“Hm. Really?” The Woman in the Purple Skirt sounded unconvinced. She undid her ponytail.
“And after all, I mean, it’s free. It’s one of the amenities, so we can use as much as we want. Everyone in the agency uses it. I think you should use it too, Hino-chan. Why not try it?”
The Woman in the Purple Skirt cast a doubtful glance at the mini-bottle that Supervisor Tsukada held out in her hands. “Em, I don’t know whether I like the smell. . . .”
“The smell?”
“Yes. Don’t you think there’s a kind of fishy odor to it?”
“Really?!”
“Yeah. Some sort of raw fishy smell. Oh, don’t get me wrong—I don’t mean your hair smells of fish. Only the shampoo.” And then the Woman in the Purple Skirt laughed lightly.
She may have laughed, but Supervisor Tsukada did not. I felt my heart pound in my chest. Apparently noticing how Supervisor Tsukada put the bottle of shampoo away in her locker without saying another word, and perhaps realizing she had said the wrong thing, the Woman in the Purple Skirt changed the topic. “I hope we can go drinking again soon!” she said, along with some other similarly cheery things, and for the moment, at least, all seemed smoothed over.
Now that she had completed her training, the Woman in the Purple Skirt was fast losing all trace of having once been a newbie. The moment you emerge as a regular member of the staff, the distinctions among employees with different lengths of service seem to fall away. In the cafeteria I would occasionally see her chuckling along as the older ladies gossiped away—and frankly, from a distance, I found it impossible to tell her apart from them. It was amazing how the Woman in the Purple Skirt had succeeded in making herself exactly like everyone else—in her hairstyle, her clothes, the way she carried herself, her facial expressions, and even the way the master key at her hip jangled on its chain when she shook with laughter.
But when I looked carefully, it was clear that what she felt inwardly didn’t match what she projected outwardly. She wasn’t actually enjoying being a part of it all—not in her heart. Even if her lips were smiling, her eyes were not. All the other cleaners had animated expressions on their faces, but she alone had a touch of sadness about her. She was forcing herself, trying to appear to be having fun so as not to dampen the mood. Hey, let me help you get out of there. It’s stifling, isn’t it? Twice now, I’ve tried to tell her this. “Hey, listen . . .” “Hello?” But both times, it was just when everyone else was talking most loudly and excitedly, and nobody even realized I had raised my voice.
How time passed. It was now coming up on two months since the Woman in the Purple Skirt had become a fully certified housekeeper. All I could conclude was that, for better or worse, she had fully mastered how one is supposed to behave at work.
It made me a little sad to think about it, but, well, what can you do? This was a job made up almost entirely of women, so it was only to be expected that the main thing anyone wanted to do was gossip. Even if you didn’t enjoy it, you had no choice but to go along with it.
And there really was no end to it. On and on it went, with one topic being discussed and then discarded for another. Today it might be about this person, tomorrow about that one. Always someone would be passing on tidbits about someone else—it didn’t matter if they were a veteran member of the staff or a new employee. I had heard them talking about practically every member of the team. And not surprisingly, I now heard them talking about the Woman in the Purple Skirt.
“Hey, Hino-san’s looking quite different these days, don’t you think? She’s not at all like she was when she first got here.”
“Mm. Yes.”
“She’s filled out quite a bit. And she’s way more cheerful, isn’t she?”
“Mm. Yeah.”
“When she first came, she looked so gloomy. And so pale and sickly!”
“She looks much better now. She’s now definitely, shall we say, ‘healthy.’”
“Mm. I agree.”
So they were saying positive things about her. And they were right. The Woman in the Purple Skirt had indeed changed quite noticeably over these two months. The change was perhaps most obvious in her face. Her once hollow cheeks had filled out, and she had a glowing complexion. In short, she had got a little plump. Although she didn’t actually seem to be eating a huge amount. In the first few days, all she would have during the brief lunch break would be a cup of tea. I remember how worried I was that at any moment she might collapse.
