‘I’m from S University, and I was wondering if by any chance this is the residence of Professor Toyoko Munekata?’
Kaneko’s head swam as she suddenly heard the name of the woman who had been occupying her thoughts. Nobody had come to call on Toyoko for at least six months. For a few seconds she just sat and gazed blankly at the visitor and then, remembering her role, stood up and offered to conduct him to Miss Munekata’s room. And pulling open the drawer in her desk, she took out one of the numbered tallies which males had to wear when visiting the building.
‘Excuse me, but could you put this round your neck? It’s the rule for gentlemen who visit here, you see.’
The young man smiled graciously and, timidly extending his left hand to receive the tally, asked, ‘How is Professor Munekata progressing with her important labours?’
Kaneko at first could not believe that this question was being addressed to her, and then was annoyed at having to honour Toyoko with the title of ‘professor’. However, she at last recovered her wits sufficiently to chat to the young man.
‘Professor Munekata always seems to be very busy. Whenever I pass her room, she seems to be busy with her studies—yes, and something else, she’s really fussy about fresh air. The handle on her window doesn’t work too well, so from time to time she complains to us about it. But however much we get it mended, it soon breaks again. Sometimes she leaves her door open, complaining of the lack of oxygen in her room. At such times, when I pass by, I notice she’s always sitting at her desk. Everyone here remarks on how hard she works. Oh, and please don’t forget to let me have the tally back when you leave; sometimes, guests forget and go out wearing their tallies.’
Meanwhile, she conducted him up the stairs. As she became more relaxed, she noticed that he was carrying a wrapped box of cakes, and realised that he was paying a formal call.
The door was ajar, and Toyoko could be seen sitting at her desk.
‘Excuse me. You have a visitor.’ She knocked, but there was no reply. Toyoko seemed to be engrossed in the paper before her on the desk. It was at least one minute before she turned towards the door and stood up.
‘Who is it?’
‘I’m from S University, but—’
‘Come in, then.’
She beckoned the guest into the room and then, ignoring Kaneko, shut the door in her face. Kaneko bit back her humiliation and made her way downstairs, pausing every now and again to look at her palm. No, her line of destiny was too short, and also broken in two parts.
‘Indeed, it has been long since I had the pleasure of meeting you. Today, I have come to call on you, Professor, and receive the manuscript.’
The young visitor stood before Toyoko, bowing politely and behaving with correctness. His hostess showed little concern; without bothering to offer him tea and cakes, she just pointed to a threadbare cushion on the floor. She then turned her back on him and stood by the large old-fashioned desk, left to her by her husband, which dominated the room. It was covered with manuscripts and ink-stained pens, bespeaking a busy existence.
There being no reply to his remark, the visitor sat uncomfortably on the worn cushion, and, looking up at Toyoko, who was sitting on a swivel chair at the desk, returned to the topic.
‘We disciples of the late Professor realise how much toil you are giving to the correction of the manuscripts he left you. We feel that the time has now arrived for us to offer you what assistance we can.’
Toyoko swivelled the chair around so as to face him.
‘I am the only person qualified to carry out this task.’
‘Indeed, we quite understand that.’
‘My husband’s manuscripts contain ideograms that only I can read.’
Then, gazing at the ceiling, she continued in an offhand tone, ‘From the day I married him, I spent my time rewriting his manuscripts. That was why we had no children.’
The visitor, moved by the pathos of this story of married devotion to an aged scholar, strengthened his resolve to obtain and publish the manuscript as soon as possible.
‘We have completed all preparations for publication. We would very much like to have the manuscript—perhaps you could just give me those parts you have completed so far?’
The chair swivelled again, and Toyoko faced the desk, displaying to her guest the bent back of an old woman who has borne the burdens of others.
‘As I’ve repeatedly told you on the phone, I cannot hand any part of it over until the whole is completed. You know that.’
After this outburst, she shut up like a clam. The visitor gazed on her unmoving back and reflected how the same excuses had been made, year after year, to all his predecessors. They had encountered the same stubborn refusal to compromise. He realised that today, also, he would have to return empty-handed; reaching into his pocket, he took out an envelope and placed it a little distance from Toyoko’s feet.
