time.
The day came for filing the official registration at the dormitory. It took an hour and a half and three transfers, but we finally arrived at the tiny station on the outskirts of the city. I hadn't been there since graduation, but it seemed that very little had changed in six years. The road outside the ticket gate sloped gradually up the hill. A young policeman stood in the door of the police box, while high school students on bicycles threaded their way through the shoppers in the arcade. In other words, it was much the same as every other sleepy Tokyo suburb.
"What's the Manager like?" my cousin asked as the noise of the station died away and we entered streets lined with houses.
"I'm not sure I know myself," I answered truthfully. "He's something of a mystery. He runs the dormitory, but I don't know exactly what that involves. It's hard to believe he makes any money from it, but at the same time it doesn't seem to be a front for a religious group or anything like that. It's on a fairly large piece of land, so it's a bit odd they haven't torn it down and built something more lucrative."
"It's lucky for me they haven't," my cousin said. "Maybe he runs it as a kind of public service."
"Could be," I said.
Twin girls, about elementary school age, played badminton at the side of the road. They were absolutely identical and were quite good at their game. The shuttlecock went back and forth in perfectly symmetrical arcs. A woman on the balcony of an apartment building was airing out a child's futon, and the faint ping of an aluminum bat came from the baseball diamond at the technical high school. All in all, an ordinary spring afternoon.
"The Manager lives in the dorm. His room is no bigger than the student rooms and not much more luxurious. He lives alone, and it seems he has no family. I never saw pictures of relatives, and I don't remember anyone ever coming to visit."
"About how old is he?" my cousin asked, and I suddenly realized that I'd never given any thought to the question. I tried to recall the Manager's face, but I had only the vague impression of a man who was no longer young. This was perhaps because he had cut himself off from so many things in life: from family and social status—perhaps even from something as mundane as age itself. He'd had no connection to anyone and had not seemed to belong anywhere.
"I suppose he's middle-aged," I said, for want of a better answer. "But I don't really know much about him. Even when you're living there, you won't see him very often. Maybe when you go to pay your rent, or report a burned-out lightbulb or a broken washing machine. Not often. But don't worry, he's nice enough."
"I'm sure he is," my cousin said.
Spring had arrived suddenly after the night of the storm. The clouds remained, but warmth in the air seemed to announce the change of seasons. My cousin clasped the envelope that held his registration materials firmly under his arm. Somewhere in the distance, a bird was singing.
"There's one thing I forgot to mention," I said, finally bringing up the subject that had been on my mind all day. My cousin turned to look at me, waiting expectantly for me to continue. "The Manager is missing one leg and both arms." There was a short silence.
"One leg and both arms," he repeated at last.
"His left leg, to be precise."
"What happened to him?"
"I'm not sure. An accident, I suppose. There were rumors—that he'd been caught in some machine or was in a car wreck. No one could ever manage to ask him, but it must have been something awful."
"That's for sure," my cousin said, looking down as he kicked a pebble.
"But he can do everything for himself—cook, get dressed, get around. He can use a can opener, a sewing machine, anything, so you won't even notice after a while. When you've been around him, it somehow doesn't seem to be very important. I just didn't want you to be shocked when you meet him."
"I see what you mean," my cousin said, kicking another pebble.
We made several
The day came for filing the official registration at the dormitory. It took an hour and a half and three transfers, but we finally arrived at the tiny station on the outskirts of the city. I hadn't been there since graduation, but it seemed that very little had changed in six years. The road outside the ticket gate sloped gradually up the hill. A young policeman stood in the door of the police box, while high school students on bicycles threaded their way through the shoppers in the arcade. In other words, it was much the same as every other sleepy Tokyo suburb.
"What's the Manager like?" my cousin asked as the noise of the station died away and we entered streets lined with houses.
"I'm not sure I know myself," I answered truthfully. "He's something of a mystery. He runs the dormitory, but I don't know exactly what that involves. It's hard to believe he makes any money from it, but at the same time it doesn't seem to be a front for a religious group or anything like that. It's on a fairly large piece of land, so it's a bit odd they haven't torn it down and built something more lucrative."
"It's lucky for me they haven't," my cousin said. "Maybe he runs it as a kind of public service."
"Could be," I said.
Twin girls, about elementary school age, played badminton at the side of the road. They were absolutely identical and were quite good at their game. The shuttlecock went back and forth in perfectly symmetrical arcs. A woman on the balcony of an apartment building was airing out a child's futon, and the faint ping of an aluminum bat came from the baseball diamond at the technical high school. All in all, an ordinary spring afternoon.
"The Manager lives in the dorm. His room is no bigger than the student rooms and not much more luxurious. He lives alone, and it seems he has no family. I never saw pictures of relatives, and I don't remember anyone ever coming to visit."
"About how old is he?" my cousin asked, and I suddenly realized that I'd never given any thought to the question. I tried to recall the Manager's face, but I had only the vague impression of a man who was no longer young. This was perhaps because he had cut himself off from so many things in life: from family and social status—perhaps even from something as mundane as age itself. He'd had no connection to anyone and had not seemed to belong anywhere.
"I suppose he's middle-aged," I said, for want of a better answer. "But I don't really know much about him. Even when you're living there, you won't see him very often. Maybe when you go to pay your rent, or report a burned-out lightbulb or a broken washing machine. Not often. But don't worry, he's nice enough."
"I'm sure he is," my cousin said.
Spring had arrived suddenly after the night of the storm. The clouds remained, but warmth in the air seemed to announce the change of seasons. My cousin clasped the envelope that held his registration materials firmly under his arm. Somewhere in the distance, a bird was singing.
"There's one thing I forgot to mention," I said, finally bringing up the subject that had been on my mind all day. My cousin turned to look at me, waiting expectantly for me to continue. "The Manager is missing one leg and both arms." There was a short silence.
"One leg and both arms," he repeated at last.
"His left leg, to be precise."
"What happened to him?"
"I'm not sure. An accident, I suppose. There were rumors—that he'd been caught in some machine or was in a car wreck. No one could ever manage to ask him, but it must have been something awful."
"That's for sure," my cousin said, looking down as he kicked a pebble.
"But he can do everything for himself—cook, get dressed, get around. He can use a can opener, a sewing machine, anything, so you won't even notice after a while. When you've been around him, it somehow doesn't seem to be very important. I just didn't want you to be shocked when you meet him."
"I see what you mean," my cousin said, kicking another pebble.
We made several
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