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  When he left Kuniko's apartment building, the long rays of the afternoon sun were beating down on the concrete parking lot. He sighed, thinking about the long walk to the bus-stop in the scorching heat and the sweaty wait once he got there. The line of shiny cars parked by the building caught his eye, and among them, the flashiest of all, a dark green Volkswagen cabriolet. He thought it strange that anyone who lived here should have a car like that, but he never guessed that it might belong to the seemingly hard-up woman in the apartment he'd just left.

  So, he'd come to a dead end. He would have to start over and try interviewing the five men who had been absent from the factory on Tuesday night. He could begin doing it tomorrow, but if that didn't pan out, he'd have to admit defeat and tag along with Kinugasa. He frowned to himself as he marched off into the steamy afternoon.

  6

  -

  Kazuo Miyamori was sprawled on the upper bunk, studying his Japanese textbook. In addition to the trial of working in the factory, he had set himself two new tests: one was to get Masako's complete forgiveness, and the other, to learn enough Japanese to accomplish that. But these new tasks were different from the simple, repetitive chore of delivering rice to the assembly line; they had a certain attraction to them.

  'My name is Kazuo Miyamori.'

  'My hobby is watching soccer.'

  'Do you like soccer?'

  'What sort of food do you like?'

  'I like you.'

  He lay on his stomach, whispering each sentence over and over

  until his eyes wandered to the narrow strip' of window visible from this angle. The brilliant orange of a summer sunset lit up the clouds hanging below a band of deep indigo. As he watched, the light faded from the clouds and the sky darkened; he wanted night to come quickly, so he could see Masako again.

  He hadn't talked to her since that day. It would be too painful if he tried to say something and she ignored him. But he had gone back later and retrieved what she'd thrown into the drainage ditch that night. He fished a silver key from under his pillow and squeezed it in his hand. The cool metal gradually warmed in his palm, and he smiled to himself, thinking that this was just how his heart had warmed to Masako.

  If he were to tell any of the other men, they'd laugh at the idea of falling for a woman who was so much older. They'd probably tell him to pick one of the Brazilian women. So no one needed to know. Perhaps he was the only one who could sense the special quality this woman seemed to have; and perhaps she was the only one who could understand what was special in Kazuo. If he could just get to know her, he was sure they'd understand one another. He grasped the key as if it were a charm capable of making his wish come true.

  He had strung the key on a silver chain and begun wearing it around his neck. It was such an ordinary object, he doubted even Masako would realise it was the key she'd thrown down the drain. Although he was twenty-five, the little charm made him feel like a high-school boy in the throes of his first crush; and it never occurred to him that his feelings might be nothing more than an attempt to find some comfort in the inhospitable country his father had come from. All he knew was that he was unlikely to find another woman like her, even in Brazil.

  Kazuo had gone back to the culvert early the next morning. Unlike the Japanese women who worked part-time in the factory, the Brazilian employees generally didn't get off until 6.00 a.m. From then until 9.00 when the day shift came on, the factory was completely deserted. Kazuo had taken advantage of this gap to search the drain.

  He was fairly sure he knew where to look, and he was very curious to know what Masako could have dropped down that hole. From the sound it had made hitting the bottom, he guessed it must have been a metal object that wouldn't have washed away. He waited until the last few students and office workers had hurried by on the way to the station, and then used all his strength to drag one section of the concrete cover off the ditch. The morning sunlight sparkled on the surface of the sluggish, murky water which, until now, had flowed quietly in the dark. Kazuo peered into the hole. The water was black and foul but shallower than he'd imagined. Somewhat reassured, he quickly slipped over the edge and dunked his feet, tennis shoes and all, into the stream. Dark, pungent muck splashed up on his jeans, and as he sank ankle deep in the mud he realised he had ruined his Nikes. Still, he bent down low enough to see a metal key holder decorated with a black leather insert that had become wedged under a crushed plastic bottle. He reached down into the lukewarm water and pulled it out. The corners of the leather insert were rubbed white; the holder contained a single silver key. As the sunlight glinted off it, Kazuo saw that it was an ordinary house key. It struck him as odd that Masako should take such pains to dispose of something like this, but these thought s were soon forgotten in th e pleasure of having recovered something that had belonged to her. He detached the key and slipped it into his pocket before throwing the ruined holder away.

  -

  That evening, he arrived at work earlier than usual and lingered by the door waiting for Masako to appear. He would have liked to wait for her along the route from the parking lot, to see her coming by the deserted factory, but he knew that was out of the question. He mustn't scare her any more than he already had. No, that wasn't right, he realised, smiling to himself: he was the one who was scared, scared of doing something to make her dislike him even more - it was this he dreaded more than anything else.

  He stood next to Komada, the health inspector, pretending to be checking his time card as he kept watch. At last she appeared, at the usual time, her tall frame bending quickly to put her black bag down on the red industrial carpet as she slipped out of her tennis shoes. For a moment she glanced up at Kazuo, but, as before, her gaze seemed to pass through him, fixing on some point on the wall beyond. Nevertheless, with that one look, Kazuo felt a sort of simple, basic pleasure, like watching the sun rise.

  She retrieved her bag and greeted Komada before turning her back to let her run the roller over her clothing - an oversized green polo shirt and a pair of jeans. Breathing slowly and evenly to control the throbbing he felt when she was near him, Kazuo took advantage of the health inspector's drill to stare at her figure. The careless way she dressed looked almost masculine, but he liked her slimness and the way her face seemed to have been stripped of any excess. As she passed by he steeled himself and spoke to her.

  'Good morning.'

  'Good morning,' she said with a look of surprise. As she disappeared into the lounge, he closed his hand around the key that hung from his neck and said a word of thanks. She had said good morning! Just then, the office door opened, as if someone had been waiting for him to finish this little formality.

  'Miyamori. I'm glad you're here. Could I see you a moment?' The plant manager beckoned to him from the door. At this hour, there was usually no one in the office but the elderly watchman. Kazuo was surprised to see the manager here so late but even more surprised to find that an interpreter was waiting for him when he entered the place. 'Could you come back here at midnight? The police want to ask you a few questions.' Having made this request for the interpreter to relay to Kazuo, he turned toward the reception area at the back of the office where one of the Japanese employees was being questioned by a thin-looking man, apparently a detective.

  'The police?' Kazuo said.

  'Yes, that's him over there.'

  'He wants to talk to me?'

  'That's right.'

  Kazuo's heart skipped a beat. Masako had reported him. The room seemed to go dark as he realised he'd been fingered. He knew it had been self-centred to ask her not to tell, but he never thought she could lie to him like that. He'd been an idiot to think she would let him off the hook.

  'Okay . . .' he muttered in Portuguese. Despondently, he made his way back to the lounge. Masako stood there on her own, smoking a cigarette by the vending machines. Neither the woman they called the Skipper nor the fat one named Kuniko had shown up yet, so she apparently had nobody to talk to; and ever