“Kadono, wasn’t there any mail?”
“Mail? Oh yes. A postcard and a letter. I left them on your desk. Shall I get them?”
“I suppose I could go over there.”
Given this uncertain response, Kadono got up and brought the postcard and letter. On the postcard was scribbled in light ink this exceedingly simple message: “Arrived in Tokyo yesterday; put up at above inn; would like to see you tomorrow morning.’’ On the front, the names of an inn at Urajimbōchō and of the sender, Hiraoka Tsunejirō, had been dashed off as carelessly as the message.
“So he’s here already. He must have come in yesterday,” Daisuke murmured as if to himself as he picked up the envelope, which was addressed in his father’s hand. His father first announced that he had returned two or three days before, that there was no particular hurry but that there were many things he wished to discuss and Daisuke was to come as soon as this letter reached him. Then the letter turned to such desultory matters as how it had been too early for the cherry blossoms in Kyoto, how crowded and uncomfortable the express train had been, etc., etc. Folding up the letter, Daisuke compared the two pieces of mail with a peculiar expression on his face. He then summoned Kadono.
“Kadono, will you go make a phone call? To my house.” “Yes, to your house. What should I say?”
“That I have an engagement today—I’m supposed to see someone so I can’t come. I’ll come tomorrow or the day after.”
“I see. To whom?”
“The old man’s come back from a trip and says he wants to talk to me. But you don’t have to get him on the phone. Just give the message to whoever answers.”
“Yes, I will.”
Kadono went out noisily. Daisuke left the morning room and went through the living room to his study. He noticed that it had been nicely cleaned; the fallen camellia had been swept away. He went over to the bookshelves at the right of the vase and lifted a heavy photograph album from the top. Still standing, he undid the gold clasp and began flipping the pages until he came to the middle, where he suddenly rested his hand. There was a portrait of a woman about twenty years old. Daisuke gazed intently at her face.
CHAPTER II
DAISUKE WAS THINKING of changing and going to Hiraoka’s inn when Hiraoka made a timely appearance. He casually rode the ricksha right up to the gate. The voice that cried “Here it is, here it is,” ordering the driver to lower the shaft, had not changed in the three years since the two had parted. No sooner had he seen the old woman who met him at the door than he was explaining that he had forgotten his wallet at the inn, that he needed to borrow some change; this, too, was the Hiraoka of their school days. Daisuke went running to the door and all but dragged his old friend in.
“How are things? Come in and relax.”
“Oh, I see you’ve got chairs,” Hiraoka observed and threw his body heavily into the easy chair. To judge from the way he handled himself, he set not a penny’s value on his rather ample flesh. He leaned his shaven head against the back of the chair and looked around the room for a moment.
“Not a bad house. Better than I expected,” he praised.
Without answering, Daisuke opened a cigarette case. “So, how have things been?”
“How? Why, you know—I’ll tell you all about it by and by.”
“You used to write a lot, so I could tell how things were. But lately you haven’t written at all.”
“I must owe letters to everyone I know.” Hiraoka abruptly removed his glasses and, pulling out a wrinkled handkerchief from his breastpocket, began to wipe them, blinking rapidly all the while. He had been nearsighted since their student days. Daisuke watched him intently.
“But how about you, how have you been?” he asked, pulling the slender bows over his ears and holding them there with his hands.
“There’s nothing new with me.”
“That’s the way it should be. There’s been too much new with me.” Hiraoka knitted his brows and began to stare at the garden. Suddenly, in an altered tone, he said, “Look, there’s a cherry tree over there. It’s just begun to bloom, hasn’t it. The climate’s so different here.”
The conversation had lost its touch of intimacy. Daisuke answered without interest, “It must be pretty warm over there.”
With unexpected, almost excessive vigor, Hiraoka came back, “Yes, it’s quite warm.” It was as if he had been startled into a sudden awareness of his own presence. Daisuke looked at his face once more. Hiraoka lit a cigarette. The old woman finally appeared with the tea, putting a tray on the table and apologizing all the while that it had taken so long because she had put cold water into the kettle. While she chattered the two stared at the red sandalwood tray; then seeing that they ignored her, the old woman gave a little self-conscious laugh and left the room.
“What’s that?”
“The maid I hired. I’ve got to eat, after all.” “Gracious, isn’t she.”
Daisuke curled his rosy lips and laughed depreciatingly. “She’s never served in a place like this before; it can’t be helped.”
“Why didn’t you bring someone over from home? There must be a good many of them there.”
“Yes, but they’re all young,” answered Daisuke seriously.
At this, Hiraoka laughed heartily for the first time. “Why, so much the better if they’re young!”
“Anyway, it’s not good to have somebody from home.” “Is there anyone besides that old woman?”
“There’s the houseboy.”
Kadono had come back and was talking with the old woman in the kitchen.
“Is that all?” “That’s all. Why?”
“You haven’t got a wife yet?”
The hint of a blush crossed Daisuke’s face, but he quickly resumed his normal, nondescript manner: “You know I would have let you know if I’d gotten married. But how about you …” and he stopped abruptly.
