As for what was going on behind that locked door, well, needless to say she was dusting, wiping, washing, and vacuuming—but she was also indulging in a few other activities. Helping herself to a cup of coffee, snacking on the selection of (noncomplimentary) mixed nuts and chocolates. Maybe cramming her mouth full of what remained of the sandwiches the guests had ordered from room service. Or just relaxing on the bed, lying around and watching TV, or even falling asleep and taking a little nap. Or filling the bathtub with a little water so she could soak her feet. Maybe she was even taking a sip of champagne. Whenever she emerged from a room that had been locked, she usually had her mouth full of something.
This was the real reason she had—to use the staff’s words—filled out and now looked so healthy. So it wasn’t due just to my shampoo that her hair, once so stiff and dry, now had such shine and bounce. I guess this is what happens when people get all the nutrition they need—they really do start to look all glossy and new.
But then, on another occasion, I overheard talk like this.
“You know Hino-san. She’s looking quite pretty these days. Do you think she might have had plastic surgery?” I assumed this was meant as a compliment.
“Come on. That’s just makeup,” another member of the staff spoke up.
“Hmm. So she’s learned how to conceal her flaws.”
“Uh-huh. She sure has.”
“And she’s quick about her work.”
“Uh-huh. She sure is.”
“‘If you want a job done urgently, ask Hino-chan. It’ll be done in seconds.’ That’s what the supervisors say.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s true. She is really quick.”
“But you know . . . sometimes I think she might be a bit too quick. . . .”
“Mm . . . Well, there is that.”
“I hate to say it . . . but . . . sometimes I think she might be cutting corners.”
“Me too. I so think that!”
“I’m sure the supervisors must know that about her. . . .”
“Oh, I’m sure. But what can you do? She’s their favorite.”
“You know what? I’ve noticed there is a real difference between how she greets us and how she greets the supervisors.”
“Yeah. It’s her tone of voice. It’s different.”
“She uses one tone of voice for us and another for them.”
“That’s exactly it.”
“And the way she leaves the carts. So messy!”
“Tell me about it. Any cart she uses, she’ll leave it without some amenity that the next person has to replenish.”
“A few days ago, she left me with a single bar of soap!”
“She never thinks about the person who has to use the cart after her. Just what serves her own needs.”
A few hours after I’d overheard this, I went secretly to tidy up the cart that the Woman in the Purple Skirt had been using that day. This was a while after she had punched her time card and gone home. Just as they’d said, her cart had only a single hairbrush on it, and the supply of shower caps was completely gone. Maybe she had intended to replenish them early the next morning, but—I suddenly realized—she was taking that day off. Meanwhile, I should mention, I was due to come in to work as normal. Already it was two weeks since our days off had coincided. I found it very frustrating that I had to rely on staff gossip to know how she was doing, but it was still better than being out of the loop altogether.
The only thing to do was to look forward to next month’s roster, when the schedules would be different.
But then another bit of gossip reached me.
This time it sprang from the mouths of the senior staff. And what I heard was so off-the-wall that I couldn’t believe it. The Woman in the Purple Skirt was apparently in a relationship with our director! Excuse me—what did you say? Our director? Who had a wife and a child? It had to be a lie.
“Oh, it’s true all right.” Supervisor Hamamoto was taking the wrapper off a boiled sweet.
“Did anyone actually see them?” This from Supervisor Tsukada. She was opening a packet of roasted kaki-no-tane crackers. The aroma of soy sauce filled the linen closet.
“Somebody did. Actually, several people. Apparently the director brings Hino-chan to work in his car every morning.”
“In his own car? No way! Really?!!”
The very next morning, I made it my business to investigate. And what they were saying—at least the last part—was true. The Woman in the Purple Skirt arrived to work in the director’s car. This had to be why I no longer saw her at the bus stop in the mornings. The director came straight to the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s apartment, picked her up, and drove her in. So that’s why she wasn’t coming to work on the bus.
But that didn’t necessarily mean they were in a relationship. All I had witnessed was the director arrive at her apartment in his black car at 8:00 a.m. and give a little toot of his horn, and then, several seconds later, the door of Apartment 201 had opened, and the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s face peered out. Smiling, she waved at the director and then, watching her step, walked gracefully down the stairs, opened the passenger door, and got in the car, after which the two of them exchanged a few words, she fastened her seat belt, and the director put the car into drive. That was all.
The question was, was there anything more than that? According to the rumors, at least, in the course of riding to work every morning in the same car, they had got more and more friendly, and finally ended up going out together. Was that really the case? I wondered.
It was a Sunday. Finally it was going to be the two of us together. For the first time in three weeks, the Woman in the Purple Skirt and I had the same day off. Seventy degrees and sixty percent humidity—a perfect day, blue skies, not a sign
