I know I said the Woman in the Purple Skirt reminded me of my sister. But actually, I think I was wrong. And she’s not like that figure skater turned celebrity either. The person she most reminds me of is Mei-chan, a friend I had in elementary school. A girl who used to wear her hair in long braids secured with red elastic bands. Mei-chan’s father came from China. Just a day or so before our elementary school graduation ceremony, Mei-chan’s entire family had to go back to Shanghai, the father’s home city. When the Woman in the Purple Skirt sits motionless on her bench, she reminds me of Mei-chan during swimming class. Not even looking at the rest of us as we swam around in the pool, but just sitting, hunched over, picking at her nails. Mei-chan? No . . . Could it be you? We lost touch after you returned to China, but . . . have you really come back all this way . . . to see me . . . ?
Come on—don’t kid yourself. Mei-chan was a friend, but we were never actually close. We probably played together one or two times—at most. But Mei-chan was kind to me. I remember what she said about a picture I drew of a dog. “You’ve drawn that tail really well!” Child as I was, I felt so in awe of her. If anybody was good at drawing, it was Mei-chan. She always said she wanted to be a painter when she grew up. And that’s exactly what she became. Fuan-Chun Mei, the Chinese painter who was brought up in Japan, and who just three years ago came back to Japan and had a solo exhibition. I saw a newspaper article about it. The woman standing in front of her paintings and smiling was definitely Mei-chan, even if she was no longer the little girl who wore her hair in braids. Ah yes, that’s her, that’s Mei-chan: the same big, bright eyes, the same beauty mark just below her nose.
The Woman in the Purple Skirt has small eyes that look sunken and narrow. She has age spots, yes, but not a single beauty mark.
If we’re talking about eyes, the Woman in the Purple Skirt reminds me of Arishima-san, my classmate in junior high school. Personality-wise, Arishima-san is probably one of a kind, but eye-wise, she is the spitting image. I was terrified of Arishima-san. She had her hair bleached blond like a real tough girl, she shoplifted, she extorted money from people, and she was violent. She carried a long knife like a Japanese sword everywhere she went. I think she was probably the most dangerous person I have ever met. Her parents, her teachers, even the police—no one knew what to do with her. I don’t know why, but she once gave me a stick of plum-flavored chewing gum. I felt a poke in my back and heard someone say, “Want some gum?” That was the first time I looked at Arishima-san head-on. Those small, sunken, narrow eyes, those downwardly sloping eyebrows . . . For a second, I didn’t know whom I was looking at.
I took the gum without saying anything. Why didn’t I at least thank her? I assumed the gum was poisoned, and chucked it in a garbage can in front of a sake shop on my way home.
Why would it have been poisoned? I should have just started chewing it right there. The next day, I could have given her a piece of candy. Well, too late now. Arishima-san left school as soon as she could, after junior high, and immediately started hanging out with hoodlums. Rumor had it that she eventually got involved in pimping and drug dealing, and threw herself into gangster life. She’s probably in jail now. On death row, maybe. Which means that the Woman in the Purple Skirt can’t be her.
Oh, actually, there’s another person the Woman in the Purple Skirt reminds me of. She’s a regular commentator on afternoon TV shows. The manga artist who draws cutesy little cartoons about a ghost—and, just recently, illustrations for children’s books. As she always says, it sounds so much better to be an “illustrator” than a “cartoonist,” doesn’t it? She’s the one with the husband who is also a manga artist. What’s his name? I can’t remember.
Oh no, wait. The person the Woman in the Purple Skirt really reminds me of is the checkout girl in the supermarket near where I used to live. The woman who one day asked out of the blue whether I was okay. It was when things had hit rock bottom for me: I almost collapsed as I took my change from her. The next day, when I went again to the supermarket, she recognized me and called out a friendly greeting. I could never go back to that supermarket.
But recently, on a visit to the library in my old neighborhood, I dropped by the supermarket, for old times’ sake, and took a peek inside. There she stood, in her usual place by the cash register. She looked well. I noticed yet another badge on the front of her uniform.
I think what I’m trying to say is that I’ve been wanting to become friends with the Woman in the Purple Skirt for a very long time.
I should add that i’ve already checked out where the Woman in the Purple Skirt lives. I did that quite a long time ago. It’s a ramshackle old
