Revenge by Yōko Ogawa Read Free Book Online Page A

they type their reports or eat cream puffs in the lounge. The job is even kind of nice, especially when she’s next to me. She’s as beautiful underground as she is in the office, her face all white and pale.
    *   *   *
    “Dermatology, two short. Cardiology, one long. Oral Surgery, one short…” No matter how long we work, the mountain never seems to get any smaller.
    “He should be in the endo lab this afternoon,” she says, without looking up. Endoscopy.
    “Right,” I agree, “it’s Monday.” I know the whole schedule by heart. “I can manage here if you want to go.”
    “No,” she says, running her finger down the list to Oral Surgery. “No need.”
    Her boyfriend is a resident in Respiratory Medicine, and right about now he’s probably putting an endoscope down someone’s throat.
    I pick up the next coat, turn it inside out, and shake it. Something falls out of the pocket and rolls across the floor: a dried-up plum. Looks like a testicle.
    I’ve given up trying to figure out how this stuff gets in their pockets. And this isn’t even the weirdest thing; I’ve seen flower bulbs, bras, corks, a Bible, a little eggplant, condoms—you name it.
    “He was supposed to come see me last night, but he never showed up,” she says.
    “Maybe one of his patients took a turn for the worse,” I say, tossing the plum in the trash.
    “He went to see his in-laws to tell them about the divorce; he said he’d come and tell me how it went.” The doctor’s wife went home to her family last month to give birth to their third child—first girl. I knew all the details. “He was full of excuses again. Something about the train getting stuck in snow. He claimed he never even got there, that he sat on the train the whole time and had to come back without seeing them. Can you believe the nerve? He expects me to believe a story like that with the cherry trees already in bloom.”
    “I don’t know,” I say. “He could be telling the truth. Freak snowstorms happen. You should check the weather report. If he was going to lie to you, he would have said it was a patient.” She doesn’t seem to be listening.
    Since the day I started my job at the hospital, I’ve always enjoyed working with her. She’s a hard worker and she doesn’t take grief from the doctors or anyone else. And she’s beautiful. I never get tired of looking at her. It must be nice being that pretty.
    I especially like to watch her work—the way her eyes light up in front of the computer screen, that cute little ear that sticks out from under her hair when she answers the phone. But best of all is her tongue when she’s licking those blue airmail envelopes. It flicks out, all moist and red, and runs over the gluey edge.
    *   *   *
    “I wouldn’t mind having a peek down one of those scopes,” I say, just to make conversation. She nods, but she’s still not listening.
    The next coat has bloodstains. I wonder whether the patient suffered much—before I toss it in the cart.
    “They used one on me when I was a kid,” I add. “A peanut went down the wrong tube and I couldn’t breathe. Nearly suffocated. It’s weird that one peanut could kill you.”
    She doesn’t answer, so I go back to reading labels. The room smells like death and disinfectant.
    The two of them have been doing it all over the hospital—in the wards, the labs, the broom closet. Maybe he’s even put the endoscope down her throat. Bet she looks as good inside as out—warm, red, inviting, all those little wrinkles tempting you deeper and deeper …
    *   *   *
    She knows exactly how she wants a job to be done. Twenty pages or fewer gets a paper clip; more than twenty, a binder clip. Sugar packets are for staff meetings; sugar cubes for guests. The surgery schedule is expected to be blown up 150 percent, and copies posted on the bulletin board (upper left-hand corner), on the side of the equipment locker, and on the door to the lounge. If a patient gives you