tea at 101
On Saturday afternoon I went down to 101 with a box of yōkan from the old sweet shop by Oji station, to apologise for the catalogues.
Hoshino-san let me in. Her flat is the mirror of mine, darker, with a small family altar in the corner and a photo of her husband in a grey cardigan. She made green tea and cut the yōkan into very thin slices, thinner than I've ever seen, so it would last.
Things she told me:
- Sawada-san lived upstairs for twenty years.
- When he worked, he came home at ten past three every night. She knew because of the stairs. They ring a little under a person.
- When he retired he kept going out at night, walking, and he kept coming back at ten past three. "I said, Sawada-san, you've retired. He said he knew."
- In January his post box filled up. She called the landlord.
- There was a daughter. He didn't talk about her.
I didn't tell her about the intercom. I said the room was nice. She said it gets the morning sun, and that he grew morning glories on the balcony every summer, up strings, and gave her the seeds in autumn in a paper envelope.
It's almost two. I'm writing this in bed with the light off.