Daisuke stared blankly at the wall. He thought of calling Kadono again to ask if Michiyo had said when she would be back, but that seemed so foolish that he hesitated. It was not only foolish, there was no point in being so eager for a visit from another man’s wife. If he was going to be so eager, he should have gone over himself to have a talk. Daisuke could not help feeling ashamed of his lapse in logic. He half rose from his chair. He was also well aware, however, of the various factors underlying his illogic, and he thought that for his present self, this condition of illogic was the only reality; there was nothing to be done about it. Therefore, logic that clashed with this reality was but a patchwork of propositions which had nothing to do with him, which insulted his very essence, which was nothing more than mere formality. With these thoughts, he once again settled in his chair.
After that, Daisuke hardly knew how he passed the time until Michiyo’s arrival. When a woman’s voice sounded outside, he felt a single throb in his heart. Daisuke, whose powers of reasoning were formidable, was terribly weak in matters of the heart. It was because of his head that in recent years he had been unable to become angry; his intellect would not allow such an act of self-abasement as anger. But in other situations, he was more than most the unwilling subject of emotions. By the time Kadono, who had answered the door, arrived noisily at the entrance to the study, Daisuke’s rosy cheeks had lost a shade of their luster.
Kadono asked simply, “Will this be all right?” He must have abbreviated his question because it was too much trouble to ask whether he should show Michiyo in to the study or whether Daisuke would see her in the living room. Daisuke said yes, and as if to drive Kadono away as he stood waiting in the doorway for an answer, stood and stuck his head out toward the verandah. Michiyo stood where the entranceway joined the verandah, looking hesitantly in his direction.
Her face was rather more pale than the last time he had seen her. Daisuke signaled with his eyes and chin for her to come forward, and she approached the door to the study. He noticed that she was breathing hard. “Is something the matter?” he asked.
Without answering, Michiyo came into the room. She was wearing an unlined serge kimono over an underkimono. In her hand she held three large, white lilies. Without warning, she tossed them on the table and sank into the chair beside it. Heedless of her newly coiffed hair, she pushed her head against the back of the chair and said, “I was so uncomfortable.’’ She looked at Daisuke and smiled. Daisuke was about to clap and send for water when Michiyo silently pointed to the top of the Western-style desk. There was a glass that Daisuke used for rinsing his mouth after meals. About two sips were left.
“It’s clean, isn’t it?” asked Michiyo.
“I drank from it a little while ago, so . . .” he said, picking it up and hesitating. If he tried to empty it from where he sat, one of the glass panels outside the shoji would get in the way. Kadono had a habit of leaving one or two panels shut every day. Daisuke got up and went to the verandah, where he emptied the glass in the garden and called Kadono. Kadono, who had just been there, was now nowhere to be seen. Feeling somewhat confused, Daisuke came back to Michiyo and said, “I’ll get you some water right away.” He went out to the kitchen, leaving behind the glass he had just now taken the trouble to empty. As he passed the morning room, he found Kadono clumsily struggling with the canister of the best tea.
Seeing Daisuke, Kadono explained, “I’ll be there right away, Sensei.”
“The tea can wait. I need some water,” said Daisuke and went to the kitchen himself.
“Oh, is that right? She’s going to have water?” Kadono abandoned the canister and followed after him. Together they searched for a glass but could not readily find one. Daisuke asked where the old woman was; it turned out that she had gone to buy sweets for the guest.
“If we’re out of sweets, why didn’t she get them sooner?” said Daisuke as he turned on the faucet and filled a teacup to the brim. “Well, it just slipped my mind to tell her we were having company.”
Kadono scratched his head sympathetically.
“Then you should have gone,” lashed out Daisuke as he left the kitchen.
But Kadono had more to say. “Well, she said she had a lot of other shopping to do. Her legs aren’t good and the weather’s bad, so she shouldn’t have gone, but . . .”
Without even looking back, Daisuke returned to the study. He looked at Michiyo as soon as he crossed the threshold; in her lap she held with both hands the glass Daisuke had left behind. There was as much water in it as Daisuke had tossed into the garden. Teacup in hand, Daisuke stood dumbly before Michiyo. “What happened?” he asked.
Michiyo answered in her usual composed manner. “Thank you, I’ve had plenty. I drank some of that. It was so beautiful,” she said, looking back at the bowl with the lilies-of-the-valley. Daisuke had filled the large bowl almost to the top. From amidst the toothpickthin, light green stems aligned in the water, the design of the porcelain floated up faintly.
“Why did you drink that?” Daisuke was aghast.
“It won’t hurt, will it?” Michiyo held the glass out to Daisuke so that he could see through it.
“It might not hurt, but what if the water had been standing for two or three days?”
“No, when I was here before, I put my face right up to it and smelled. Then that person told me it had just been poured from the pail. It’s all right. Such a nice scent, isn’t it.”
Daisuke sat down without a word. He did not have the courage to find out whether she had drunk the water in the bowl for poetry’s sake or from physical necessity. Even supposing it was the former, she clearly had not affected an imitation of poetry or novels. So he only asked, “Are you feeling better?”
