Mr Hitogata Takes Stock

Masuyo was there in 1964 when the factory ate Watanabe. He was just
across the workshop when it happened. Watanabe pressed nearly 260 roofs
an hour, 10 more than the next most efficient worker in the automobile
factory. He was a hardy, dedicated man, and proud of his record. He did
not have a wife or girlfriend. People said Watanabe was married to the
company. His picture appeared in the factory
newsletter.


An automatic crane would lift a roof from the first press and
put it on the conveyor line in front of him. He then carried it into
place and pressed it in his machine. On the day it happened, the upper
plate had been playing up all morning, slowing down or pressing roofs
incorrectly. Three roofs were landing on the conveyor for every one he
could handle. At lunch time, instead of going to the cafeteria, he
stayed back to see if he could fix the fault. Masuyo, who worked on the
first press, felt sorry for him and sneaked back early with a lukewarm
bowl of noodles tucked under his arm.


Masuyo had just stepped into the workshop when he heard the
shhhh of the press plunging down and looked across to see Watanabe
being crushed like the meat in a big iron sandwich. Even from where he
stood, he could hear the crunch of bone. It was the kind of sound that
lodges in your throat. Masuyo dropped the noodles (the foreman later
made him clean them up) and dashed across the room, but his colleague's
anguished scream had cut off as the top half slid into
place.


The foreman cried because the workshop's perfect safety
record had been tarnished. Everyone had to work overtime to make up for
the huge backlog the accident caused. The factory newsletter did not
mention it. The next morning there was someone else in Watanabe's
position, someone slower.


A week later, Masuyo quit. He returned to Osaka City on a
train that smelt of mould and joined the family
business.


* * *
* * *


One morning, Hitogata Masuyo padded downstairs and into the
kitchen to find that his wife had broken his favourite bowl. It lay in
two perfect halves on the tiled floor. She was on her hands and knees,
pushing a dish rag in tight, obsessive circumferences through a puddle
of miso. Mr Hitogata stood and watched.


She looked up. 'Masuyo, I-' He frowned and thinned his lips.
Dark twists of hair clung to her sweaty forehead. 'It slipped from my
hands. I'm sorry.' He walked past her, through the lounge and into his
study. The cramped room was redolent with the funk of leather. Aging
books rose in close-packed ranks through row upon row of shelving,
their spines glistering with often illegible gold-leaf print. He
fastened the latch on the study door. His wicker chair crackled as he
lowered himself into it.


Mr Hitogata was a slight man who wore wire-rimmed spectacles
and trimmed his moustache in such a way that it resembled two sticks of
charcoal. On the back of his right hand was a chalk-coloured scar
shaped like a bird's foot. His fingers were long and
slender.


He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer
of his filing cabinet. He pulled the drawer out as far as it would go.
It was stuffed with fat cardboard folders. At the very back was a small
tan ledger. He put the ledger on his desk and opened it to the third
page. The first line at the top of the page simply read 'Nanase'. The
paper was covered with pencil marks, stretching from the right-hand
margin in regimented lines of ten. The bottom row was only eight marks
long. Counting down quickly, there were ninety-eight such marks in
total.


Mr Hitogata slid a pencil from the pot next to the
windowsill, and on the tenth line drew the ninety-ninth mark. He stared
at the page for a moment, then closed the ledger, returned it to the
rear of the drawer and locked the cabinet. When he emerged from the
study, his wife was standing in the lounge holding a cup of tea. Narrow
coils of steam rose from its surface.


'For before you leave,' she said.


Mr Hitogata looked her up and down. 'Where is
Ichiro?'


'Asleep? in his room. Masuyo-'


'I will be back late,' he said, then made his way past her
towards the front door and his shoes.


* * *


It had rained heavily overnight. Already the wet asphalt was
baking in the morning sun. Mr Hitogata walked briskly with his head
lowered. He followed a path that led between an area of wasteground and
the backyard of a furniture factory. Droplets clung to diamond-shaped
gaps in the chain-link fence.


He turned into the bakery on Sesshin Street and picked out a
bun. The man behind the counter put it in a paper bag then, clutching
the corners with trembling hands, flipped the bag once, twice, three
times over to seal it.


'Arigato, Hitogata Dono,' said the baker. 'You honour my
store with your patronage.'


