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ink,” hummed a nurse as she entered the treatment room, completely naked. In one of her hands she held a hugebottle of ink, from which she took the occasional swig before draping her body over the doctor’s on the couch.
    So I left the clinic without receiving a satisfactory answer. The sun was going down, but it still felt oppressively hot.
    As soon as I was back at my desk, Akiko Mikawa called me from Admin. “Thank you for inviting me out yesterday,” she said. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t make it.”
    “That’s all right,” I replied with undue reserve.
    She said nothing for a while. She was waiting for me to ask her out again. She’d obviously noticed that public opinion was starting to shift towards me, and was probably worried that she would now become the butt of media vitriol. She’d called me in the hope of accepting an invitation.
    We both remained silent for a few moments.
    I sighed before plunging in. “How about today, then?”
    “I’d love to.”
    “All right, I’ll see you in the San José after work.”
    News of our arrangement must have been reported immediately. For, as I walked into the San José, it seemed unusually busy. Normally, it wasn’t that kind of place. All the customers were couples, making it impossible to tell which were reporters and which merely curiosity-seekers. But whichever they were, they’d obviously come with one aim in mind – to observe my date with Akiko. While of course feigning a lack of interest, they would give themselves away by glancing over at us every now and again.
    Needless to say, for the whole hour that Akiko and I were in the café, we sat in stony silence with our drinks in front of us. For if we’d discussed anything even slightly unusual, it would immediately have been reported in a three-column article with a massive headline.
    We parted at Shinjuku Station, and I returned to my apartment. I hesitated for a while, but eventually switched on the television.
    In a change to the evening’s schedule, they were showing a panel discussion.
    “Now, I think we come to a very difficult question at this point,” said the presenter. “If events continue to unfold at this pace, whendo you think Morishita and Mikawa might be booking into a hotel? Or do you think it might not come to that? Professor Ohara?”
    “Well, this Akiko is a bit of a shy filly, if you know what I mean,” said Professor Ohara, a racing expert. “It all depends on Morishita’s persistence and determination in the saddle.”
    “It’s all in the stars,” said a female astrologer, holding up a card. “It’ll be towards the end of the month.”
    Why on earth would we want to go to a hotel
, I wondered. If we did, our voices would be recorded and our positions photographed. The whole thing would be reported all over the country, exposing us to universal shame.
    Things continued in a similar vein for the next few days.
    Then, on my way to work one morning, my heart sank when I saw an ad for a women’s magazine inside the packed commuter train.
    “R EAD A LL A BOUT I T – T SUTOMU AND A KIKO’S C AFÉ D ATE!”
    – it said in large bold letters, next to a photo of my face. And underneath that, in smaller type:
    “Morishita masturbated twice that night”
    I was boiling with rage and grating my teeth. “Don’t I have a right to privacy?” I shouted. “I’ll sue for defamation! Who cares how many times I did it?!”
    On my arrival at work, I went straight to the Chief Clerk’s desk and presented him with a copy of the magazine, which I’d bought at the station. “I’d like permission to leave the office on personal business. I assume you know about this article. I’m going to complain to the company that publishes this magazine.”
    “Of course, I understand how you feel,” the Chief Clerk said in a faltering voice, evidently trying to pacify me. “But there’s surely no point in losing your temper, is there? The media are too powerful. Of course, I’d