Part 6

I checked to be sure. Working at the gap in the side, I peeled back the tape as carefully as I could, since I would need to carry the parcel safely home again. But tape is irritating like that. It clings and refuses to let go, never coming away evenly, especially when all you have to work with are your keys and your teeth.

When I did get it open, I was relieved to find the dolls inside, all higgledy-piggledy, just as I had packed them. Yet, just as before, a feeling of unease gradually crept over me.

I moved the dolls around in the box, not really wanting to lift them out, wary of encountering that cold, creepy touch again. My careful sorting soon turned into impatient shuffling as a realization took hold. Though I tried to shake it off, each rearrangement only confirmed my fear. I even went so far as to line them up along the pavement, checking each one, then checking again, and even the makers’ marks, until the conclusion became unavoidable. That last kokeshi doll you bought was missing.

Since I knew how much this doll meant to you, I fell into anguish. Of all the dolls to go missing, why this one, I asked myself. And despite my misgivings, I knew I must find it. I put the dolls back into the box, much more carefully this time, nestling them together top to tail. It gave me time to think.

Maybe the recycle shop owner only wanted that particular doll and decided not to keep the others. It didn’t make much sense, considering the value of many of the pieces – not that I have looked into their monetary worth, as I say. I wouldn’t have sold them, believe me. I only brought them here out of panic, because I couldn’t rest.

That sticky-out edge kept nagging at me. Surely someone must have opened the box.

I checked the window display of the recycle shop, which lacked any real artistic merit. Just a jumble of large and small items with no governing design aesthetic. A rice cooker caught my eye, the same brand as our old one. For a moment I thought that bastard Sato had donated it, then remembered the box was still outside his door. A beautiful vintage clock, one of those with small faces and long trailing chimes, stood nearby. I thought to check the time, but could not tell whether it was working or perhaps required winding. Small items – matcha bowls and ceramic tea sets – filled every nook and cranny. I lingered over a set of golf clubs in excellent condition. Though I checked twice, I somehow already knew that kokeshi doll would not be there.

A group of boys rode past on their bikes, performing wheelies and making a general nuisance of themselves, and a great deal of noise.

“Out of here!” I shouted, exasperated. With all their yelling, I couldn’t hear myself think. Not that my shouting bothered them; they carried on with their nonsense until they reached the konbini, dropping their bikes by the roadside in a disorderly heap and going into the store, still yelling and laughing.

I tried to think. Where had that damned kokeshi doll got to? Who would steal it from a box meant for the recycle shop? Boys up to no good, perhaps. By the time I had hoisted the box and crossed the road, the boys were spilling back out of the store and into the street, continuing their yelling. Most had already mounted their bikes before I thought to shout, “Hey, you – stop.” All but one began to ride away. Even this last one already had his bum up on the crossbar, his tiny legs straddling the frame. I noticed him tucking something hurriedly into the front of his blouson jacket. He quickly zipped it up, hiding what he was doing from me, still laughing and yelling after the others. “No, you don’t,” I said. “Not so quick.” I grabbed his saddle rail from behind just as he began to pedal off.