he metal stairs creaked under him as Kazuo made his way up to his room in the two-storey, prefab building that served as a dormitory for the Brazilian employees. Couples had a room to themselves, but single men like Kazuo were forced to share with a room-mate. The living quarters were tiny - one small room with a miniature kitchen and a bathroom - but they had one good point: they were two minutes from the factory.

Kazuo stopped at the top of the stairs and looked around. The laundry left out by the farmhouse across the way fluttered in the cold wind. A row of dry, brown chrysanthemums was visible under the pale streetlights along the narrow road. Even for early winter, it all seemed so desolate. In Sao Paolo, it would soon be summer. The smell of shoro and fejioda cooking, the scent of flowers; pretty girls in light summer dresses, children playing in the alleys; the cheers from the Santos fans in the stadium. What was he doing here, so far from all that?

Could this really be his father's homeland? He looked out over the landscape again, but the quickly gathering darkness had hidden everything except the lights in a few neighbourhood windows and, further off, the blue fluorescent glow of the factory. Could he ever call this 'home'? Resting his elbows on the metal rail, he buried his face in his hands. Alberto was probably watching TV in their room, so the only place Kazuo could be alone was out here in the passageway.

He had set himself two tasks - or three, to be more exact. The first was to work in the factory for two years and save enough money to buy a car; the second was to get Masako's complete forgiveness; and the third was to learn enough Japanese to be able to do so. By this time, it looked as though the only one he would accomplish was the third. He had made a good deal of progress with the language, but the person he was learning it for had refused to talk to him since that morning. It seemed he wasn't even going to get a chance to try to convince her.

But then again, there was probably no such thing as complete forgiveness - at least not the kind he was looking for, the kind that would allow Masako to fall in love with him. And once this had sunk in, his resolve for the first task began to waver as well. In the end, his trials with Masako had been the hardest ones... but they weren't really trials or tasks or tests at all: they were just facts that he could do nothing about. And that in itself was probably the real test: his ability to accept something that was completely beyond his control. It made him want to cry.

It was time to leave, he suddenly decided. He'd had enough; by Christmas, he would be back in Sao Paolo. He didn't care if he couldn't get the car. There was nothing for him here but slopping together boxed lunches he couldn't stomach. If he wanted to learn about computers, he could do it in Brazil, but it was too painful to stay here any longer.

The moment he made the decision, he felt lighter, like clouds clearing after a storm. His various tests suddenly seemed irrelevant; he was simply a man who had lost his battle with himself. He stared off toward the factory again, a sullen look in his eyes. But then he heard a woman's voice calling quietly from the street.

'Miyamori-san?' He looked down, thinking he must be hearing things, but there was Masako standing in the street. She was wearing jeans and an old down jacket with patches of tape covering the holes. He stared at her, disoriented by the sudden appearance of the very person he'd been thinking about. 'Miyamori-san,' she called again, this time more clearly.

'Yes,' he called back, bounding down the wobbly stairs. Masako retreated into the shadows, away from the streetlight, as if looking for a spot where she would be hidden from the first-floor windows. Kazuo hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should follow, but then took a few steps toward her. Why had she come? To hurt him again? But her sudden arrival had already rekindled his interest in completing his task, as though someone had thrown a bundle of sticks on a smouldering fire. He stopped, confused by the rush of emotion.

'I've got a favour to ask,' she said, looking him in the eye. That was so like her, always so direct. Up close like this, her face looked taut, like a tightly knotted ball of thread that refuses to unravel. But still beautiful. It had been a long time since he'd stood there in front of her, and he found himself hanging on every word. 'Would you mind keeping this in your locker for me?' She took a paper bag out of her old black purse. It looked heavy. Kazuo stared at it for a moment without moving.

'Why do you want me to keep it?' he asked.

'You're the only one I know who has a locker.' His heart sank.

It wasn't the answer he was hoping for.

'How long do you want me to keep it?'

'Until I need it,' she said. 'Do you understand?'

