At the same time, he basked in the warmth of the pleasant autumn sun,
some rays of which found their way even into the peaceful interior of the
car. The taxi climbed the slope toward the National Diet.
At the fork in the road that led toward the Diet in one direction and
toward Mittakuzaka in the other, the driver asked another stupid question.
“Which way do you want to go?’
“Right,” Hirata said, noticing now that there was something a little odd
about him.
Looking again at the driver’s face from his seat in the back, Hirata saw
that the man he had taken for a rather pleasant fellow when he entered the
car was really a senile old fool.
Hirata spat out a question as they passed the Diet. “Are you telling me
you don’t know the streets in the middle of Tokyo? Where are you from?”
“Well, I've been out in the country for fifteen years. . . .”
“What?”
Hirata felt himself in danger and slid over, positioning himself directly
behind the driver.
“Tokyo’s streets have changed a lot these fifteen years. ... I drove for a
long time in Tokyo before. But roads in the country are hard too, you know.
Those roads in the mountains. . .” the man said, lifting his left arm from the
steering wheel and using it to describe what must have been the slope of a
mountain road. He turned his hand toward the front of the car and slowly
lifted it up.
“Hey, watch it,” Hirata shouted.
“I just got back to Tokyo a month ago. I never know where I am.’
“Well, drive slowly.”
