That night, I didn’t have my mobile phone with me. I only realized this at nearly 11:00 p.m., some 20 minutes after I had left a female designer’s office in Imaike. In those days, even “Galapagos phones,” which now give me a sense of nostalgia, did not exist, but more than 70% of Japanese people carried mobile phones with them. As usual, our meeting ended in 40 minutes, and I had two glasses of beer and left for home. I browsed at a used-book store for a bit, went down to an underground shopping mall, took the subway to the east, and got off the train in haste at the second station. I called the designer in her office from a public phone on the platform.
“Hello, this is Takasaka.” It was a man’s voice, which upset me. I had forgotten that she was married and that her office was in her home, even though these facts were well known to everyone. Her husband was also a designer in a different genre from hers. We knew of each other, but that was the first time for us to talk directly. It appeared that she was not nearby at that time. I said she was always helpful to me and some other friendly phrases, while I was thinking how I should explain my predicament. Then, he asked me if I was possibly searching for my mobile phone, before I had had the chance to say so myself. “Oh, my mobile phone! You’ve got it? Well, I accidentally…”
Interrupting me, he began to speak.
“Well, Mr. Tsukiyama, I’ve received a phone call from a man saying that he picked up your mobile phone. He made that call with your phone. He asked me if I could come and meet him in front of Mister Donut. Are you following me?”
In short, the man had checked my call history, found the designer’s office number, which I had called immediately before losing my mobile phone, and then called it. He had said to her husband that he could take the mobile phone to the police, but since he would be there for a while, it would be more convenient for both of them if Mr. Takasaka went there to pick up the phone. While Mr. Takasaka was considering what he was going to do about it, the man said that he would call again in five minutes and hung up the phone.
Well, isn’t that suspicious? I had certainly bought donuts from Mister Donut right before visiting her office, so it may well be possible that I had left my mobile phone there. But why is this man in front of Mister Donut for such a long time late at night? Isn’t he hanging around there with someone else? But it would be a nuisance to go to the police tomorrow or later. Also, if I didn’t go, it might increase the possibility of my mobile phone being misused. And I need to contact someone soon with my mobile phone. Above all, I don’t want to bother Mr. Takasaka any longer.
I said to Mr. Takasaka, “I’ll be there in 15 minutes. If you receive a call from the man, please tell him that. I’m wearing a black coat with a dark red bag over my shoulder, and a dark-green knit cap.” Somewhat worried about me, he said, “You can call me anytime if any trouble occurs,” and told me the name of the man waiting for me in front of Mister Donut.
“His name is Dennis. He speaks Japanese, but rather broken. Good luck!”
If only I could indicate to him that he should have told me about that at the beginning. It seems that when people are really upset, they try to pretend as if nothing special has happened. The telephone call ended a few seconds later. In those days, when I was crazy about NBA basketball, “Dennis” reminded me of nobody but Dennis Rodman, a large golden-haired man, covered in tattoos, at a height of 203 cm. He was a stereotypical bad boy.
“Should I call the police before going?” I wondered. I stopped many times on my way.
“Hey, are you Tsukiyama?”
Dennis quickly saw me approaching the store and questioned me in Japanese. Although he was almost as tall as me, he had bright tattoos covering his black arms. A few of his friends were teasing us in English behind his back, as he approached me waving my mobile phone in his hand. Determined to run away at full speed in the event of an emergency, I said “Dennis? Thank you,” while making an exaggerated gesture with bravado, and walked toward him.
When I was about to grasp the mobile phone that he held out in front of me, Dennis withdrew it from me and said, “Awatenai. Awatanai. Wei-ta-mi.” I understood that he was saying that there was no need to hurry and trying to tell me to “wait a minute.”
Then, Dennis began to operate my mobile phone as if he were in the habit of using it. I speculated how much I should give him, taking account of the sum of money in my wallet that I had checked before. Dennis called my attention to the display on the phone and indicated a number in the call history.
He said in broken Japanese that he had called my friend twice and showed what time he had done so.
At first, I couldn’t understand what he meant, but it seemed that he wanted to make clear that he had used my mobile phone only twice and had not misused it at all. After saying this, he quickly handed the mobile phone to me. He patted me on the shoulder and returned to his friends.
“Wait! You helped me a great deal. Thank you. Let me give you a reward,” I said in Japanese toward his back. Then he looked back and said:
“Tsugi, attara, beer, OK?” (“How about a beer next time we meet?”)
Of course. I had always bossily told my son and my students that prejudice narrows people’s perspectives. I felt so ashamed that I quickly walked away from the scene. I knew that the last subway of the day was just an excuse. I should have returned to the guys hanging around there, fully expressed my appreciation, and drunk together with them till the morning. Every time I go to Imaike today, I still regret the fate that I already knew at that timewe would never meet again.

