The Gift of Time

This story is about a watch.  One afternoon, as I leaned over the copy machine to clear out a jam, the chimes on the office door jingled ever so slightly. 

Like sun rays peeking through the early morning wood-blinds, there she stood.  “Koicnichiwaaaa...” announced a woman with an uncertain voice.  A scented breeze ushered her into the foyer.  

She was a “walk-in” --- a would-be client in search of an “Eigo no Sensei", or English teacher.  Her name was Naori Fuji, age 23.

Snapping to attention, the saleswoman led her to the brown velvet sofa which looked cheesy against her designer wear.  Her freshly trimmed hair rested neatly on her shoulders, as she crossed her hands neatly on her lap. Ms Fuji was unusually coy, much more than the other well-dressed women who flocked to our school like flamingos to a waterhole.  Speaking just above a whisper, she covered her mouth when she smiled, an age-old tradition in Japan that dates back centuries.  

“Hai… Hai...Hai." she repeated continuously. 

Miyuki-san, our most spirited and gifted “closer”, sat comfortably with our guest discussing the ins and outs of the curriculum, the foreign teachers, and the scheduling system. Shortly after, Miyuki disclosed that the graceful visitor came onboard with a unique set of issues. "I think she’s bi-polar or something. Teaching her isn’t going be easy." 

I walked over and introduced myself to the new student.  Miyuki was right.  In spite of her suave appearance and apparent wealth, Naori had the maturity of an eleven year old which, strangely enough, added to her allure.   I had determined she was likely a “kept” woman -- some rich mans pet. I had met a number of them over the years.

I suggested that she consider taking one-on-one lessons, yet I was concerned that she might balk at the high price which was three times the normal rate.  To my relief, the ditzy young princess agreed to private lessons, but didn’t wish to bother with monthly payments she said. She asked if it was Ok to pay for one year up front. As she reached into her bag, the dry-swallow in my throat could be heard from across the room.  She flicked open her wallet and counted out about $ 7,000 in large bills.  

For the next couple of months, I took it upon myself to become Naori’s primary teacher until one day she just stopped coming. Nobody knew what happened to her, and all attempts to contact her had failed. Given the fact she was "paid in full", I wasn't overly concerned.

A year later she returned. 

"Sumimasen! Sumimasen! she said over and over, apologizing for her actions as only a traditional Japanese could, offering merely that she had been very busy — a fairly typical non-explanation in Japan.

As a gesture of goodwill, which really wasn’t necessary, she handed me a small grey box as a “presento”.  I opened it and observed a thin, black-face watch with a smooth leather wristband.  She asked if she could re-start her lessons, and once again reached into her wallet and handed over another seven grand!

Naori matriculated a few more months, occasionally joining the beginner's group-lessons, but could hardly keep pace with the others.  In the end, she must have realized that English conversation was not her cup of green tea after all, and dropped out of the school for good.

Six months later, as I was passing though Daimaru Department store in Shinsaibashi, Osaka, I stumbled upon the exact same watch that Naomi had given me.  I had tossed it in the closet, and never even took it out of the box.  I was stunned to discover the price tag was $ 2,200!

For the next 12 years, I cherished that GUCCI wristwatch until the dreadful day it came up missing. Just like the enigmatic lady who brought it to me, both seem to vanish into the night without a trace.