“Maybe Father hit the water in the wrong way,” Kuno said hesitantly. He’d never seen a man sink, or a horse kicking among the waves, so he had no idea what to say. It struck him, too, that Ineko’s mother seemed somewhat out of sorts as she spoke, that there was something a little odd in her manner.
“Perhaps horses are more solidly built than people?”
“That’s possible.”
“Kizaki was an excellent swimmer. I remember hearing that he once won a long-distance swim race in Chiba, before he enlisted.”
“Ah.” Kuno glanced at the mother. Ineko’s father had lost a leg. Even if he could still swim, he must have been dead by the time he hit the water. Kuno wasn’t quite sure what the mother was trying to say. Perhaps he had left her feeling similarly unsettled when he let it slip that he found her handling of Ineko, once it was just the two of them, abnormally careful.
“You said you think Ineko saw her father’s fall, the whole thing, in great detail, with the eyes of her conscience, the eyes of her heart, something like that . . . so in your view, is that what her somagnosia is all about?” Kuno asked.
“No, it’s not that.” The mother shook her head. “After all, that’s not a form of blindness. She saw everything then, whether it was through her conscience or her heart. Even if you’re not seeing something with your actual eyes, you still see it. It’s not blindness.”
“Okay. You could say the same of dreams, too,” Kuno said. “Maybe she did see it all, then. You forget your dreams once you wake, of course, but as long as you’re dreaming, you see what you see. Which would you say has a more solid existence — something that catches your eye in a random dream, or something that is real but invisible?”
“Mr. Kuno,” the mother said. “Ineko stops seeing things that are right there in front of her. We’re not talking about a random dream.”
“No, because in the real world you can reach out and touch a thing to confirm its existence, even if you can’t see it.”
“And doesn’t that make it even scarier?” Ineko’s mother caught her breath; her face grew somewhat red. “Mr. Kuno, it’s awkward for me to talk about things like this, but supposing you were lying with Ineko, and she could touch you with her hands but not see you. Don’t you think that would be terrifying — enough to drive a person mad?”
“Ah.”
“How did you love Ineko, Mr. Kuno?”
“How did I love her?” Mr. Kuno mumbled, blushing in spite of himself. “How did I love her . . . the truth is, there’s no good way to answer that question. A man can love a woman in countless ways, it seems, but since I’ve only ever loved Ineko, I’ve never had an opportunity to compare techniques — to think about how it was with someone then, and how it is now with her.”
“Thank you for that.” The mother lowered her head. “Forgive me for asking.”
“I think it was the same for Ineko. I don’t believe she succumbed to somagnosia because I loved her differently from some man she knew before me. I doubt she stopped seeing me so that she could picture another man while I loved her.”
“Of course not,” said the mother hurriedly. “You can rest assured of that. Have faith in her, please. You knew that without my saying it, I’m sure, just from how she was with you.”
“Yes.”
“It’s odd for me to be telling you this, Mr. Kuno, but it was the same for me — Ineko’s father was the only man I ever knew. Before the war, there was a time when dancing was all the rage, and I did sometimes dance with other officers, holding their hands, and maybe I’d go out for a meal with one of them, but that’s not really anything, is it?” said the mother. “I shouldn’t have asked you that, about how you loved her. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. I’m sure it’s only natural to wonder, as her mother.”
“It’s crazy — especially for someone with as little experience in love as I have — to be asking about another woman, another man — how they loved. I know that.”
“I’ve read about all sorts of different styles and states of mind, in books and magazines and so on. But knowing something intellectually and actually experiencing it, so that it touches you in a deeper way — those are two entirely different things. Reading a work of fiction, I can’t reach out with this hand of mine and actually touch a lover depicted there.” Kuno realized he had let himself go. Abashed, he lowered his voice. “As I said, I have no idea if my loving of her was utterly ordinary, just like what other men do, or abnormally passionate. I’m young, and so of course my eye has occasionally been drawn to something in another young woman. But that’s all. The way Ineko burrowed into my chest was different. And that was true of her, too — I never got the feeling she didn’t like how I loved her, whether it was normal or not. I suppose it would have been awkward for you to ask her about such things.”
Kuno realized, as he finished speaking, that Ineko’s mother would interpret this as a clear admission that he had already slept with Ineko. There was no helping that.
Perhaps she had known all along, though, because she wasn’t at all flustered.
“As far as I’m concerned, having Ineko stop seeing you while you held her wouldn’t have been all that bad in itself. Personally, I’d find that terrifying, but . . . well, there’s no actual danger in it, is there? But what if this was an early symptom of the onset of madness? What then? What if she succumbed to a somagnosic episode while she was out of the house? Then she’d really be in danger.”
“I don’t think her somagnosia would emerge in any other situation, only with people she loves, or is at least attracted to. My sense is that, if she were walking down the street and someone came along who meant nothing to her, nothing would ever happen.”