Daisuke and Hiraoka had known each other since middle school. At one time they had been almost like brothers, especially during the year following their graduation. In those days their greatest pleasure had been to confide in each other absolutely and to offer each other words of encouragement. On more than a few occasions these words had been translated into action; hence, they firmly believed that the words they exchanged, far from being a mere source of pleasure, always held the possibility of some sort of sacrifice. As soon as one sacrificed, his pleasure immediately turned into anguish: but of this simple truth they went unaware.
At the end of that year Hiraoka got married and was transferred to a Kansai branch of the bank for which he worked. On the day of their departure Daisuke went to Shimbashi Station to see the young couple off. Clasping Hiraoka’s hand, he cheerfully urged him to come back soon. Hiraoka said it couldn’t be helped, that he had to put in his time. The words were tossed out carelessly, but from behind his glasses there gleamed an almost enviable pride. When he saw this, Daisuke suddenly found his friend odious. He went home and shut himself in his study and spent the rest of the day brooding. He was to have taken his sister-in-law to a concert, but he canceled the engagement, causing her not a little anxiety.
Hiraoka wrote regularly: a postcard announcing his safe arrival, news of setting up a household, and, when that was over, accounts of his job and hopes for the future. Daisuke responded conscientiously to each letter. Curiously enough, each time he wrote he experienced a certain uneasiness. At times, when he no longer wished to put up with the discomfort, he stopped in the middle. Only when Hiraoka expressed some gratitude for what Daisuke had done in the past did his brush flow easily, allowing him to compose a relatively fluent response.
In time, however, these exchanges became less frequent, dwindling from once a month to once every two, even three months, until finally, Daisuke did not write at all and began to feel apprehensive about that. Sometimes, just to rid hi
mself of this tension, he moistened an envelope. But after six months had passed in this way, his mind and heart appeared to have undergone a change, so that it no longer mattered whether he wrote to Hiraoka or not. In fact, after establishing his own household he let a year go by before bothering to send his new address, and then he wrote only because it was the season for New Year’s cards.
Nevertheless, for certain reasons, Daisuke was unable to forget Hiraoka. He remembered him from time to time and occasionally tried to imagine how he might be getting along. But he never went so far as to inquire after him, feeling neither the courage nor the urgency to worry to that extent. In any event, he had let the time slip by until suddenly, two weeks ago, he had received a letter from Hiraoka. In the letter, Hiraoka announced his intention of leaving the branch office soon and returning to Tokyo. He did not, however, want Daisuke to think of the move as one ordered by the office, implying promotion. He had other plans; he had decided to change jobs, and upon his arrival in Tokyo he might have need of Daisuke’s good offices. It was unclear whether the last remark was intended in earnest or simply added as a matter of form, but it was apparent that some drastic change of fortune had befallen Hiraoka. When he realized this, Daisuke was startled.
Therefore, he was anxious to hear all the details as soon as he saw Hiraoka; unfortunately, their conversation, once derailed, obstinately refused to return. If Daisuke seized an opportune moment and raised the topic himself, Hiraoka would parry, saying he would talk about it at length some day; the talk went nowhere. Daisuke finally suggested, “It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. Why don’t we get something to eat?” But Hiraoka still persisted with his “one of these days, when there’s more time,” until Daisuke simply dragged him to a Western-style restaurant nearby.
There, the two of them drank a good deal. When they agreed that as far as eating and drinking went they were the same as ever, the ice was broken at last. Daisuke began an animated account of an Easter celebration he had seen two or three days before at St. Nicholas’. The festival had begun at midnight, when all the world was asleep. After circling a long corridor the worshipers entered the sanctuary and were greeted with thousands of lighted candles. A procession of robed priests passed on the other side, their black shadows looming against the stark walls. Hiraoka listened with his cheeks resting on his palms, his eyelids red behind his glasses. That night, around two o’clock, Daisuke had walked alone along the wide avenue of Ōnari, over the tracks that ran straight through the midnight darkness until he arrived at the Ueno woods. There, he stepped into the midst of cherry blossoms lit by street lights.
“It’s nice, you know, cherry blossoms at night without a soul around,” he said.
Hiraoka emptied his glass without a word. Then he spoke, with a touch of pity. “It must be nice, though I’ve never seen it myself. As long as you can go around doing things like that, you’re pretty lucky. Once you get out into the world, it’s not so easy anymore.” Hiraoka seemed to be looking down from above at his friend’s inexperience. But for Daisuke it was not so much the content of the response, but the tone that was absurd. As far as he was concerned, that Easter night counted far more than any practical, worldly experience. So he answered, “I think there’s nothing more worthless than this so-called worldly experience. All it can do is cause pain.”
Hiraoka widened his drunken eyes just perceptibly. “It sounds like your thinking’s changed quite a bit. . . . Wasn’t it your idea that this pain becomes a good, if bitter medicine later on?”
“That’s just a theory I had when I was young and stupid. I gave in to all those conventional proverbs and spouted off nonsense. I don’t know how long ago I tossed that one out.”
