The Woman in the Purple Skirt let out a little laugh. That same ingratiating chuckle.
“Well, they are only going to be thrown away otherwise. It’s a waste.” Then, addressing Supervisor Hamamoto and Supervisor Tachibana, she said:
“It’s fine. Isn’t it, you two?”
They nodded.
“Absolutely.”
“No housewife worth her salt would allow food that’s still edible to be thrown away. Unforgivable.”
Supervisor Hamamoto and Supervisor Tachibana each brought out what they were carrying in their tote bags to show the Woman in the Purple Skirt: a green orin apple and an orange, and an orange and a banana. These were all leftovers from the supply of fruit that the hotel provided for guests.
“If anyone says anything, you can say housekeeping had already disposed of it.”
“That’s right.”
“Just make sure the director doesn’t see.” Supervisor Tsukada again put a finger to her lips and said, “Shh!”
“Don’t worry about it, nobody will say a thing,” interjected Supervisor Hamamoto. She pointed at Supervisor Tachibana. “I mean, look at her. It’s an open secret that she fills her water bottle with the champagne that guests leave behind. And no one in charge has ever found out!”
“Is that true?” the Woman in the Purple Skirt asked politely, looking shocked.
“Of course not! She’s just making it up!” Supervisor Tachibana waved a hand in front of her face, laughing.
“Oh, it’s true all right! You see that blue water bottle she carries around? It’s got champagne in it! You just watch: she’ll take a sip from it, and then—mmm tum-tum-tum—smack her lips!”
“Oh stop! It’s not true,” protested Supervisor Tachibana.
There was a suppressed snort, followed by an outright laugh, from the Woman in the Purple Skirt. This time it wasn’t just polite laughter. For the first time I heard the Woman in the Purple Skirt laugh and really mean it.
“Would you like to take this home?” Supervisor Tsukada asked the Woman in the Purple Skirt, holding out an orange that she’d pulled out of the pocket of her dress.
“Is it all right? Is that allowed?”
“Of course! Haven’t I made that clear? Each of us has already taken one orange anyway.”
“But what about . . .” For some reason the Woman in the Purple Skirt seemed to feel she shouldn’t. She glanced quickly at someone else, standing a little way away, behind Supervisor Tsukada. Supervisor Tsukada followed her eyes.
“O-oh. Don’t worry about her. It’s fine. She hates fruit.”
“Is that true?”
“Of course it is. Right, Supervisor Gondo?”
“Well, if it really is all right. Thank you. I will take the orange,” the Woman in the Purple Skirt said, and gave a little bob of her head.
The Woman in the Purple Skirt took the apple and the orange offered to her by Supervisor Tsukada, hid them in the folds of her black dress, and headed to the locker room to change. Walking past the office, she leaned forward and called out, “Otsukare-sama desu!” like the embodiment of the dutiful new recruit. The regular staff members, apparently forgetting all their scorn at the morning meeting, called out the required exhortations. “Good work today!” “Give it your best tomorrow too!”
It was the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s second day at work. Today she took the 8:02 bus, the one after the bus she took the day before. During the week, the bus comes every twenty minutes. The earlier bus gets you in with too much time to spare before the morning meeting. But the later one means you end up arriving late for work. The Woman in the Purple Skirt took the middle one, and punched in at 8:52.
This morning the Woman in the Purple Skirt delivered her greetings in a ringing voice. “Ohayo gozaimasu!” she called out when she entered the office. And again, when she opened the door to the locker room: “Ohayo gozaimasu!”
The director and other members of the staff glanced up. “Ohayo!” they replied. An approving little smile appeared on the face of the director, who was no doubt pleased with how effective his coaching had been.
Some of the staff asked her how she was today—whether her body was stiff or sore anywhere. “No!” she replied cheerfully. “I’m quite all right!” For my part I knew for a fact that every muscle of hers must be aching. Her shoulders, her arms, her hips, her legs. As she waited for the bus, I had seen her tilt her neck from side to side till her vertebrae popped, a little frown on her face.
Today, day two, the Woman in the Purple Skirt changed quickly into her work uniform. Yesterday she had taken quite a lot of time, but today she seemed to have it all down pat. It looked like she had put on her tights at home. The ties of her apron were drawn over her shoulders in a neat X across her back, without a single twist.
Looking at herself in the mirror on the inside of the locker door, the Woman in the Purple Skirt began brushing her hair. I noticed the brush she was using had the hotel logo on the handle. Yesterday Supervisor Tsukada had told her to take anything she fancied from the hotel amenities, and she had picked out this hairbrush as well as some cotton swabs. Every stroke of the brush sent a strong gust of “fresh floral” fragrance wafting into my nostrils.
Just before she left the locker room, the Woman in the Purple Skirt did some simple stretches. Grunting softly, she executed a few knee bends and a few rolls of her shoulder blades. It actually looked as if she were in quite a bit of pain. I knew that it wasn’t just her work at the hotel that was to blame. The truth was that after work, the Woman in the Purple Skirt had spent a full ninety minutes literally running around.
Yesterday, just under half the hotel rooms were booked. Having punched out at 3:30 p.m., the Woman in the Purple Skirt boarded
