AN UNFORGETTABLE STUDENT

Minoru Kimoto (anonym) is one of my unforgettable students during my 43 as a high school teacher. About 25 years ago when he was a ninth grader, I was his homeroom teacher. He was a friendly, bright, handsome boy. The only problem was that he was often absent from school.
　　Whenever I found that he was absent at the morning homeroom meeting, I telephoned him at home. Usually no one answered. His parents had divorced and he lived with his mother, who ran an izakaya, a Japanese style pub. The school office had told me that Kimoto’s parents had not paid the tuition for the school year. I thought I must visit him soon.
　　One afternoon in early July, I managed to talk with Minoru on the phone. I asked him if it was all right for me to visit him the next morning. He said it was OK.
　　Minoru lived on the second floor of an apartment building with his mother. Around eleven o’clock, I was in front of his apartment. I pushed the doorbell. No answer. I pushed it again. No response. I said in a loud voice, “Kimoto, Kimoto.” There was no answer. The apartment number was correct. The door’s name read “Kimoto.” I wondered, “What’s the matter? I made an appointment to meet Minoru only yesterday. So he should be waiting for me this morning.” I again pushed the doorbell, then banged the door several times, and shouted “Minoru! Minoru!” No reply. I put my ear on the door but heard nothing. I wondered whether I should go back to school or wait some more.
　　At that moment, I heard a patrol car approaching with its sirens blaring. The sound was gradually increasing. The patrol car seemed to be coming towards the apartment building. The siren became louder and louder until, to my surprise, it stopped at the apartment building. “What’s happened? Why has the patrol car stopped here?” I was curious.
　　Then I heard loud heavy steps climbing the metal stairs. I saw several policemen fully armed with clubs and pistols rushing towards me. Lo and behold, they stopped in front of Minoru’s apartment. One of them questioned me, “What are you doing here? I was too surprised to speak for a moment. He again interrogated me, “What’s your name?” I answered half stammering, “I am a school teacher and am visiting my student, Kimoto.”
　　No sooner had I answered him than he started banging the door without a word. Then, he took out a string from his uniform and instantaneously picked the lock. The door opened with a clang like magic.
　　The policemen rushed into the apartment. I followed them. Minoru was there.
“Minoru, what’s the matter with you?” I said. “I called you innumerous times outside the door.” He gazed at me with his mouth half open.
His mother was not there. Instead, there were two high school girls in an adjoining room. The policeman said to me, “You, talk with the boy. We talk to the girls.”
　　I heard the policemen asking the girls’ names and addresses. I thought I was in a place completely foreign. It was like a cheap TV drama. A patrol car, a siren, robust policemen, two girls, and a thief’s technique to open the door.
　　After the policemen took the girls out with them and left the apartment, I asked Minoru why he did not open the door. Looking relieved, he apologized to me and said, “To tell you the truth, I was scared when I heard someone calling my name in front of the door. I mistook you for my brother.” He paused a moment and continued. “Actually, he belongs to a gangster organization. I was afraid of him. So I called the police and said that a gangster was going to break into my house.”
　　His story sounded true, but now I wonder why the policemen did not interrogate me in front of the door. Probably I did not look like a gangster. Probably I did not look like one.
　　It was nearly noon. I suggested to him that we eat lunch. We went to a nearby Japanese restaurant and ate zarusoba, cold buckweat noodles. I forgot what we talked about, but I think I strongly advised him to come to school.
　　The next day at school, I had a telephone call from a junior high school principal. He said, “Thank you very much. The girls you met yesterday are the students at my school. They were missing and we’ve been searching for them for weeks.”
　　I wondered what Minoru and the girls had been doing in the apartment. Had the girls been staying at Minoru’s house for weeks? Or had they just visit Minoru on that day? Hadn’t his mother noticed them? I speculated wildly that the policemen had got a line of whereabouts of the girls, and so they made an assault on the apartment.
Minoru’s frequent absence from school continued through the second term. Then, unfortunately he quit school during the third term. I have never seen him since.
　　About ten years later, one of his friends said to me when he visited me at school, “Minoru still remembers you. He said the zarusoba you treated him to was delicious.”
　　He may be around 40 years old. I wonder what has become of him.