Mr Omochi stopped in front of my desk. Surprised, I failed to comprehend that he had come for me and not for Fubuki and only just refrained from blurting out that her desk was the one next to mine. Mr Omochi extended a stubby finger towards me and then furled and unfurled it in lieu of a spoken request that I follow him, which I did, in a state of extreme self-consciousness and of mixed emotions, terrified that he might expect me to have shorthand skills and yet thrilled by the thought of movement, career progress, new challenges and skills.
‘Atashi-san,’ said Mr Omochi, indicating with a wave of his hand a tall stack of papers on a chair by his desk, ‘photocopy these for me by tomorrow. I thought that, as these documents are in English, you’d be best qualified to do this.’
‘Certainly, Omochi-san.’ I approached the pile and picked up what I could. ‘Please allow me to come back for the rest, as I can’t manage it all in one journey.’
Mr Omochi sat down behind his desk and played with his tie that failed to reach his trouser belt, leaving visible the buttons that strained to join the two sides of his shirt together. He already looked bored with his act of delegation. On both occasions of my return to his office he hadn’t moved, that I could tell.
I spent a day in the windowless photocopying room, unstapling documents, photocopying the pages one by one and then stapling them together. I filled the photocopying machine with paper on numerous occasions and replaced the ink cartridge twice. By the end of the job, I was close to tears, not just because of the tedious nature of the job and because colleagues did little to hide their disgruntlement at my hogging the photocopier, but also because it had dawned on me, despite the initial boost to my self-esteem, that no knowledge of English was required to position sheet after sheet of paper on the photocopier’s glass, close the lid and press a button. If one photocopied each photocopy in turn to produce, to the naked eye, an immeasurably paler imitation of the original and of the preceding copies, how many photocopies would it take for the original to disappear altogether and to be left with a blank sheet of paper? I felt that only a few days spent in repetition of this would efface my spirit.
Fubuki, whether out of a sense of commiseration or of curiosity, had waited for me before leaving for home. ‘I mean,’ I said to her after thanking her for having waited, ‘it would have made no difference if the document had been in Russian and I Chinese. Is he playing a game at my expense or does he really think that it made sense for me to photocopy those English documents?’
Fubuki arranged her handbag strap on her shoulder and stepped into the lift. I had noticed that she always placed one hand on her stomach as the lift started its long drop to the ground floor. ‘You know, it’s best not to ask yourself that question,’ she replied pragmatically. ‘If he’s being mean, beat him at his own game; don’t give him any satisfaction and he’ll get bored of it. If he thinks it’s important, be grateful; he’ll then send something more interesting your way. Who knows? Maybe this is a test and, if you pass it, you’ll be rewarded with a job that meets your aspirations.’ I recalled her wise words the following morning when, panting after my six trips from the photocopying room, I asked Mr Omochi where he’d like me to put the originals and their photocopies.
Mr Omochi, who looked as though he hadn’t even moved from the day before, stared at me blankly before nodding his head in the direction of the filing cabinet in the far corner of his office. It was as tall as me, and as wide as I was tall. It had five drawers, four of which were empty, the bottom one containing shoes, ties and empty bottles of saké.
‘Omochi-san.’ I bowed. ‘Which would you like me to file there, the photocopies or the originals?’
Mr Omochi looked at me languidly. ‘File both of them.’ He looked pleased at my start of surprise.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask what point the exercise had if the copy were to be kept with the original and not distributed to a second party, if the two were to finish their brief lives in the graveyard of the furthest recess of Mr Omochi’s office. Instead, I asked, ‘Under what heading, Omochi-san?’
Mr Omochi, not without some effort, leant forward and propped himself up on his fingers – that were so short and stubby that I thought for a second he was resting on his knuckles – from which simian posture he grunted, ‘Show some initiative, can’t you?’
I filed them under ‘Originals’ and ‘Photocopies’.