Collector of Secrets Read Free

always. A bit of frugality was required on his part, but at least he could be sure her rent was covered.
    Checking for traffic, he crossed from the side street onto a wider roadway. A stretch of cherry trees, just beginning to show their pink buds, ran down the lane parallel to the train tracks nestled in the concrete ravine below.
    Eventually reaching the main street, he dashed across the wide stripes of the intersection crosswalk and entered the brown-tiled Sugamo train station. He fought through the crowd of people inside before nodding to the attendant at the turnstiles. The uniformed man was obviously bored, staring blankly into space.
    I know how you feel, buddy. I was headed for a lifetime of boredom myself .
    Max raced down the stairs to the platform of the Japan Rail Yamanote train line with a full two minutes to spare. Putting on his hoodie against the cool April breeze, he thought back to the day, almost a year before, when he’d made the snap decision to leave his dead-end job. Junior college was meant to ensure a better life, but it hadn’t really worked out. The best accounting jobs went to the CPAs, with their pinstriped suits and smug attitudes. The scraps were thrown to the less educated dogs. Even now, Max liked to savor the memory of “D-Day,” as he called it.
    That day, just like so many others, he had navigated a sea of identical beige cubicles, while nameless coworkers stared blankly at glowing screens. Slipping off a corduroy sports jacket, he unconsciously moved to hang it on his chair back. But this time his hand refused, as if it had a will of its own. Instead, he paused to look at the humble brown desk with its neat piles of paper, and a thought rose up, a familiar notion that amplified and thundered and refused to be silenced any longer. There’s gotta be more to my life than this!
    Typing the resignation letter took all of five minutes.
    Three weeks later, he was living in Tokyo.
     
    T he flashing blur of the green railway car snapped Max from his thoughts. As the train slowed to a stop, crowds of people formed on either side of the sliding doors, waiting to pour into the space left behind by those exiting. He lined up behind a half-dozen businessmen and a slender Shinto priest.
    Three gangly teenagers cascaded from the train. Dressed in khaki army pants and torn black shirts, they sported a surplus of facial piercings topped with impossibly spiked hair.
    Oh man, not these guys again. The punks seemed to have nothing better to do than loiter aimlessly near the station’s entrance, mocking passersby and dispensing trouble.
    The leader of the group veered sharply to the right, hammering Max’s chest, spinning him backward into the side of the train. The youth sneered aloud, “Ira-ki mu-ru-der!” and stood defiantly with his snickering entourage.
    Max rubbed his aching sternum as adrenaline and anger rushed to his limbs. He stiffened, momentarily bracing for a brawl, but three against one was lousy odds. It was clearly best to back down and turn the other cheek. He wished he could be braver for once and stand up to them. But this wasn’t his country and dealing with them wasn’t his battle.
    The punk’s threatening movements were unexpectedly cut short by the billowing robes of the nearby priest who inserted himself with a flourish into the conflict’s center. The man’s sharp voice and raised hands drove the group into a hasty retreat before he turned and vanished into the train. Since nothing other than his pride seemed damaged, Max followed suit, withdrawing to the safety of the car’s interior before exhaling loudly.
    Glancing down the length of the car, he noticed all eyes staring at him—the trouble-making foreigner. The only available seat was next to the Shinto priest, and Max took it quickly, squeezing his briefcase between his feet as he sat down.
    The priest appeared to be thirty years old at most, and his calm demeanor offered an aura of peace that defied his youthful