“Such a waste!” the woman said softly, looking at them. “It’s only been here fifty years . . .” Then she continued in a surprisingly matter-of-fact manner. “Still, I can’t wait to see what the new building’s going to be like! They’re making it into a skyscraper, by all accounts. It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? I wonder how it’ll turn out.”
She glanced up at the ceiling, as if she really was trying and failing to imagine what it would like. “I came here with my husband when it had just been built, you see. ‘Showa Modern,’ they called this style of architecture—a blend of the East and the West. It was the height of fashion back then, and we were ever so taken with it. We always came here on special occasions, when we wanted to splash out a bit, you know. Such wonderful memories.”
As she spoke, her speech punctuated with little giggles, I nodded encouragingly. I sometimes felt envious of people like her, who’d lived in a time where the ultimate luxury was to get dressed up and dine out in a hotel for some special occasion, in a way that people of my generation would never think of doing. Back then, when they still had advertising balloons tethered to roofs, people would go shopping in department stores. They would eat omurice in the department store cafeterias, ride on the big observation wheels situated on the tops of the buildings. There were hardly any department stores with big wheels on their roofs now.
“That’s why I came here, you see. I was in an old people’s home for the last few years of my life, and during that time my children took over the house I’d been living in and had it renovated. I’m not resentful, mind. I’ve only good memories of this place, and with all the people coming and going, there’s not been a dull moment.”
“I totally understand.”
I looked at the elegant woman sitting in front of me with her olive-green two-piece ensemble and her pearl necklace, her knees in their pearlescent stockings so neatly aligned. She’d have worn this when she came here with her husband, I thought. Deciding it was time to get down to business, I started, somewhat nervously:
“As I’ve mentioned before, we’d like to invite you to come to us while the main building is being renovated. Of course, I know that you could just move to the annex, but I thought it might be good for you to try out somewhere new. Have a change of scenery, you know. You could come back here once this place is renovated, or, of course, we’d be more than delighted for you to stay with us, if you decide to do so. We have women with all kinds of different talents at our company, and someone like you would be most welcome. You don’t have to make a big commitment; you can just try it out and see what it’s like. What do you think? Of course, I don’t mean to pressure you.”
I looked her straight in the eyes as I spoke. For whatever reason, I’ve never been good at smiling on demand, not even in a professional context. All I could do was to speak as earnestly as possible.
“Yes, I suppose that’s an idea.” The woman brought her wrinkled white hand up to her wrinkled white cheek and a dreamy look came over her face. In this posture, she looked just like a little girl, although the middle finger of the hand resting on her cheek was adorned with a silver ring with a big glinting emerald. It made me think of the flyers for jewelry shops that one used to find inside newspapers along with all the other promotional leaflets. Now you rarely ever saw such flyers. When I’d first learned how to use scissors, I would cut out each and every one of the gems pictured in those leaflets, even the tiny, fussy ones. The rings with the spiky edges were my chance to show off my cutting skills. I refused to throw away the precious gemstones I’d cut out, storing them in an empty cookie tin instead. One time, I remembered, I’d presented my mom with a ruby ring that I’d cut out particularly well. She’d seemed genuinely pleased.
“Yes, maybe that would be best. In that case, perhaps I’ll come to you when I’ve finished up here. That’s okay, isn’t it? I’d like to stay here until the very end, you see.”
“Yes, by all means. That would be marvelous, thank you.”
Before I knew what I was doing, I got to my feet and gave her a low, respectful bow.
“Oh, come now, don’t be silly! I should be the one thanking you for agreeing to take on an old lady like me.”
“Not at all, not at all.”
She smiled slightly as if she found the whole interaction amusing, but I knew that she was simply unaware of the extent of her own powers. Having met so many of these kinds of women over the years, I’d come to realize that they consistently underestimate their abilities. Even with the knowledge of their full capabilities, they still fail to value themselves.
I sat down, scratching my head in slight embarrassment, and we chatted away for a while before she piped up. “Your Japanese is really excellent, Mr. Tei.”
“Thank you,” I said, glancing away. In doing so, I saw that the restaurant had now opened.
I was raised in Japan, so my Japanese isn’t noticeably different from the average Japanese person’s, and yet I’m often complimented on my Japanese—I suppose because of my name, which is noticeably un-Japanese-sounding, and my appearance. In my teens, this often left me feeling ostracized, but at some point it ceased to bother me. Nonetheless, it
