At 5:15 the director returned, looking refreshed. “Sorry! Sorry to keep you waiting!” he said, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. Now it was the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s turn to visit the restroom. Finding himself alone, the director began tapping away at his cell phone. Suddenly he looked up, as if just remembering something, and patted the top of his head. “Oh God. I don’t have it,” he said. He undid the buckles of his shoulder bag. “Ah, here it is.” He pulled out his baseball cap and put it on. Then he started rummaging around again. “Oh God. Where are they? . . . Where are they? . . . Where are they?”
This time, though, it was a lost cause. He was looking for his fancy sunglasses. The ones he’d left in the izakaya, up against the wall on the table they’d been sitting at. The sunglasses I was wearing at that very moment, in fact. They were very nice—so much nicer than my cheapo ones. So sleek and lightweight—especially when you considered their size. With tomohiro embossed in gold letters on the inside of the arms.
After going through his bag countless times, the director eventually gave up. He buckled his bag, and then pulled his cap down hard over his eyes.
At 5:35 a bus pulled in. The seats were all occupied by high school girls carrying tennis rackets. Shall we let this one go, too? I saw the Woman in the Purple Skirt ask the director. No, let’s get on, he replied.
They boarded the bus. I also got on, letting one person, then another, then another, get on before me. The two of them stood in the narrow aisle: I also stood, though with my back turned. I had ended up right next to them. It was quite safe, though. The closer I was, the more unlikely they were to be aware of me. Behind me I heard them having a conversation. It went something like this.
Woman in the Purple Skirt: “I’m wondering what I should get my niece for her birthday.”
Director: “You still haven’t decided?”
Woman in the Purple Skirt: “No.”
Director: “How about a stuffed animal?”
Woman in the Purple Skirt: “Yes, that might do. . . .”
Director: “She’s the one-year-old, right?”
Woman in the Purple Skirt: “No, that’s my nephew. My niece is six.”
Director: “Oh. Oh yeah. You told me.”
Was that the best they could do? On and on they went, prattling about what she should buy her niece. In the end she decided she would consult her older brother on her next visit home.
Her older brother. So she had a family.
I was pretty sure the director had a daughter, who would be going to elementary school next year, but she didn’t come up in the conversation. I assumed the Woman in the Purple Skirt was aware that the director was a father? Well, I suppose I myself had only just learned that the Woman in the Purple Skirt had a family. An older brother, and a niece, and a nephew.
At 6:05 they got off the bus. It was the usual stop—the view up the street that I always saw. Holding hands, the two of them walked along, just a few feet ahead of me. They crossed at the crosswalk, proceeded right through the arcade, and then a little ways ahead entered the bakery she knew so well. The Woman in the Purple Skirt took a tray, and on it they put two cream buns and a pack of sandwiches bound in plastic wrap. The Woman in the Purple Skirt paid. Altogether, the purchase came to 740 yen.
As of yet, not a single person had noticed her. How would they all react, I wondered—when they realized that the woman in this couple nestling so close together was actually the Woman in the Purple Skirt?
“Hey, guys! The Woman in the Purple Skirt has come home—with a man!”
As I imagined it, the first person to become aware of this would be a fellow pedestrian walking along the street. In a frenzy, he would dash into a nearby shop and, breath ragged with excitement, announce the news to the proprietor, who would then go and tell the proprietor of the shop next door, who would then go and tell the proprietor of the shop next to his. The customers would all hurriedly set aside their shopping and rush outside, and all the other pedestrians would quickly part ways to give the approaching couple room to pass. With throngs of people on either side of the street, it would be as if the couple had just got married and were walking down the aisle. “Congratulations!” someone in the crowd would shout, unable to hold himself back a moment longer. The children, who until that moment would have been hanging back in the shadows of the signboards lining the street, would all hop about merrily, putting their fingers in their mouths and giving wolf whistles. The shopkeepers would all press forward and shower the Woman in the Purple Skirt with presents. “Please, dear!” they would cry affectionately. “A little gift from us!” From the fishmonger, a whole carp; from the florist, a bunch of roses; from the sake shop, a massive bottle of sake. All of a sudden—perhaps it had been waiting on standby—a TV camera would zoom in for a close-up of the couple’s faces. A microphone would be thrust in their direction. “Tell us how you’re feeling right now!” And the Woman in the Purple Skirt would turn to face the camera. . . . But just then, briefly, something else would flash up in the camera’s field of view. What the hell is that?
“Oh no! It’s not, is it?!”
“It’s the Woman in the Yellow Cardigan!”
• • •
As they emerged from the bakery, the couple once again joined hands and started walking along the road. I waited while they walked about thirty feet. But no one showed any reaction at all.
On they walked, sometimes holding hands, sometimes