In the café, there was a dispenser for complimentary cups of hojicha right next to the vending machine, and she would always avail herself of this tea whenever she wanted a drink. There she would sit, cradling the plastic cup with both hands, drinking the tea slowly, sip by sip. Even on her first day, as I recall, people would come by to chat.
“Oh, hi!” I would hear them say. “You’re the new employee, aren’t you? Is that all you’re having—tea?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s no good, then, is it? You should fatten up a little! Listen, which one of these snacks would you like? Choose any you like. I’ll pay.”
Sometimes it would be a doughnut that they’d pay for, sometimes a sweet bean-jam bun, other times a roll. I had also seen her getting candy, bubble gum, mikan oranges, packets of cookies . . . I drank tea every day, just like she did, but nobody ever offered to buy me anything. Maybe it was because I drank my tea standing up, and she drank hers sitting down? The Woman in the Purple Skirt always drank her tea sitting all alone at a round table big enough for six people. There was something a bit sad and lonely about the way she looked. That might explain why everyone wanted to go up and help her. It was a daily occurrence for the director to buy her a can of hot coffee, but I had also seen Supervisor Tsukada give her the seaweed-wrapped rice ball that came with her udon soup lunch special. There was absolutely no need for her to bring a lunch box to work when she could fill her belly this way. And when nobody bought her anything, she could fill herself up with what was in the hotel rooms. It appeared she had now figured out how to do that.
Every once in a while, the Woman in the Purple Skirt would lock the door of the hotel room that she was cleaning. I had to assume that she had been taught this by Supervisor Tsukada and the more senior members of the staff. True, it was something everybody did, but strictly speaking it was against the rules. Normal procedure was to leave the door wide open while we were cleaning—and this applied to everyone, novice or veteran.
As for what was going on behind that locked door, well, needless to say she was dusting, wiping, washing, and vacuuming—but she was also indulging in a few other activities. Helping herself to a cup of coffee, snacking on the selection of (noncomplimentary) mixed nuts and chocolates. Maybe cramming her mouth full of what remained of the sandwiches the guests had ordered from room service. Or just relaxing on the bed, lying around and watching TV, or even falling asleep and taking a little nap. Or filling the bathtub with a little water so she could soak her feet. Maybe she was even taking a sip of champagne. Whenever she emerged from a room that had been locked, she usually had her mouth full of something.
This was the real reason she had—to use the staff’s words—filled out and now looked so healthy. So it wasn’t due just to my shampoo that her hair, once so stiff and dry, now had such shine and bounce. I guess this is what happens when people get all the nutrition they need—they really do start to look all glossy and new.
But then, on another occasion, I overheard talk like this.
“You know Hino-san. She’s looking quite pretty these days. Do you think she might have had plastic surgery?” I assumed this was meant as a compliment.
“Come on. That’s just makeup,” another member of the staff spoke up.
“Hmm. So she’s learned how to conceal her flaws.”
“Uh-huh. She sure has.”
“And she’s quick about her work.”
“Uh-huh. She sure is.”
“‘If you want a job done urgently, ask Hino-chan. It’ll be done in seconds.’ That’s what the supervisors say.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s true. She is really quick.”
“But you know . . . sometimes I think she might be a bit too quick. . . .”
“Mm . . . Well, there is that.”
“I hate to say it . . . but . . . sometimes I think she might be cutting corners.”
“Me too. I so think that!”
“I’m sure the supervisors must know that about her. . . .”
“Oh, I’m sure. But what can you do? She’s their favorite.”
“You know what? I’ve noticed there is a real difference between how she greets us and how she greets the supervisors.”
“Yeah. It’s her tone of voice. It’s different.”
“She uses one tone of voice for us and another for them.”
“That’s exactly it.”
“And the way she leaves the carts. So messy!”
“Tell me about it. Any cart she uses, she’ll leave it without some amenity that the next person has to replenish.”
