him, then the trials were over, and the purpose of his life was gone. But as he walked, he remembered how her hand had felt for that split second when it touched his arm, and he pulled himself back from the brink. This, too, he decided, was a trial, one she herself had set him, and like the others it would have to be endured. The key felt cool against his thigh, as if to remind him it was still there. He knocked at the office door, which opened almost immediately. The Brazilian interpreter and the detective were waiting for him. As his heart began to pound, he slipped his hand into his pocket and closed it around the key.
'Imai,' the detective said, showing him his badge.
'Roberto Kazuo Miyamori,' he said in reply. The detective was tall and chinless. He looked friendly enough, but he had a penetrating stare.
'Are you a Japanese citizen?' he asked.
'Yes. My father was Japanese, my mother's Brazilian.'
'You must get your good looks from her,' he laughed. Kazuo stared at him coldly, sensing that the remark could be taken as a slur. 'I'm sorry to drag you in like this, but I've got a few questions to ask you. I've arranged with the factory to have this time counted as regular work.'
'I see,' Kazuo said, tensing as the detective prepared to start. But the question that came was completely unexpected.
'Do you know Yayoi Yamamoto?' Taken aback, Kazuo glanced at the interpreter, who indicated he was expected to answer.
'Yes, I know her,' he nodded, unsure what Imai meant by the question.
'Then you know what happened to her husband?'
'Yes, I've heard rumours.' What did this have to do with him?
'Had you met her husband?'
'No, never.'
'Then have you ever spoken to Yamamoto-san herself?'
'I say "hello" to her once in a while, but that's about it. What's this all about, anyway?' The interpreter apparently decided against translating Kazuo's question and the detective continued.
'I understand you were off last Tuesday. Would you mind telling me what you did that night?'
'Do you think I'm involved in this?' Kazuo asked, upset at being dragged into something he knew nothing about.
'No, no,' Imai assured him. 'We're just trying to talk to everyone who was friendly with Yamamoto-san, particularly if they were off work that night.' Kazuo still didn't understand why he was being questioned, but he began to outline what he could remember of that night.
'I slept until about noon. Then I went out to Oizumi-machi. I spent the rest of the day at the Brazilian Plaza they have there, and I was back in my room asleep by about 9.00.'
'But your roommate says that you never came home that evening,' the man said, checking his notes with a sceptical look.
'Alberto didn't notice I was there when he came back with his girlfriend,' Kazuo protested. 'But I was asleep in my bed.'
'But how could he not have noticed you were there?'
'Because I was on the top bunk.' Kazuo looked uncomfortable, remembering what had happened that night.
'So he brought his girlfriend back to the room but never realised you were up there,' the detective laughed, finally seeming to understand. Embarrassed, Kazuo glanced nervously around the empty office. He stared at the line of desks, each with its computer neatly housed in a clear plastic cover. He had wanted to learn how to use a computer when he came to Japan, but somehow he'd ended up here, hauling rice to an assembly line. The whole situation suddenly struck him as crazy, absurd. 'So did you spend the rest of the night in your room?' the man asked.
Kazuo hesitated. That was the night he had grabbed Masako and then wandered around afterward in a fit of remorse. It had started to rain, so he'd gone back to his room at dawn for an umbrella. But that was after Alberto had left for work. Then he'd gone back to wait for Masako.
'I went out for a walk,' he said.
'In the middle of the night? Where did you go?'
'I came here, to the factory.'
'Why here?'
'No reason. I just didn't want to be in my room.'
'How old are you?' he asked with an almost sympathetic look.
'Twenty-five,' Kazuo told him. Imai nodded thoughtfully, as if he had just realised something, but said nothing as he flipped through his notes. 'Can I go now?' Kazuo asked, finding the silence unbearable. The detective held up his hand, indicating he still had a few questions.
'Someone told me that a number of women have been assaulted near the factory,' he said. 'Did you know about that?' Here it comes, thought Kazuo, clasping the key in his pocket.
'I've heard rumours,' he replied. 'But would you mind if I asked who mentioned this?'
'I suppose I can tell you,' Imai said with some amusement. 'It was Ms Jonouchi, one of the part-timers.' Kazuo released the key from his sweaty palm, overwhelmed with gratitude that it hadn't been Masako. He would have to apologise to her later. 'This has nothing to do with the Yamamoto case, but I wonder if you could tell me whether there's talk among the Brazilian workers about these attacks. Who the victims are, and who might be responsible.'
'Not that I've heard,' Kazuo said, his tone quite final. He looked up at the clock on the wall as he slipped his cap on his head.
'Thank you,' Imai said, realising the interview had come to an end.
The line was already moving when Kazuo reached the factory floor, and a neatly stacked pile of finished meals was growing at the far end. With both Kuniko and the Skipper absent, Masako was doing the rice at the head of the line. After the rumours started about Yayoi's husband, their group had broken up. He was puzzled by this, but at the same time happy that Masako no longer had so many friends around. If he hurried to get changed after the shift ended, he might be able to talk to her.
-
It had been a perfect chance, but he'd been forced to do fifteen minutes of overtime and Masako, like the other part-timers, was already gone when he got to the lounge, well after 6.00 a.m. As he left the factory, the early morning sun lit up the grey wall of the car factory. It seemed a shame that on such a beautiful summer day he had to go back to his room and curl up in the dark like an animal. He pulled his black cap from his pocket and gloomily tugged it down over his eyes. But when he looked up, he stopped in shock: Masako was standing right where he'd waited for her that morning in the rain.
'Miyamori-san,' she said, her face pale with fatigue as she came
up to him. Unconsciously, he reached for the chain and slipped the k
ey out over his T-shirt. It was all thanks to the key. Masako glanced at the silver object as it lay now against the white shirt, but, unaware that it was the one she'd thrown away, quickly looked back at Kazuo's face. 'In the lounge last night, what did you mean?' she said, seeming to assume he could understand her Japanese.
He bowed his head, as he knew was appropriate. 'I'm sorry. I made a mistake.' Masako went on looking at him, apparently not satisfied.
'I haven't told anyone what you did,' she said.
Kazuo nodded. 'I know.'
'The police wanted to ask about Yayoi's husband, didn't they?'
she said, then turned and began walking toward the parking lot. Kazuo followed a couple of metres behind, conscious that the Brazilian employees were beginning to leave the factory, chatting noisily among themselves. Masako marched briskly away, as though no one else were with her.
By the time the Brazilians turned off toward their dormitory, Masako and Kazuo were passing the abandoned factory. The fresh smell of summer grass barely masked the stench of the drain, but the heat would soon bring it out; in a few hours, the road would be parched and dusty and the grass would wilt under the blazing sun.
Kazuo saw her glance at the culvert and then stop, as if frozen, at the sight of the section of the concrete cover he had removed. He was confused at the look of panic that was spreading on her face. Maybe he should tell her what he'd done, but he found it difficult to admit that he'd gone, poking around in the mud for something she'd discarded, and he kept quiet, his hands thrust in his pockets. Masako's pale face seemed to get paler as she edged up to the hole and peered in. Kazuo watched her from behind, and when he finally got up the nerve to speak, he found himself making the sharp enquiry he'd heard so many times from Nakayama, the foreman at the factory.
'What the hell are you doing?' He knew it sounded rough, but it was the only phrase in his limited stock that seemed to fit the situation. Masako spun around. Her eyes met his and then dropped to the key that hung on his chest.