33



A Dangerous Place
*
The People Watching Television
*
T h e Hollow Man



The door began to open inward. Holding the tray in both hands, the waiter gave a
slight bow and went inside. I stayed in the shadows of the vase, waiting for him to come
out and wondering what I would do when he did. I could go in as he came out. There was

definitely someone inside Room 208. If things continued to develop as they had done
before (which was exactly what was happening), the door should be unlocked. On the
other hand, I could forget about the room for now and follow the waiter. That way, I
could probably find my way to the place where he belonged.
I wavered between the two, but in the end I decided to follow the waiter. There was
something dangerous lurking in Room 208, something that could have fatal
consequences. I had all too clear a memory of the sharp rapping in the darkness and the
violent white gleam of some knife- like thing. I had to be more careful. Let me first see
where the waiter would lead me. Then I could come back to the room. But how was I
supposed to do that? I thrust my hands in my pockets and found there, along with my
wallet and change and handkerchief, a short ballpoint pen. I pulled the pen out and drew a
line on my hand to make sure it had ink. I could use this to mark the walls as I followed
the waiter. Then I could follow the marks back to the room. It should work.
The door opened and the waiter came out, hands empty. He had left everything inside
the room, including the tray. After closing the door, he straightened himself and began
whistling The Thieving Magpie as he hur ried back along the route he had followed here. I
stepped from my place in the shadows of the big vase and followed him. Wherever the
corridor forked, I made a small blue X on the cream-colored wall. The waiter never
looked back. There was something special about the way he walked. He could have been
acting as a model for the World Hotel Waiter Walking-Style Championship. His walk all
but proclaimed, "This is how a hotel waiter is supposed to walk: head up, jaw thrust out,
back straight, arms swinging rhythmically to the tune of The Thieving Magpie, taking
long strides down the corridor." He turned many corners, went up and down many short
flights of stairs, through stretches where the lighting was brighter or dimmer, past
depressions in the walls that produced different kinds of shadows. I maintained a
reasonable distance behind him to keep from being noticed, but following him was not
particularly difficult. He might disappear for a moment as he turned a corner, but there
was never any danger of my losing him, thanks to his vibrant whistling.
Just as a salmon migrating upstream eventually reaches a still pool, the waiter came
out of the final corridor into the hotel lobby, the crowded lobby where I had seen Noboru
Wataya on television. This time, however, the lobby was hushed, with only a handful of
people sitting in front of a large television set, watching an NHK news broadcast. The
waiter had stopped whistling as he neared the lobby, so as not to disturb people. Now he
cut straight across the lobby floor and disappeared behind a door marked "Staff Only."
Pretending to be killing time, I ambled around the lobby, sat on a few different sofas,
looked up at the ceiling, checked the thickness of the rug beneath my feet. Then I went to
a pay phone and put in a coin. This phone was as dead as the one in the room had been. I
picked up a hotel phone and punched in "208," but this phone was also dead.
After that, I went to sit in a chair somewhat apart from where the people were
watching television, to observe the m unobtrusively. The group consisted of twelve
people, nine men and three women, mostly in their thirties and forties, with two possibly
in their early fifties. The men all wore suits or sports coats and conservative ties and
leather shoes. Aside from some differences in height and weight, none had any
distinguishing features. The three women were all in their early thirties, well dressed and
carefully made up. They could have been on their way back from a high school reunion,
except that they sat separately and gave no evidence of knowing each other. In fact, all

