In Black and Blue

Noguchi Chiyo

The floor needs sweeping and Bunya-san is yelling again. The sharpness of her voice washes over me as I keep my head down. Like this, all I can see are the bits of dust hiding behind her heels and under the edge of the counter.

“What were you thinking? Were you thinking at all?”

I bob my head. “I apologize for the oversight,” I say, my voice sounding small.

“Look at this,” she says, pushing a form into my line of sight. The words Walling Insurance, Tokyo branch, show through her fingers. “How do you expect anyone to be able to read this?”

“I apologize,” I repeat. “I thought that I had taken a black pen, but it was blue.”

“We don’t stock blue pens,” Bunya-san snaps. 

The paper in between us isn’t the point. She’s the senior office lady. She ordered a box of blue, and it’s my job to accept the fault. 

“I can rewrite them–”

There’s a noise in the other room, and she perks up to look out the crack between the door and frame. “We’ll talk about this more later,” she says, leaving me behind in order to attend to whatever happened out front.

I take a deep breath. 

My hands are stiff, so I stretch them, fingers spread.

The dust pan is in the far back cubby, so I get it out and sweep up the errant fluff off the corner of the floor. Poor dust. It didn’t ask to be here.

While I’m kneeling, I give myself three more deep breaths, and then I spring up. Time for a fresh start. Dust goes into the garbage, tool back in the cubby. 

Out in the main room, Bunya-san is missing but all of the professional staff are there, heads bowed at their desks. They could probably hear what just happened, and they’re all politely pretending they didn’t.

There’s one other person sitting in the single chair by the front door, his head tipped back, bleached red hair leaning against the wall. It’s one of those days then, when Asagawa Kenji and his associate visit to talk with the manager, Funabashi-san. I look around but I don’t see Kumanaka-san, the other. That’s a mercy– wide and chiseled with a rough voice, he’s the more intimidating of the two.

The silence of the room is a lonely scene, everyone sitting alone, and our guest out of place most of all. Still, I can’t make myself go say something to Asagawa Kenji. He comes in here often enough in his leather coat, but truth told I’d probably cross the street if I ran into him outside.

There’s something happening here, something that I don’t think corporate Walling Insurance would smile on. But really the story of these two odd visitors is above my paygrade. 

Bunya-san might know, I realize, since she gets to help at their meetings sometimes. Since she’s not out here now, she could be inside the manager's office even now. That or they sent her on an errand. Maybe she’s getting black pens. 

I let myself chuckle, just a little, but try to keep the amusement off my face.

There’s always time to start again. From the filing cabinet, I compile a stack of blank policy applications and claims. I have a black pen in my bag at my desk that I dig out and sit down to copy.

* * *

When Bunya-san returns from errands, she doesn’t say anything more to me. I keep working, staying well past when everyone else goes home. My shoulders are sore by the time I’m done, but seeing the pile of what I’ve finished is satisfying. 

I sort them out into stacks, then walk around the desks, depositing papers in the appropriate inboxes for each of the five staff. The sixth desk is empty these days. I give the worn wooden top a pat just so it won’t feel left out.

Outside it’s late, and I wish again that I made more money. I’d stop off at the fancy tea shop and get a full katsu set, something with curry and pickles. Maybe even some chocolate cake. After today, I’d deserve it.

Instead, a 500-yen bento is bouncing against my leg in the plastic bag as I approach my apartment building. Yoshikawa-san is outside, her arms clad in a quilted jacket, moving pots around on the ledge of her tiny balcony. She likes to put them up on the ledge in the morning, but after one fell off in the wind a few months ago, she spends a lot of time fussing over whether each one is in just the right spot.

“Good evening,” I say, giving her a quick bow from below.

“Noguchi-san, welcome home,” she calls down, her voice creaking like a tree in the wind. “It’s getting cool out.”