The color had finally returned to her cheeks. Taking a handkerchief from her sleeve, she wiped her mouth and began to talk—usually, she took the streetcar from Dentsūinmae to Hongō to do her shopping, but she had heard the prices were a good 10 to 20 percent higher in Hongō than in Kagurazaka, so she had tried coming out here once or twice. She had planned to drop in the last time, too, but she was late and had to hurry home. Today she had set out early on purpose. But, Daisuke was asleep so she had decided to go out and finish her shopping first, then stop on the way home. But the weather had turned bad and just as she was going up Waradana, it had begun to sprinkle. She hadn’t brought an umbrella so she had hurried, not wanting to get too wet. But this immediately hurt her; she didn’t know what to do, it was so hard to breathe—“But I’m used to it, so it didn’t surprise me,” she said, and gave Daisuke a lonely smile.
“Your heart isn’t completely well yet?” Daisuke’s face was full of sympathy.
“It won’t ever be completely well—not for the rest of my life.” Michiyo’s words did not sound as subdued as the despair in their meaning might have warranted. She tilted a slender finger and glanced at the ring she was wearing. Then she rolled up her handkerchief and put it back in her sleeve. Daisuke gazed at the woman’s lowered forehead where it joined her hair.
Then, as if she had just remembered it, Michiyo thanked him for the check. Her cheeks seemed to become faintly red as she spoke. Daisuke’s keen vision did not miss it. He interpreted it only as shame over her indebtedness and therefore quickly shifted the conversation.
The lilies Michiyo had brought were still lying on the table. A sweet, strong aroma permeated the space between the two. Daisuke could not bear to keep the oppressively heavy smell right under his nose. But he could not be so free with Michiyo as to remove the flowers without first asking her. “Where did you get these flowers? Did you buy them?” he asked.
Michiyo nodded silently. Then she said, “Isn’t it a nice scent?” She took her nose right up to the petals and sniffed to show him.
Daisuke involuntarily planted his feet and tilted his body back. “You musn’t smell so close up.”
“Oh, why not?”
“Why not? There’s no reason, but you just shouldn’t.” Daisuke knitted his brows a little.
Michiyo lifted her face to its former position. “You don’t like these flowers?”
Daisuke was still leaning back in his chair, and without answering, he smiled.
“Then I shouldn’t have bought them. It wasn’t worth it—I even went out of my way. And on top of it, I ran out of breath trying not to get drenched.”
The rain began to fall in earnest. The drops collected in the gutter, then flowed out with a rushing sound. Daisuke got up from his chair. He picked up the bunch of lilies and tore away at the wet straw that bound them together. “If you’re giving them to me, let’s arrange them right away.” As he spoke, he tossed them into the big bowl. The stems were long, and their ends spattered water, looking as if they would jump out. Daisuke lifted the dripping stems from the bowl again. Taking a pair of Western scissors from the desk drawer, he snipped them to half their length. Then he let the large flowers float among the clustering lilies-of-the-valley. “Now, that’s good.” He put the scissors on top of the desk.
Michiyo, who had been gazing at the lilies arranged in this oddly careless fashion, suddenly asked a peculiar question: “When did you start disliking these flowers?”
Once, long ago, when Michiyo’s brother was still alive, Daisuke had bought some long-stemmed lilies and visited the house in Yanaka. On that occasion, he had directed Michiyo to clean a vase, which she had done with unsteady hands, and then he had painstakingly arranged the lilies himself. When this was done, he had made Michiyo and her brother turn to face the alcove and admire the flowers properly. Michiyo had remembered the incident. “You put your nose to them too,” she said. Daisuke thought it likely that something of the sort had happened and had no choice but to smile ruefully.
The rain fell in thick sheets. A distant sound muffled the house. Kadono came in, saying it seemed a little chilly, shouldn’t he close the glass doors? While he pulled the panels together, the two sat with their faces turned to the garden. Every one of the green leaves was wet, and a silent dampness blew in through the doors to Daisuke’s head. All the floating things in the world seemed to have settled to the earth. For the first time in a long while, Daisuke felt as if he had come to himself. “It’s a nice rain,” he said.
“It’s not nice at all, I only wore my sandals.” Michiyo’s face was more resentful than anything as she watched the raindrops fall from the gutter.
“It’s all right, I’ll get a ricksha for you when you go home. You can relax.”
Michiyo did not look as if she could relax for too long. She looked straight at Daisuke and chided, “You’re still as carefree as ever, aren’t you?” But the trace of a smile hovered at the edge of her eye.
Hiraoka’s face, which up to now had been hidden in a blur in Michiyo’s shadow, suddenly projected itself clearly on Daisuke’s mind’s eye. He felt as if he had been stabbed in the dark. Michiyo was, after all, a woman who walked with a dark shadow dragging behind her—a shadow that could not easily be shed.
“How is Hiraoka?” he asked, deliberately nonchalant. Michiyo’s lips tightened a bit. “As usual.”
“He hasn’t found anything yet?”
“That part seems to be taken care of now. It looks like there’s going to be an opening in a newspaper office starting next month.”
“That’s good. I had no idea. Then that should do for a while.” “Yes, I’m quite thankful.” Michiyo’s voice was low and serious.