'I think so,' he said, but now his curiosity had been aroused.

Why couldn't she keep it herself? Wouldn't it be safer at her house? Or if she wanted a locker, there were plenty at the train station.

'You're wondering why I'm asking you to do this,' she said, her look softening a bit. 'It's something I can't leave at my place, and I don't want to risk leaving it in my car or somewhere at work.' Kazuo took the bag from her. It was heavy, just as he'd imagined.

'What's in it?' he asked. 'I need to know, if I'm responsible for it.'

'Money and my passport,' she said, taking a cigarette from the pocket of her jacket and lighting it. Money? Then it must be a lot. Why would she be trusting him with it?

'How much is it?' he asked.

'Seven million yen,' she said, saying the figure crisply and clearly, the way she announced the number of lunches in the work order as she passed it down the line.

'Why not put it in the bank?' he said, with a quaver in his voice.

'I can't.'

'Why not, if you don't mind my asking?'

'I just can't,' she said flatly, blowing out a cloud of smoke. Kazuo stood thinking for a moment.

'What happens if I'm not here when you need it?' he said at last.

'I'll wait until I can get in touch with you.'

'How will you contact me?'

'I'll come here,' she said.

'All right,' he said. 'I'm in number 201. I'll leave it in my locker and we can always go get it there.'

'Thanks,' she said. He wondered whether he should tell her that he'd decided to go home by Christmas, but he decided against it. He was more worried about the trouble she seemed to be in. 'You haven't been at work,' he said.

'I had a cold.'

'I thought you quit.'

'I'm not going to quit,' she said, turning to look down the dark street. If you followed this road, you came out past the abandoned factory. There was an anxious look in her eyes he hadn't seen before, and Kazuo was sure that something bad had happened. Something that had to do with the key she'd thrown down that hole. He had always been sensitive this way; sometimes it caused problems, but it could also work to his advantage. He was determined to make it work for him now.

'Are you in trouble?' he asked. She turned to look at him.

'You can tell, can't you?'

'Yes,' he said, his eyes reflecting her anxiety.

'I've got a problem, but I don't need any help... just keep that bag for me.'

'What kind of problem?' he asked, but she pressed her lips together and said nothing more. He was suddenly afraid that he'd been too forward. 'I'm sorry,' he murmured, blushing in the darkness.

'No,' she said. 'I'm the one who should be sorry.'

'No,' he echoed, slipping the bag into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulling up the zipper. Masako fished a key ring from her pocket and turned to go. She must have parked somewhere nearby.

'Thanks,' she said.

'Masako-san?' he said.

'Yes?'

'Can you forgive me?'

'Of course,' she said.

'For everything?'

'Yes,' she said, looking down at the ground. The task he'd thought would be so difficult was accomplished as simply as that; in fact, all too simply. He stood staring at her, realising it had been so easy because it wasn't the sort of forgiveness he wanted: he hadn't won her heart. Without that, it meant nothing really. He pressed his hand to his chest. As he felt for the key next to his skin, his hand brushed against the thick package.

'But you have to tell me...,' he whispered. She waited, not looking up. 'Why would you leave something so important with me?' He needed to know. She dropped what was left of her cigarette and crushed it under her sneaker.

'I'm not sure myself,' she said, looking up at him. 'I guess I don't have anyone else I can ask.' He stared at the fine lines around her mouth, realising for the first time how alone she must be. Why else would she entrust all this to a foreigner she hardly knew, instead of to her family or friends? She looked away, as if to escape his eyes, and kicked at the gravel, sending a shower of little pebbles into the darkness. He swallowed.

'No one?' he said.

'No,' she said, shaking her head. 'No one to ask and no safe place to keep it.'

'Because there's no one you can trust?'

'That's right,' she said, looking him in the eye again.

'But you trust me?' he said. He looked at her, holding his breath.

'Yes,' she said. She met his stare for a moment longer and then turned and walked off toward the factory.

'... Thank you,' he murmured, his hand pressed not to the money but to his heart.