The Pearl Diver (21 page)

across the channel

Morning dawns later here, she thinks. Like she is in another country, rather than a two-hour train ride from Nagashima. Or maybe it is noon, or another night altogether, or thirty minutes since she has last left the bed. The curtains in the hotel, where she has spent the past four weeks, are so heavy, nothing penetrates them. At least not light; sound certainly does. The noise—car horns, gangs of young men on motorcycles riding up and down the streets, bus drivers announcing the stop, a bullet train rumbling by—she hears it all. She imagines she will get used to it; it also took her awhile to get used to the speakers at Nagashima.

The room is small, she has trouble sleeping in the bed, sheets stiff as slate. It is a single step from the edge of the bed to the wall, three steps from the bed to the bathroom, two from the side of the bed to the television sitting on the counter-table-desk.

She boils some water on the hot plate, makes green tea from a tea bag. The tea is bitter; she let the bag soak too long. She turns on the shower, lays a towel on the bottom of the tub, sits on it, allowing the water to bounce off her. When she stands, the water is too hot on her head, but down here on the floor of the tub, it is just right.

It is early when she takes the five flights down. She has used the elevator only once in her time here; she doesn’t like that feeling of dropping. She hopes there is never a fire in this place, the stairs crammed with cleaning buckets, extra bath towels, boxes with small packets of shampoo and rinse, little soaps, discarded magazines, newspapers, comics. All the tiny things to keep the hotel going. She thinks of telling the night manager of the danger on the steps, but he isn’t even there. At the front desk, she leaves her heavy key with the long plastic key chain with her room number and the hotel name printed on it—591 Intelligent Hotel. The night manager is standing outside by the emergency exit, and he bows good morning to her. He reminds her that breakfast is from 6:30 to 9:00 A.M. She walks down the street with nowhere in mind, but she is at the bus center within minutes.

All around, sections of the cement platform are wet. She looks for other signs of rain, doesn’t remember hearing it last night. There is a splash near her and she sees a thin, scruffy man bent over, scattering water with the plastic bucket he carries. When there is just a little water left in the bucket, he flings the rest of it onto the cement, turning his body as he does in order to fan it out. He disappears into the bathroom and is back again with another bucket, repeating the same pattern. The man works his way through, in and around people hurrying by with briefcases in hand, cans of coffee, tossing lighted cigarettes onto the wet cement, others mashing them with their shoes, the last of the smoke streaming from noses as they jump onto a bus.

She stands in front of platform number 7, the chairs all taken, six of them by passengers waiting for a bus, the other two seats occupied by a briefcase and a girl’s school-bag. All the time, she has her eyes on the man with the bucket, and when, in about five minutes, the next bus arrives, she claims an empty seat. Bucket after bucket, he must have more than one, she thinks, for he retrieves them too quickly. She watches him, notices a few others glance his way. It takes him about half an hour to finish the large platform, and by then she has a headache from all the noise and exhaust from the buses.

The man goes back into the bathroom, comes out with a small bag and a large set of pincers. He works his way around the platform, picking up pieces of paper, a can. When he finishes, a couple of discarded cigarette butts have already appeared. He goes into the room, returns again with the bag and pincers, gives the platform another quick going-over. When he finishes, he sits down next to a large black bag, a stack of newspapers tied with twine atop it. He removes his baseball cap, runs his hand through his dirty black hair, turns his head, and coughs deeply several times. He is younger than she first thought. He appears as though he hasn’t shaved in weeks, but she has never been a good judge of this, still isn’t, for at Nagashima nearly none of the male patients had any facial hair. He rests and she watches him as he enters the men’s bathroom, where he stays awhile before coming out with his hair wet and combed back. Now, he looks even younger, perhaps forty or forty-five. His face is a little cleaner, but it is still unshaven, is even more gaunt. The man picks up his bag and the newspapers, goes up the escalator, and she can no longer see him, only hears his cough. She thinks of following him, but it is already past nine o’clock, and now she must go to the convenience store and buy herself something to eat, for she has missed breakfast at the hotel.

Each of the next two mornings, she sees the man cleaning the platform. It is on the third morning that she sits next to his black bag and waits for him to finish.

He sits down; the black bag separates them. Only as of late has she felt the need to speak; she is amazed that with all the thousands of people she passes each day, there is no one to talk to. She remembers when she was in Kyoto with the Blue Bird Band, how she had spoken to anyone who would respond. Her ravenous hunger to speak.

“How long have you worked here?”

He turns his head, peering over the top of the bag. “I’m only cleaning up.”

“Do you do this every day?”

“Clean?”

“Yes.”

“Every day. I have been doing this about a year now, I imagine.” He turns away and coughs.

“Do you like it?”

“Like it? I don’t know if I like it. It makes me feel like I’m doing something.”

“That’s what I need.”

“What’s that?”

“I need to feel like I’m doing something.”

“We all need that. What do you do?”

“I used to be a nurse. You should see a doctor about that cough of yours.”

“You sound like a nurse. No doctor can help this cough. You worked in this city?”

“No, I’m only visiting. And you?”

“I came here a little while ago.”

She catches sight of a clock, and again she has missed the hotel breakfast and feels hungry.

“I’m going to have some breakfast. Are you hungry?”

“No, but thank you. I have to be going back.”

He picks up his bag and gives her a swift bow, then disappears up the escalator.

The man has finished washing up and is drying his face with a towel. He sits down, the black bag separating them, as it has for the past few days.

“Breakfast?”

She accepts the sweet bean roll.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asks.

“No thank you.”

