Part 5

As I started down that hill again, I noticed old Sato hadn’t bothered to take the rice cooker from his step. Ungrateful sod. Neighbours! Why do people wax lyrical about how wonderful neighbours are?

I picked up my pace as it dawned on me the recycle shop might be closing soon. The convenience store usually stays open until seven. Which isn’t particularly convenient when you want a beer or two late in the evening. Back in the old days, I mean.

Did you spot the raccoon this time?

The raccoon? How funny that you should mention it. Considering the seriousness and sincerity of my mission, such details were the very last thing on my mind. All I could think about was getting your dolls back, lining them up along the dresser where they belonged, returning your presence to the house. Even if it meant dragging the tatami into the front room so I could get some sleep.

But since you bring it up, yes, I saw the raccoon. As a matter of fact, it followed its usual habit of crossing the road, slipping into the bushes, and disappearing into the woods. How about that for a coincidence? And – for the third time that day – it paid me no heed at all. And, dearest Yasuko, I paid it as little attention as it paid me.

In fact, I began to walk with greater urgency, so fast I was nearly running. Yet even as I hurried on, part of me sensed it no longer mattered – that I had left the house too late. Those damn sleep-inducing television dramas. If only I had woken earlier.

Despite this overwhelming sense of defeat, I refused to lie down and die while there remained even the slightest chance that the shop was still open. But what if they had already sold your dolls? What then? What if they had passed them along to someone who knows someone who sells such things? I refused to despair. I kept walking, and walk-running, until I reached the bottom of the hill and found myself standing across from the old Post Bank.

I could not believe my eyes. The box was right where I’d left it.

I had seen the recycle shop from a hundred or so metres away and realized no lights were on. It was not open.

Then I spied the box by the door. Perhaps the shopkeeper had taken the box in, emptied its contents, and reused it for rubbish before closing for the day. Or perhaps this was another Sapporo Beer box left by someone else. But as I approached, it became clear that this was the very box I had carried here that morning.

I sat down heavily beside it, tired from all the exertion. I noticed how hurriedly I had taped the box together, in a thoroughly slapdash manner. One flap of the carton was sticking out in a weird way. It was the side bearing the cargo date stamp, sticking out at me like a tongue.

I laughed inwardly at the feeling this gave me and shook myself. Why would anyone send cryptic messages through a date stamp? Then it struck me that I had no idea what the day’s date was. Or even what day it was. As much as I tried, I could not work it out. How many days had it been since you passed? If that was a Friday, could this be Sunday? If it was Sunday, the recycle shop would not be open.

That would explain finding the box outside. If only I could be sure of the day.

I shook off the nagging doubts and scolded myself for being so ungrateful. I had the dolls back, by hook or by crook.