by
TAJ
The signal changed to green. At the corner, a few businessmen hesitated for an instant, then stepped off the curb and began walking across the eight-lane street.Their pace was quick, but not hurried. They moved within the comfortable regularity of established routines, smooth patterns amid the bustling confusion of Tokyo life. Each one knew that there was just enough time for a brisk walk to the restaurant district on the next block, a set lunch and a cup of coffee, followed by a last cigarette on the way back to the office at the end of the lunch hour.
Yet, they did know how closely they were being observed. None of them had noticed the man standing beside the traffic lights on the opposite side of the street. He was apparently a tramp, a homeless scavenger who badly needed a bath and a shave. Unwashed and uncombed for months on end, his hair was a tangle of dirty black strands, and exposure to the city air had darkened his skin a deep brown, making him appear far older than his forty-odd years.
He wore bits of discarded clothing, found in trash bins, rummaged by night: an old belt that wouldn't clasp, scuffed shoes without laces, a shirt and trousers that were grimy and worn. By his side was a large shopping bag stuffed full of rags and newspapers which served as his bedding, a bottle of water and a few scraps of food. He smiled, but no one knew why. He waited patiently, staring at the pocket watch in his hand, while the businessmen crossed the intersection.
Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen., he counted to himself. A pair of young men in blue cotton suits reached the sidewalk simultaneously. Their winning time was good, but hardly a record. There had already been a number of faster crossings that day and the lunch hour rush had barely begun. Eleven fifty-eight was the exact time, yet the hours and minutes did not interest him very much. It was the sweep hand of the watch which held his attention.
Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six. The light flashed yellow and then red. The next race would begin in fifty-four seconds.
Fifty-four, he thought. Showa fifty-four? A good year, perhaps. But what were years? Could they be counted like seconds or minutes? Could they be seen as time passing across the face of a watch? Once he had tried to keep all of the details in order, but now he no longer cared. Such matters were better forgotten; buried in time, buried in memory, buried like the dead under so many charred ruins after the war. Let them rest. Let them be. He had no desire to recall the ghosts from his past. It was so much better to consider the present and trust in the watch. The watch.
