Mondays and Thursdays. Very possibly the arrangement is that on those days he at least pays a visit, even if he stays the night only sometimes.
The next day, the Woman in the Purple Skirt smells even more overpoweringly of that perfume. As she opens the door to the café, the other staff screw up their faces in disgust, hold their fingers to their nose, and, as if at a given signal, all get up to leave. With her usual look of utter indifference, the Woman in the Purple Skirt sits herself down at the six-person table they have just vacated and quietly pours herself a complimentary cup of hojicha.
If this was what things were like for her at work, what about where she lived? I’m afraid that things had changed here too. The Woman in the Purple Skirt had stopped coming to the park as soon as she started her relationship with the director. At first the children would look upset not to see her—“Mayu-san hasn’t come today either. . . .” But after two weeks, her name stopped passing their lips. Now they had an entirely new form of amusement: unicycles. Not every child had a unicycle of their own: there were only two in total. They would amuse themselves in their usual ways, taking turns pedaling or dividing themselves into teams and having relays all around the park. As the races reached a fever pitch, occasionally the riders would come spilling out onto the sidewalk and the road. The cars would blare their horns, and passersby would make disagreeable faces, but the children would not be deterred from their games. The route took them first to the elementary school and then back to the park. Along the way they would pass a heavily perfumed woman who stood at the pay phones in front of the convenience store. Little did they realize that she was the “Mayu-san” they used to know.
And see how their old friend “Mayu-san” now has long, pointed scarlet fingernails. With those sharp nails of hers, “Mayu-san” taps at the buttons on the pay phone’s keypad. After dialing, she quickly replaces the receiver. Calls, then hangs up. Calls again, hangs up again. Calls, then hangs up. Calls, waits, then quickly hangs up. After replacing the receiver, she sighs and tuts with chagrin. On her days off, every hour she has is spent making such calls. In the early morning, late at night . . . No matter the time of day. Again and again she calls—and again, and again. Calls, then almost immediately hangs up. I have watched her do it so many times that now even I know the director’s telephone number by heart.
The woman in the Purple Skirt seems to be going through the most terrible time. She is distraught. She doesn’t know what to do.
She is upset nearly every hour of the day. And what’s more, she’s all alone in her distress. Because what is causing it is not something you can actually confide in other people. And anyway, who is there that she could confide in? She still doesn’t have a single close friend.
As far as I can tell, though, she’s determined to keep denying whatever it is that she has with the director. Apparently, if anyone asks her even jokingly whether they might be having an affair, she furiously denies it.
“. . . and then she said: ‘No, we are not having a relationship!’”
“Ha ha! I can totally picture her when you say it like that.”
“Does she really think people don’t see through that?”
“So dishonest. . . .”
“Hey, you know how when she’s cleaning a room she locks the door from the inside? Don’t you think that’s kind of gross? I mean, she could be doing anything in there . . . !”
“Yeah, she’s probably got the director in there with her . . . ! Ha ha ha.”
“Shh!”
As soon as the Woman in the Purple Skirt stepped into the elevator, everyone fell silent. The moment she stepped out, everyone resumed talking.
“Oh my God! What a stink! Like rotten bananas!”
“And did you see those nails? The color of blood!”
“Somebody told me the manager took her aside and gave her a talking-to. If she breaks any more rules, he said, apparently she’ll be out on her backside.”
“Well, I hope she does get tossed out on her backside—and quickly. Did you hear what she’s getting paid?”
“How much?”
“Well, I heard one thousand five hundred yen per hour! Can you believe that?!”
The gossip being spread about her grew worse every day—and more and more exaggerated. And the more it swirled, the more pitiless the other staff members became.
But then, just when they had decided they could not have the director’s little lady friend running roughshod over them a moment longer—if she didn’t get the sack, they were going to take the matter directly to the head office—a certain rather decisive event occurred.
It was reported that some of the products for sale at one of the elementary school bazaars were suspiciously like the complimentary items offered to hotel guests.
The person who made the report did not leave a name. Immediately an official from the hotel rushed over to the school to investigate, and confirmed that the items were indeed taken from the hotel. Ten bath towels, ten hand towels, and five bath mats—exactly what had gone missing the previous month.
And who had been selling them? Some children enrolled at that very school.
Each of the children apparently gave the same explanation. “We only set up a stall because we were asked to—by someone else.” A woman, they said, had promised that she would reward them with some pocket money.
“It’s not that we suspect any of you.” It was a Monday. The hotel manager looked strangely calm as he began to speak. This was the second meeting he had attended this month. “The cleaning