“So it is.” I want to ask if she has enough heat inside, but I’m afraid it might sound like I’m implying she’s poor. “I have been doing exercises in the morning to get the blood moving,” I say instead. I gesture like punches in the air, a comical rajio taiso impression, the bag with my food nearly hitting me in the face.

Yoshikawa-san chuckles, a deep sound from the diaphragm. “So much energy, Noguchi-san.”

I laugh in concert and wave again as I continue on and into the stairway of our building. When I pass out of sight, I can feel the muscles of my face relax back into neutrality, and I use my free hand to rub the muscle in my jaw. It’s been a long day, and it’ll be good to be home.

Up one flight of stairs, I reach the landing between Yoshikawa-san’s apartment door and mine. On her side, there’s something shoved in the gap between the door and latch.

I shouldn’t read it, but I do. “Tell that shihead Hirose Wataru to call–” it says, the number written below in thick black ink. Bunya-san would approve of the format at least.

Could it be Yoshikawa’s son-in-law they’re trying to reach, I wonder. I saw him once, leaving her apartment, not long after her daughter died. She used to mention when he called too, but I can’t think of the last time that happened.

My fist raises to knock, but I hesitate. If I make Yoshikawa come to the door, she’ll know I saw this note and she’ll feel self conscious. I don’t want to do that to her. She’ll find the note in her own time.

Instead I open my own door, keys clanking against the metal frame. 

“I’m home,” I call so he knows I’m here. Slipping off my shoes, I can’t wait. Today’s the day for a special treat. I drop my own bento on the counter, and grab the tupperware out of the fridge.

Going through the doorway into my cozy main room, I wave the container in the air. “I hope you haven’t missed me too much today. Though…maybe it’s okay to miss me just a little bit sometimes.”

He looks sleepy, curled up in the corner of his cage, red and black and white scaley stripes intertwined under a mossy blanket. I set aside his thawed mouse treat to check the temperatures on both sides as well as the humidity. “Did you finish with your molt today? You’ve been taking so very long. I trust you didn’t forget how. That’d be very silly of you after all this time.”

I move aside the moss so I can move him to the feeding cage. That’s when I see it. “Mister Wiggles? What’s wrong?”

* * *

Bunya-san’s voice is raised again, and this time I deserve it. 

“I apologize,” I say, trying to make the words loud enough for her to hear. I didn’t even stay to find out when the vet might be able to see my baby boy Wiggles, but it still made me late this morning.

“If you can’t even be in the office on time, what is the point of you working here?” she asks.

“It’s my fault,” I say. “I apologize for being late this morning.”

She twists her foot, the heel of one shoe grinding against the tile floor. I watch the movement, and wait to hear if she has any more anger to share right now.

“Since you think you have so much extra time,” she says finally, “you can dust before you start on the filing.”

“Thank you,” I say, and make for the cupboard.

By the time lunch rolls around, I’ve only just finished dusting every surface and I’m behind on filing. Still, when my break time hits, I can’t stay. I need to check in on Mister Wiggles.

I make it back only ten minutes late from lunch. Asagawa Kenji is sitting at the front chair again, leather jacket dark in the reflected fall sun. I give him a wide berth as I come back in and walk to my desk.

My face is ashen enough that even Igarashi-san, the claims processor who sits opposite the empty desk, notices. 

“Noguchi-san,” he says softly. We haven’t talked much, but he’s always been nice enough, or at least less dismissive than some of the other professional staff.

“Good afternoon, Igarashi-san,” I say, trying to smile, or at least not cry.

“Did something happen?”

“I’m fine,” I say, the words breathy.

“You’re fine…?” he repeats slowly.

“It’s nothing. Just something with my pet.” He nods, so I keep going, intending to give him just enough to make him stop feeling like he has to ask. “My snake, he was at the vet. His molting, he had eye caps and they said they just needed to remove them. And I went to go pick him up, but– but–”

“Is he okay?”

The words come out around the thickness in my throat, one by one: “They said they sent him home already. With someone. Not me.” I have to stop and catch myself. “It was an accident, but they can’t get a hold of them. Of the person.”

