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couldn’t understand a word they said; I remember being frightened. For me it was a town in a foreign country I’d never set eyes on before.”
    What kind of statue was it? Sumire asked. She’d never known anyone who’d had a statue erected. “Just a normal statue. The kind you’d find anywhere. But it’s weird to have your own father become a statue. Imagine if they erected a statue of your father in the square in front of Chigasaki station. You’d feel pretty weird about it, right? My father was actually fairly short, but the statue made him look like some towering figure. I was only five at the time, but I was struck by the way things you see aren’t always true to life.”
    If they made a statue of my father, Sumire mused, it’d be the statue that would come out on the short end of the stick. Since in real life her father was a little
too
good-looking.
    I ’d like to pick up where we left off yesterday,” Miu said, after they began their second cup of espresso. “So, do you think you might want to work for me?”
    Sumire was dying for a smoke, but there weren’t any ashtrays. She made do with a sip of chilled Perrier.
    Sumire answered honestly. “Well, what kind of work would it be, exactly? Like I said yesterday, except for some simple physical-labor-type jobs, I’ve never once had what you’d call a proper job. Plus I don’t have a thing to wear that would be appropriate. The clothes I had on at the reception I borrowed.”
    Miu nodded, her expression unchanged. She must have anticipated this sort of response.
    “I think I understand pretty much what sort of person you are,” Miu said, “and the work I have in mind shouldn’t give you any trouble. I’m sure you can handle whatever comes up. What really matters is whether or not you’d like to work with me. Just approach it that way, as a simple yes or no.”
    Sumire chose her words carefully. “I’m really happy to hear you say that, but right now what’s most important for me is writing novels. I mean, that’s why I quit college.”
    Miu looked across the table straight at Sumire. Sumire sensed that quiet look on her skin and felt her face grow warm.
    “Do you mind if I say exactly what’s on my mind?” Miu asked.
    “Of course not. Go right ahead.”
    “It might make you feel bad.”
    To show she could handle it, Sumire pursed her lips and looked into Miu’s eyes.
    “At this stage in your life I don’t think you’re going to write anything worthwhile, no matter how much time you put into your novels,” Miu said, calmly, unhesitantly. “You’ve got the talent. I’m sure someday you’ll be an extraordinary writer. I’m not just saying this, I truly believe it. You have that natural ability within you. But now’s not the time. The strength you need to open that door isn’t quite there. Haven’t you ever felt that way?”
    “Time and experience,” Sumire said, summing it up.
    Miu smiled. “At any rate, come work for me. That’s the best choice for you. And when you feel the time is right, don’t hesitate to chuck it all and write novels to your heart’s content. You just need more time than the average person in order to reach that stage. So even if you get to twenty-eight without any breaks coming your way, and your parents cut off your funds and you’re left without a penny, well—so what? Maybe you’ll go a little hungry, but that might be a good experience for a writer.”
    Sumire opened her mouth, about to reply, but nothing emerged. She merely nodded.
    Miu stretched her right hand toward the middle of the table. “Let me see your hand,” she said.
    Sumire put out her right hand and Miu grasped it, as if enveloping it. Her palm was warm and smooth. “It’s not something you should worry about so much. Don’t look so glum. We’ll get along fine.”
    Sumire gulped and somehow managed to relax. With Miu gazing right at her like that, she felt as if she were steadily shrinking. Like a chunk of ice left out in the