Hotel Iris by Yōko Ogawa Page B

the utmost importance that you simply exist.
    “What are you doing in here?” I looked up to find that I had left the door ajar and the maid was peering in at me.
    “Nothing,” I said, jumping to my feet. The envelope fell to the floor.
    “You have no business in here.”
    “I forgot to change the towels,” I said, picking up the envelope. I tried to slip the letter back inside, but I was too nervous to manage it.
    “Liar. I saw you just sitting there on the bed.” She reached out for the letter with a nasty laugh. “What have you got there?”
    “Nothing,” I said, trying to stuff the envelope in my pocket. She grabbed my wrist and snatched the letter, nearly tearing it in half. “Please, stop.”
    “What are you hiding? Surely it can’t hurt if I read just a few lines.” We fought for the letter in that cramped room, scattering diapers and baby bottles, and she laughed and taunted me as she danced away, brandishing the letter over her head.
    “Let’s see … ‘My Dear Mari, I hope you have not caught cold. Dear Mari, just writing the words makes me impossibly happy’ … It’s a love letter!” she cried.
    “You’re horrible, reading someone else’s mail.”
    “And what about you, hiding up here to get out of work. But who is it from? He’s no spring chicken, to judge from the handwriting. But this is a nice touch—a woman’s name in the return address. Who came up with that bright idea?”
    “Please stop!”
    “Oh! Now I remember, you’re supposed to be writing to some rich old lady. But this is obviously a man. Tell me all about him. I want to know everything!” She was hopping up and down, beside herself with glee.
    “I won’t tell you anything. It’s none of your concern.”
    “But you’re like a daughter to me, and this is serious business for a girl your age. I’ll have to tell your mother, but you know how upset she’ll be. She gets so crazy about anything that has to do with her Mari …”
    “Give me back the slip,” I blurted out. She fell silent and her face went blank.
    “What are you talking about?” she said, her voice trembling just a bit. “You do say the oddest things.”
    “Don’t pretend you don’t know,” I said. “My compass, my handkerchief, the stockings, the petticoat, my little beaded purse—I want it all back.” I had nearly forgotten about these things, and yet the list came spilling out. She bit her lip. “All I have to do is tell Mother and she’ll fire you. And if everyone in town finds out you’re a kleptomaniac, no one will hire you ever again.”
    Snorting in disgust, she crumpled the letter, threw it on the floor, and stalked out of the room. I picked it up and went to burn it in the yard.
    Summer vacation had begun, and the school was deserted. The sky above the empty bicycle rack was slowly turning crimson, and the rays of the setting sun slanted deep into theclassroom, lighting up the tables, the blackboard, the beakers, and the translator’s face.
    “Do you do that often?” I asked, picking up an eraser someone had left behind and rolling it across the lab table.
    “Do what?” he said.
    “Spend the night with someone you don’t know. …” I spoke slowly, choosing my words. He looked down at the worn eraser and said nothing. I studied his expression, worried I had offended him, but he gave no hint of displeasure. Perhaps he was simply searching for the best way to answer.
    “Not often,” he said, after a long pause. “It’s actually quite rare.”
    “How did you meet her?”
    “She was standing on a corner waiting for customers, so I spoke to her.”
    “But how did you know she was a whore? They don’t wear signs, do they?”
    He looked up and frowned. “You just know,” he said. “A woman like that is always hunting for a man—that’s why she’s out on the street.”
    It had been amazingly easy to get into the classroom. The lock was broken on the back gate, just as it had been when I was a student here. From