“Even so, Mr. Kuno, say she was on a busy street, and she saw you on the other side and darted out into the road without seeing the cars zooming past, seeing only you — what would happen then? What if she were up on the roof of a train station or department store and she looked down the stairs and saw you, and jumped. What then?”
“Those examples are irrelevant. When she has an episode, the person she loves vanishes — no one else. So she’d see all the cars on the road, but not me on the other sidewalk. She wouldn’t see me at the bottom of the stairs.”
“Please don’t make things up, Mr. Kuno,” the mother said sternly. “Would you have me believe she never saw you at all? That she loved you without ever seeing you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Of course not. That’s impossible. She just stopped seeing parts of you, at certain times and under certain circumstances.”
“Ah.”
“And that’s a sign of madness, and madness progresses, and there’s no way of knowing how bad it may get.”
“No, but it wasn’t so bad that she had to be committed. I’ve told you over and over that I thought I could heal her if we got married.” Kuno lowered his voice. “You believe you can cure her by taking her away from me for a while, perhaps a long while. Isn’t that right? Even if it means abandoning your young, lovely daughter in a crowd of rough, dirty madmen.”
A look of terrible loneliness flickered into Ineko’s mother’s eyes. “You know, Mr. Kuno,” she said, not quite crying. “You know all I want is to cure her madness before the marriage. It’s only natural, isn’t it, for a mother to feel that way? Please understand. I searched all over for the right clinic, you know that. You mustn’t call it a madhouse . . . that’s not true, it’s a clinic with a psychiatric ward, a neurological ward. That’s what it is.”
“I know. The Ikuta Clinic, here in Ikuta. It’s like a dandelion, it has all the warmth of a field — I acknowledge that. They even let the patients strike the temple bell.”
“Exactly.”
“But, Mother, which do you think can cure Ineko? The Ikuta Clinic, or me?”
“I was afraid her condition might worsen. That’s all
.”
“You think she’s really mad, mother?”
“I’m her mother. Others may think she is, but I won’t ever believe it — I couldn’t.”
“Her optic nerve blinks out from time to time, that’s all. Not even the whole thing, just a bit. At least, that’s all I ever saw. Is that madness?” Kuno’s breath had quickened. “It makes no sense to me, it really doesn’t, that she agreed to go stay in that clinic, all alone.”
“It’s because I pleaded with her, Mr. Kuno,” Ineko’s mother said sadly. “Because I told her that if she loved you, if she wanted to marry you, she had to get better first. I kept at it until she consented.”
“Ineko isn’t crazy, it’s just a little nervous trouble. Or did she exhibit other symptoms at home with you, when I wasn’t around? Did she rave like a lunatic? I doubt she showed any signs of this sex mania you hear about — people throwing off their clothes and running out naked into the street.”
“Of course not. However depressed she got, the most she did was sit and stare blankly into space. She was probably with you then, too, in her heart. She never behaved in a manner that was in any way untoward. To be honest, I agonized over the decision, I truly did, wondering whether she mightn’t get better if you married her right away. But when I talked to the neurologist, he said it could be quite scary — this rare disease, somagnosia.”
“It isn’t. Not at all.”
“The doctor once told me about a woman who had it. I’m sure I told you the story. She was a young woman, a brand new mother, and she ended up strangling her baby because she couldn’t see its head. She could feel it, but . . . .”
“Ineko is too weak to do something like that — she could squeeze my neck as hard as she liked and she still couldn’t kill me. I’ve told you that before, too, I know. Besides, even if she did somehow manage to kill me, I can’t think of anything that would make me happier.”
“People talk of the strength of madmen.”
“Ineko isn’t mad. Sanity and madness are two sides of the same coin. And that’s true of ordinary people and of geniuses — geniuses have the same uncontrollable strength you’re talking about. Sometimes they’re abnormally powerful, sometimes abnormally weak. Sometimes it’s mental, sometimes physical. The fingers of a master shakuhachi player and a skilled masseur will both be equally deformed, equally bent out of shape. That’s not a very pleasant example, I know.”
“Ineko isn’t a master of anything. Just an ordinary young woman.”
“Most people think of themselves as ordinary. And yet somewhere deep in their hearts, they take pride in being different from other people, better than them. They won’t usually tell you that’s how they feel, but I’m sure they do. Surely you know that even better than I do, Mother, seeing as you’ve lived so many more years than I have. You must have seen people behave that way before the war — the officers you knew must have had some strengths of their own, after all.”
“Individualism, they call it. Obviously, no two people are the same.”
“Not even the wicked ones. We call people villains or madmen if they disrupt our societies, but history offers countless examples of people like that who have come to be venerated in later ages.”
“Yes, I know,” the mother murmured. “But it’s true, Mr. Kuno, Ineko is a very ordinary young woman. I suspect you’d be disappointed if you married her. So this is what she’s really like! you’d think. Perhaps as a parent I shouldn’t say this, but whatever attractions she may have for you now won’t mean a thing once you’re married. Those sensuous, dark eyes, and long, thick eyelashes, for instance. The lovely, clean curves of her legs . . . .”