Mr Hitogata put the bun into his satchel and left. He made
his way down the street, past the iron gates of Katayama's crematorium,
until he arrived outside the workshop. He pulled a bunch of keys from
his satchel, combed out the largest and pushed it into the
lock.


Inside, it was cool, dim and still. He flipped the sign from
closed to open and set his satchel down on a chair behind the counter.
Sunlight leaked through kinks in the blinds, pooling in ovals on dusty
sagging heads. From nails driven deep into the wall, wooden puppets and
dolls hung like languid prisoners. He lifted a white apron from a hook,
tied it with curt economy, and was about to move through to the next
room when the electric bell above the door chimed.


Mr Hitogata turned to see a young man standing a respectful
distance from the counter, clutching a small, rectangular package. The
contours of his face were admirable; high, prominent cheekbones set off
by a sleek, feminine jaw. He bowed deeply,
straightened.


'I am sorry to disturb you, Hitogata Dono,' he said, lowering
his gaze. 'Oguchi San asks me to convey his most sincere respect. He
wishes you good fortune in your latest collaboration with his theatre,
and thanks you most humbly for your involvement. He looks forward to
seeing the show for himself.' The man bowed again then placed the
package on the counter. 'He offers you this gift as a token of his
esteem.'


Mr Hitogata scrutinised the man for a moment, then nodded.
The man hesitated, then bowed in return and backed towards the
door.


Once the man had left, Mr Hitogata took a knife from a drawer
and slit the wrapping. Inside was a box of expensive cigars. He put it
beneath the counter with all the other gifts, then went into the
workshop itself.
In the workshop, wood shavings lay coiled like clock springs.
Half-finished dolls lay in pieces inside caskets. A dog-eared sheet of
A3 graph paper was spread out on the bench, tattooed with squares and
curves and scrawly blue ink notes. Body parts were scattered about the
place, a torso here, a jointed arm there. On blocks of pine yet to be
hewn, lines in soft pencil marked where cuts were
needed.


He lifted a melon-sized head from a table. By manipulating a
switch at the rear of the unpainted scalp, he could make the eyes flick
from left to right and back again. A second lever lower down snapped
the red lips open and shut. Clack clack clack. Mr Hitogata twisted the
head round in his palm so it was staring him straight in the eyes. He
tilted it back, brought it forwards. Clack clack clack. He replaced it
on the bench, ran his index finger down the bridge of the nose. His
expression hardened.


* * *


There was no scenery on the stage, just a metal stepladder
and rope hanging from a windlass.


'Well, you're just going to have to accept? Hey, hey. There's
no need to get hysterical.' Ken stood in the wings, leaning back into
the thick curtain and puffing fractiously on a cigarette. He held a
mobile phone to his ear. 'Yes, you are. I never said-'


'Excuse me.' A woman was approaching. 'Excuse me, you can't
smoke in here.'


'Right, I've got to go,' said Ken. 'I don't have time for
this now. No, I'll call you later. Huh? Tonight? Okay, okay? if a drink
means one drink. No, you choose. Okay. Yeah. Bye.' He flipped his
mobile closed and dropped it into his pocket.


'Excuse me,' the woman repeated. She wore her hair tied back
and looked vexed. 'I'm sorry but you can't smoke in here.' She stood
directly beneath a sign which said exactly that.


'Sorry,' he said. Lifting his foot from the boards, he
stubbed out his half-finished cigarette on the sole of his loafer. When
he looked up, she was staring at him expectantly. She was dressed in
old-fashioned, no - he checked himself - traditional clothes. 'Hi, I'm
Ken.' He offered his hand for her to shake, smiling. She seemed
startled, as if the gesture were mildly indecent. 'Iwatani Ken, from
the Osaka Arts Review.' He withdrew his hand, scratched the downy hair
at the back of his head.


'Hello, Ken,' she said. 'I was not told you were
coming.'


'Oh? I called to confirm it would be okay. I just wanted to
take a look at your latest project and find out some of the background.
We're working with the tourist board to provide a list of attractions
in the prefecture.'


She regarded him coldly. 'I am Katayama San.'


'Do you have a few minutes?'


'I am very busy. What do you want to know?'


'Well? do you mind if I record this?' He produced a
Dictaphone from inside his jacket. Her eyes flicked from his face to
the device, then back to his face. She said nothing, merely tilted her
head back a little, which Ken took as consent.