Igarashi-san makes a sound, sympathetic, and it’s too much. I shake my head, and make my way to the store room, slide the door closed. I lean on the counter and try to choke it back in. I press one palm against first one eye, and then the other. I take a deep breath.

Behind me, the door slides open. “I’m sorry for stepping away–”

“You are at work,” Bunya-san says behind me. 

I step back, and drop my shoulders.

“Don’t trouble the professional staff. They have work to do.” Her face softens the tiniest bit. “Look, after work tonight, we can get a drink.”

I shake my head, willing myself not to cry.

“But at work,” she continues, “you will be professional. Or you won’t be working h–”

The door slides open to reveal Asagawa Kenji. He ignores both of us, and walks over to the cupboard, opening first one door and then another. There’s a bruise on his neck, purple and black and blue stretching up from under the collar of his scuffed leather coat.

“Is there anything that you need assistance with?” Bunya-san asks, her voice snapping into a honey sweet tone.

He ignores her, instead rifling through a shelf until he finds a box somewhere toward the back.

“Asagawa-san–” she starts and then stops, apparently uncertain of what she can tell him to do or not do in this situation. Somehow, on the books, this threatening guy in black is paid here but he doesn’t work for her.

“Just looking for this,” he says, pulling one wooden pencil out from the box. The end is pre-sharpened, but he looks at it critically.

That does not help the situation. “Asagawa-san, if you need help with something–”

Half turned, he looks her in the eye and shoves the end of the pencil into the electric sharpener sitting on the counter. The sound fills this small space as he grinds maybe a quarter of the pencil off before letting up on the pressure.

“Asaga–”

The sound of the sharpener cuts her off again, as he stares her in the face. 

This time when the noise stops, there’s silence. Then Bunya-san makes a sharp turn and leaves the room.

He pops the box back open with his thumb and tucks the pencil inside, where it drops down, leaving a depression in the even surface of the others that are all identical in length.

“Don’t you need that pencil?” I ask, a weak smile coming through.

“Already used it,” he says, one side of his mouth quirking up. “What’s its name?”

“Its name?” I repeat.

“Your snake.”

Oh. The worry comes flooding back, and I feel the tension in my stomach again. “His name is Mister Wiggles.”

The side of his mouth twitches again, and I realize quite suddenly that past the jacket and hair and general threatening look, he’s around my age. He’s kind of cute.

“Who lost him?”

“Nakano Animal Clinic,” I say, then backtrack. He wouldn’t cause a problem with them, would he? “But it was just a mistake. They were doing their best. And they’ll call if–when–they find him.”

“Yeah.”

I force more certainty into my tone than I feel. “I’m sure that it will be soon.”

The sound of a door opening cuts off any further conversation–Kumanaka-san is done with his meeting with Funabashi-san. Asagawa Kenji leaves without another word, the still open box of pencils left on the counter. I tuck in the lid, and put it away.

* * *

At the end of the day, I start to pack up my bag as soon as I hear Funabashi-san roll his chair back from his desk. I’m hoping to dart out, but Bunya-san’s heels click up behind me. I’m caught, so I stand and act like I’d wanted to go out after work with her after all. We look through a stack of papers together until Funabashi-san leaves, and then everyone pulls on their coats.

Outside, there’s a chill rain falling, so I pull out my folding umbrella, the one decorated with tigers. I follow Bunya-san around the block to a nearby bar, and we settle in at a tiny table. She orders two beers and a plate of karaage for us, and leans forward on one elbow.

“Chiyo-chan,” she says, using my given name even though I’ve never told her she could. “What are we going to do?”

“Eat some chicken and drink and go home,” I suggest lightly.

“With you.”

I take a long sip of my drink, pretending like if I never stop then this conversation can never continue. Sadly, eventually I do have to breathe.

She sits back in her chair and shakes her head. “I only am hard on you because you need it so much.”

