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By Root 663 0

holder with transparent vinyl on both faces. As soon as I had opened the outer flap it was clear that it was empty, but it was common sense to have the purse separate from the commutation ticket. Unconcerned I decided to go ahead. I opened the fastener and counted what was inside: three absolutely new ten-thousand-yen notes and two thousand-yen notes. There were also 640 yen in small change—32,640 yen. Even though I couldn’t see my house, it looked as though I could somehow get by for the time being. Yet I needed some explanation for the amount of money. I thought that the sum was considerably in excess of which an average salaried man would carry around for a day’s expenses. Surely some special use for it had been expected. A thirty-thousand-yen purchase in cash would be no little matter. The point where the explanation that I was suffering a lapse of memory would hold good had long since passed. Of course, the use of the money was not restricted to buying something. It might have been collected at work and entrusted to me for the bereaved family of some colleague who had died. But if the explanation that it was only a temporary lapse of memory didn’t hold good, there was not much to choose between the two. I would take things easy and not overtax myself. When I considered things, there was absolutely no basis for me to think of myself as being an office worker. It was merely a far-fetched self-portrait. It did not necessarily mean that by deceiving myself, the truth was any different. Was I still incapable of getting a clue about my own name?

Suddenly a numbing pain shot from the nape of my neck to my forehead. The nausea, which I had fortunately forgotten about since I came here, again rose from deep within me. There was no doubt that I had quite forgotten even my name. The only thing left was the consciousness that I was myself.

Suddenly the cup on the table sprang off its saucer with a clatter. Fortunately it was empty and the cup itself was unbroken. I could only assume I had made it jump with my knee; and if that were true, I myself had jumped up. When I put my elbows on it, the table made a clattering sound, and I rose in confusion. I hurriedly began searching my pockets with both hands. If only I could find a commutation ticket I could somehow get my footing again. I felt some reluctance about learning my name and my address before I knew who I was, but at this point I simply had to go on. I began spreading the contents of my pockets haphazardly on the table.

A handkerchief … matches … cigarettes … a button that had come off the sleeve of my suit jacket … sunglasses … a small three-cornered badge … and then a scrap of notepaper on which a sort of diagram was drawn.

The window glass emitted fire. The headlights of a bus licked at the pane. In their light the slender branches of the trees along the street appeared like a ragged net. At once I riveted my attention on the bus. Immediately I began to be able to feel it vividly as if it were all an extension of my body—the feel of the worn steps, the place and mounting of the stainless-steel rail, the whole inside, the strained search for an empty seat, the hanging advertisement behind the driver’s seat, the special smell blended of people and gasoline, the vibration of the motor, which differed according to the year of its make. Carried along by these impressions, I began to move with the bus. Numerous important stops, views with special features and well-known buildings, swam into view as a single structure in which they were all squeezed together. Must I still be suspicious of the intimate link between the bus and me? I wondered. If I really wanted to I could somehow explain even the business of the commutation ticket. Maybe I had dropped it, or it was picked from my pocket. No, better still, it had just expired and was being renewed. Yes, it could be that in part the thirty thousand yen were intended for that.

Putting forth such speculations served no purpose at all. Moreover, my bus went every place except, in the final analysis, to my destination.

The real