“A few days ago, she left me with a single bar of soap!”
“She never thinks about the person who has to use the cart after her. Just what serves her own needs.”
A few hours after I’d overheard this, I went secretly to tidy up the cart that the Woman in the Purple Skirt had been using that day. This was a while after she had punched her time card and gone home. Just as they’d said, her cart had only a single hairbrush on it, and the supply of shower caps was completely gone. Maybe she had intended to replenish them early the next morning, but—I suddenly realized—she was taking that day off. Meanwhile, I should mention, I was due to come in to work as normal. Already it was two weeks since our days off had coincided. I found it very frustrating that I had to rely on staff gossip to know how she was doing, but it was still better than being out of the loop altogether.
The only thing to do was to look forward to next month’s roster, when the schedules would be different.
But then another bit of gossip reached me.
This time it sprang from the mouths of the senior staff. And what I heard was so off-the-wall that I couldn’t believe it. The Woman in the Purple Skirt was apparently in a relationship with our director! Excuse me—what did you say? Our director? Who had a wife and a child? It had to be a lie.
“Oh, it’s true all right.” Supervisor Hamamoto was taking the wrapper off a boiled sweet.
“Did anyone actually see them?” This from Supervisor Tsukada. She was opening a packet of roasted kaki-no-tane crackers. The aroma of soy sauce filled the linen closet.
“Somebody did. Actually, several people. Apparently the director brings Hino-chan to work in his car every morning.”
“In his own car? No way! Really?!!”
The very next morning, I made it my business to investigate. And what they were saying—at least the last part—was true. The Woman in the Purple Skirt arrived to work in the director’s car. This had to be why I no longer saw her at the bus stop in the mornings. The director came straight to the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s apartment, picked her up, and drove her in. So that’s why she wasn’t coming to work on the bus.
But that didn’t necessarily mean they were in a relationship. All I had witnessed was the director arrive at her apartment in his black car at 8:00 a.m. and give a little toot of his horn, and then, several seconds later, the door of Apartment 201 had opened, and the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s face peered out. Smiling, she waved at the director and then, watching her step, walked gracefully down the stairs, opened the passenger door, and got in the car, after which the two of them exchanged a few words, she fastened her seat belt, and the director put the car into drive. That was all.
The question was, was there anything more than that? According to the rumors, at least, in the course of riding to work every morning in the same car, they had got more and more friendly, and finally ended up going out together. Was that really the case? I wondered.
It was a Sunday. Finally it was going to be the two of us together. For the first time in three weeks, the Woman in the Purple Skirt and I had the same day off. Seventy degrees and sixty percent humidity—a perfect day, blue skies, not a sign of a cloud since daybreak.
At 9:00 a.m., the Woman in the Purple Skirt opened her apartment door and emerged. She was made up quite heavily, I could tell, even from a distance. Her hair was even shinier than usual: she must have brushed it last night. She came down the stairs rather slowly, and then, once out on the road, quickened her pace. She headed for the nearest bus stop, her heels tip-tapping.
No one was at the bus stop, since it was a Sunday. Today the buses would be on the Sunday schedule—two an hour between 9:00 and 10:00 a.m.
At 9:14, exactly on time, the bus arrived, and she boarded. There was hardly anyone on it. The Woman in the Purple Skirt and I each selected our places, she choosing the third seat for individual passengers at the front of the bus, and I the long seat at the back. It had been some time since she and I were on the bus together. That in itself gave me quite a thrill. The Woman in the Purple Skirt spent the ride staring out the window, at one point taking her mirror out of her bag to study her face. Just once, I saw her get out a brand-new mobile phone (when had she bought that?), glance at the screen, and then, without pressing any buttons, put it back in her bag.
At 9:45, the bus arrived at the train station—our stop. We got off, the Woman in the Purple Skirt paying her fare, and I showing my commuter pass.
