got there.â He stood on his toes and looked over his shoulder again. âGood, good question indeed. That it does not come out but just sits there. Well, the manager is asking for me, I think. So nice to see you.â
The secretary watched Fokuhama slowly back away from her, navigating his way toward the managerâs table. She squeezed her hand around the stem of her wineglass. She felt cold.
Everywhere in the room people were talking to one another animatedly. The secretary listened with deep concentration to fragmentsof the conversations around her, sucking in the words: âYou must give me the recipe, I love fruitcakes.â âOh, sunsets, I canât get enough of them, really!â âSusan is wonderful, isnât she? A remarkable person, I do say.â âA good sunrise, on the other hand, can be nice too, donât get me wrong.â âTo meet people, to really connect with them, that is just the most precious thing for me. And family, of course.â âIâm sorry, Iâm just terrible with lighters. Ha ha ha.â âMeeting people, yes, indeed, it is something else, isnât it?â
Slowly, the secretary turned around, walked out the door quietly, through the hall and the large door, and into the cloakroom where she got her coat and where the clock said ten to eight. Just as she put on her coat she heard a voice behind her.
âPlease donât tell me youâre leaving,â a man said.
RUS NEEDS HELP
âPlease,â Rus said. âI need your help.â
The checkout girl at the supermarket looked up from her register and raised her eyebrows.
âHello,â she said. âYou donât have any groceries.â
Rus was standing exasperated in front of her register, holding the letter pressed against his chest.
âI have a letter,â Rus said. âI have to pay taxes, but all my money is gone.â When Rus heard himself say it out loud like this the horror of the situation truly dawned on him. It was as if someone were holding him by the throat.
âOh,â the girl said. âSo why are you telling me this?â She waved at the customer behind Rus to give her the groceries.
âWe see each other every day, Cathy,â Rus said. âSoup, bread, lemonade. Thatâs me. I go to your register every day.â
âYeah,â Cathy said. âCathyâs not my real name. I donât want all of East knowing my name.â
âI thought we could figure this out together,â Rus said. He placed the letter on her register. âI canât handle it alone, you see. I have never been in this situation before. I donât feel like myself; I canât even think clearly.â
âSo call them,â Cathy said. She pushed the letter off her registerand took the groceries of the next customer from the conveyor belt. âDonât bother me.â
âBut I canât call them. I donât have a phone. I donât have anything. My house is made from scrap material, and I donât know anyone.â Rusâs voice broke.
Heâd spent all afternoon pacing down the streets of the neighborhood, looking at the people in the streets and on the market square, looking for one familiar face among the people who passed him by. He had to have made at least one acquaintance during the twenty-five years heâd lived in his neighborhood, he thought; there had to be one person heâd left an impression on, one person who might want to help. But there wasnât. Sammy from the Wash-o-Matic did not recognize him, and the people who worked at the Starbucks did not remember ever even seeing Rus, or writing his name on a cup. Rus had never really paid attention to them either; his mind was usually somewhere elseâon the sea, or already busy counting the customersâso heâd never really looked at the person attached to the hand that gave him the latte.
âPlease,â Rus said