The Salaryman's Wife(107)

“Hmm.” I popped open a hot can of green tea I’d bought at the machine just outside his door.

“Young ladies are adopting your haircut, do you realize? They call it the Rei-Styru. It costs six thousand yen at a salon in Harajuku.”

“Oh, no.” I ran my fingers through my hair still wet from the shower.

“You must read this. I’ll give you the magazine for free because it’s such a special event. Please.” Mr. Waka looked so upset that I finally took the tabloid, rolling it up and sticking it in my backpack.

“You’re too kind to me,” I mumbled dutifully as I left.

“I’m not kind at all. Just a fan.”

On the way to the train station I took out Friday and began trying to read it. I couldn’t believe Richard had talked to them. And Tom. If only I could read more kanji; it was maddening not to understand what people were saying about me.

My face buried in the paper, I slowly climbed the metal stairs leading up the pedestrian overpass. The smell of diesel fuel was especially overwhelming because of the morning rush hour. The sputtering and roaring sounds of cars on the street below were a stark contrast from the peace of Aunt Norie’s neighborhood. A smart person would not have given up free room and board there.

A sharp gust of wind tore Friday out of my hand and as the slim magazine skipped through the air, I noticed the roaring traffic sounds were louder, as if there were a car behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw something completely illegal: a huge black motorcycle soaring up the ramp for bicycles and onto the overpass itself.

The shiny black vehicle appeared to be heading straight for me. I moved out of its way and the driver, an anonymous, helmeted figure, adjusted his direction and increased speed. All these things I noticed in a matter of seconds; I heard people in the background crying out, but what pressed deep into my mind was the sound of the cycle, a horrible cross between a roar and a whine.

I was backed up flat against the security railing, like almost everyone on the pedestrian bridge. The kamikaze motorcyclist was now less than ten feet away. I was the undisputed target with nowhere to escape. Unless I jumped.

Desperation pumped through me and I scrambled over the railing, remembering belatedly that the huge safety net on the outside had been removed for repair. My idea was to hang on until danger had passed. I was halfway over as the motorcycle buzzed against the railing.

A black-gloved hand reached out and shoved me hard. I toppled over and reached wildly for the railings. My right hand fastened around a steel bar, but the rest of me dangled thirty feet above the railroad tracks.

It had happened fast, but I felt each detail in exquisite slow motion. My low-heeled pumps slipped off my feet and hit the ground; next went my backpack, which had been dangling off my left shoulder. I was beginning to feel extremely heavy. Every part of me seemed to sag downward. I swung my left arm uselessly; I wanted to grab the railing, but didn’t have the strength. I was rotten at pull-ups, had failed that part of my junior high gym class.

I was too scared to cry, too scared to do anything but breathe fast and watch the motorcycle rider execute a wheelie and zip back down the pedestrian ramp into the street.

“Be careful,” a woman in a business suit called to me from the safe side of the pedestrian bridge. A whole group of commuters was with her, making concerned sounds and arguing about what to do. Should they call the police or the fire department? It didn’t matter, I wanted to say, my grip could never last that long.

A rag-tag band of homeless men had moved directly under me, holding out various bags and pieces of their cardboard shacks, as if that would provide a safe landing net. In the distance I heard traffic and maybe a siren.

“Take this.” I heard a rough voice and looked up to see the grimy face of a street-sleeper I’d once stumbled over and given dinner. He was dangling the rope he used to secure blankets around his body.

The rope flew down and bounced off the rails. After a few misses, I caught it with my left hand. My rescuer and someone behind him began tugging upward. My left hand came back up to the railing, and strong hands reached under my arms and hauled me over.

I was safe. I lay hyperventilating on the steel walk-way.

“Sumimasen deshita. Sumimasen.” Between short breaths, I whimpered my apologies. I knew it was ludicrous, but I couldn’t stop. Maybe I was hysterical.

“That guy was probably Bszoku,” my rescuer spat. “Damn motorcycle gangs!”

“Did you see his license plate?” I gasped.

“There was no license plate!” The man leaned in and whispered so close to my face I smelled sake on his breath. “And don’t try to find out Bszoku are friends with the ya-san.”