'I'm taking something to the office,' she said. 'Walk with
me.' He followed her across the stage, through arboreal ringlets of
light.


'So? can you tell me about the upcoming
production?'


'We are staging a series of shinju plays, some famous, some?'
she hesitated as she descended the steps into the auditorium, '? more
obscure.'


'Shinju?' said Ken.


'Love suicides. You've obviously not bothered to do your
research.'


'I'm no authority on Bunraku,' he conceded, 'but I'm always
open to new things. Or old things, as the case may be.' He followed Mrs
Katayama along the front row of seats towards the centre aisle. She
moved quickly with an odd, loping gait. 'How are the puppets
operated?'


'Every puppet has three puppeteers; one for the head and
right arm, one for the left arm and one for the feet. Each puppet is
about three-quarters of the size of an actual person. We strive always
for realism.'


'And audiences are still keen to watch these kinds of
plays?'


She spun on her heel to face him and he almost blundered into
her. 'We regularly perform to sell-out audiences.'


'Oh?' Her eyes had a queer opacity which he found
distracting. He took a step back. 'It's just that the National Bunraku
Theatre has complained of declining interest and a lack of young,
enthusiastic backstage workers to learn the crafts of costume-making
and puppet construction.'


Mrs Katayama pursed her painted lips. 'I thought you hadn't
done your research.'


'I said I wasn't an expert,' said Ken. 'You've not run into
any such problems then, I take it?'


'We are privileged to work with? singularly brilliant
craftsmen.'


'Who makes your puppets?'


'We have a special supplier who carves and costumes all our
puppets to order.'


'In Osaka?'


She narrowed her eyes. 'Yes.'


'Do you have an address? It would be fantastic if I could-'
But Mrs Katayama had already turned and was walking up the darkened
aisle towards the rear doors. 'Katayama San?' Ken scampered after her.
'Would it be possible to-'


'No,' she replied. 'Absolutely not.'


'I wouldn't impose. I'm not planning an expos?
Publicity-wise it would be a fantastic opportunity. I'm sure people are
interested in how these puppets are made.'


Reaching the doors, she looked over her shoulder. 'I'm sorry,
Ken, but I must ask you to leave. I am very busy.'


'But all I'm asking is-'


'What is concealed is the flower. What is not concealed
cannot be the flower. To know this distinction is the flower, and among
all flowers this flower is the most important.' She stepped through
into the lobby and held the door open for him. 'Thank you for your
interest in our project.' Ken had his mouth open, ready to object, but
he caught the flinty edge to her glare and nodded
instead.


'Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Katayama
San,' he said, and made his way out. In the street, he breathed a deep
sigh and lit a cigarette.


* * *


That afternoon, Hitogata Nanase returned from shopping to
find her only son, Ichiro, stood in the kitchen frying an omelette. His
fingers edged crabwise over his backside, stopping to rake his left
buttock.


'Hey Mom.' He was in his underpants. His chin was coarse with
stubble and he had bags under his eyes. Behind him, leant against the
worktop, a girl with long voluminous hair stood barefoot smoking a
joint. She wore one of Ichiro's baseball tops. Each of her toenails was
painted with a different national flag.


'Ichiro Yan, what are you-'


Ichiro poked at the omelette with a spatula. 'Not now, Mom.
Don't start.'


'But your father-'


He looked up. 'I said, don't start.' The girl exhaled a long
finger of smoke like a kettle blowing steam and gazed out the
window.


'I have to put the shopping away.'


Ichiro returned his attention to the pan. 'So put it
away.'


Nanase dragged her armloads of plastic bags into the kitchen.
She began to stock the fridge.


'You know?' She turned to the girl, smiling. 'If you want to
smoke you might do it upstairs, in Ichiro's-'


'She'll smoke where she likes,' Ichiro said. The girl
continued staring out the window, apparently oblivious.


'Your father hates smoking. He was asking after you this
morning.'


'Yeah yeah yeah.'


'He doesn't like you coming in late every night.' She slid a
box of eggs onto the top shelf of the fridge. 'He's concerned you're
neglecting your studies.' Ichiro lifted the pan from the gas hob and
tilted it over his plate. The omelette landed with a splat. 'Ichiro
Yan, that's undercooked. It's not good for you to eat underdone
eggs.'


Ichiro slammed the spatula down.


