At 9:00 a.m., the Woman in the Purple Skirt opened her apartment door and emerged. She was made up quite heavily, I could tell, even from a distance. Her hair was even shinier than usual: she must have brushed it last night. She came down the stairs rather slowly, and then, once out on the road, quickened her pace. She headed for the nearest bus stop, her heels tip-tapping.
No one was at the bus stop, since it was a Sunday. Today the buses would be on the Sunday schedule—two an hour between 9:00 and 10:00 a.m.
At 9:14, exactly on time, the bus arrived, and she boarded. There was hardly anyone on it. The Woman in the Purple Skirt and I each selected our places, she choosing the third seat for individual passengers at the front of the bus, and I the long seat at the back. It had been some time since she and I were on the bus together. That in itself gave me quite a thrill. The Woman in the Purple Skirt spent the ride staring out the window, at one point taking her mirror out of her bag to study her face. Just once, I saw her get out a brand-new mobile phone (when had she bought that?), glance at the screen, and then, without pressing any buttons, put it back in her bag.
At 9:45, the bus arrived at the train station—our stop. We got off, the Woman in the Purple Skirt paying her fare, and I showing my commuter pass.
The Woman in the Purple Skirt headed into the shopping plaza next to the bus terminal. What could she want here? I wondered. But it turned out she was just passing through. From the ground floor she went down to the lower level, then up some stairs to the ground floor again, emerging right by the station. There was a shopping strip with bars and restaurants and souvenir shops, though none of them had opened yet for the day. The only place open was a coffee shop; all the other establishments had their shutters down. The Woman in the Purple Skirt approached the coffee shop, pushed the door open, and went inside.
There were two other customers. One was a man in late middle age, wearing a gray knit cap and having a friendly chat with the owner. The other wore what appeared to be a black baseball cap and was sitting at a table deep inside the shop, his back to the door.
The one in the baseball cap was the director. As soon as he saw the Woman in the Purple Skirt, he folded the newspaper he’d been reading and moved the shoulder bag he’d left on the seat across from his.
The shoulder bag was black, the same one he brought to work. The Woman in the Purple Skirt sat down. “Milk tea, please!” she said to the owner behind the counter.
She asked the director what he’d had to eat. Glancing at his plate, which he’d wiped clean, he said: “The morning set: coffee and toast with an omelet.”
“Oh, that sounds fabulous,” she said, staring at his plate.
At the exact moment the owner of the shop brought over the milk tea, the director looked at his watch. “We should get going,” he said.
“Oh, wait just one second. Let me have a sip,” the Woman in the Purple Skirt remonstrated. And she brought the milk tea to her lips.
When the director rose to go, he put on the sunglasses that had been on the table. They were very much like the sunglasses I often wear myself, but his looked more expensive. Well, what do you expect? I bought mine in the hundred-yen shop.
The director paid the bill at the register. Altogether the set breakfast (Set Breakfast B) and one milk tea came to 850 yen.
At 10:20 the two of them left the café and, arms linked, started walking along the shopping street. The stores were beginning to raise their shutters. The director seemed tense: he was looking around, obviously worried about being recognized. Meanwhile, the Woman in the Purple Skirt walked along without a care in the world. The more watchful the director became, the more tightly and happily the Woman in the Purple Skirt seemed to squeeze his arm. After nearly ten minutes, they found a certain building and entered. The sign read yokota cinema.
At 10:35, the Woman in the Purple Skirt purchased a Coca-Cola and a bucket of popcorn at the concession stand in the cinema foyer. No sooner had she done so than the director reached out, grabbed a handful of popcorn, and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Hey!” the Woman in the Purple Skirt pretended to scold him. The director laughed. As soon as they had entered the theater, the expression on his face seemed to visibly relax.
The tickets they’d purchased were for a double bill of Speed and Dirty Harry. I myself had seen only Speed. I seem to remember liking it, though it was a long time ago, and I could recall hardly anything about it.
The screening began at 10:45. First up was Speed. As I watched, it came back to me bit by bit. I had remembered the vehicle wired up with a bomb being a train, but it turned out to be a bus—although the action does switch to a train in the last part of the movie. The Woman in the Purple Skirt was transfixed, her eyes glued to the screen—she didn’t touch the popcorn. The director, however, fidgeted constantly. He snacked on the popcorn, sipped at the Coca-Cola, scratched his face, nuzzled the shoulder of the Woman in the Purple Skirt with his nose, enjoying how it smelled (at least this is how it appeared to me), stretched his neck from side to side, yawned, and in the end fell asleep and snored. The Woman in the Purple Skirt gave him a glance, just once, but otherwise her attention didn’t waver from the screen.
At 12:45,
