I began to worry about the stagnation of my intellectual capabilities and the possible decline of my English faculties. The route to England seemed impossibly obscure from the perspectives of my desk and the trivial tasks I was assigned. Fubuki grew angry on a matter of principle. She followed me into the ladies’ toilets one day where she grumbled that she hadn’t signed up to be a shokuba no hana, an office flower whose role was to be pleasing to the eye in the execution of the menial but necessary tasks the department required. I hadn’t the courage to tell her that she made the most beautiful office flower – that, if that were indeed to be her role, she would acquit herself to perfection. As though she’d been overheard, we had no sooner resumed our seats than Mr Saito stood, nodded at Fubuki and requested she follow him to Mr Omochi’s office, after which he returned without her as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. For me, this change in our routine was of seismic proportions, and I assumed it marked a first step into what could be loosely termed our – or at least Fubuki’s – career development.
An hour passed agonisingly slowly before Fubuki returned, and another hour before she excused herself to Mr Saito to go to the bathroom. I followed, mumbling my own excuses as I stumbled after her.
‘What did you have to do?’ I could barely contain my excitement.
‘I had to take down a letter.’
I felt a pang of jealousy. ‘What about? And then?’
‘You know, I can’t even tell you what it was about! I was so nervous. I haven’t practised my shorthand in three months. And then I took it down to the head of the typing pool who handed it to one of the typists who typed it out and handed it back to her boss, who proofread it and gave it to me together with its carbon copy to take back to Mr Omochi, who signed it and asked me to take it to the post room and to file the carbon copy.’ Fubuki examined her nails, as though to deny, out of consideration for me, I was sure, that she had had her most exciting day at Yumimoto to date.
My agitation was such that I could think of nothing to say or, rather, I couldn’t think of what to say first. Why had Fubuki been singled out for this singular honour? When would my turn come? What were the typing pool and the post room like? ‘What’s shorthand?’
‘Shorthand?’ Fubuki trilled and looked at the backs of her extended hands. She had a way of reposing, of leaning back on the washbasin unit with her legs crossed at the ankles that made her appear relaxed and dangerous simultaneously. ‘Sorry. It’s why I’m here. I can take down what someone says very quickly, at the speed at which they’re saying it, so that I can take letters down or take meeting notes in real time, as it were. That’s why I’m here.’ My face must have registered my incomprehension. ‘While you’re here for your English, that much you’ve told me.’ She read my mind. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure your time will come. You’re reserved for greater things, I’m sure.’ This was said with a smile and, I felt, no small degree of condescension.
Fubuki was proved right, but not before she’d had three more letters dictated to her by Mr Omochi and a good half dozen by Mr Haneda, who seemed to have discovered a zeal for letter-writing. I feared my resentment would show and threaten my nascent friendship with Fubuki, and I tried to keep my demeanour agreeable so as to avoid a negative bearing on my career.