Post Office on the Tokaido. Greta Gorsuch

      Open Door

      Chapter One

      Siya was up early. She stood in the cold morning light of her apartment. The floor was cold. She hadn’t unpacked her warm slippers yet. Looking into the dusty mirror, she saw her own brown face. Her huge black eyes were round. She looked like a young deer. Like she could run fast if she wanted to. Her long, long black hair was pulled back. She wore little makeup. She was careful about that. This was her first day at her new job. Siya wanted to look hardworking, not like she was going on a date.

      Still looking into the mirror, she pulled on her cheap dark blue uniform jacket. It had a pin with her name on it: Fujino Siya. And just above her name was the symbol of the Japanese postal service. The Japan Post, to be exact. What the Japanese themselves called Nippon Yusei Kosha, or sometimes just yubin kyoku. Everyone knew what the Japanese postal service symbol looked like. It was red with two bars, one on top of the other, from left to right. They were placed on top of another red bar, straight up and down. You could see it everywhere in Japan. Every bright red postbox on every city street and every village road had the symbol.

      And Siya had a job at one. True, it was only a two-month job. But it was at a real post office in Shizuoka City. Siya wasn’t from Shizuoka City. She grew up in Fukuoka, far away in southern Japan. So her job was new, and she was new to Shizuoka City. She had come just the day before and moved her one or two boxes into a small, old apartment. Her father found it for her from Fukuoka. “It’s cheap,” he said. “And my university friend knows the owner.”

      And now it was time for Siya to go to work. She took a breath and left the apartment.

      Chapter Two

      The night before, Siya’s landlady, Mrs. Nakano, had lent Siya her son’s old bicycle. “He’s away at university and doesn’t need it,” Mrs. Nakano said. “Next week I can help you find a bicycle you can buy. I know a good shop with secondhand bicycles.”

      So this morning, on her first day of work, Siya rode a high school boy’s bicycle. It was hard to do. Her postal service uniform was a skirt and a jacket. Still, Siya stayed on and pointed the tall black bicycle in the direction of the Shindori (“New Road”) Post Office. The bicycle made a lot of noise. It rattled and squeaked like it would come apart. And when Siya put on the brakes to stop, the bicycle sounded like a dying animal. Even the few people out in the half-morning light turned around to look at her on her bicycle. The Shindori Post Office was about a mile away. This was a good twenty-minute ride. Mrs. Nakano showed her where to go on a map. Siya hoped she could remember how to get there. She thought, “Go past Tokiwa Park then turn left on Shindori at the supermarket . . .”

      It was cold this morning. It was late November. Shizuoka City was much colder than Fukuoka City. Siya had a warm coat and scarf. But she still felt the strong, cold wind as she went slowly along. She didn’t have mittens. Her hands were freezing! She passed traffic signals, noodle shops, bus stops, a doctor’s clinic, and a beauty shop. She could read their signs easily. After all, she was born in Japan. She went to Japanese schools as a girl. But then on her right she saw a tall gray stone column with Chinese characters she couldn’t read. What was it? She slowed down to look. A motorbike behind her beeped its horn. Siya was going too slowly and had crossed into the street. She pulled over quickly and stopped. The motorbike driver raced around her. The driver shouted something at her.

      Chapter Three

      Siya caught her breath. That was close! She had to be more careful. For a minute, Siya just stood by the tall black bicycle on the side of the road. Then just ahead, Siya saw the red postal symbol of the Shindori Post Office. At last, she was getting close to work.

      Shindori Yubin Kyoku was a small post office. It was what Siya called a “neighborhood-style” post office. It was a place where local people came to send letters and to do their banking. Most customers walked to such post offices from their homes. Siya lived close to one in Fukuoka City, where she grew up. She loved it. And she loved the post office workers. They were mostly women, some young and some older.

      Her mother had left Japan, and Siya, when Siya was fourteen. Yet the post office workers always asked after her mom and said to say hello to her in India. The post office was the one place Siya’s mother, Prema, seemed comfortable in. Prema once told Siya she learned to count in Japanese at the local post office. Whenever she went to the post office to send a letter to her mother and sisters in Hyderabad she had to pay money for postage stamps. By handing over sixty or eighty yen, she learned to listen for the correct numbers in Japanese.

      Outside the post office, Siya’s mom never seemed comfortable. She rushed through her trips to the supermarket. She bought everything as quickly as possible. Once as a young girl, Siya stopped to look in the windows of a flower shop. She loved the red and white roses, the deep golden chrysanthemums, and the pink carnations. But then Prema, always in a hurry, pulled Siya away. “Those flowers are nothing like the flowers in India,” she said as she pulled Siya along. Prema’s walking was like running. Siya kept asking, “Mom, Mom, why are we running?” Prema never answered.

      Just

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