Just as I was thinking how all of this was rather different to what I had imagined, I came across the shopping arcade. Unfolding on either side of me was a row of small shops: exclusive boutiques catering to wealthy ladies; a shoeshine place with a stylish sign; a shop selling a famous brand of cosmetic blotting paper; and then, at the very end of the corridor, a reception desk for an outdoor pool.
As I drew closer to the glass wall, decorated with colorful pictures of palm trees and such, I could see a young woman in a bikini facing this way, addressing a staff member at the counter. His colleague next to him looked away, bored. Near the counter, opposite another pane of glass that separated the indoor pool from the outdoor one, a man in shorts and a short-sleeved linen shirt was watching their interaction. I guessed he must be the woman’s father.
Perhaps sensing eyes on her, the girl turned around to look at me, then twisted her bare leg in discomfort. I found it rather funny that, though we were only separated by a sheet of glass, there she was in a bikini while I was in my suit. I averted my eyes. This year, as for many years now, I have had no contact whatsoever with swimming pools—or with the sea, for that matter.
At the very end of the passage was a door that appeared to lead through to the annex, but knowing that renovations were under way in that section of the building, I turned around without opening it. After retracing my steps, wondering what was going to become of all these stores as I did so, I found myself again at the entrance through which I’d come in.
I didn’t understand. Could this really be the hotel whose planned refurbishment was causing such an outcry? Although I didn’t dislike it in its existing form, from what I’d seen of it thus far there was nothing exceptional about it that needed to be preserved, and the decision to renovate it seemed totally reasonable. I couldn’t see any sign of the section that everyone had been talking about.
At a loss, I walked over to the cloakroom and there, among the leaflets displayed in a row along the counter, I found one whose cover photograph showed the very spot I was looking for. I picked it up, then headed down the corridor again until I ran into an employee coming out of the banquet room.
“Excuse me. How do I get here?” I said, indicating the cover of the leaflet.
The man nodded and said, “Ah, that’s the new wing you want. We’re in the main building at the moment. The lighting’s very similar, so they’re easily confused. You’ll find the lobby for the new wing on the fourth floor.”
“The fourth floor?” I said in surprise.
The man kindly showed me to the elevators before bowing and moving off. Seamlessly taking over from him, an elderly gentleman standing in front of the elevator smiled and opened the doors for me.
Inside the elevator, my eyes were drawn toward the large flowers woven across that small square of carpet, but I couldn’t identify them. The feeling that I was trampling them made me somewhat uneasy, so I deliberately looked up. Was this how Tom Thumb had felt, I wondered, or the inch-high samurai?
The elevator reached the fourth floor in no time, and as I walked out through the open doors, to my right I saw the lobby whose pictures I’d seen several times online and in magazines. Just a glimpse was enough to understand why people would be mourning its disappearance.
On my way to the hotel, I’d walked past Toranomon Hospital and ascended the hill, then come in through the first entrance I’d seen, but I realized now that I’d used the entrance reserved for banquet guests. Had I only continued farther up the hill and come in through the main entrance, I’d have encountered this lobby right away.
By the entrance was a long reception counter behind which the desk staff and the concierge stood, and beside it was a rather stylish newspaper rack. To its side, behind a centrally positioned arrangement of large rocks and ikebana, was a luxuriously spacious salon. Around each of the round low tables, amply spaced out across the brown-and-beige-latticed carpet, a cluster of four or five armchairs were positioned like petals around a flower, entreating people to sit back and admire the view. Pretty lights strung together in rows were suspended from the ceiling and the walls were decorated with intricate patterns.
As I trod my path inside this gorgeous field of flowers, a woman on one of the sofas placed in the corners of the room—apparently a few of the petals had come loose and were floating free—looked up at me from her paperback. She was a petite woman with a softly sculpted bob. I made my way over in her direction, and her mouth, painted a pretty shade of coral, formed itself into a smile.
“You must be Mr. Tei,” she said.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
The woman extended a milk-white palm to indicate the sofa opposite, and I sat down facing her. I presented her with my business card and introduced myself properly.
“I’m sorry to have brought you here on such a chaotic day,” she said with a smile.
“Chaotic, you say?”
“Well, all these people who’ve come to say their last goodbyes.”
Looking around me, I saw that there were indeed a fair number of people in the lobby, taking photos with their phones and digital cameras. A well-dressed woman with an expensive-looking SLR strode past us. It seemed