“And her somagnosia won’t mean anything, either, will it?”
“You’re right that it’s an uncommon defect of the nerves, an abnormality. But, as you so graciously suggested, maybe not a form of madness.”
“It’s not as if she can’t see me at all, you know.”
“Yes.” Ineko’s mother regarded Kuno. “But Mr. Kuno, I’m told it’s not entirely unheard of for somagnosia of the nerves to worsen over time.” She paused. “That was the case with the woman who throttled her baby. Have you ever seen that Goya painting of the man eating his child, beginning with the head? The father tugging so hard that the bloody neck has become elongated? Not that I’m comparing Ineko to a genius like Goya.”
“I’ve seen it. I’m sure if Goya had been a somagnosiac, he would have created even more eerie images of headless bodies, and people with no torsos.” Despite the grim topic, a faint smile played across his lips. “At any rate, Ineko’s somagnosia couldn’t be more different from Goya’s late works — her condition is rooted in love. A woman’s love, almost excessively pure. I truly believe that. And I know I’m not wrong.”
A woman came in to take away the dishes from dinner. She was different from the one who’d come before. Her shoulders sloped down in a manner one didn’t often see among young women these days. Her body seemed unnaturally narrow from the chest up.
She eyed the grilled fish Ineko’s mother had left untouched, and the mostly uneaten sashimi.
“What time would you like me to prepare the futons?” she asked.
“Nine or ten, maybe?” Ineko’s mother said at first. Then, “Actually, any time is fine. We don’t have anything to do other than go to bed.”
“As you wish.”
“How about a bath?” Kuno looked at Ineko’s mother.
“I’d be happy to draw one if you would like,” said the woman.
“There’s no need if no one else is going to use it. Are we the only guests?” Ineko’s mother asked the woman, then turned to Kuno. “Is that all right, Mr. Kuno?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Kuno nodded. “I don’t need a bath. This town is, how should I put it — I feel as if its lovely, gentle mood is seeping into my skin. I wouldn’t want to wash it off.”
“I’ll prepare the bath right away,” the woman said, and left.
Ineko’s mother eyed the shabby, aging ceiling, and the sliding doors. “I wonder what the bath is like. Going in alone might be a bit creepy. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl, right around here.” She touched the nape of her neck with her left hand. “Why don’t you go first, Mr. Kuno? See what it’s like.”
“I wonder . . .” Kuno seemed to have been struck by a thought. “What sort of bath do you think they have at the clinic?”
“At the clinic?”
“Even madhouses must have baths, right? Even madmen bathe. Do you think they have a big bath, and Ineko goes in with all those crazy people?”
“I’m not sure if they bathe together. That’s a good question.”
“That would be dreadful. Just thinking about it makes me shudder.”
Both Ineko’s mother and Kuno were calling up an image of Ineko’s lovely, naked body. Naturally, Kuno could picture her more clearly.
“Think of that woman with the matted hair, and the one with the slanted eyes, and Ineko right there in the water with them. There was another as gaunt as a hungry ghost. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets dirt caught in the valleys between her ribs. Some of them won’t have had their nails cut. Their skin looked odd, too, no? Maybe certain tones are characteristic of the mad? Some had a deathly look, with swarthy skin; others were so white it made you feel weird just looking at them.”
“Hmm.”
“When Ineko gets in there among the rest of them with her gorgeous skin . . . they might become so agitated that they scratch her, tear her skin with their nails.”
“Don’t say such things.” Ineko’s mother cut him off. “I’m sure that won’t happen, and I don’t want to picture it.”
“We left Ineko at the clinic, so we have no choice but to think of her there. That’s just as true for you as it is for me.”
Tonight, in this tranquil town, even the ocean made no sound. You knew it was
out there, yet you couldn’t hear it. The silence seemed to call up a memory in Ineko’s mother. It was a memory of Ineko, of course. After Kuno went off to the bath, leaving her alone, she kept thinking about it. Then he came back.
“How was it?” she asked him.
“Not very nice. Dim, chilly. You might be better off skipping the bath.”
“You think? Maybe, even so . . .” Ineko’s mother got to her feet without looking at him. She couldn’t tell Kuno about that particular memory of Ineko.
“It’s full of steam, so I doubt it will be cold anymore,” Kuno said to her back.
The bath was small for an inn, and so ancient you could see a buildup of grime between the boards, yet when Ineko’s mother crouched down and splashed hot water around her waist with a bucket, she felt her body unclench. Once she was in the water, though, submerged to her shoulders, she was suddenly seized by a feeling of loneliness. Her eyes smarted.
After the loneliness faded, she grew uneasy. One of the windows faced the hall, while the other seemed to look out on the kitchen or something. The glass in both windows was frosted, but she was still unsettled by unlikely possibilities — someone might be peering in at her, or open one of the windows. Or then again, that Kuno might take advantage of her absence to slip out of the inn and go visit Ineko at the clinic, or bring her back out. Ineko’s mother hurried back to the room.
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