he Spanish lecturer called on a Wednesday after a holiday weekend in November. My partner had gone off to the bank before lunch, and I was eating spaghetti the office girl had made in the apartment’s dining-kitchen. The spaghetti wasn’t bad, tossed with slivered shiso leaf in place of basil. A scant two minutes overcooked perhaps. We were locked in debate over the issue of spaghetti preparation when the telephone rang. The girl picked up the phone, exchanged two or three words, and then handed it over to me with a shrug.

“About the ‘Spaceship’,” he said. “I’ve located one.”

“Where?”

“It’s a little hard to say over the phone,” he said.

And for a brief while, we both fell silent.

“You mean to say?” I puzzled.

“I mean that it’s difficult to explain over the phone.”

“One look tells all, eh?”

“No,” he said, swallowing. “I mean, even if it stood before your very eyes, it’d be difficult to explain.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I waited for him to continue.

“I’m not trying to be mysterious and I’m not just carrying on. In any case, might we get together?”

“Sure.”

“Shall we say, today at five?”

“Fine,” I agreed. “By the way, will I get to play?”

“Of course,” he said. I thanked him and hung up. Then I started in on seconds of spaghetti.

“Where’re you going?”

“I’m off to play pinball. I don’t know the location.”

“Pinball?”

“You got it, batting balls with flippers.”

“I know what pinball is. But really, why?”

“There are–how do you say–things in this world our philosophy cannot account for.”

She leaned on the table and propped her head up to think it over.

“You’re good at pinball, are you?”

“Used to be. The one and only accomplishment I ever took pride in.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Then you don’t have any to lose.”

While she gave that some more thought, I polished off the rest of the spaghetti.

“Little meaning is there to the things one loses. The glory of things meant to be lost is not true glory. Or so they say.”

“Who said that?”

“I forget. But, anyway, it fits.”

“Is there anything in the world that doesn’t get lost?”

“I’d like to believe so. You’d do well to believe it, too.”

“I’ll try.”

“Maybe I’m too much of an optimist. But I’m not that stupid.”

“I know.”

“I’m not proud of it, but it sure beats the other way around.”

She nodded. “So you’re off to play pinball tonight?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hold up your hands.”

I raised both hands up toward the ceiling, while she carefully inspected the underarms of my sweater.

“Okay, off you go.”

I rendezvoused with the Spanish lecturer at the coffee shop where we’d first met, and we caught a taxi straight away. Head up Meiji Boulevard, he said. Once the taxi was off and running, he took out a cigarette and lit up, then offered one to me.

He was wearing a gray suit and a blue tie with three diagonal stripes. His shirt was also blue, a shade lighter than the tie. I wore a gray sweater over blue jeans, and my scuffed up desert boots. I felt like a failing student who’d been summoned to the teachers’ room.

When the taxi crossed Waseda Boulevard, the driver asked if he should go on further. To Meijiro Boulevard, said the instructor. And the taxi continued a while, then turned onto Meijiro Boulevard.

“Is it pretty far still?” I asked.

“Yes, pretty far,” he said. He searched out a second cigarette. For the time being, I watched the passing storefronts.

“I had a hell of a time finding it,” he said. “First, I went right through my list of insiders. Twenty of them, twenty fanatics. And not just in Tokyo, but nationwide. But I came up with exactly zero. Nobody knew any more than I did. Next, I tried some companies who deal in used machines. Not too many of them. But it was a lot of work going over the lists of all the machines they’ve handled. The numbers are overwhelming.”

I nodded, as I watched him light his cigarette.

“Thank goodness I had an idea of a time frame. Around February 1971, that is. So I had them look it up. Gilbert & Sands, ‘Spaceship,’ Serial No. 16509. There it was: February 3, 1971, Waste Treatment.”

“’Waste Treatment’?”

“Scrap. Like in Goldfinger, you know, the way they crush things down to a compact block to be recycled or dumped in the harbor?”

“But you said…”

“Hold on and just listen. I gave up, thanked the dealer, and headed home. But, you know, something bothered me deep down. Call it a hunch. No, not even that. The next day, I went back to the dealer. Then I went to the metal scrapyard. I watched them working for maybe thirty minutes, then went into the office and presented my card. A university lecturer’s calling card carries some weight for people who don’t have any idea what it really means.”

He spoke a tiny bit faster than he had the time before. And for some reason, I felt a little ill at ease.

“Then I told them I was writing a book, and I needed to know about the scrap business.

“The guy was very cooperative, but he didn’t know a thing about any February 1971 pinball machine. Naturally not. That was two and a half years ago, after all, and besides, they don’t check each thing out one by one. It’s just haul ‘em in, and-crunch-it’s-all-over. So I just asked one more thing. Suppose there was, say, a washing machine or a bike chassis that I wanted. Would you let it go if the price were right?’ Sure thing, he told me. And I asked, has it ever happened?”

The autumn dusk drew to a swift close, and darkness began to overtake the road. The taxi was heading into the outlying suburbs.

“If I wanted particulars, I should go ask the supervisor upstairs. So of course, I went upstairs and asked Like, had anyone taken any pinball machines off their hands around 1971? Yes, he said. And when I asked what sort of person that might have been, he gave me a telephone number. It seems they’d been requested to give a call any time a pinball machine came in. It was some kind of lead. So I asked him, about how many pinball machines had this person taken off their hands?

“Well now, he said, there were ones the client’d take on sight, and others not. Couldn’t really say, this guy. But when I asked him for just a rough estimate, he told me not less than fifty machines.”

“Fifty machines?” I exploded.

“That’s the person we are going to visit,” he said.