Masako Togawa - The Master Key

She wondered what attitude she should adopt when she met the foreigner. Even more important was the question as to whether she should meet him at all. The more she racked her brains, the harder the problem became.

André Dore had publicly forgiven her, and the question of theft no longer arose. But now it was as if the case had been reopened after a lapse of thirty years, and the sole witness to her intentions and his forgiveness was no longer of this world. She was afraid, but there was no alternative to going to Hibiya Hall at the appointed time, on 12 February—the very next day.

The corridor on the ground floor was a gloomy place even in the middle of the day, and when the weather outside was overcast or when it was sleeting it was necessary to turn on the lights to find one’s way around.

Noriko came out of the washroom and made her way along the passage, pausing for a few seconds at each light switch. She turned the light on for a moment, to make sure she knew where the next switch was, and then flicked it off again. In this manner, she progressed slowly towards Suwa Yatabe’s room, pausing every now and again to make sure that no one was coming. If she had perchance been observed by any of the other residents, the chances were that they would find nothing strange in her behaviour, knowing her eccentricity as they all did.

She had carried out this procedure for the last four or five days, on the pretext of visiting the downstairs toilet. Every time she had crept up to Suwa’s door and listened carefully for a while. Sometimes she had heard music, or rather attempts at music shrill enough to set her teeth on edge; at other times, she heard Suwa’s voice, usually scolding her pupil. Once or twice, she had bumped into Suwa making her way to the front hall, a shopping basket in her hand. But she did not feel that the length of absence involved in a mere shopping trip would give her long enough for her purpose.

Ever since finding the old newspaper on top of the incinerator, Noriko had been consumed by the desire to enter Suwa’s room, find the stolen violin, and ascertain the state of the thief’s fingerprints on it. So every night she would get out the master key, the loss of which had caused old Miss Tamura so much trouble, and arouse herself with the thought of using it for her purpose.

‘Like me, she’s haunted by the thought of her fingerprints. All those years ago… Maybe, just as I only wanted to try a mouthful of milk, she wanted to play that famous violin just once.’ Such were her thoughts as she massaged her aching thighs. Suwa was like her, a victim of similar misfortune. But in spite of this feeling of Noriko’s, she sensed that when they bumped into each other, Suwa gave her the same suspicious glance as the other residents did.

Somewhere behind her she heard a door grating open. She felt sure that it was Suwa’s door. This was her third sally into the ground-floor corridor that morning, and so far she had heard not a sound from Suwa’s room. Plainly, she had no pupils that day. Noriko pretended to be looking for something she had dropped on the floor, meanwhile stealing a glance back down the corridor.

Suwa was quite plainly dressed to go out. Instead of the shopping basket she had a handbag; in place of the slipons she wore to go around the neighbourhood, she had on a pair of high-heeled shoes. She seemed to be lost in thought as she locked her door and made her way towards the exit. She paused for a few words with the receptionist and left the building. She did not seem to have noticed Noriko.

The sky was slate grey, and seemed pregnant with sleet or rain. Noriko, who was following Suwa at a distance, felt a piercing chill around her shoulders; she shivered, and drew the lapels of her jacket closer across her breast.

Suwa was plainly deep in thought. She stepped onto the pedestrian crossing without noticing that the light was red, and was shouted at by a taxi driver who had to pull up suddenly. The wind whipped up the skirts of her long winter coat, revealing for a moment her spindly legs. Then the light changed, and she hurried across the road.

Noriko watched her go, and almost lost sight of her in the throng. Then she saw her again; without casting a glance behind her, Suwa jumped onto a tram. It was crowded with cheerful and bustling children, for the school day had just ended. Pushed here and there by the young students, Suwa, as was her wont, yet stood as stiff as a ramrod amongst the seething mass of people.

Noriko stayed hidden behind a telegraph pole until the tramcar had vanished into the distance. She wondered where Suwa was going. It didn’t look to her as if she would be back all that soon. Noriko turned round and made her way back as fast as her strange prancing gait, which seemed designed to protect her loins from some attack, would permit her. Her long tattered skirts brushed against the ground, sometimes fluttering in the wind. Her jacket only came down to her elbows; underneath it she was wearing a grubby blouse. Her lank, dry hair was disordered in the wind. Passers-by turned to stare at her retreating figure.

Miss Tojo was sitting at the reception desk, her head bowed over a book. Noriko wandered slowly down the ground-floor corridor, taking in her surroundings cautiously. There was no one around; this was her chance to enter Suwa’s room. She slipped her hand under her blouse and withdrew the precious master key from its hiding place between her flaccid breasts. She felt the warmth of her own body in the metal.

She opened Suwa’s door and slipped into the room. She stood in the tiny entrance space which opened directly onto the room, which she took in in one glance. Suwa must have had the gas stove on until just before leaving; Noriko felt the warm air brush against her cold cheeks. She stole one more swift glance down the corridor, and then closed the door and locked it from the inside, leaving the key in the lock. She didn’t even bother to slip off her canvas shoes, but gazed around the room in wonder. The main items of furniture were a piano and a standard lamp. They had both been articles of some quality in their day but now had a faded and worn look. The large lampshade was covered in blotches and stains so that it looked like some strange map. Two curtains hung across the room, dividing it; beyond them she could see an unmade bed, the covers of which were thrown half back. Everything about the room spoke of the occupant having left in a great hurry.

She decided to begin her search in the living half of the apartment. Discarding her shoes, but carrying them with her, she entered the room.

The first focus of her attention was the piano. There were three uncased violins on top of it but clearly, from their size, they were children’s instruments. There didn’t seem to be anywhere where a violin case could be hidden.

She went through the curtain into the inner half of the room. There, on the bedside table, she found a black violin case which seemed to have been put down untidily without any particular concern. She wrapped an old rag around her finger and opened the catch of the case. The violin shone sombrely in the gloom. Her feeling was that both the case and the instrument reeked of humanity, suggesting that both were in regular use. Although she knew nothing of musical instruments, and had no way of telling the stolen Guarnerius from any other violin, she instinctively felt that this was not it.

But she did somehow sense that the stolen violin was not far away. She put the case back on the side table and peered under the bed. The space was occupied by empty cardboard boxes, odd shoes, rolled-up blouses and stockings, all covered with dust, but there was no sign of a violin case. The only remaining hiding places were the wall cupboard and the wardrobe. She looked inside the wardrobe first; as soon as she opened the doors, she was overpowered by a strong smell of mothballs issuing from the dated and faded dresses and gowns which must have been designed long ago for appearances on the concert platform. The wall cupboard was full of dress boxes and willow baskets such as Japanese clothes are stored in. She went through them all, but to no avail. She had already spent nearly twenty minutes in her search, and felt on the verge of giving up. She went over to the piano, opened the lid, and peeped inside. There was nothing to see but the dusty strings. She looked again at the violin on top of the piano. It told her nothing.