“And mine.”
“Mine too.”
“Here, smell mine.”
“And here’s mine.”
Everyone pulled their water bottle out of their bag, one after the other, twisted off the cap, and held it up to the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s face.
The Woman in the Purple Skirt now found herself penned in by a ring of faces. Powerless, she glared silently at all the bottles held out in front of her.
But what was this? If I wasn’t mistaken, she was wiggling her nose. She really did appear to be smelling all the water bottles, going from one to the other, checking, quite carefully, whether any had alcohol in them. At this, everyone burst out laughing all over again.
“Can you believe this? Is she insane?”
It was only nine in the morning. The day’s work had not yet begun. Not one of the water bottles had a trace of alcohol in it.
Finally, the Woman in the Purple Skirt set her eyes on a water bottle just outside the circle of women. She bent forward to sniff it.
“You idiot!” Supervisor Tsukada scoffed. “She doesn’t even like alcohol!”
Just then, the Woman in the Purple Skirt, who had been keeping her eyes lowered, looked up.
“Can’t you tell?” Supervisor Tsukada continued. “Look at her! The face of a straitlaced prude, if I ever saw one!”
For a brief second, there we were, our eyes locked.
The Woman in the Purple Skirt was the first to avert her eyes. She threw a quick glance at my water bottle, which still had its cap screwed on. But that was as far as she was going to go.
“Are you satisfied now?” Supervisor Tsukada said. “Not one of us is doing anything we have to feel the least bit guilty about. Except, that is, for you.”
“You should admit your own guilt before slinging mud at other people!”
“Exactly! Why not do it? If you own up now, the manager says you’ll have nothing to answer for!”
“Or do you want us to report you? Is that it?”
“Oh now, don’t give us that dirty look!”
“If you have something on your mind, just say it!”
The Woman in the Purple Skirt stood her ground, staring angrily at everyone, but then, all of a sudden, she turned and made a dash toward a side door.
“Hey! Come back! Where do you think you’re going!”
“What about your work?”
But the Woman in the Purple Skirt was gone, never to return.
That evening, after work, I headed over to the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s dilapidated apartment.
I’d taken it for granted that she would be at home, but no lights were on. I strained my ears listening right outside the door, but there was not a peep.
For a while I hung around by a wall at the side of the road, to see if anything would happen. After thirty minutes, I thought I might check out the park, but just as I was getting ready to go I noticed a car making its way along the deserted street in my direction.
The black car came to a stop in front of the apartment building. I was quite familiar with this car. Today was a Monday. I made a quick note (“Visited”) in my diary.
The driver’s-side door opened, and out came the director. I got a good view of his dark shape, even more rotund than ever, slowly ascending the external stairs to the second floor.
The director stopped outside the apartment farthest from the stairs and knocked softly. Again and again he knocked, for about ten minutes. Then, suddenly, a light came on, visible in the previously dark window. The door opened, and through the crack I caught a glimpse of the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s face. So she had been home after all.
After a brief exchange, the director stepped forward and attempted to go inside. The Woman in the Purple Skirt stopped him, obviously angry.
“Don’t you dare come in here . . . !”
Then I heard her ask, “How was Ishigaki Island?” referring to the trip he’d taken with his wife for their tenth anniversary. Someone must have told her what the supervisors had talked about this morning. The trip was clearly news to her.
“Why do you bring that up?” the director shouted. “It’s irrelevant!”
She too shouted. “It’s relevant to me!”
“I didn’t come to talk about that, but about another thing!” the director yelled.
“Well, what is it? What is it you need to talk to me about?!”
“The things you’ve been stealing.” And here the director lowered his voice.
“So, even you think I did it?”
“Well, I mean, I have seen . . .” The director glanced inside her room. “You do have stuff from the hotel here. Cups . . . glasses . . .”
“These are for me to use,” the Woman in the Purple Skirt retorted. “Why would I sell any of these?”
“Also, well—the elementary school where the items were being sold is only a few blocks from here.”
“I’m telling you, I would never do such a thing!”
“Shush. Keep your voice down.”
“Did it not occur to you that someone else may be selling those items? Why do you assume it’s me? I know—it’s because you don’t love me anymore. That’s why you went to Ishigaki Island with your wife. . . .”
“I told you, don’t bring Ishigaki Island into this!” There was a smack. The director had slapped the Woman in the Purple Skirt across the face.
“Ow!” the Woman in the Purple Skirt yelled. “That really hurt! Ow!”
“Look, sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. Please, calm down and listen to me for a minute. The fact is, I’m under suspicion too. They know about my affair with you, and they think I’m the mastermind behind it all! That’s what they’re all whispering. Ridiculous, isn’t it? Impossible! Why would I sell something in a bazaar? Oh God, what a mess! I’m really in for it!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, how else could you look at it? You must know why I’ve come today. . . . You don’t? Well, let me spell it out for you. I want you to write out a formal statement.”
“A
