Tuesdays at Ten

The Man in the Hat

戴帽子的男人

The lost-property office at Kyoto Station is in the basement, behind a long row of lockers, in a place most travellers only find once they have lost something. There is a counter there, a bell that nobody uses, and two chairs for people waiting, on which almost nobody ever waits. Behind the counter, shelves reach up to the ceiling, and on the shelves lies whatever the city forgets each day.

京都站的失物招领处位于地下一层，在一长排投币储物柜后面，大多数旅客只有在丢了东西时才会找到这里。这里有一个柜台，一个无人使用的传唤铃，还有两张供人等待的椅子，但椅子上几乎从没有人坐着等候。柜台后面摆着直达天花板的货架，货架上放着的，是这座城市每天遗落的记忆。

Haruka Mori had worked at this counter for twenty-three years. She was fifty-two, wore her glasses on a thin chain and had a system that nobody but her fully understood. Gloves went to the left, keys into the small boxes under the window, umbrellas into the tall stands on the back wall, sorted by colour. Anyone looking for a black umbrella – and in Kyoto everyone was looking for a black umbrella – had to be patient.

森遥在这个柜台工作了二十三年。她五十二岁，戴着一副挂在细链上的眼镜，并且有一套除了她自己之外无人能完全理解的归类体系。手套放左边，钥匙放在窗下的小盒子里，雨伞则按颜色分类，放进靠后墙的高伞架里。谁要是想找一把黑雨伞——而在京都，所有人找的都是黑雨伞——那就得有足够的耐心。