'Come on, Retsuko,' he nodded at the girl. She smiled a lazy
fuddled smile, one eyelid flying at half mast, and followed him out of
the kitchen, trailing ribbons of smoke behind her. The stairs resounded
with the thump, thump, thump of feet.


Nanase stood alone. She placed a palm against her forehead
and a thin gasp escaped through her teeth. She walked across to the
sink, stood on tiptoes and pulled the cord that started the extractor
fan. Bending over, she dug her hand into one of the shopping bags and
removed a small plastic bag with a pastel blue box inside. She took the
box into the downstairs lavatory and locked the door.


* * *


When Mr Hitogata returned home, his wife was waiting in the
hall to greet him.


'Your dinner is almost ready, Masuyo,' she
said.


'Where is Ichiro?'


'He? he took his car out, about an hour ago.'


The lines on Mr Hitogata's face tightened. Leaving his
satchel in the hallway, he walked through into the lounge and put some
Japanese opera on the stereo. He sat listening in his black leather
armchair, speakers set to a portentous bass-heavy thrum. Ten minutes
later, his meal was ready. His wife waited mutely on the threshold of
the lounge until he acknowledged her and rose from his
seat.


The tapping of chopsticks against plates and the mulchy
chewing of rice, celery and tofu were the only sounds in the Hitogata
dining room. Mr Hitogata ate slowly, turning the pages of the Osaka
Tribune with deliberation. Studying articles, he would occasionally nod
or frown.
His wife poured him a third cup of tea and sat back down cross-legged
at the opposite end of the table.


'Masuyo?'


Mr Hitogata had a mouthful of food. He stopped
chewing.


'Masuyo, I? I need to talk to you about something.' Mr
Hitogata raised an eyebrow. 'I? I've taken a test and I think I might
be pregnant.'


'Think?' he repeated quietly.


'I'm fairly sure. I haven't had my? It's been two
months.'


Mr Hitogata finished his mouthful and took a curt slurp of
tea. 'How did this happen?' he asked.


'I don't know.'


'Perhaps you forgot your pills.'


'No, no? I wouldn't forget something like
that.'


He picked up his napkin and dabbed at the corners of his
mouth.
'Wait here.' He lifted himself from his cushion and rose slowly to his
feet. Leaving the dining room, he walked through the lounge to his
study. He fastened the latch behind him, bent over and unlocked the
filing cabinet. Sitting back in his wicker chair, he opened the ledger
on his desk to the page headed Nanase. There were ninety-nine marks on
the paper. He took a pencil, hesitated, then added a
hundredth.


Mr Hitogata breathed a long, whispery sigh. Gently, one hand
steadying the book against the desk, he tore out the page. He folded it
in half, then in half again. Slipping the page into his back pocket, he
closed the ledger then put it back into the drawer.


When he returned to the dining room, Mr Hitogata was carrying
a bottle of red wine. He put it down on the table, then fetched two
glasses from the kitchen. He placed one in front of his wife, removed
the cork with a couple of deft twists, and tilted the bottle ready to
pour.


'Oh, I'm not sure?' she began.


'To celebrate,' he said. 'Our new child.' He tipped his wrist
and wine glugged from the neck of the bottle into his wife's
glass.


As it reached the top she said, 'that's enough for me, thank
you.' He pulled the bottle away and retreated to his side of the
table.


'A toast then,' he said, splashing some wine into his glass.
He watched as she lifted hers, sniffed at it. She caught his gaze. He
picked up his glass, held it out in front of him, gesturing with it.
His wife put her glass to her lips. She took a sip. Mr Hitogata
continued to observe. She took another sip. 'To happiness and
prosperity,' he said. She smiled, and drained the rest of her
glass.


Mr Hitogata put down his glass.


'Aren't you going to try the wine?' she said.


He swept his chopsticks up from the table. 'Of course,' he
said. 'Once I have finished my meal.' Steam still rose from his noodles
as he teased them about the plate.


'I know we didn't plan for a second child,' she said, 'but? I
think we ought to look upon it as a blessing. It's rare for people to
get such an opportunity this late in life. We're wiser now, and more
able to support a child financially.'


'Do you think Ichiro had an underprivileged
upbringing?'


'Ichiro Yan is my son? and I love him.'


'But given a second chance? you feel we could do
better.'