the people in the group appeared to be strangers whose attention just happened to be
locked on the same television screen. There were no exchanges of opinions or glances or
nods.
I sat watching the news for a while from my place somewhat apart from theirs. The
stories were of no special interest to me- a governor cutting a tape at the opening
ceremony for a new road, a recall of children's crayons that had been discovered to
contain a harmful substance, the death of a truckdriver who had been hit by a tourist bus
in Asahikawa because of icy roads and reduced visibility in a major snowstorm, with in-
juries to several of the tourists on their way to a hot- spring resort. The announcer read
each of the stories in turn in a restrained voice, as though dealing out low- numbered
cards. I thought about the television in the home of Mr. Honda, the fortune - teller. His set
had always been tuned to NHK too.
These images of the news coming over the air were at the same time very real and
very unreal to me. I felt sorry for the thirty-seven-year-old truckdriver who had died in
the accident. No one wants to die in agony of ruptured internal organs in a blizzard in
Asahikawa. But I was not acquainted with the truckdriver, and he did not know me. And
so my sympathy for him had nothing personal about it. I could feel only a generalized
kind of sympathy for a fellow human being who had met with a sudden, violent death.
That generalized emotion might be very real for me and at the same time not real at all. I
turned my eyes from the television screen and surveyed the big, empty lobby once more.
I found nothing there to focus on. There were no hotel staff members present, and the
small bar was not yet open. The only thing on the wall was a large oil painting of a
mountain.
When I turned back to the television screen, there was a large close-up of a familiar
face- Noboru Wataya's face. I sat up straight and turned my attention to the reporter's
words. Something had happened to Noboru Wataya, but I had missed the beginning of
the story. Soon the photo disappeared and the reporter came on- screen. He wore a tie and
an overcoat, and he was standing at the entrance to a large building, with a mike in his
hand.
"... rushed to Tokyo Women's Medical University Hospital, where he is now in
intensive care, but all we know is that he has not regained consciousness since his skull
was fractured by an unknown assailant. Hospital authorities have refused to comment on
whether or not his wounds are life -threatening. A detailed report on his condition is to be
released sometime later. Reporting from the main entrance of Tokyo Women's Medical
University..."
And the broadcast returned to the studio, where the anchorman began to read a text
th at had just been handed to him. "According to reports just in, Representative Noboru
Wataya has sustained severe injuries to the head in what appears to have been an attack
on his life. The young assailant burst into his office in Tokyo's Minato Ward at eleven-
thirty this morning and, in the presence of the persons with whom Representative Wataya
was meeting at the time, delivered several strong blows to the head with a baseball bat,
inflicting severe injuries."
The screen showed a picture of the buildin g that housed Noboru Wataya's office.
"The man had posed as a caller to Representative Wataya's office, bringing the bat in
inside a long cardboard mailing tube. Witnesses say the man pulled the bat out of the tube
and attacked without a word of warning."

The screen showed the office where the crime had occurred. Chairs were scattered on
the floor, and a black pool of blood could be seen nearby.
"The attack came so suddenly that neither Representative Wataya nor the others with
him had a chance to resist. After checking to be certain that Representative Wataya was
unconscious, the assailant left the scene, still holding the baseball bat. Witnesses say the
man, approximately thirty years of age, was wearing a navy- blue pea coat, a woolen ski
hat, also navy, and dark glasses. He stood some five feet nine inches in height and had a
bruiselike mark on his right cheek. Police are looking for the man, who seems to have
managed to lose himself without a trace in the neighborhood crowds."
The screen showed police at the scene of the crime and then a lively Akasaka street
scene.
Baseball bat? Mark on the face? I bit my lip.
"Noboru Wataya was a rising star among economists and political commentators
when, this spring, he inherited the mantle of his uncle, longtime Diet member Yoshitaka
Wataya, and was elected to the House of Representatives. Widely hailed since then as an
influential young politician and polemicist, Noboru Wataya was a freshman Diet member
of whom much was expected. Police are launching a two-pronged investigation into the
crime, assuming that it could have been either politically motivated or some kind of
personal vendetta. To repeat this late-breaking story: Noboru Wataya, prominent
freshman member of the House of Representatives, has been rushed to the hospital with
severe head in juries after an attack late this morning by an unknown assailant. Details on
his condition are not known at this time. And now, in other news- "
Someone appeared to have switched off the television at that point. The announcer's
voice was cut short, and silence enveloped the lobby. People began to relax their tensed
postures. It was obvious that they had gathered in front of the television for the express
purpose of hearing news about Noboru Wataya. No one moved after the set was switched
off. No one made a sound.
Who could have hit Noboru Wataya with a bat? The description of the assailant
sounded exactly like me - the navy pea coat and hat, the sunglasses, the mark on the cheek,
height, age-and the baseball bat. I had kept my own bat in the bottom of the well for
months, but it had disappeared. If that same bat was the one used to crush Noboru
Wataya's skull, then someone must have taken it for that purpose.
Just then the eyes of one of the women in the group focused on me- a skinny, fishlike
woman with prominent cheekbones. She wore white earrings in the very center of her
long earlobes. She had twisted around in her chair and sat in that position for a long time,
watching me, never averting her gaze or changing her expression. Next the bald man
sitting beside her, letting his eyes follow her line of vision, turned and looked at me. In
height and build, he resembled the owner of the cleaning store by the station. One by one,
the other people turned in my direction, as if becoming aware for the first time that I was
there with them. Subjected to their unwavering stares, I could not help but be aware of
my navy- blue pea jacket and hat, my five- foot- nine- inch height, my age, and the mark on
my right che ek. These people all seemed to know, too, that I was Noboru Wataya's
brother-in- law and that I not only disliked but actively hated him. I could see it in their
eyes. My grip tightened on the arm of my chair as I wondered what to do. I had not
beaten Noboru Wataya with a baseball bat. I was not that kind of person, and besides, I
no longer owned the bat. But they would never believe me, I was sure. They be lieved