She stands and goes over to the drink machine behind them. She inserts the coins, a fleeting memory of her time in Kyoto and how she pulled the cup out before the drink was poured. Now there are drinks in cans, little boxes, plastic bottles, machines all over the place. The first drink machine came to Nagashima a while back and they had one of the staff give a step-by-step demonstration on how to use it; she remembers how the rumbling of the dropping can startled several of the patients. She buys two little boxes of Chinese tea; they drop gently, hardly a sound. She hands one to the man. He bows and offers her another sweet bean roll; she declines, and he finishes it off, along with the tea.

“I’m sorry, I never asked your name. I’m Miss Fuji.”

“I’m Yasu.”

“Do you live near here?”

In the middle of a drink, he points over her shoulder; then when he swallows the tea, still pointing, he tells her.

“Over there by the river.”

“That’s nice over there.”

He gives her a little twist of his head and nods.

“I’ve seen people fishing over there. Have you ever?”

“Sometimes, but there isn’t much in the river except some sardines; every once in awhile there’s a horse mackerel.”

He wraps up the paper from the sweet bean rolls, takes her box of tea, picks up a candy wrapper, and throws them into the garbage.

“If people today had a little more pride, I wouldn’t have to spend so much time cleaning up after them. But I guess as long as I’m willing to pick up after them, they will continue. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Thank you for breakfast.”

Afternoons, she spends roaming around through the arcade area and past, but rarely into, the department stores. The large department stores are so cramped, but sometimes she’ll go in and sit on one of those benches they have near the bathrooms, let the air conditioning cool her. One day, while sitting, she saw a mob of people. She couldn’t see why they were all pushing, and when she got up and went to have a look, she was shocked that it was a bunch of discounted umbrellas they were swarming over.

She thinks about going to the library, over there on the other side of the river. It is a nice library and she has been there a couple of times. At about two o’clock, she stands in front of one of the large department stores and waits, along with a small crowd gathering there. At exactly two, the large clock begins the melody and she sees the small dolls come out from behind the doors, two by two, twenty in all. Each is wearing a costume from a different place, a Japanese boy with a headband and small
taiko
drum; a girl with long black hair, wearing a hula skirt; another doll, this one with wooden clogs. At least once a day, she tries to come here and watch the clock, to see the children staring up at it, some dancing to the song. It is still a surprise to see so many children, any children. She watches the clock until all the dolls have gone back inside.

The crowd disperses, and when she, too, starts to walk away, she takes only a few steps before stopping. She thinks at first that she is mistaken, but when she looks again, she knows that it is him. She isn’t sure whether to say hello, but she quickly dismisses this thought, knowing how she would embarrass him. Besides, what would she say? Would she drop a few coins into his nearly empty hat? Like the dancing dolls, she retreats into the department store, trying to regroup her thoughts.

She is on the opposite side of the street from the department store, and if she doesn’t see him, she will go over in front of the clock. Still, she hasn’t figured out what to say to him, and ever since she first noticed him there, she hasn’t shown up at the bus center in the mornings, choosing to eat her breakfast at the hotel. It is now nearing six and the clock will play only twice more today.

“What are you doing, Miss Fuji?”

Hearing her name startles her.

“I was looking for the time. How are you doing, Yasu?”

“I’m okay. I thought that maybe you had left town. I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“I went away for a couple of days.”

“Where did you go?”

She doesn’t have an answer and so pretends that she hasn’t heard him.

“I saw you the other day watching the clock. Do you like it?”

“Yes, it is nice. I have never seen anything like that before.”

“Why didn’t you come over and say hello to me?”

“When?”

“The day when you were in front of the department store and you saw me.”

Again, he leaves her without anything to say. She feels hot and takes out a hand towel, dabs at her face, the back of her neck. The traffic passes by; she hears the clock begin to sing.

“The clock is playing; you should go.”

“I don’t need to see it today.”

She stands there, watching the shoppers, listening to the melody of the clock fade in and out of the noise of the traffic.

Late the next
morning, she meets him at the bus center, as they had planned. There is somewhere he wants to take her, something he wants to show her. They ride the bus about twenty-five minutes from the station and are up near the base of the mountain.
When they get off, she offers him some fruit.

“No thank you. I’ve eaten.”

“You always say that you’ve eaten, but you’re so skinny. Here, stick these in your pockets and eat them when you want.”

Away from the bus stop they go.

“Where are we going?”

“I told you that I have something to show you.”

They walk up the gradual slope of the road. The trees grow thicker; there are fewer houses. She buys them each a plastic bottle of juice from a vending machine. He stops every few minutes and they rest, take a drink of the juice.

“Why are you so fascinated with those drink machines?”

“I told you that they hardly have any where I come from. But they are everywhere, even up here near the mountain.”

“Drink, cigarette machines. I heard that they even have them at Mount Fuji.”

“Have you been to Mount Fuji?”

“No, only something I read about. Vending machines right on top of the mountain. Garbage all over.
They say the stench along the trail is terrible.”

She is silent, can’t believe what he has said.

“Have you ever been there?”

“Many years ago. My uncle took me when I was nine. I don’t remember garbage or any terrible smell.”

“More respect for things in those days.”

They continue up the road until they arrive at a small mountain trail.

“I don’t think I can climb all the way to the top.”

“Just a little more. What I want to show you is up this trail a little.”

For another five minutes, they continue along the dirt path.

“Okay, they will be up along here.”

“Who?”

“The men I am going to show you. You will see them scattered all through this area up to our left. Keep walking and I’ll tell you about them later.”

As he said, she sees several small clusters of men sitting on blankets or tarps; some of the men have on suits, others only a white dress shirt without a tie. One man is playing with a calculator; another has a comic book. A few are talking, while others are hunched over a mah-jongg board. After several minutes, they stop, having passed by about a dozen men. She takes a drink, tries to slow her breathing, dry the sweat that has formed on her face.

“What are they doing?”

“They come up here every day and stay until early evening, then head home.”