It was an enormous amount of stuff, but it wasn’t everything—I resigned myself to leaving items that were too big to fit in the locker, and I’d also left a few things that didn’t look like they’d serve any practical purpose for the way I was going to live.
Surely there was something here among the stuff I’d left behind that I could exchange for some quick cash? I spent several hours groping around in the darkness, finally discovering at the very back of a closet a cookie tin etched with the word “Memories.” By this time I’d long missed the last bus.
I was beginning to think I’d have done better just to walk to the station, but when I opened the tin I found a wooden key chain in the shape of a palm tree, an anime postcard, and a commemorative coin issued for an expo held some years ago.
The next morning I boarded the first bus of the day, with this commemorative coin gripped tightly in my fist.
When I tried to insert the coin into the fare box slot, it just rolled back out. I tried again and again. In a panic, I dropped the coin on the floor, at which point the driver turned to me with a suspicious stare and silently thrust out his hand, as if to say, “Let me have a look at it.”
Examining the five-hundred-yen coin, etched with the lettering tsukuba expo ’85, the driver said, “Hm, these are rare.” Then, after rummaging around in a satchel that appeared to be for his personal belongings, he fished out a five-hundred-yen coin from a wallet and exchanged it for my commemorative coin. I had fully expected him to get angry and ask me what I thought I was doing using such a coin. That was a relief. I paid the fare, two hundred yen, and got three hundred yen as change.
Upon arriving at the station, I headed for the pay phone. The shelf below the phone had two directories stacked in it. I was about to reach for the top one, to thumb through the pages, when I became aware that there was no need to. A glance to my right showed that the key had been left inserted in the door of the locker that held my stuff.
I opened the locker door and saw that it was empty. The Woman in the Purple Skirt appeared to have collected her luggage.
But she had taken everything else too—not only the black carryall I had told her to take but also the Boston bag and the large rucksack, which I had expressly instructed her to leave.
Maybe I’d been talking too fast and she hadn’t understood. She must have boarded the semi-express train carrying a huge amount of luggage.
I stood by the ticket machines, scanning for women who looked like they might be softhearted, and accosting them. “Can you spare a hundred yen?” I asked three women, and, amazingly, all three placed a hundred-yen coin in the palm of my hand without hesitation.
On my fourth attempt, I clearly made an unwise choice. The woman, who at first sight had seemed nice, replied menacingly, “Get lost, or I’ll call one of the station attendants!” I scurried off. I was hoping I’d be able to collect the entire train fare, forty-two hundred yen, but—I had to resign myself—I had to make do with what I had. I purchased the cheapest-possible ticket at the ticket machine, and managed to board the slow train due to depart at 7:20 in the morning.
It took me nearly six hours—six hours!—to reach Santokuji Station. Because of a series of mishaps, including a sick passenger and signal trouble, I was forced to change trains five times, but luckily was not asked once to show my ticket. When I finally arrived at Santokuji Station, at 1:25 p.m., I found myself standing on a platform that was totally unstaffed. After placing my ticket in a little wooden box positioned by the ticket barrier, I headed for the Takagi Hotel, where we had arranged to meet.
The person working the reception desk appeared to be enjoying a siesta.
I rang the bell at least five times, and was about to ring it again when out he came, yawning, from behind the partition. To my inquiries, he replied: “Nope, haven’t seen anyone who fits that description.”
“But you must have . . . ,” I replied. “She would have checked in a few minutes before eleven o’clock last night.” If everything had gone according to plan, and she’d got on the bus that departed at 8:02 and managed to board the limited express, the Woman in the Purple Skirt should have reached Santokuji Station at 10:50. Unless the hotel had been full, she definitely would have been staying here.
Making a show of what a nuisance it was to be doing so, the man flicked through a notebook with the words “Guest List” on the cover.
“Last night we had one, two, three, five guests. All men. That’s all. Not one woman.”
“No women?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you think she can be?” I asked him.
“No idea,” he replied.
I was now in a panic. Could she have got off at the wrong station? Remembering my assurance that I would be arriving soon—on the very next train—I considered that maybe she had waited for me on the platform, and then, when I didn’t appear, she got offended, and was now keeping herself out of sight. . . . Is that what had happened?
I searched for her everywhere—all around the station, and up and down the streets. I wasn’t so stupid as to go into the police box to ask whether they had seen her, but I inquired in all
