Just then, the two of them got up from their seats. To go to the restroom, I assumed. But they didn’t come back for the longest time. I went out to the lobby to see what they were doing, and just managed to catch sight of their receding figures, outside, heading toward the train station. In a panic, I hurried after them.
In distinct contrast to the morning, the streets were now packed with people. And the Woman in the Purple Skirt decided to reveal her special ability to the director.
“Watch me,” she told him, and then she turned her back to him and made her way, with quick, gliding movements, just like an ice-skater, through the crowds.
The director laughed heartily. “Good! Very good!” he said, applauding from afar. The Woman in the Purple Skirt smiled brightly, looking back over her shoulder, and then waited for him to catch up. When he’d reached her, she set off again, smoothly threading herself through the crowds. Again she stopped, glanced back at him, and waited for him to catch up, smiling delightedly. The scenario was repeated again and again. Whenever the Woman in the Purple Skirt had her back to him, the director readjusted his baseball cap repeatedly.
At 1:00 p.m., the two of them stood in front of one of the chain bookshops just by the station, browsing the books laid out in boxes for passersby. The director was paging through a monthly lifestyle magazine with “Special Issue on Ramen” in big letters on the cover; the Woman in the Purple Skirt had her head in a film magazine. But rather than reading her magazine, she kept peering over at his—she did this every time the director turned a page. I couldn’t hear them, but reading her lips, I could tell she was saying, “Oh, wow, that looks so good!” It seemed they were going to have ramen for lunch.
At 1:10 they left the bookstore, and the place they headed to next was at the end of a little alley, which they entered after walking through the area of shops and restaurants near the station. It was a twenty-four-hour izakaya, where they serve alcohol and cheap snacks. So they weren’t going to have ramen for lunch.
The director greeted the staff casually—Domo!—as he pushed his way through the split curtains in the doorway. The place was jam-packed, even though it was a Sunday (or maybe because it was a Sunday). I perched myself on a stool at the far end of the counter.
“Suimasen!” the director barked. He signaled to the staff that he wanted to order. This, this, and this, he said. He was the one who decided what they’d have; the Woman in the Purple Skirt sat in silence. Amid the hubbub of all the customers, the director’s loud, easy laughter occasionally reached my ears; I heard not a peep from the Woman in the Purple Skirt. It seemed the director was a regular here. About an hour after coming into the izakaya, he turned to one of the chefs working at the other end of the bar and barked, “Suimasen!” again. “Get me some of that spicy stuff you know I like!” That spicy stuff? What was that? Ah, menma: chili-marinated bamboo shoots.
The director was really knocking back the drinks. In the time that the Woman in the Purple Skirt had had two lemon sours, he’d managed to down seven glasses of beer. At some point, an obviously inebriated person sitting next to them inquired: “Excuse me for asking, but would you mind telling me the story of the two of you?”
The director went bright red. “What do you think? Have a guess.”
“Aw, okay. Well, are you her dad?”
“Correct!” the director declared.
Next, they ate a pot of kimchi gukbap. Surely they had to have eaten their fill by now, I thought. But no: to cap things off, they ordered a single toasted rice ball. This they ate together, intimately, sharing the same plate, breaking off morsels with their chopsticks.
It was 4:45. They had been eating and drinking for three and a half hours. They emerged from the tavern and onto the shopping street full of restaurants and bars, walked past the station, and headed straight for the bus terminal. The Woman in the Purple Skirt didn’t seem too bad—she was quite steady on her feet—but the director appeared to be zonked. They were propping each other up as they walked, and as I followed them, I glanced behind me a few times: I hadn’t actually paid for the three glasses of beer, the dish of foil-baked enoki mushrooms, or the soy sauce–marinated firefly squid I’d had at the izakaya, and was worried that one of the waiters would come chasing after me, but fortunately nothing like that happened.
At 5:01, the Woman in the Purple Skirt spoke briefly to the director, who was now slumped on a bench in the bus terminal. Without waiting for a reply, she headed toward the little kiosk and came back with a bottle of some sports drink. She sat down next to him, took off the cap, and handed the drink to the director. He took a swig, and then they proceeded to take swigs from the bottle in turn.
Almost immediately a bus came. The 5:05. But they didn’t board it. The director was looking pale, and he was making some sort of appeal or excuse to the Woman in the Purple Skirt, waving his hand in front of his face. “If I get on now, I think I’ll throw up.” Almost immediately after that, the director hurried off to the men’s room. The Woman in the Purple Skirt sat down on the bench, a lonely little figure, and enjoyed the last few sips of the sports drink. Then she looked down at her lap
