The truth was, she was perfectly audible. “My last name is Hino. My full name is Mayuko Hino!” she had said, quite distinctly. And then: “And I have another name too. The Woman in the Purple Skirt!” That part was very audible, at least to the Woman in the Yellow Cardigan.
“Hey, speak up, will you? Can you say that again, please?!”
“Her name is Mayuko Hino-san!” The director’s voice boomed out, taking over. And then, on her behalf: “It’s a pleasure to meet you!”
The job of the agency director seems almost impossible. He has to assemble the staff, negotiate with the hotel, collect staff reports, produce bulletins, help out on-site if there are staff shortages, schedule the shifts, deal with the objections that inevitably arise from someone or other on the staff . . . He must find himself continually pulled between the head office and the hotel. And then, on top of it all, rumor has it that at home he’s a henpecked husband. He has to do exactly as his wife tells him.
That must be partly why he is packing on weight. It must be all the stress. These days all he seems to get from the head office is one stern directive after another. “Do not—whatever happens—lose any more staff! We’re hard pressed enough as it is!”
As soon as the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s self-introduction was over, the director told her to come to the office during her lunch break—he would give her some voice training. The Woman in the Purple Skirt nodded, though she looked a bit anxious. In fact, it is not unusual for employees on their first day of work at this company to be made to do voice drills in the required daily greetings and exhortations. The place where it happens is always the same: outside, in the recycling-collection area.
We were in the recycling-collection area. The sanitation workers had not yet come to pick up the trash. Other than the director and the Woman in the Purple Skirt, no one else was there.
“Standing where you are, just try shouting as loud as you can.”
The director had positioned the Woman in the Purple Skirt next to the crates holding recyclable bottles, cans, glass, and newspapers. He himself took up a place by the large dumpster for general recyclable waste. The two of them stood on opposite sides of the service bay, facing each other as if in a standoff.
The lesson took the form of a series of drills. The director started each drill with a brief vocal exercise used by actors based on the sounds of the hiragana alphabet, to limber up the voice.
At first, I couldn’t hear the voice of the Woman in the Purple Skirt at all.
“A—e—i—u—e—o—a—o!” the director beeped in staccato fashion. And then: “Ohayo gozaimasu! Good morning!”
The director’s words rang out unanswered in the collection area.
“Ta—te—chi—tsu—te—to—ta—to! Arigato gozaimasu! Thank you! We appreciate your kindness!”
In college, the director had belonged to a student acting club. Everyone knew about it. At one time, the story went, he had even thought about becoming a professional actor. I suspected he had other motivations, like a relationship with an actress, because he hadn’t stuck with it for even two years before giving up altogether on the idea of acting. Still, his voice was unusually resonant: only someone with some stage experience could project like that. No doubt his big tub of a belly helped.
“Na—ne—ni—nu—ne—no—na—no! Otsukare-sama desu! Good work!”
Perhaps encouraged by his enthusiasm, the Woman in the Purple Skirt started to answer him. Her voice grew steadily louder and clearer.
“Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Itte irasshaimase! See you again soon!”
“Itte irasshaimase!”
“That’s more like it! Itte irasshaimase!”
“Itte irasshaimase!”
“Otsukare-sama desu!”
“Otsukare-sama desu!”
“That’s the way!”
The director went on to explain to the Woman in the Purple Skirt that the greetings and exhortations she would have to use would fall into two broad categories—those for greeting a guest in the hotel corridor, or a colleague at the cleaning agency. Being able to offer the right kind of greeting or exhortation, in the appropriate tone of voice, is essential for anyone who wants to be considered an adult. But you’d be amazed by how many people just can’t seem to manage it. This is one of the reasons the agency is constantly short of staff. The more experienced staff take every opportunity to persecute any new recruits who can’t get the hang of it, until the recruits eventually quit. If the fault lies with anybody, it has to be with the ones who do the persecuting, but, well, if you’re an adult and you can’t even manage a “Hello” in the morning, you have to wonder. . . . But then again, I’m hardly the world’s most socially adept person.
“Now, one more time. A bit louder. Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Arigato gozaimasu!”
“A touch more energy. Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Louder. Loud enough so that the person over there—whoever it is—lurking in the smoking area can hear you. Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Hey, you! Yes, you, whoever you are. Your face is kind of in the shadows, but I can see you’re wearing our uniform. Yes, you, standing right there. Raise your hand and wave if you can hear her. Here we go, then: Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Arigato gozaimasu!”
I raised my hand and gave a little wave.
“Well, that person seems to have heard you. Excellent. You’ve passed!”
Thanks to the crash course given to her by the director, that afternoon the Woman in the Purple Skirt was being treated by the regular members of the cleaning staff like an altogether different person. Perhaps it was just the stark contrast with the appalling impression she had made with her self-introduction in the morning, but now all she had to do was call out a clear “Otsukare-sama desu!” and give a little bow with her head when anyone stepped into the elevator, and all of them would look utterly amazed.
“Wait,
