course the place was empty, and I was in the chair immediately. An abstract painting hung on the blue-gray walls, and Jacques Rouchet's
response was, «That so?» He didn't know much about Sapporo either. He was cool. He was wearing a Men's Bigi designer shirt. Even so, he knew how to cut hair, so I left there pretty much satisfied.
What next?
Short of other options, I returned to my sofa in the lobby and watched the scenery. The receptionist with glasses from yesterday was behind the front desk. She seemed tense. Was my presence setting off signals in her? Unlikely. Soon the clock pushed eleven. Lunchtime. I headed out and walked around, trying to think what I was in the mood for. But I wasn't hungry, and no place caught my fancy. Lacking will, I wandered into a place for some spaghetti and salad. Then a beer. Outside, snow was still threatening, but not a flake in sight. The sky was solid, immobile. Like Gulliver's flying island of Laputa, hanging heavily over the city. Everything seemed cast in gray. Even, in retrospect, my meal—gray. Not a day for good ideas.
In the end, I caught a cab and went to a department store downtown. I bought shoes and underwear, spare batteries, a travel toothbrush, nail clippers. I bought a sandwich for a late-night snack and a small flask of brandy. I didn't need any of this stuff, I was just shopping, just killing time. I killed two hours.
Then I walked along the major avenues, looking into windows, no destination in mind, and when I tired of that, I stepped into a cafe and read some Jack London over coffee. And before long it was getting on to dusk. Talk about boring. Killing time is not an easy job.
Back at the hotel, I was passing by the front desk when I heard my name called. It was the receptionist with glasses. She motioned for me to go to one end of the counter, the car-rental section actually, where there was a display of pamphlets. No one was on duty here.
She twirled a pen in her fingers a second, giving me a I've-got-something-to-tell-you-but-I-don't-know-how- to-say-it look. Clearly, she wasn't used to doing this sort of thing.
«Please forgive me,» she began, «but we have to pretend we're discussing a car rental.» Then she shot a quick glance out of the corner of her eye toward the front desk. «Management is very strict. We're not supposed to speak privately to customers.»
«All right, then,» I said. «I'll ask you about car rates, and you answer with whatever you want to say. Nothing personal.»
She blushed slightly. «Forgive me,» she said again. «They're real sticklers for rules here.»
I smiled. «Still, your glasses are very becoming.»
«Excuse me?»
«You look very cute in those glasses. Very cute,» I said.
She touched the frame of these glasses, then cleared her throat. The nervous type. «There's something I've been wanting to ask you,» she regained her composure. «It's a private matter.»
If I could have, I would have patted her on the head to comfort her, but instead I kept quiet and looked into her eyes.
«It's what we talked about last night, you know, about there having been a hotel here,» she said softly, «with the same name as this one. What was that other hotel like? I mean, was it a
I picked up a car-rental pamphlet and acted like I was studying it. «That depends on what you mean by 'regular.'«
She pinched the points of her collar and cleared her throat again. «It's . . . hard to say exactly, but was there anything strange about that hotel? I can't get it out of my mind.»
Her eyes were earnest and lovely. Just as I'd remembered. She blushed again.
«I guess I don't know what you mean, but I'm sure it will take a little time to talk about and we can't very well do it here. You seem like you're pretty busy.»
She looked over at the other receptionists at the front desk, then bit her lower lip slightly. After a moment's hesitation, she spoke up. «Okay, could you meet me after I get off work?»
«What time is that?»
«I finish at eight. But we can't meet near here. Hotel rules. It's got to be somewhere far away from here.»
«You name the place. I don't care how far, I'll be there.»
She thought a bit more, then scribbled the name of a place and drew me a map. «I'll be there at eight- thirty.»
I pocketed the sheet of paper.
Now it was her turn to look at me. «I hope you don't think I'm strange. This is the first time I've done something like this. I've never broken the rules before. But this time I don't know what else to do. I'll explain everything to you later.»
«No, I don't think you're strange. Don't worry,» I said. «I'm not so bad a guy. I may not be the most likable person in the world, but I try not to upset people.»
She twirled her pen again, not quite sure how to take that. Then she smiled vaguely and pushed up the bridge of her glasses. «Well, then, later,» she said, and gave me a businesslike bow before returning to her station at the front desk. Charming, if a little insecure.
I went up to my room and pulled a beer from the refrigerator to wash down my department-store roast beef sandwich. Okay, at least we have a plan of action. We may be in low gear, but we're rolling. But where to?
I washed and shaved, brushed my teeth. Calmly, quietly, no humming. Then I gave myself a good, hard look in the mirror, the first time in ages. No major discoveries. I felt no surge of valor. It was the same old face, as always.
I left my room at half past seven and grabbed a taxi. The driver studied the map I showed him, then nodded without a word, and we were off. It was a-thousand-something-yen distance, a tiny bar in the basement of a five- story building. I was met at the door with the warm sound of an old Gerry Mulligan record.
I took a seat at the counter and listened to the solo over a nice, easy J&B-and-water. At eight-forty-five she still hadn't shown. I didn't particularly mind. The bar was plenty comfortable, and by now I was getting to be a pro at killing time. I sipped my drink, and when that was gone, I ordered another. I contemplated the ashtray.
At five past nine she made her entrance.
«I'm sorry,» she said in a flurry. «Things started to get busy at the last minute, and then my replacement was late.»
«Don't worry. I was fine here,» I said. «I had to pass the time anyway.»
At her suggestion we moved to a table toward the back. We settled down, as she removed her gloves, scarf, and coat. Underneath, she had on a dark green wool skirt and a lightweight yellow sweater—which revealed generous volumes I'm surprised I hadn't noticed before. Her earrings were demure gold pinpoints.
She ordered a Bloody Mary. And when it came, she sipped it tentatively. I took another drink of my whiskey and then she took another sip of her Bloody Mary. I nibbled on nuts.
At length, she let out a big sigh. It might have been bigger than she had intended, as she looked up at me nervously.
«Work tough? «I asked.
«Yeah,» she said. «Pretty tough. I'm still not used to it. The hotel just opened so the management's always on edge about something.»
She folded her hands and placed them on the table. She wore one ring, on her pinkie. An unostentatious, rather ordinary silver ring.
«About the old Dolphin Hotel . . . ,» she began. «But wait, didn't I hear you were a magazine writer or something?»
«Magazine?» I said, startled. «What's this about?»
«That's just what I heard,» she said.
I shut up. She bit her lip and stared at a point on the wall. «There was some trouble once,» she began again,