'No. No, I don't mean that,' she said. 'I'm just aware that
life isn't as precarious as it was when he was born. We have a lot more
security.'


Mr Hitogata cleared his plate with a final flourish of the
chopsticks. He closed his eyes.


'You know,' he said, 'you really couldn't have become
pregnant unless you stopped taking those pills.'


'Masuyo, no? I would never deceive you like that.' She tried
to stand up. Her legs bowed under her and she slumped across the table
like a marionette. 'Oh, I feel?' She tried to rise again but her legs
buckled a second time and she pitched backwards onto the carpet, her
head striking the floor with a thud. 'Masuyo!' she cried.
'Oh?'


Mr Hitogata retired to his study as she began to
convulse.


When he returned, his wife lay with her mouth open. He
reached over, and pulled her lips together.


* * *


Pink lozenge streetlights elongated and slid over the
windscreen as he drove. He pulled up onto the kerb and parked in the
alleyway between Katayama's crematorium and the workshop. He sat in the
car with the engine idling for a couple of minutes, before turning the
keys and getting out. It was cold; a sharp low breeze was tugging wet
squares of cardboard end over end down the blue blue
street.


There came the scraping of shoes against tarmac and a man
approached from the road. He was fat like a pig and his bald head shone
with perspiration.


He bowed. 'Hitogata Dono.'


'Katayama San.' Mr Katayama followed Mr Hitogata round to the
boot of the car. Mr Hitogata unlocked it. He opened it slowly. The
light switched on. Inside, something bulky was shrouded in the folds of
an old drape.


Mr Katayama bowed a second time. 'I will see it is dealt with
right away,' he said. Mr Hitogata nodded in recognition, then walked
round to the front of the workshop, and let himself in.


It was dark inside, black intersected with rectangles of
purple and mauve. Mr Hitogata trod carefully until he reached the
counter. Feeling his way round, he opened a drawer beneath the cash
register and pulled out a candle and matches. He lit the candle and set
it down on a bench in the back room.


All throughout the night he worked. In the windows of the
Hitogata Puppet Shop, light and shadow glistered and warped like the
image on the skin of a bubble. Next door, the crematorium's tall
chimney haemorrhaged smoke.


* * *


The feeble early morning light leant the street a washed-out,
underexposed look. The ashes were left by a side door in a tin that had
once contained tea from northern China. Mr Hitogata took the tin
indoors. A large wooden casket lay on the bench in the centre of the
room, next to the burnt out stump of the candle. He lifted the lid, and
shook the contents of the tin up and down the casket's length. Tapping
the bottom to empty the last of the ashes out, he put the tin on a side
table then went to fetch an awl from his tool cupboard.


The awl was small and rather blunt. He wiped the tip with a
rag, then laid the back of his hand flat on the bench, fingers
outstretched. He drove the awl into his palm. His mouth grew taut. His
long fingers tensed and his fingernails rapped against the surface of
the bench. Red bubbles of blood started rising from the
wound.


Still clutching the awl, he held his hand over the casket,
blood dribbling from the gash in his palm. Droplets pattered against
wood, pap pap pap, blotching the featureless pine face of the puppet
inside. He inhaled sharply through his nostrils, then pulled his hand
away. The head of the awl was very thin. Mr Hitogata took some red
cloth from one of the puppets' costumes. With his hand over a basin, he
yanked the awl out, and quickly tried to bandage the gash. Blood
sprayed up through his fingers, stippling the nearest wall with a haze
of red dots. As he wrapped the cloth tighter the material grew sodden.
Crimson droplets beaded around the bottom and fell into the basin. He
turned on one of the taps.


Mr Hitogata's arm was trembling and he had become very pale.
He rested his head against the edge of the basin. Gradually, his eyes
closed.


* * *


When he came to, the sun was strong and brazen. He pulled
himself upright. His injured hand was purple and tacky with clotting
blood, his pinstripe shirt dappled with stains. Unsteadily, he got to
his feet.
The surface of the casket was moist. A peaty stench emanated from its
innards. He adjusted his spectacles, then with his good hand removed
the lid.


Within, Mrs Hitogata was naked, glistening. Her skin was
pink, sticky and raw, as if she had been scalded. A clear film coated
her nostrils, mouth, ears and eyes. Mr Hitogata's gaze followed the
line of her body, over the hump of her breasts, the slough of her
stomach, down to a perfect, smooth, sexless apron of flesh between her
legs.