　その日、携帯電話を携帯していない、コトに気づいたのは、今池にある女性デザイナーさんのオフィスを出て２０分ぐらいした、夜の１１時近くだった。まだガラパゴスなどという郷愁のある分類すら存在しない時代。それでも日本人の７割強が、携帯電話を携帯していた頃。いつもの習慣で、打ち合わせは４０分で終え、ビール２杯をいただいて帰路に着いた。古本屋を軽く覗いて地下に潜り、東へ２区向かった辺り。慌てて地下鉄を降り、ホームの公衆電話から彼女のオフィスに電話を入れた。
はい、高坂です、と男の声。いきなりドギマギする。ああ、そうだった。彼女が既婚者であることも、そのオフィスが住居兼の一室だったことも、ちゃんと周知のコトだった。ご主人もまた別のジャンルのデザイナーで、お互い知らない間柄ではなかったが、直に話をするのは初めてだった。どうやら彼女は近くにいないようで、いつもお世話に、などと社交辞令を述べつつ、現状を伝える言葉を探していると、彼が先に、もしかして携帯ですか、と問うてきた。僕の、あ、ありましたか、いやぁついつい、を遮って、彼が話す。あのね、ついさっき、月山さんの携帯電話を拾ったって人から、月山さんの携帯電話から電話がありましてね。ミスタードーナッツの前まで来れないか、なんて言うんですよ。話、判ります？
要するに、僕が紛失の直前に掛けた彼女のオフィスの電話番号を通話履歴から探り、コンタクトを取ってきたわけだ。このまま警察に届けてもいいけど、俺はまだ当分ココにいる、その方がお互い便利じゃないか、という申し出らしい。電話を受けたご主人が、どうしたものかと考えていると、５分後にまた掛ける、と言って電話が切れたらしい。
うーん。これは怪しくはないのか？　確かにオフィスを訪れる直前、差し入れをミスドで買った。そこで落としたリアリティは十分だ。でも、この夜更けに、ミスド前でなぜそんなに長時間？　それ、タムロって言うよなぁ。でも明日以降、また当該の警察暑に出向くのも面倒だし、余計に悪用される恐れもある。早々に携帯で連絡したい人もいるし、何よりこれ以上ご主人を関わらせるのも申し訳ない。じゃあ僕は１５分ぐらいで戻りますから、相手から掛かってきたらそう伝えてみて下さい、僕は黒いコートにエンジのショルダーバッグ、深緑のニット帽です、と伝えると、ご主人は、何かあったらいつでも掛けてね、と、心配してくれた後、そのミスドで待つ男性の名前を僕に告げた。
「名前はデニスだって。片言だけど日本語は話せるみたいだから、頑張ってね」
ちょっとぉ、最初に言ってくださいよぉ、と、ツッコむ余裕もなかった。ヒトは、本気で動揺すると、平静を保とうとする傾向があるようで、数秒後に通話は終わった。当時、ＮＢＡバスケットボールにはまっていた僕にとって、デニスとはすなわちデニス・ロッドマン以外にイメージできない。全身にタトゥーを入れ髪は金色、バッドボーイズの代表格だった２０３㎝の大男。やっぱ先に警察かなぁ、と何度も足が止まった。
「ヘイ、ツキヤマ？」
デニスは店に近づく僕を目ざとく見つけ、声をかけてきた。身長こそ僕とどっこいだが、黒い腕には鮮やかなタトゥー。英語で野次る数人のお仲間を背に、僕の携帯をヒラヒラさせて近づいてくる。僕は、いざとなったら全速力で逃げる決意を確かめ、精いっぱいのオーバージェスチャーで、デニス？　サンキュー、と歩み寄る。彼が差し出した携帯電話を受け取ろうとすると、デニスはその直前で渡すのを止める。アワテナイ、アワタナイ、ウエタミ、ときた。ああ、ウエイト、ア、ミニッツ、ちょっと待て、ね…。そしてデニスは使い慣れたように僕の携帯を操作し始める。僕はさっき確認した財布の持ち金から、いくらが相場かを推敲する。デニスは僕に携帯の画面を見る様うながし、履歴の番号を指さした。
「コレ、ユーのフレンド、ＯＫ？　ボク、掛ケマシタ。コレ、ソノ、ジカン。ネクスト、コレ、２カイメ、ボク、カケマシタ。オーバー。ＯＫ？」
すぐには真意が判らなかった。どうやら、この携帯を２度自分が使ったコト、外には一切悪用してないコト、の確認だったらしい。デニスはそれだけ言うと、あっさり携帯を僕に返し、肩をポンポンして仲間の方に帰っていく。待って、とても助かった。ありがとう。せめてお礼をさせてほしい。そんな言葉を背中に浴びせると、彼は振りむいてこう言った。
「ツギ、アッタラ、ビア、ＯＫ」
オフコース。いつも息子や学生に、先入観がヒトの心を狭くする、なんて偉そうに喋っている僕は、恥ずかしさに耐えきれず、その場を足早に立ち去ってしまった。地下鉄の終電なんか言い訳に決まっている。僕はタムロする彼らの中に戻り、とことん感謝を伝え、朝まで飲むべきではなかったのか。今池に足を運ぶたび、２度と会えない、その時に既に判っていた運命に、今でも後悔をしている。