The Visitor 2

**Disclaimer: my Japanese is faaar from perfect. So ~~~ indicated places I was very unclear about what was said.

One afternoon after school, a Thursday, I was finishing a sketch when the doorbell rang. As I made my way to the door I wondered briefly if it was the woman who’d rung my bell back when I first got here.
I reached the door. The window on it is frosted glass and I could make out the shape of a man. He reacted a bit and through the door I could hear him say “Oh geez, a gaijin*.”in Japanese. Amused both by the fact that he had realized this by my foggy silhouette and that he was mildly disgruntled about it, I opened the door.
There stood a middle aged man in a business suit. He held a slim wallet in his hand.
“Yes?” I asked, in Japanese.
“I’m a policeman,” he said, “But I didn’t realize– sorry to disturb you.” he made a move for the steps but I was too curious to let him leave.
“It’s okay, I can understand Japanese,” I called after him. He seemed to toy with the idea for a second before reluctantly coming back. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m Morimoto, with the police,” he said, and flipped opened his wallet to reveal a badge. He held it up hesitantly, perhaps wondering if I would understand what it was. I did.
“I see,” I said.
“There was an accident ~~~~ on Tuesday night.~~~~~~~” he said, and motioned towards the major intersection by my house.
“That’s terrible! Is everyone okay?”
He was vague in his reply and I didn’t understand. Then he said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” In a very movie-esque gesture, he reached into his coat to pull out a notebook, licking his thumb and flipping the pages until he came to the right one. He clicked his pen.
“Where were you on the evening of December 1st, 2009, at approximately 10pm?” he asked. I could barely keep myself from laughing. Did cops really talk like this?
I considered the question. “I was home,” I answered simply, disappointed in my own answer. How boring!
“What were you doing?”
I thought about it. “I think I was watching a movie.” Pretty dull indeed.
“Did you see or hear anything unusual?”
I hadn’t, which was actually strange considering my apartment’s lack of insulation, sound and otherwise. I can usually clearly hear conversations taking place across the street, so I was surprised I hadn’t heard an accident.
“What did you do before that?” he continued, taking notes.
“I was at school.”
“You’re an English teacher?”
“That’s right.”
He scribbled something on his notebook. “What school?”
“Noda is my normal school,”–he smiled in recognition–“but I am at Uchikawa every Tuesday.”
“Age?”
“My age?”
“No. What level of students?”
“Oh. Junior High school.”
He wrote this down as well. “Do you enjoy it?”
“Yes, it’s interesting and fun.” I wondered how this was relevant and he must have too because he quickly got back to business.
“So after school, what do you do?”
“I come home. But Tuesday and Thursday I have Japanese class. So on that night I was at Japanese class before I was home.”
“Where is your Japanese class?”
“Downtown.” he frowned, as if hoping I would answer “Right at the intersection where the accident happened” and thus make myself a prime suspect.
He looked past me at the parking lot. “Do you own a car?”
“No, I cannot drive.”
He seemed to realize that this interaction was not going to lead him to any suspects and he looked dejectedly at the notes he’d made.
“What is your birthdate?” he asked. I told him and he wrote it and my name down. He flipped back to his main page and looked over the notes once more. “So on Tuesday at 10pm you were inside, watching a movie. Before that you were teaching in Uchikawa, and went to Japanese class. You don’t own a car or drive and you didn’t see or hear anything?”. Japanese people are extremely skilled in hiding their emotions but I could tell he was disappointed about his encounter with the neighbourhood gaijin.
“That’s right,” I affirmed.
He tucked the notebook back into his coat and pulled out a card. “Here’s my card,” he said. I took it in the careful way JET has overtaught me, accepting it with both hands and pretending to examine the fine details on it. “If you remember anything, call this number.”
“Of course.”
He nodded and bowed politely. I thanked him and closed the door.

The next day at around the same time, the door rang again. This I opened it to reveal two middle-aged men in suits, holding clipboards. They flashed their badges at me. “Please excuse the interruption,” they said, “But we’d like to ask you a few questions. Where were you on Tuesday night at 10pm?”