He rapped his knuckles against the side of the
casket.


'It is time to awaken,' he said. The eyelids twitched, then
parted. Gummy transparent strands stretched between the lashes. The
eyeballs were blind as marbles. The nostrils drew in air. A wet rasping
came from the back of the throat. 'Get up.' The shoulders wriggled and
squeezed free of the casket. The torso hoisted itself upright. Mr
Hitogata was carrying a plastic shopping bag that contained a set of
his wife's clothes. He put it down on the bench. 'Dress
yourself.'


She dressed slowly, clumsily, her eyes narrowing and brow
tightening as if set with intense concentration. As she did so, Mr
Hitogata scrutinised the bloodstain on the white workshop wall. He
shook his head.
'Go and sit in the passenger seat of the car,' he said when he saw that
she was fully clothed. He put a coat on over his shirt, then followed
her outside. It was bright, midmorning. After locking up the workshop,
he clambered into the car. It was an automatic, but even so, driving
one-handed was very awkward. Backing out of the alleyway, he nearly ran
over a young man making his way towards the shop.


* * *


Iwatani Ken watched, angry and a little shaken as the car
disappeared down Oshima Street. What an asshole, he thought. He still
felt fagged out from the previous evening. His ex had been a no-show.
He had called her several times without response and when he had rung
the bell of her apartment nobody had answered. He had ended up sprawled
in bed in his apartment, chugging beers and watching trash television
until he had passed out.


He stepped up to the door of the Hitogata Puppet Shop. He had
made a lot of phone calls, but eventually someone had recalled that
there was a little shop that specialised in dolls and puppets just down
from the subway station. He tried the handle. It was locked. The sign
behind glass and a metal grille read 'closed'. Ken kicked the base of
the door. It was like being stood up a second time.


He spat, then, muttering and cussing, turned away. Forget all
the free publicity, he thought, lighting the last of his cigarettes.
The theatre would probably be torn down and replaced with a karaoke bar
within a year. Mrs Katayama could go to hell. Who gave a damn about
shinju nowadays, anyway?

'Can I help you?'
And there she was, standing in the alley between the two
buildings.
'Katayama San?'
To his astonishment, she smiled, albeit faintly. 'Ah, Ken. You are
here.' She started to approach. Despite himself, Ken took a step
back.
'I was passing by and I-'
'Would you like to come inside?' She stopped and allowed her hands to
hang limply by her sides.
'I?' Ken rubbed his mouth and tried to think. 'Yes. Yes, that's
great.'
Mrs Katayama turned - that strange, vertiginous turn - and walked
towards the side door. Ken hesitated, then followed. 'You don't object,
then?'
'You're here,' she said, sliding a key into the lock. 'You should be
rewarded.' The door opened. 'After you.'
Ken stepped past her, into the dark of the Puppet Shop. 'Is there a
light?' He heard the click of the door closing behind them.
'No,' said Mrs Katayama. 'No light.'

* * *


Back at the Hitogata household, Mr Hitogata entered the front
room to find the room in disarray and the tang of marijuana smoke in
the air. Ichiro was nowhere to be seen, but his sneakers lay discarded
at the foot of the sofa. A soup bowl sat next to them, full of ash and
cigarette butts. There were empty beer bottles all over the
carpet.


While Mrs Hitogata started to prepare breakfast, he crossed
to the sofa. The cushions were out of place. He lifted one of them.
Beneath, a thick glossy magazine was splayed open. He picked it up. The
title was in English and he could not read it. He flicked through a
couple of pages. There was a sequence of photographs involving two
blonde women with pendulous white breasts. They were naked save for
feathery angel wings attached to their backs. In the photographs, they
descended into the bedroom of a young man who was masturbating over a
pornographic magazine. One of them held him down while the other
stripped his trousers off and felated him. The photographs continued
for several pages, depicting increasingly explicit variations on the
theme. From the posture and expression of the man, the acts portrayed
were not consensual. Mr Hitogata dropped the magazine and retired to
his study.


He fastened the latch behind him, and unlocked his filing
cabinet. He extracted the ledger, and opened it to the second page. The
first line at the top of the page simply read 'Ichiro'. Mr Hitogata
slid a pencil from the pot. He added an extra mark.