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  Masako began passing the containers to Yoshie with a practised hand. A perfect square of rice emerged from the mouth of the rice dispenser and flopped into the container that Yoshie held beneath it. She then quickly weighed each portion on the scale next to her and sent it on down the line with a flourish.

  Beyond Yoshie was a long line of workers: one to even out the rice, one to add the curry sauce, one to slice the deep-fried chicken, another to lay it on top of the curry. Then someone to measure out the pickles into their cup, someone to add the plastic lid, someone to tape on a spoon, and finally someone to place the seal on the box. Each meal made its way down the line, assembled in so many small increments, until at last a curry lunch was complete.

  This was the way the shift always began. Masako glanced around at the clock on the wall. Barely five after twelve. Still five and a half hours of standing on the cold concrete floor. They had to take turns going to the bathroom, one at a time, with a replacement filling in on the line. You had to announce that you wanted to go and then wait your turn, which sometimes took as long as two hours in coming. They'd discovered long ago that to make the job as bearable as possible meant not only looking out for themselves but also working together as a team. This was the secret to lasting at a place like this without ruining your health.

  About an hour into the shift, they began to hear sounds of distress from the new woman. Almost immediately, efficiency began dropping on the line and they had to cut the pace. Masako noticed that Yayoi, trying to help out, had begun reaching across to take some of the newcomer's boxes, though today she'd seemed hardly able to handle her own. The veterans on the line all knew that smoothing the rice was a particularly tough job since it had cooled into a hard lump by the time it left the machine. It took a good deal of strength in the wrists and fingers to flatten the little squares of cold, compact rice in the few seconds the box was in front of you, and the half-stooping position made it hard on the back. After about an hour of this, pain would be shooting from your spine through your shoulders, and it became difficult to lift your arms. Which was precisely why the work was often left to unsuspecting beginners - though at the moment, Yayoi, who was anything but a beginner, was hard at work at the station, with a sullen but resigned look on her face.

  At last they were finished with the twelve hundred curry lunches. The women on the line cleaned the conveyor and quickly moved to another station for their next assignment: two thousand special 'Lunch of Champions' boxes. The 'Lunch of Champions' had more components than the curry lunches, so the line was longer, filled out by a number of Brazilians.

  Yoshie and Masako, as usual, took the rice spots. Kuniko, who was always quick to size up the situation, was saving the easiest job of saucing the fried pork for Yayoi. You took two pieces of pork, one in each hand, dipped them in the sauce, and then placed them in the box, sauced sides together. It was a good station, a bit shielded from the frenzy of the line, something even Yayoi could manage. Masako relaxed a bit and focused on her work.

  But just as they had finished with this assignment and were starting to clean up the line, there was an enormous crash as something heavy was knocked over, and everyone turned to look. Yayoi had stumbled against the cauldron full of sauce and fallen flat on her back. The heavy metal lid clattered away, rolling off toward the next conveyor belt, while a sea of viscous brown sauce spread out around them. The floor of the factory was always slick with spattered grease and food, but the workers were all used to the slippery conditions and this sort of accident almost never happened.

  'What the hell are you doing?!' Nakayama yelled, descending on them, his face pale with anger. 'How could you have spilt all this?!'

  'I'm sorry,' said Yayoi as some men with mops came running up, 'I slipped.' She made no move to get up, seeming almost stunned as she sat in the pool of sauce.

  'Come on,' said Masako, bending over her. 'You're getting soaked.' As she helped her to her feet, she caught a glimpse of a large, dark bruise on Yayoi's stomach where the shirt of her uniform was pushed up. Was this the reason she seemed so distracted? The contusion was unmistakable on her white stomach, like a mark of Cain. Masako clicked her tongue disapprovingly, but hurried to straighten Yayoi's uniform to hide the bruise from view. There were no spare uniforms to be had, so after a few moments to collect herself, Yayoi was forced to continue work with her back and sleeves covered in sauce. The thick liquid quickly congealed to a brown crust that didn't soak through the cloth, though the smell was overwhelming.

  -

  Five-thirty a.m. No overtime today, so the workers made their way back to the second floor. After they had changed into their street clothes, the four women usually bought drinks from the vending machines in the lounge and sat chatting for twenty minutes or so before they headed home.

  'You weren't yourself today,' said Yoshie, turning to Yayoi. 'You okay?' Age and fatigue showed on Yoshie's face, made plain by the hard night's work. Yayoi took a sip of coffee from her paper cup and thought a moment before answering.

  'I had a fight with my husband yesterday,' she said. 'Nothing special about that, is there?' laughed Yoshie, glancing over at Kuniko with a conspiratorial look. Kuniko's eyes narrowed as she slipped a thin menthol cigarette into her mouth.

  'You and Kenji get along, don't you?' she asked in a noncommittal tone. 'He takes the kids out all the time, I thought you said.'

  'Not recently,' Yayoi muttered. Masako said nothing but studied Yayoi's face. Once you sat down and held still for a few minutes, the fatigue seemed to work its way through your whole body.

  'Life's long, and there are going to be times like this, highs and lows.' Yoshie, who was herself a widow, seemed anxious to dismiss the whole discussion with a platitude, but Yayoi's tone turned harsh.

  'But he's used up all our savings,' she spat out. The others fell silent, startled by this sudden admission.

  Masako had lit a cigarette, and as she took a drag she broke the silence. 'What did he use it on?'

  'Gambling,' said Yayoi. 'I think he plays baccarat or something.'

  'But I thought your husband was a pretty reliable guy. Why would he get mixed up in gambling?' Yoshie seemed amazed.

  'Don't ask me,' Yayoi sighed, shaking her head. 'I think there's some place he goes to play, but I don't know much about it.'

  'How much did you have?' Kuniko asked, unable to conceal her curiosity.

  'About five million,' Yayoi said, her voice fading to a whisper. Kuniko gulped and for a moment looked almost jealous.

  'That's terrible,' she muttered.

  'And last night he hit me.' Showing the anger Masako had seen earlier, Yayoi lifted her T-shirt and displayed the bruise. Yoshie and Kuniko exchanged glances.

  'But I bet he's feeling sorry now,' said Yoshie in a conciliatory tone. 'My husband and I used to fight all the time, and he was a brute. But yours isn't like that, is he?'

  'I don't know any more,' Yayoi said, rubbing her stomach.

  -

  It was already light outside. The day seemed to be shaping up like the one before it, hot and humid. Yoshie and Yayoi, who commuted on bicycle, said goodbye in front of the factory as Masako and Kuniko headed for the parking lot.

  'Not much of a rainy season this year,' Masako said as they walked.

  'We'll probably have a water shortage,' said Kuniko, looking up at the leaden sky. Her face was covered with grease from the night's work.

  'If things keep up like this,' said Masako.

  'What do you think Yayoi's going to do?' Kuniko asked, breaking into a yawn. Masako shrugged. 'If it were me, I'd divorce him. Nobody would ask any questions, not after he used up all the savings.'

  'I suppose so,' Masako murmured, but it occurred to her that Yayoi's children were still small, so it wasn't as simple as Kuniko made it sound. They were all heading home, but maybe it wasn't just Masako who wasn't sure where home was. They walked on to the parking lot in silence.

  'Goodnight,' Kuniko said as she opened the door of her car.