you? The Sasaki woman?’ I nod. A knock on the door, and his secretary appears with a tray of tea. ‘I am addressing a trainee, Mrs Marui!’ Aoyama speaks in an appalled hiss. ‘My ten-thirty-five tea becomes my ten-forty-five tea, does it not?’ Stressed Mrs Marui bobs an apology and withdraws. ‘Go over to that window, Miyake, look out, and tell me what you see.’
I do as he says. ‘A window cleaner, sir.’
The man is immune to irony. ‘Below the window cleaner.’
Trains pulling in and pulling out in the shadow of Terminus Hotel. Mid-morning passengers. Luggage haulers. The milling, the lost, the late, the meeters, the met, the platform-cleaning machines. ‘Ueno station, sir.’
‘Tell me this, Miyake. What is Ueno station?’
I am foxed by this question.
‘Ueno station – Aoyama replays his grave spiel – ’ an extraordinary machine. One of the finest-tuned timepieces in the land. In the world. And this fireproof, thiefproof office is one of the nerve centres. From this console I can access . . . nearly everything. Ueno station is our lives, Miyake. You serve it, it serves you. It affords a timetabled career. You have the privilege to be a minute cog in this machine. Even I began in a position as lowly as yours: but with punctuality, hard work, integrity—’ The phone rings and I stop existing. Aoyama’s face switches to a higher-watt glow. His voice beams. ‘Sir! What a pleasure . . . yes . . . indeed . . . indeed . . . quite. A superb proposal. And may I venture to add . . . yes, sir. Absolutely . . . at the membership brokerage? Priceless . . . superb . . . and may I propose . . . indeed, sir. Rescheduled for Friday? How true . . . we’re all very much looking forward to hearing how we performed, sir. Thank you, sir . . . quite . . . And may I—’ Aoyama replaces the receiver and gazes at it.
After some seconds I cough politely.
Aoyama looks up. ‘Where was I?’
‘Minute cogs and integrity, sir.’
‘Integrity.’ But his mind is no longer here. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Your probationary period is six months. You will have the chance to sit the Japan Railways examinations in March. So, the Sasaki woman hired you. Not my ideal role model. She is one of these men-women. Never quit work, even after marriage. Her husband died – sad, of course, but people die all the time, and she expects a man’s job by way of compensation. So, Miyake. Rectify your accent problem. Listen to NHK radio announcers. Dump the junk that stuffs your head. In my day high schools trained tigers. Now they turn out peacocks. You are dismissed.’
I give him a bow as I close the door, but he is watching vacant space. The office outside is empty. The tray is on the side. To my own surprise, I lift the teapot lid and spit into it. This must be work-related stress.
The lost property office is an okay place to work. I have to wear uncool Japan Railways overalls, but I finish at six sharp and Ueno station is only a few stops down the Kita Senju line from Umejima, near Shooting Star. During my six-month probation period I get paid weekly, which suits me fine. I am lucky. Buntaro got me the job. When I got back from PanOpticon a week ago last Friday, he said he had heard from a contact that there might be a job going there, and would I be interested? You bet, I said. Before I knew it I had an interview with Mrs Sasaki. She is a stern old bird, a Tokyo version of my grandmother, but after talking for about half an hour she offered me the job. I spend the mornings cataloguing – writing date/time/train labels on the items collected by conductors and cleaners when the trains terminate, and housing them on the right metal rack. Mrs Sasaki runs the lost property office and deals with the high-value items in the side office – wallets, cash cards, jewellery – which have to be registered with the police. Suga trains me to do the low-value ones, stored in the back office. ‘Not much natural light in here, right?’ says Suga. ‘But you can tell the month from what gets handed in. November to February, skis and snowboards. March – diplomas. June is all wedding gifts. Swimsuits pile up