Imagine if someone like that fell for, say, a work colleague, with the same passion. As a full-grown adult, she can hardly let those roaring flames in her chest govern her behavior, and so some of her passion is left unspent. Maybe that’s why such women visit Oshichi’s grave. They want to pay their respects to the woman who allowed the flames of her passion to blaze to their fullest, and who was herself burned at the stake as a result. Most likely they feel like Oshichi is the only one who can understand the fire inside them. The very idea that you have to rein in your heat even as love’s passion sets you ablaze . . . How restrictive life as a functional adult is!
When I first started working at the Oshichi temple, the idea of praying for luck in love to someone who’d been burned at the stake for her excess of passion seemed like a sick joke, but as I watched the 3s visit, I started to understand their motivation a lot better. By coming here, these women feel themselves connected with Oshichi across time. I started to think myself lucky to be working at such a temple, where all the Oshichi types congregate.
Seeing now that the temple grounds are empty, I step out of the office and quickly stroll around to check that everything is in order, then move over to Oshichi’s grave and sweep away the leaves that have gathered there. The fine drizzle has stopped, but the sky is still clouded over. Then, noticing an elderly man on the narrow path leading up to the temple, I slip back inside the office inconspicuously.
As I settle down on my floor cushion, I realize I’ve left the radio on. It’s an old bright red model that the priest has let me use so long as nobody is around. The voice coming from the speakers says something about a skeleton that has gone missing from some research institute. The police are currently investigating the identity of a mystery woman discovered on the security camera footage. The news item comes to an end, and I turn the radio off.
A skeleton? I cock my head in disbelief as I quickly wipe down my desk. The phrase “mystery woman” makes me picture a long-haired figure in a trench coat and sunglasses, but what did she really look like? I wonder. What could she have wanted badly enough with a skeleton that she would steal it from a research institute? A peculiar news item, no mistake. Still, peculiar things happen from time to time.
The old man appears outside the office, so I slide open the glass window and he holds out his album. I can see that slightly anxious expression on his face, which means, Surely it’s not this girl who’s going to do it?
“Just a moment, please,” I say quietly. I ink up the stamps and press them onto the page, then take out my brush. The man moves two or three steps back and waits, fidgeting. I write the date in the corner followed by the usual characters, then place a square of blotting paper on top.
“Here you are,” I hesitantly call to the gray-haired man, who has now moved a little way off, and return his album. He hands me his three hundred yen, nods in thanks, and moves off. As he walks away, I see him open it up to check its newest entry, then turn back to glance at me, a look of astonishment on his face.
With nothing in particular to do, I decide to take stock of the office supplies. Noticing that we are down to the very last surplus page—the pages we pre-prepare for people who have come without their albums, so they can stick them in at a later date—I set about creating some more.
As I am writing away on those bits of paper, the priest’s wife pops in to see how I am getting on.
“Someone brought these around for us earlier.” She places a little paper-wrapped cake on the corner of my desk together with a cup of green tea, then stands there watching me, a satisfied expression on her face. “You know, there’s something about the way you write. It’s not just proficient—there’s something a little fierce, a little passionate about it. Fiery, I suppose you could say. It just goes to show that you really can’t judge a book by its cover.”
This isn’t the first time the priest’s wife has paid me a compliment of this kind. Though I’m not too sure what they mean, both the chief priest and his wife seem to be under the impression that my calligraphy is a perfect match for Oshichi.
After the priest’s wife leaves, I continue making the surplus pages. There are two other part-time workers at the temple, but they can’t do calligraphy, so it seems like a good idea to get a bunch done while I have the chance.
At some point, I realize that dusk is falling. Even on a cloudy day like today, the setting sun is a proper vivid red. On the other side of the sliding window, I keep on moving my brush in silence.
A New Recruit
I made my way through the entrance hall to find a lobby with a sofa and a cloakroom that appeared unattended. To my left was a staircase leading up to the first floor, but instead I continued walking down the long corridor that stretched straight ahead. The carpet with its throng