‘It is truly impolite of me, but if you can make use of this in any way…’
Toyoko displayed no reaction whatever. The visitor made no further reference to the manuscript and, after expressing a few formal sentiments, took his leave. At the top of the staircase he paused for a moment and gazed back towards the room. A thought crossed his mind—perhaps the reason for Toyoko’s refusal to hand over the manuscript lay in its value; without having seen it, he could not say, but perhaps some commercial publisher had examined it and was negotiating for it at a high price. But could that really be so? It seemed unlikely that such a manuscript would fetch a large sum. Surely not; it was only as a tribute to the late Professor’s war record that his pupils had collected a sum of money to ensure its publication. There was no question of its having a commercial value.
Comforted by these thoughts, the visitor set off downstairs with a jaunty step, removing the tally from his neck as he went on his way.
Back in her room, Toyoko opened the box of cakes and, removing one, sliced it carefully with a small bamboo knife. As she ate, she ecstatically counted and recounted the money her visitor had left in the envelope. After a while, she returned to her desk and, assuming a busy countenance, took up an ancient German fountain pen which fitted exactly into a groove worn by writing in her index and middle fingers. She wrote the number ‘711’ on a sheet of paper, and energetically proceeded to scribble in a sort of shorthand of her own. At three pm on the same day, just after the changeover of duty at the reception office, the phone rang. Miss Tamura had just arrived, and Miss Tojo was still standing by the desk, with an expressionless face. Miss Tamura gazed at her and then took up the phone.
‘Hello, this is the K apartments.’
A man was at the other end of the phone; he spoke in flat tones. Miss Tamura strained to hear his words, but found it difficult; screwing up her face in concentration, she gazed once again at Miss Tojo. She was about to say something when the line went dead. She shouted into the receiver.
‘Hello! Hello! Don’t ring off! Who is it?’
But to no avail. Gripping the receiver tightly, she stared vacantly at the desk until her colleague asked, ‘Who was it?’
‘Er… well…’
She struggled for words. Somehow, she didn’t want to answer, but she had become so used to treating Miss Tojo as her superior, even though they were equals, that she found it difficult. At last she replied.
‘Wrong number, I think.’
‘Oh well, see you later, then.’
And Miss Tojo, not feeling like pressing her colleague for further information which she was plainly reluctant to give, thereupon left the office. The monotonous echo of her crutch echoed dully in the corridor for a while.
The office was dark and chilly. Miss Tamura stirred the embers in the charcoal brazier and busied herself for a few moments examining the duty register, then got up and went to the locker at the back. A notice stating the regulations governing the use of the master key was pasted on the locker door.
The key may only be used in the presence of a witness.
It
may only be used in an emergency.
The key must be returned to this office immediately after use.
She stood in front of the locker for a while, subduing some inner conflict, and then shrugged her shoulders and went back to the desk. For a while, her customary faraway look was replaced by an earnest and penetrating stare as she pondered on the telephone call that she had just received. Who on earth was that fellow? What did he mean by suggesting that if she wanted to uncover a secret she should peep at the manuscript in Toyoko Munekata’s room? It was all too nonsensical to bother about—just a practical joke, no doubt.
But when she had taken the student visitor to Toyoko’s room, she had noticed a pile of manuscripts on the desk. Was there really some secret buried in that enormous heap of papers? If so, then…
She tried once again to drive the thought from her mind, scrutinising the duty register which still lay open on top of her desk.
(Date………)
Long-distance phone call (to Kiryu city)—Miss Takebe, 2nd floor, 3 minutes.
Collection of gas bills
1st floor Complete
2nd floor Complete
4th floor Complete
5th floor Complete
Note Chase representative of 3rd floor about this.
Cat mess in 2nd floor corridor. Admonish owner.
The letters danced before her eyes, and seemed to lose all meaning. She picked up her abacus and tried to concentrate on totalling the pile of receipted gas bills, but to no avail; every time, the answer came out differently.