only what they saw on television.
I eased out of my chair and started for the corridor by which I had entered the lobby. I
had to leave that place as soon as possible. I was not welcome there. I had taken only a
few steps when I turned to see that several of the people had left their chairs and were
coming after me. I sped up and cut straight across the lobby for the corridor. I had to find
my way back to Room 208. The inside of my mouth was dry.
I had finally made it across the lobby and taken my first step into the corridor when,
without a sound, all the lights in the hotel went out. A heavy curtain of blackness fell
with the speed of an ax blow. Someone cried out behind me, the voice much closer to me
than I would have expected, a stony hatred at its core.
I continued on in the darkness, edging forward cautiously with my hands against the
wall. I had to get away from them. But then I bumped into a small table and knocked
something over in the darkness, probably some kind of vase. It rolled, clattering, across
the floor. The collision sent me down on all fours on the carpet. I scrambled to my feet
and continued feeling my way along the corridor. Just then, the edge of my coat received
a sharp yank, as if it had caught on a nail. It took me a moment to realize what was
happening. Someone was pulling on my coat. Without hesitation, I slipped out of it and
lunged ahead in the darkness. I felt my way around a corner, tripped up a stairway, and
turned another corner, my head and shoulders bumping into things all the while. At one
point, I missed my footing on a step and smashed my face against the wall. I felt no pain,
though: only an occasional dull twinge behind the eyes. I couldn't let them catch me here.
There was no light of any kind, not even the emergency lighting that was supposed to
come on in hotels in case of a power failure. After tear ing my way through this
featureless darkness, I came to a halt, trying to catch my breath, and listened for sounds
from behind me. All I could hear, though, was the wild beating of my own heart. I knelt
down for a mo ment's rest. They had probably given up the chase. If I went ahead in the
darkness now, I would probably end up lost in the depths of the labyrinth. I decided to
stay here, leaning against the wall, and try to calm myself.
Who could have turned out the lights? I couldn't believe it had been a coincidence. It
had happened the very moment I stepped into the corridor as people were catching up
with me. Probably someone there had done it to rescue me from danger. I took my wool
hat off, wiped the sweat from my face with my handkerchief, and put the hat back on. I
was beginning to notice pain in different parts of my body, but I didn't seem to have any
injuries as such. I looked at the luminous hands of my watch in the darkness, only to
remember that the watch had stopped at eleven-thirty. That was the time I climbed down
into the well, and it was also the time that someone had beaten Noboru Wataya in his
office with a baseball bat.
Could I have been the one who did it?
Down here in the darkness like this, that began to seem like one more theoretical
poss ibility to me. Perhaps, up there, in the real world, I had actually struck him with the
bat and injured him severely, and I was the only one who didn't know about it. Perhaps
the intense hatred inside me had taken the initiative to walk over there without my
knowing it and administer him a drubbing. Did I say walk? I would have had to take the
Odakyu Line to Shinjuku and transfer there to the subway in order to go to Akasaka.
Could I have done such a thing without being aware of it? No, certainly not- unless there
existed another me.

