202
Moved in today. Two men in green uniforms carried fourteen boxes up fourteen metal steps and ran down again every time.
You're supposed to introduce yourself to the neighbours with a small gift, so I bought boxed towels at the department store, 500 yen each.
101 is Hoshino-san. Eighty-something, small, an apron with cherries on it. She took the towels with both hands and gave me, in exchange, a Kita-ku garbage calendar with my days circled in red pen. "Burnable is Monday and Thursday. Before eight in the morning. Not the night before. Crows."
Then she said, "Sawada-san was very quiet. Please be quiet too."
I said I'd try.
201 is Tuan, a student from Vietnam at a Japanese language school. He bowed lower than I did, which I didn't think was possible. 102 is empty.
First night on the new tatami. The futon is cold on the left side, the side against the oshiire. Outer wall, probably.
So his name was Sawada.