“I appreciate all of your support,” I fib. 

“You know, I see some of my sister in you,” she says. Before I can thank her for this, she continues, “She wasn’t good at working either. But she got married, and she’s much happier. Do you have a boyfriend?”

I wave my hand in front of my face, feeling hot. “Oh, not right now, I don’t. I’m too busy.”

The kaarage comes, but she ignores it. “Why not? You are cute enough, and it’d be much better for you. You could make bento for him, and take naps. You wouldn’t have to work anymore.”

After all those late nights with my nose in a t-table, pencil scratching out sampling distributions on paper, this is too much. I came to Tokyo to do something with myself. “I like working.” 

It’s her turn to take a long drink. “You must have someone.”

I pick up one chunk of chicken and bite into it, chewing slowly.

“Maybe Asagawa Kenji is free,” I say finally.

Her mouth puckers. “You need someone who can support you.”

“Oh, we know how much he makes.” I give her my most simplistic smile. “He could support someone if he wanted.”

She makes a noise deep in her throat, but doesn’t push back. The alcohol seems to have started to take the pointed edge off.

I seize the opportunity and pound back the end of my glass. “Thank you for all of your advice, Bunya-san. Please have a good night.”

* * *

On the landing, the note is gone from Yoshikawa-san’s doorframe. I want to knock. I know her son-in-law has had problems with money and that sometimes debt collectors will start to hassle the family if they don’t have luck with the person themself. I want to make sure she’s okay.

But I don’t. She’d be so embarrassed to know I know and I can’t do that to her either.

Instead, I mechanically open my own door, where my apartment is cold and dark. While Mister Wiggles never could run to greet me, knowing that he was there made it feel like home. 

I turn off the heater on his case, and sink down to lean on my kotatsu. I dig through my hair and pull out the bobby pins, one by one, until the bun starts to droop. Roughly, I push my fingers through the strands until it all comes loose, falling to cover my face.

We’d only been together for a year, but Mister Wiggles was my friend. He was there when I got this job. He was there the first time that Bunya yelled. He was even the reason that Yoshikawa-san crossed the landing, the time we had her homemade plum wine together.

There’s a knock. At first, I wonder if I misheard, or if it's someone on the other side of the landing. Then there’s a second knock, so I go to look. In profile, through the peephole, I see it’s Asagawa Kenji. Outside my door.

I open it, and peek my head out. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says, voice flat. He reaches up and hands me something, a plastic container.

I take it, turn the clear tub around, hold it up before it clicks—Mister Wiggles is curled inside.

“What?! How? Why?” I squeak.

He shrugs. “I was bored.”

I pop the door open a little more, and wave Asagawa Kenji into my entryway. Then I turn and run back into the main room to click the heater back on. I open the container and take Mister Wiggles out to put him away safely. He’s sleepy but perfect–the eye caps are gone and he’s here. He’s back.

And I have a guest.

I turn back to look at where Asagawa Kenji is standing, again in profile, his toe keeping the door cracked. It’s surreal to see him here in my apartment, black jeans, leather coat, that bruise standing out on his neck. His eyes are flickering across the space around me, but he’s standing with a casual slouch.

“Everything okay with it?”

“He’s perfect,” I say, my throat tightening. “You didn’t have to–”

There’s another knock. This one is urgent, loud, and…not on my door.

“Open up, bitch,” a man’s voice grunts. “Time to pay.”

My whole body tenses, and it feels like the blood is falling away from my head, pulling away from my hands, disappearing. My door is cracked, Asagawa Kenji’s toe between the door and frame.

“Asagawa-san–” I whisper.

“Call me Kenji,” he says, looking like nothing is happening outside.

“They’re looking for my neighbor.”

“She owe them money?” he asks like he’s wondering about the weather.

“I think it’s her son-in-law. She’s so old, I don’t think she’d even know where to go to borrow any herself.” I swallow, and look down at his foot. “She doesn’t have anyone. Please.”