“But you’re going to have to get out into the world soon, right? You won’t get away with that kind of thinking then.”
“I’ve been out in the world for some time now. It seems to me that especially since we went our separate ways, my world has grown much bigger. It’s just a different kind of world from the one you went into.”
“Oh, go ahead and brag. You’ll have to give in sooner or later.” “Of course, if I find that I’m starving I’ll give in right away. But why should a person who doesn’t have any wants at the moment strain to taste these inferior experiences? It would be like an Indian buying an overcoat just to be ready for winter.”
For an instant displeasure flickered at Hiraoka’s brow. Gazing ahead with his reddened eyes, he puffed at his cigarette. Daisuke, thinking that he might have gone too far, resumed in a more measured tone: “There’s a fellow I know who doesn’t know the first thing about music. He’s a schoolteacher, and he can’t make it teaching at just one place so he moonlights at three, maybe four other places. You can’t help feeling sorry for him. All he does is prepare a lesson, dash off to the classroom, then move his mouth mechanically. He doesn’t have time for anything else. When Sunday comes around, he calls it a day of rest and sleeps the whole day away. So, even if there’s a concert somewhere or a famous musician from abroad performs here, he can’t go. In other words, he’s going to die without ever having set foot in the beautiful world of music. For me, there’s no inexperience more wretched than that. Experience that’s tied to bread might be sincere, but it’s bound to be inferior. If you don’t have the kind of luxurious experience that’s divorced from bread and water, there’s no point in being human. You’re probably thinking that I’m still a child, but in the luxurious world where I live, I’m your senior by years.”
Tapping the ashes from his cigarette, Hiraoka said in a low, dark voice, “It’s fine if you can stay in that kind of world forever.” His heavy words seemed to drag behind them a curse upon plenty.
The two went outside, drunk. Because of the strange argument they had begun under the impetus of alcohol, they had gotten nowhere with the real business at hand—that is, Hiraoka’s situation.
“Let’s walk a little,” Daisuke suggested. Hiraoka was apparently not as busy as he claimed, for with a few half-hearted protests, he strolled along with Daisuke. Daisuke tried to direct their steps toward the quiet side streets where they might talk more readily, and eventually, the conversation came around.
According to Hiraoka’s account, he had tried working quite hard when he was first transferred. He had done considerable research on the economic conditions of the region in order to learn his new job well. In fact, he had even thought of doing—if given permission—a theoretical study of actual business practices. But his position was not high enough, and he had had to put away his plans and await a future opportunity. Even so, he had tried presenting a number of suggestions to the branch manager, though they had always met with cold indifference. If he so much as mentioned any sophisticated theory, the manager became peevish. His attitude seemed to be, what could a greenhorn like Hiraoka possibly understand? But the manager himself knew nothing. As Hiraoka saw it, his superior was unwilling to deal with him not because he, Hiraoka, was unworthy, but because the manager was afraid. And this was the source of Hiraoka’s chagrin. More than once they had verged on a clash.
As time passed, however, Hiraoka’s annoyance began to fade, and he increasingly felt comfortable in his surroundings. He made an effort to feel that way, and accordingly, the branch manager’s attitude toward him changed bit by bit. There were even times when he took the initiative to ask Hiraoka’s opinion. And since Hiraoka was no longer fresh out of the university, he was careful to avoid complex issues that would be incomprehensible, hence awkward, for the manager.
“But it’s not as if I went out of my way to flatter him or manipulate him,’’ Hiraoka emphasized.
Daisuke answered solemnly, “No, of course not.”
The branch manager began to show concern for Hiraoka’s future. He even promised, half jokingly, that since it was his turn to return to the main office, Hiraoka should go with him. By that time Hiraoka was quite experienced and had gained co
nsiderable trust; his social circles had widened, and he no longer had time for study. At that point, he had begun to feel that study would only get in the way of practice anyway.
Just as the branch manager confided everything to him, so Hiraoka had trusted in a subordinate named Seki and consulted him on various matters. This Seki became involved with a geisha and ended up embezzling company funds. When this was exposed, there was no question of Seki’s dismissal, of course, but due to circumstances, it seemed that even the manager might be placed in an awkward situation. Hiraoka had shouldered the responsibility and submitted his resignation.
This was the gist of Hiraoka’s story. Daisuke thought that Hiraoka might have been urged by the manager to tender his resignation, to judge from his last words, “The higher you get in a company, the more you can get away with. If you think about it, it’s really too bad that a fellow like Seki had to get fired for embezzling a piddling sum like that.”
“So the branch manager’s got the best deal of all?” Daisuke asked. “I guess you could look at it that way.” Hiraoka’s response was slurred.
“What happened to the money that fellow took?”
“Oh, it didn’t amount to much, so I paid it off.”
“I’m surprised you had it. It looks as if you were getting a pretty good deal too.”
Hiraoka’s face turned bitter, and he darted a sharp glance at Daisuke. “Even if I was, it’s all gone. Now I’m having a tough time just making ends meet. I borrowed that money.”
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