A large billboard on the street in front of the Metropolitan Police Board
caught Hirata’s eye: “Yesterday’s traffic accidents: 3 dead, 25 injured.”
“I go right?”
“Yeah.’’
Hirata had spoken without thinking. If they continued straight on, just
before them—wasn’t that the Hibiya intersection, Ginza yon-chome? To
ask the way at this point was realy too much. Was the man a fool?
The taxi seemed to stagger as it made the turn. It occurred to Hirata that
it might be safest to get out of Kasumigaseki anyway, to go on into Hibiya
Park.
It was impossible to say how many cars had passed them.
Hirata began to finger the large mole on the left side of his jaw. He did
this whenever he was irritated.
He knew that taxi drivers were required to earn a certain amount of
money every day—this was why they took out-of-the-way routes. If a
driver didn’t earn what he was supposed to he would be assigned a bad car.
Or worse yet, he might lose his car altogether—he could end up working as
a “sub,” a driver who fills in when others are on vacation.
Hirata had also heard that Tokyo’s taxi drivers overworked the nerves in
their eyes, so that by the time they reached middle age their eyes no longer
functioned properly. They generally had to retire pretty early.
A driver as old as this one wouldn’t make it in Tokyo.
“Wasn’t it easier for you driving in the country, crossing mountains?”
“No, not really.”
Somehow they got lost in Hibiya Park and the car ended up in front of
the public hall. The driver looked frightened and turned away from the hall
into the shadow of some trees, a place that was not a road.