Casually, he stretches his arm up and out to push the door open. There are two men on the landing, both dressed in tracksuits. 

Kenji glances back at me and shrugs, then crosses out onto the landing. My door starts to close automatically, so the last thing I see as it swings back is him reach ahead, grab the back of one of the two guys’ heads and drive it forward into the metal frame around Yoshikawa-san’s door. 

There’s noise, and I run forward to look out the peephole, just in time to see him kick the other guy in the stomach and down the stairs.

The first one recovers enough to swing a punch, but Kenji catches it and twists. The man bends back, struggling, until he unbalances and has to catch himself against the wall. Kenji grabs the front of the man’s jacket with his free hand, using his weight to pin the man in place.

From where I am, I can’t hear what Kenji says, but it’s enough that the man’s eyes widen even as he struggles. Kenji says something else to him, then lets go of his shirt, and pats his chest before stopping back. The man reaches up to touch his own face, feels around for where the blood is coming from and then backs down the stairs.

Kenji stands there, staring down the steps for a long moment. 

He keeps waiting until it occurs to me that I could open the door. I’m still looking out the peephole as I start to turn the knob, and without turning, he holds up his hand, gesturing for me to wait. It’s the only sign I’ve seen in this entire exchange that he has had any concerns about safety. A longer wait and he finally drops his hand, turning back toward me.

I open the door a bit and lean around, where I can see that his knuckles are looking red. “Are you okay?” I ask.

He tracks my line of sight, and holds up his hand and stretches it out. There’s some skin missing, but he shoves it, raw injury and all, into his pocket. “Yeah. Just fine.”

“Are they going to come back?”

“Probably not.” 

“What did you say to them?”

“I reminded them that this is Maeda territory,” he says. “They made their own assumptions.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling woozy as all of the blood in my body seems to have rematerialized. Then I repeat, “Thank you.”

He shrugs. “Like I said, I was bored.”

* * *

I’m surprised to see Kenji-san at the office the next day, even though I maybe shouldn’t be. Whatever Kumanaka-san has been talking to Funabashi-san about, they’ve been doing it a lot. When they come in, Kenji takes the seat by the door, same as always.

I shuffle over, and bow to him, same as I would to Funabashi-san or anyone else who deserves it. “Please, this way,”

He raises his eyebrows and looks around with mock suspicion but there’s not really anywhere in this open space for me to hide something. I smile at him, and he gets up as I asked. From the side of the room, Bunya-san turns to watch us, her face pinched.

I bow and gesture, guiding him around the main body of desks to the empty one. “Please, sit here,” I say. “Across from you—this is Igarashi-san.”

The claims processor nods, a light bow of acknowledgement. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

Kenji looks at the open desk, Igarashi, and then at me. A frown crosses his face, and he picks up the pencil cup I’ve helpfully filled up for him.

“In case you need to write something,” I say. “Or if  you’d like pens instead, we have two colors to choose from. Your nameplate comes next week.”

“My nameplate?”

“Yes. You are an employee of Walling Insurance after all. Please come in any time you are bored.”

He gives me a look, something unreadable. I think there’s amusement and confusion and, I hope somewhere deep down, appreciation. That bruise on his neck is starting to fade to yellow, at least the part I can see, above where it extends down into his shirt, across the muscles of his neck below the ends of his hair.

I feel a blush come to my cheeks, the traitors. “Anyway, Igarashi-san, I leave him to you. Please treat him nicely.”

And so, Kenji sits down in the middle of the room and starts to talk.

* * *

The next night, Yoshikawa-san is sitting at my kotatsu, legs under the warm blanket. She pours out glasses of her plum wine for us to drink, as I bring in a chipped platter that I’ve used to plate the contents of a couple of Family Mart bento.

“Thank you again for having me,” she says.

“Please, thank you for coming.” I should have invited her back sooner. Weeks ago. Months.

After all, sometimes community is all we can do.