Now in her work uniform, the Woman in the Purple Skirt knocked again on the office door. By now a few more people were in the room.
The agency director was sitting at his desk, staring at his computer screen. When the Woman in the Purple Skirt entered the office, the director lifted his eyes, glanced at her face, and then glanced at her legs.
Maybe he didn’t realize she wasn’t wearing stockings. In any case, he didn’t say anything about that. But he did point out that she had tied her apron wrong.
“Tsukada-san, Tsukada-san.” He beckoned to Supervisor Tsukada, who was standing next to the office whiteboard. “See to her, would you,” the director said, and gestured toward the Woman in the Purple Skirt.
“Yup. One second.” Supervisor Tsukada put down the nameplate she was holding and walked over to the Woman in the Purple Skirt.
“First day?” And she rested her hands lightly on the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s shoulders. It was the first time I had ever seen anyone apart from the children in the park touch the Woman in the Purple Skirt.
“Yes,” came the reply, spoken in a tiny voice.
Supervisor Tsukada rotated the Woman in the Purple Skirt so she was facing the other way. With quick movements, she undid the bow at the waist, unbuttoned the ties, and, jostling her roughly, rearranged the ties. She crossed them over each other, buttoned them, and then retied them in a bow.
“Good grief, aren’t you a skinny little thing! Did you eat breakfast this morning?”
“Yes,” the Woman in the Purple Skirt replied. Again, her voice was barely audible. Really? What could she have eaten? I wondered.
“What did you have?” Supervisor Tsukada demanded.
“Cornflakes,” replied the Woman in the Purple Skirt.
“Cornflakes? You won’t be able to do much work on that! A good breakfast is rice! Rice! You got that?”
Supervisor Tsukada gave the Woman in the Purple Skirt a little tap on the shoulder. Again, she replied with a “Yes,” in the same small voice. And then she gave a demure little giggle.
For a moment, I thought I had misheard. But no, it was definitely her. Amazingly, the Woman in the Purple Skirt had just let out an ingratiating laugh.
It was 9:00 A.M. The usual morning meeting got underway. Since today was the first Monday of the month, the manager from the hotel was present. After everyone stood and wished one another a good morning, he said a few words directing us to “continue with the initiative begun last month to keep strict tabs on the complimentary items provided for guests.” And then he left.
This manager had a distinctly laissez-faire attitude when it came to giving direction to the service companies working for the hotel. His policy was basically to stay out of it. This was why he turned up only once a month for the morning meetings, and also why, even now, he didn’t know the names of any of the staff. It was only recently that he had started telling us we needed to keep a tighter check on the complimentary items—previously he hadn’t bothered even to cast his eye over the checklists. Everybody thought he was an arrogant twerp—standing there, head thrown back, barking out his orders—especially considering he was never around anyway.
Once the hotel manager had made his quick exit, it was the turn of the agency director, who stood up and read from a list of prepared topics. These included today’s room occupancy rate and the mottoes to bear in mind this month. There were too many of us to be able to fit into the office for morning meetings, so some of us were always left standing in the corridor between the office and the hotel.
Sadly, from where I stood, I couldn’t get a view of the Woman in the Purple Skirt. Not so much because of the number of people but because of the rotund figure of the agency director, who stood like a blank wall right in front of her. The Woman in the Purple Skirt was completely obscured.
The director next read out a list of yesterday’s oversights.
“Room 215: Mirror not wiped. Room 308: Kettle not filled with water. Room 502: New roll of toilet paper did not have the end folded into a neat triangle for the next guest. Now, I repeat: Make sure you give a thorough last check before you leave any room, using the so-called point-and-call routine. You know the one. Direct your eyes to parts of the room, point your finger at each item, and say it out loud. That usually prevents most mistakes.”
Everybody listened—or pretended to listen—to what he was saying, with solemn expressions on their faces.
“And last of all, I want you to meet our newest recruit. She’ll be working with us starting today.”
And here, he glanced behind him, and stepped back.
“Now. Please introduce yourself.”
At last. The Woman in the Purple Skirt’s face came into view, or at least a glimpse of it. Perhaps on someone’s advice, the Woman in the Purple Skirt seemed to have gathered into a tight ponytail the hair that normally hung loosely over her shoulders. The style showed off her oval-shaped face, and she looked surprisingly clean and neat.
“Come. Introduce yourself.” The director motioned for her to come forward. The Woman in the Purple Skirt did as she was told. But then she simply froze.
“Well, come on . . . introduce yourself,” the director whispered to her, frowning. “Just say your name. You do have a name, don’t you?”
There were some titters of laughter.
“. . . My last name is Hino. . . .”
Finally, she had uttered her own name, just barely managing to force it out.
“And what’s your first name?”
“. . . Mayuko . . .”
What did she say? the cleaning staff asked loudly. I didn’t catch it. . . . Did you hear it? No!
