“You are missing a brown business case, in Akasaka or Shibuya, or in between, sir?”
His English was stilted but precise, and he addressed me, a gaijin, as “sir.” I wanted to ask if he’d been an interpreter for the U.S. military during the Occupation. But that would be impolite.
“Yes, that’s right.” I did my best not to look sheepish.
“And there was something of value in your bag?”
“Value?” My breath probably still reeked of sake.
“For example, jewelry, stock certificates, legal documents, … money?”
“Only some business papers."
“You are quite sure, sir?
“Positive.”
“Well sir, it happened this morning that a worker of the Tokyo sanitation department found a bag. It is the same color as the bag you have lost.”
“Great! How conscientious.”
“Would you come this way please?”
I stooped to avoid banging my already aching head against the door frame. By the washbasin in the back room lay umbrellas, briefcases, and one brown shoe. The morning’s catch, waiting to be sent on to headquarters.”“Yes, that’s it, my briefcase. That one there.”
“You are quite sure, sir?”
“Yes. Thank God you found it.”
“Oh no sir, the sanitation man found it.”
“Well then thank the sanitation man.”
“Of course, sir, and how much will you express your gratitude?”“What?”
“You have the obligation to pay the finding person a percentage of value.”
“But the bag is worthless.”
“If no value then you would not look for the bag.”
“Okay, okay. Just tell me how much I should give him. I’m a gaijin, I’m not familiar with your local customs.”
“Okay, gladly.”
“By approximate figuring, that is fifteen man-yen.”
“One hundred and fifty thousand yen? But that’s preposterous.”
“Prepost…?