Just then Daisuke found Michiyo very sweet. He continued, “And the other business—it doesn’t look like you’ll be pressed on that score for the time being?”
“The other business?” Michiyo hesitated for an instant, then suddenly blushed. “To tell you the truth, I came here today to apologize about that.” As she spoke, she lifted the face she had just turned away.
Daisuke could not bear to show the slightest sign of displeasure that would further distress her gentle woman’s heart. At the same time, he avoided saying anything that might anticipate her meaning and force her to become even more apologetic. So he quietly listened to what she had to say.
The two hundred yen was to have gone toward the debt as soon as Daisuke gave it to her. But setting up a new household had entailed expenses, and it all began when she used a part of that money for the house. But the rest . . . she had thought. Then she began to be hounded by daily expenses; though she had not felt good about it, she had had no choice; she had used the remainder as the need arose, and now, the money was all but gone. Of course, if she hadn’t done that, the couple would not have survived to this day. Still, looking back, if the money hadn’t been there at all, she probably would have managed somehow—but because it was right there, she had used it out of desperation to tide them through emergencies. So the debt, which was the main concern, remained just as it was. Hiraoka was not really to blame. It was all her fault. “I know I did a very bad thing, and I’m regretting it. But please forgive me, I had no intention of lying and misleading you when I borrowed the money.” Michiyo sounded terribly distressed.
“I gave the money to you, so however you spend it, no one’s going to say anything. If it served your needs, then that’s fine,” consoled Daisuke. And he put particular emphasis on the you, letting it linger softly.
“Then I can feel a little easier at last,” was all Michiyo said.
Since the rain persisted, when it came time for her to leave Daisuke hired a ricksha as he had promised. Because it was cold, he tried to put a man’s serge wrap over her, but Michiyo laughed and would not wear it.
CHAPTER XI
ALL OF A SUDDEN, people were walking the streets in silk gauze kimonos. Daisuke, who had spent two or three days doing research at home without looking any further than his own garden, suddenly felt the heat when he stepped out wearing a winter hat. Just as he was thinking that he too should put away his serge, he passed two people in the space of ten or twelve blocks who were still wearing lined kimonos. On the other hand, there were students gathered in a newly opened ice parlor, glasses in hand, drinking something cold. Daisuke thought of Seitarō.
These days, Daisuke had grown fonder than ever of Seitarō. When he talked to other people, he felt as if he were talking to their shells, and he found it terribly irksome. But when he looked at himself, he had to admit that he of all people must be irksome to others. When he thought that this was yet another consequence of prolonged exposure to the misfortunes of the struggle for survival, he did not feel very grateful.
These days, Seitarō was forever wanting to practice balancing on a ball. This was because Daisuke had taken him to the amusement quarters of Asakusa the other day. His single-mindedness was something he had inherited from Daisuke’s sister-in-law. But being his brother’s child as well, there was something generous and unpressing about his single-mindedness. It was a pleasure for Daisuke to keep him company, for his soul poured into Daisuke’s without any reserve. Daisuke was finding it painful to be surrounded by spirits that refused to shed their armor whether it was night or day.
This spring Seitarō had begun middle school. He seemed to have shot up suddenly. In another year or two his voice would change. There was no way of knowing what path he would take from there, but in order to survive as a human being, he was sure to arrive at the fate of having to incur the dislike of other human beings. When that time came, he would probably clothe himself inconspicuously, so as not to attract attention, and beggarlike, linger about the market places of man, in search of something.
Daisuke went out by the moat. Just the other day, mounds of azaleas had stamped a pattern in red and white upon the green of the other bank, but now there was no trace of them; on the steep slope where the grass grew rampant, pine tree after pine tree stood as far as the eye could see. The sky was beautifully clear. Daisuke thought of taking t
he streetcar home, teasing his sister-in-law and playing with Seitarō, but he suddenly lost the desire and decided to look at the pines and follow the bank of the moat until he became tired.
When he came to Shinmitsuke, the streetcars going to and fro became irritating, so he crossed the moat and cut out from the Shōkonsha toward Banchō. There, as he circled about, it suddenly struck him as foolish to wander aimlessly. Normally, he believed that only the lowly walked with a purpose, but in this particular instance, he felt that the lowly might be more admirable. He realized that he had been seized with ennui again and began walking home. In Kagurazaka, he came upon a shop that had a blaring phonograph out front. The sound was terribly metallic and pierced his head.
When he entered his own gate, he encountered Kadono, who, taking advantage of his master’s absence, was singing biwa* songs at the top of his lungs. When he heard Daisuke’s footsteps, he stopped instantly. “Well, that was mighty quick, Sensei,” he said, coming to the door.
* Musical instrument somewhat comparable to the lute.
Without a word, Daisuke hung up his hat and went from the verandah to the study. There, he deliberately closed the shoji. Kadono, who had followed, teacup in hand, asked, “Should I leave it closed? Isn’t it hot?”
Daisuke took a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his brow, but still ordered, “Keep it closed.” Kadono shut the shoji with a puzzled expression and left. Daisuke sat blankly in the dark room for some ten minutes.
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