The Woman in the Purple Skirt headed into the shopping plaza next to the bus terminal. What could she want here? I wondered. But it turned out she was just passing through. From the ground floor she went down to the lower level, then up some stairs to the ground floor again, emerging right by the station. There was a shopping strip with bars and restaurants and souvenir shops, though none of them had opened yet for the day. The only place open was a coffee shop; all the other establishments had their shutters down. The Woman in the Purple Skirt approached the coffee shop, pushed the door open, and went inside.
There were two other customers. One was a man in late middle age, wearing a gray knit cap and having a friendly chat with the owner. The other wore what appeared to be a black baseball cap and was sitting at a table deep inside the shop, his back to the door.
The one in the baseball cap was the director. As soon as he saw the Woman in the Purple Skirt, he folded the newspaper he’d been reading and moved the shoulder bag he’d left on the seat across from his.
The shoulder bag was black, the same one he brought to work. The Woman in the Purple Skirt sat down. “Milk tea, please!” she said to the owner behind the counter.
She asked the director what he’d had to eat. Glancing at his plate, which he’d wiped clean, he said: “The morning set: coffee and toast with an omelet.”
“Oh, that sounds fabulous,” she said, staring at his plate.
At the exact moment the owner of the shop brought over the milk tea, the director looked at his watch. “We should get going,” he said.
“Oh, wait just one second. Let me have a sip,” the Woman in the Purple Skirt remonstrated. And she brought the milk tea to her lips.
When the director rose to go, he put on the sunglasses that had been on the table. They were very much like the sunglasses I often wear myself, but his looked more expensive. Well, what do you expect? I bought mine in the hundred-yen shop.
The director paid the bill at the register. Altogether the set breakfast (Set Breakfast B) and one milk tea came to 850 yen.
At 10:20 the two of them left the café and, arms linked, started walking along the shopping street. The stores were beginning to raise their s
hutters. The director seemed tense: he was looking around, obviously worried about being recognized. Meanwhile, the Woman in the Purple Skirt walked along without a care in the world. The more watchful the director became, the more tightly and happily the Woman in the Purple Skirt seemed to squeeze his arm. After nearly ten minutes, they found a certain building and entered. The sign read yokota cinema.
At 10:35, the Woman in the Purple Skirt purchased a Coca-Cola and a bucket of popcorn at the concession stand in the cinema foyer. No sooner had she done so than the director reached out, grabbed a handful of popcorn, and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Hey!” the Woman in the Purple Skirt pretended to scold him. The director laughed. As soon as they had entered the theater, the expression on his face seemed to visibly relax.
The tickets they’d purchased were for a double bill of Speed and Dirty Harry. I myself had seen only Speed. I seem to remember liking it, though it was a long time ago, and I could recall hardly anything about it.
The screening began at 10:45. First up was Speed. As I watched, it came back to me bit by bit. I had remembered the vehicle wired up with a bomb being a train, but it turned out to be a bus—although the action does switch to a train in the last part of the movie. The Woman in the Purple Skirt was transfixed, her eyes glued to the screen—she didn’t touch the popcorn. The director, however, fidgeted constantly. He snacked on the popcorn, sipped at the Coca-Cola, scratched his face, nuzzled the shoulder of the Woman in the Purple Skirt with his nose, enjoying how it smelled (at least this is how it appeared to me), stretched his neck from side to side, yawned, and in the end fell asleep and snored. The Woman in the Purple Skirt gave him a glance, just once, but otherwise her attention didn’t waver from the screen.
At 12:45, Speed came to an end. Following a fifteen-minute break, Dirty Harry would begin at exactly one o’clock. I was really looking forward to it. What kind of movie was it going to be?
Just then, the two of them got up from their seats. To go to the restroom, I assumed. But they didn’t come back for the longest time. I went out to the lobby to see what they were doing, and just managed to catch sight of their receding figures, outside, heading toward the train station. In a panic, I hurried after them.
The Woman in the Purple Skirt Page 7