Chapter 一 バンクーバーカナダ1983年10月11日

The tires of my red scooter smack hard in the large puddles. It is pouring rain and I feel everything sticking to my body. I walk on hastily, gripping the handlebars of my scooter tightly. I only have one more delivery to make and my workday will be over. I quickly jump back on my scooter, put on my red helmet, and in no time I am back on the road on the hard highway. The trees, houses, people, streetlights, barking dogs on leashes, cars—they all fly past me like a fast-paced movie playing. I quickly look around; I know I am on the right street, number 47 must be somewhere around here. Thank God the streetlights are still lit, otherwise I really wouldn't be able to see a thing. Then suddenly out of nowhere, as if struck by lightning, number 47 appears on my retina and my brain sends signals to my hands at lightning speed. I brake as hard as I can and make a half-turn U-turn. I calmly let my scooter coast until it has come to a complete stop, and then I carefully dismount. With both hands gripping the handlebars, I walk quietly across the street to number 47. I park my scooter in the large garden—yes, they really do have a gigantic garden; I think this is one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in all of Vancouver. I lock my scooter and then walk through the narrow passageway to the front door. I ring the doorbell. An old lady opens the door and looks at me confused. “Good evening, ma’am, you ordered a pepperoni pizza and a quatro formaggi pizza?” The lady who opens the door indeed looks just as chic as her house. She is wearing a gold cashmere nightgown with sparkling rubies as buttons, and her slippers are made of gold vicuna fabric, on which those same shiny rubies glitter brightly in the golden-yellow light of the setting sun. I notice myself staring at her and quickly blink a few times. Then the old lady clears her throat and says in a very cool tone: "May I take a look inside the boxes?" And before I can answer, she yanks the one box containing the pepperoni pizza out of my hands and opens it. Her face slowly turns glowing red and her expression is stormy. Then she slams the box shut again and shoves it back into my hands. "May I take a look at the other one too?" Again, she does not wait for my answer and, before I realize it, yanks the other pizza box out of my hands, leaving the box containing the pizza it was filled with pepperoni, and falls to the ground with a thud. I feel a deep sense of shame welling up and quickly pick up the fallen pizza box. Meanwhile, the old lady has already opened the pizza box containing the quatro formaggi, and she slams that pizza shut again with a bang and aggressively shoves it back into my hands. "These aren't the pizzas I ordered!" she sniffs. "I literally had your boss on the phone just a few hours ago and told him very clearly that it was a pizza vegetariana and Hawaiian." The old woman is now looking at me incredibly threateningly, and it seems as if she wants to hit me at any moment. "But ma'am, I am literally carrying out what my boss received from you. And this is the order I received from him. I'm sorry, but there must have been a miscommunication somewhere," I say clumsily. I try to keep looking at her, but I notice that it is really taking a lot of effort to stay calm. These kinds of situations actually happen to me daily. You see, I live with my mother in a small apartment on the outskirts of Vancouver, and to put it mildly, we are not very rich. In fact, we are quite poor and belong to the lower class of society. It is fortunate that my father bought this apartment years ago, even before I was born. Sadly, my father passed away a very long time ago. He died when I was two years old, so I don't really have any fresh memories of him. I do have very vague memories, but of course, that doesn't get you anywhere! On top of that, my mother has a muscle disorder that prevents her from walking at all, let alone moving. In fact, for as long as I can remember, she has been in a wheelchair and requires care day and night. My father cared for my mother until his death, and since I was two years old at the time, it was naturally difficult for me to take care of her. So then my grandmother, on my father's side, came to live with us and took care of me and my mother, until she, too, was eventually left to fend for herself. Fortunately, my grandmother did die of old age. As for my father How he died remains a complete mystery to me to this day. According to my mother, my father owned a bakery just outside Vancouver and worked there 24 hours a day, day and night.

I am startled out of my thoughts when the woman in front of me suddenly says very sharply and firmly: "Well, then I don't want them, just take them back and I'll contact your boss, because this really won't do! And you can forget about your tip altogether, girl!" Stunned, I stare at her while simultaneously shrugging my shoulders in my imagination. I have to deal with these kinds of customers every day, especially when they are incredibly rich. They get a kick out of screaming at and exploiting people like me—who don't have much money, and they can see that. So far, I haven't encountered a single one who actually showed a bit of empathy or could at least react somewhat normally. Before I can even respond, she slams the front door shut in my face. And there I stand...

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