It was no use; the memory of that phone call lingered persistently in her mind, and she could think of nothing else. From that moment on, one thought dominated all others—how to get into Toyoko’s room. Some day soon, when Toyoko was out, could she not use the master key? Surely no one would find out… Toyoko would certainly leave the building at some time when she was on duty. Kaneko thought of the locker and of the master key which she would inevitably be tempted to use. It was not as if she was moved by any criminal intent, but rather by the additional excitement brought by a moment of daring into the life of one usually given over to laziness and sleep.
Because of this, she soon brushed from her mind the fact, dangerous and startling as a snare suddenly discerned, that behind the telephone call lay a knowledge of her feelings towards Toyoko Munekata and the will of the caller to manipulate her to his own ends…
Miss Tamura climbed the stairs, one step at a time, ruminating on human nature. She paused fearfully on the second-floor landing, for she heard the sound of someone coming down from above, but mercifully the footsteps trailed off to another corridor on the upper floor. Heaving a sigh of relief, she tightened her fingers around the master key in her pocket.
She could not afford to be seen entering Toyoko’s room, and prayed that none of the residents would be about. The excitement made her sweat.
Toyoko very rarely left the apartments, but today she had gone out early. Half an hour ago, she had phoned from long distance announcing in her usual aloof manner that she was heavily involved in discussions with her publishers. She would not be returning before ten pm and therefore her evening milk delivery was to be cancelled.
The message echoed in Miss Tamura’s head with the insistence of an alarm bell. This was surely going to be the best chance to look in Toyoko’s room for some considerable time. Feeling slightly guilty, Miss Tamura had approached her colleague Miss Tojo.
‘That was from Miss Munekata. She doesn’t want her milk this evening.’
‘What? Does that mean she won’t be back tonight?’
‘No—she’ll be back about ten. She’s having discussions with her publishers.’
‘Why, that means she must have nearly finished her manuscript. That’s marvellous!’
‘Yes. Oh, I nearly forgot. I’ve got a relative coming up to Tokyo tomorrow, and I’d rather like to take the day off. If it’s all right with you, I’ll swap with you—I’ll do today, I mean.’
Miss Tojo consented readily. ‘Of course. Well, I’ll be off. It’s a bit early for it, but I’ll have a long bath. Cheerio, then!’
Miss Tamura blessed her luck. It was pure chance, plus her own quick thinking (and a lie) which had given her the whole day alone with access to the master key and her colleague safely away at the bath-house.
As soon as she saw Miss Tojo leaving with her washing things under her arm, she took the phone off the hook, collected the master key from the board, locked the office door and stealthily made her way upstairs to the second floor. She was almost in a trance, driven by a sense of some inevitable duty.
She tiptoed towards Toyoko’s room, trying to prevent her rubber sandals from making any noise as she went. She stopped in front of the door, trembling as she stared at the name, written in beautiful calligraphy: ‘Munekata’. Glancing around once more to make sure that no one was about, she hurriedly put the master key into the lock, but it did not seem to fit. She pushed and twisted with all her might, using both hands as if to force the lock. Suddenly the key turned with a loud grating sound and the door creaked open a few inches. She perceived a faint scent—the particular smell of the air in Toyoko’s room—and her senses reeled, half from fear and half from curiosity.
She quickly closed the door and locked it from the inside. Pausing an instant in the tiny entrance lobby, she felt a twinge of guilt which she quickly dismissed before pulling aside the curtain and peeping into the apartment.
The room was very untidy. Against one wall there was a collection of worn furniture in faded colours; in the centre an oak desk which somehow seemed to reflect its owner’s personality, dominating the rest of the room as it did. On top of various tallboys and packing cases, disorderly piles of books reached almost to the ceiling—fat, Western-published volumes interspersed with dog-eared reference works. They towered over Miss Tamura’s head, as if threatening her. ‘Your world is quite different from ours! This is the room of a distinguished scholar,’ they seemed to say. ‘You have no such learning, and shouldn’t be here!’ She glared back in resistance to the atmosphere of the room, and then, discarding her sandals, stepped right inside and gazed at the books, one by one, as if savouring their contents.
