It had all started with that stupid collision with that butcher’s display case. That’s when things had begun to go wrong.
The fact was, coming up with the money for the payments for the repair bill had required that I withhold the monthly rent for my apartment, and I was now in arrears. I was still making a bit of extra income with the money I got from selling odds and ends at bazaars, but it was peanuts. With the dire state of my finances, paying both rent and repair bill was always going to be a nonstarter.
That said, I was still very preoccupied with finding ways I could escape from the debtors who I knew were going to come knocking at my door. I had investigated which coin lockers were in which train stations, with a view to transferring the few valuables I had left while I still could, before my landlord or one of his lawyers decided to make a forced entry into my apartment. I had identified a number of low-budget “capsule” hotels and manga coffee shops where I could take refuge if I had to make a quick getaway, and located a total of ten cheap boardinghouses, in this prefecture and the adjacent one, where I could lie low for a while. If it ever came to that, I would happily share this information with the Woman in the Purple Skirt, but it doesn’t look as though we’ve quite got there yet.
As of now, I haven’t seen any sign of threatening letters posted on the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s apartment door. Nor have I noticed anyone who appears to be her landlord staking out her building, waiting and watching for her to come home. At night I see the lights go on in her place, and the dial on her gas meter appears to be steadily ticking over. She must be managing to pay her rent, and her electricity and heating bills.
It would seem, however, that her telephone has been cut off. A few weeks into her job search, the Woman in the Purple Skirt started going out to the pay phone in front of the convenience store to arrange job interviews.
When the Woman in the Purple Skirt goes to the convenience store, she never enters—she simply uses the pay phone outside. It falls to me to enter the store. I go right inside, head for the corner where the magazine stands are, take the latest issue of the jobs magazine, and then leave it for her to find on her Exclusively Reserved Seat.
The jobs magazine comes out on a weekly basis, unless it’s a double issue. But don’t assume the contents change just because there’s a new cover every week. Workplaces that are continually short of staff place the same ad in every issue. While I didn’t accompany her to every interview, the Woman in the Purple Skirt applied for a number of other jobs too, after that spate of attempts, and often in tandem. She didn’t get any of them. Hardly surprising, considering the kinds of jobs she chose—all totally unsuitable. Telephone receptionist, shopping plaza floor guide, et cetera. Would you believe that she even applied to be a waitress? Why would anyone hire someone as a waitress in a café who is happy to drink straight from the water fountain in her local park? Clearly, the repeated rejections were affecting her mind. Needless to say, the café told her immediately to get lost.
And so, I am sorry to say, it was a good three months before the Woman in the Purple Skirt finally had a telephone interview to work at a place that was willing to consider hiring her. During that time, I had visited the convenience store to collect the jobs magazine for her a good ten times.
It’s possible that I was to blame for this having taken her so long. Maybe I should have done more than simply circle listings with a highlighter—maybe I should have dog-eared the pages, or added little sticky notes. I’m sure there were any number of things I could have done better, but never mind—eventually, the Woman in the Purple Skirt came to the right decision. One evening, I saw her leave her apartment and make a beeline for the pay phone outside the convenience store. I could see that she was holding a little scrap of paper tightly in her hand.
Clutching the receiver, her face taut, she nodded several times as she listened. “Yes . . . Yes . . . I understand.” And then, “No . . . Yes . . . No, never.”
She used a felt-tip marker to write something on her palm. Was it “3,” perhaps, and then maybe “8”? Definitely numbers. Three o’clock on the eighth? The date and time of the interview?
After she’d put down the receiver, her face remained tense. That didn’t surprise me. Every single one of her interviews up till now had ended in failure. Who wouldn’t be worried? But (not to get ahead of myself) this time, at this workplace, I was sure it was going to be different. This time, I could guarantee one hundred percent that she would get the job. Because this was a workplace where they were always short of workers. Basically, anyone who applied was going to be welcomed with open arms.
Even so, it would be good