"Mr. Okada," someone said close by in the darkness.
My heart leaped into my throat. I had no idea where the voice had come from. My
muscles tensed as I scanned the darkness, but of course I could see nothing.
"Mr. Okada." The vo ice came again. A man's low voice. "Don't worry, Mr. Okada,
I'm on your side. We met here once before. Do you remember?"
I did remember. I knew that voice. It belonged to the man with no face. But I had to
be careful. I was not ready to answer.
"You have to leave this place as soon as possible, Mr. Okada. They'll come to find
you when the lights go on. Follow me: I know a shortcut."
The man switched on a penlight. It cast a small beam, but it was enough to show me
where to step. "This way," the man urged me. I scrambled up from the floor and hurried
after him.
"You must be the one who turned out the lights for me, is that right?" I asked the man
from behind.
He did not answer, but neither did he deny it.
"Thanks," I said. "It was a close call."
"They are very dangerous people," he said. "Much more dangerous than you think."
I asked him, "Was Noboru Wataya really injured in some kind of beating?"
"That is what they said on TV," the man replied, choosing his words carefully.
"I didn't do it, though," I said. "I was down in a well at the time, alone."
"If you say so, I'm sure you are right," the man said matter-of-factly. He opened a
door and, shining the flashlight on his feet, he began edging his way up the flight of stairs
on the other side. It was such a long stair way that, midway through the process, I lost
track of whether we were climbing or descending. I was not even sure this was a
stairway.
"Do you have someone who can swear that you were in the well at the time?" the
man asked without turning around.
I said nothing. There was no such person.
"In that case, the wisest thing would be for you to run away. They have decided for
themselves that you are the culprit."
"Who are 'they'?"
Reaching the top of the stairs, the man turned right and, after a short walk, opened a
door and stepped out into a corridor. There he stopped to listen for sounds. "We have to
hurry. Hold on to my jacket."
I grasped the bottom edge of his jacket as ordered.
The man with no face said, "Those people are always glued to the television set. That
is why you are so greatly disliked here. They are very fond of your wife's elder brother."
"Do you know who I am?" I asked.
"Yes, of course I do."
"So, then, do you know where Kumiko is now?"
The man said nothing. I kept a firm grip on the tail of the man's coat, as if we were
playing some kind of game in the dark, rushing around another corner, down a short
staircase, through a small secret door, through a low-ceilinged hidden passageway, into
yet another corridor. The strange, intricate route taken by the faceless man felt like an
endless jour ney through the bowels of a huge bronze figure.
"Let me tell you this, Mr. Okada. I don't know everything that happens here. This is a

big place, and my area of responsibility centers on the lobby. There is a lot that I don't
know anything about."
"Do you know about the whistling waiter?"
"No, I don't. There are no waiters here, whistling or otherwise. If you saw a waiter in
here somewhere, he wasn't really a waiter: it was something pretending to be a waiter. I
failed to ask you, but you wanted to go to Room 208, is that correct?"
"That is correct. I'm supposed to meet a certain woman there."
The man had nothing to say to that. He pressed for no details about the woman or
what my business with her might be. He continued down the corridor with the confident
stride of a man who knows his way around, dragging me like a tugboat along a
complicated course.
Eventually, with no warning, he came to a stop in front of a door. I bumped into him
from behind, all but knocking him over. His flesh, on impact, felt strangely light and airy,
as if I had bumped into an empty cicada shell. He quickly straightened himself and used
his pocket flashlight to illuminate the number on the door: 208.
"This door is not locked," said the man. "Take this light with you. I can walk back in
the dark. Lock the door when you go in, and don't open it for anyone. Whatever business
you have, get it over with quickly and go back where you came from. This place is
dangerous. You are an in truder here, and I am the only one on your side. Don't forget
that."
"Who are you?" I asked.
The faceless man handed me the flashlight as if passing a baton. "I am the hollow
man," he said. Faceless face toward me, he waited in the dark ness for me to speak, but I
could not find the right words. Eventually, without a sound, he disappeared. He was right
in front of me one second, swallowed up by darkness the next. I shone the light in his
direction, but only the dull white wall came out of the darkness.



As the man had said, the door to Room 208 was unlocked. The knob turned
soundlessly in my hand. I took the precaution of switching the flashlight off, then stepped
in as quietly as I could. As before, the room was silent, and I could sense nothing moving
inside. There was the faint crack of melting ice moving inside the ice bucket. I switched
on the flashlight and turned to lock the door. The dry metallic tumbling of the lock
sounded abnormally loud in the room. On the table in the center stood the unopened
bottle of Cutty Sark, clean glasses, and the bucket full of fresh ice. The silver-colored tray
beside the vase shot the beam of the flashlight back with a sensual gleam, as if it had
been waiting for me for a very long time. In response, it seemed, the smell of the flowers'
pollen became stronger for a moment. The air around me grew dense, and the pull of
gravity seemed to increase. With my back against the door, I watched the move ment
around me in the beam of the flashlight.
This place is dangerous. You are an intruder here, and I am the only one on your
side. Don't forget that.
"Don't shine that light on me," said a woman's voice in the inner room. "Do you
promise not to shine tha t light on me?"
"I promise," I said.