Seeing all these objects which had passed the years with the elegantly learned Toyoko, a grievous sense of her own inferiority welled up in Miss Tamura’s bosom. ‘These objects, too, have drawn into themselves the passing years as their owner’s youth and beauty faded. What sort of a man was her husband, and how was their life together all those years? Was it a happy one, I wonder?’ In her reverie, Miss Tamura was overwhelmed by curiosity about Toyoko’s private life, and her sense of guilt vanished at last.
She moved stealthily to the desk, and spread her hands on its top. It felt cold and hard, telling her of the sternness of a scholar’s life.
On the broad desktop, an old-fashioned stand for writing brushes had been pushed to one side; behind it there were several dry inkwells with pens stuck into them in confusion. There was a writing pad, its brilliant whiteness laid bare to the eye; beside it there was a neat pile, some twenty centimetres deep, of manuscripts, held in place by a marble paperweight. Immediately under the paperweight, on top of the other writings, was a sheet with the words ‘Completed Manuscripts’ penned in black ink.
Miss Tamura picked up the marble paperweight with both hands and placed it with great care, as if it were fragile, on the desk. She began to turn the leaves of the first manuscript, one page at a time, taking care not to disturb their order.
TITLE
‘Concerning the materialisation of epicycloid curves not subject to conceptual limitations.’
This heading was written in angular lettering on squared paper, and was followed by half a page of mathematical equations made up of numerals and symbols.
Miss Tamura examined the next few pages carefully. It was after about the third page that she began to sense that something was wrong. The formation of the characters and symbols started t
o assume odd shapes. Then they seemed to lose shape altogether: characters were abbreviated or written as if falling apart, and were increasingly interspersed with meaningless patterns, squares, triangles, circles, and cyphers like secret letters of an incomprehensible code. Irrelevant words and phrases of gibberish began to appear, written in minute letters.
The meaningless array of letters and signs went on for fifty pages. At the very end, there appeared a final line written in Toyoko’s flowing hand:
‘Recorded by my husband in his place of refuge at the reception area of the boundary city.’
Miss Tamura’s hands began to shake, and she was overwhelmed by astonishment. She began to wonder whether Toyoko’s husband had not been insane.
The second manuscript was entirely in Toyoko’s writing, but otherwise was an exact copy of the first one. The crazy title, the illogical patterns and the obscure symbols were all faithfully reproduced just as they were.
Miss Tamura began to turn the pages faster. The third manuscript was the same; the fourth too, and so on. Not the slightest change was introduced—each was just a copy of the original. She felt a malicious desire to get to the bottom of this useless labour, this pointless accumulation of meaningless data. Toyoko’s bloodless face with its almost transparent, pale nose floated before her eyes, chilling her spine.
Once more she seemed to hear the flat and toneless voice of the anonymous caller on the telephone.
She gathered together the manuscripts and piled them up exactly as they had been when she had found them, replacing the paperweight on top. She realised that she had been in a panic ever since entering the room, and noticed for the first time that her sleeve had caught on one of the pens in the inkwell, upsetting it; a dark blot was spreading over a page of writing that lay on top of the desk. It was time to go, but first she must have one last careful look around the room to make sure that she left no traces of her visit. She walked around nervously, giving way to a sense of desperation. There was nothing to mop the ink up with, and even if there was it would not remove the mark on the manuscript sheets, but she could hardly throw the paper away. What could she do? Toyoko was bound to realise that someone had been in her room, but would have no way of knowing who it was. There was nothing to link her with the crime, except the master key—but then anyone could use a key, provided that they had access to it. That was it! As things stood, only the receptionists had control of the key, and its misuse could be narrowed down to them, but if it were missing—lost or stolen, say—well, some blame would fall on them for carelessness, but no one could prove that one of them had misused it!
The Master Key Page 3
