Even when faced with this question, Michiyo continued to be happy. “Even if there were, it wouldn’t matter.”
“You trust me that much?”
“I couldn’t go on like this if I didn’t.”
Daisuke’s eyes turned to the burning mirror in the distant sky and were dazzled. “I don’t think I deserve to have that much trust placed in me,” he answered with an ironic smile, but the inside of his head was roasting like a kiln.
The remark did not seem to weigh on Michiyo’s mind, and she did not even ask, why not? She simply said, “Oh,” pretending to be surprised.
“I ought to confess to you, I’m a much less reliable fellow than Hiraoka. I don’t want you to overrate me, so I’ll tell you everything. . . .” With this preface, he proceeded to recount the details of his relationship with his father up to the present. Finally, he said, “I don’t know what my position will be from now on. At the very least, I won’t become an independent, self-sufficient individual for quite some time. I won’t even be half sufficient. So . . .”
“So, what will you do?”
“So, I’m worried that I might not be able to fulfill my responsibilities to you as I would like.”
“Responsibilities? What responsibilities? I can’t understand if you don’t speak more clearly.”
As a result of his habitual emphasis on material well-being, Daisuke knew only that the hardships of poverty were hardly suited to winning a lover’s satisfaction. Thus he had concluded that wealth was one of his responsibilities toward Michiyo and had formulated no other clear conceptions. “It’s not moral responsibility, I mean material responsibility.”
“I’m not interested in any such thing.”
“Even if you say you aren’t, it’s sure to become crucial. Whatever new relationship we move on to in the future, material resources will be half the answer to everything.”
“Maybe so, but it’s useless to worry about it at this point.”
“You say so now, but when it comes right down to it, it’s only obvious that it’s going to worry us.”
Michiyo’s color changed slightly. “From what you have just been telling me about your father, it should have been clear from the start that things would turn out like this. I think that you yourself must have realized as much a long time ago.”
Daisuke could not answer. He held his head and mumbled as if to himself, “Something’s wrong with my head.”
Tears came to Michiyo’s eyes. “If this bothers you, don’t worry about me, make peace with your father and go back to your old relationship.”
Daisuke suddenly seized Michiyo’s wrist and all but shook it to emphasize his words: “If I planned to do something like that I wouldn’t worry in the first place. It’s just that I feel sorry for you, that’s why I’m apologizing.”
“Apologize!” Michiyo cut him off with a trembling voice. “How can I let you apologize when all this is happening to you because of me.” She began to weep out loud.
Daisuke, as if to soothe her, said “Then you’ll put up with it?” “It won’t be putting up. It’s what I expect.”
“There’ll be other things, too, in the future.”
“I know. I don’t care what happens. Since the other day—I—since the other day, I’ve been prepared to die if worse comes to worst.”
Daisuke shuddered in horror. “Don’t you have any wishes about how we should go on from here?” he asked.
“Wishes? No, I don’t have any wishes. I’ll do whatever you say.” “To wander . . .”
“I can face it. If you say die, I’ll die.”
Daisuke shuddered again. “But the way we are now . . .” “I don’t care if we go on like this.”
“Hiraoka doesn’t seem to have noticed anything?”
“Maybe he has. But I’ve already made up my mind, so it’s all right. I don’t care when I get killed.”
“You shouldn’t talk so cheaply about dying and getting killed.” “But even if nothing happened, my health isn’t so good that I can live a long life.”
Paralyzed with fear, Daisuke stiffened and stared at Michiyo. Michiyo gave herself up to weeping, as if seized by an outburst of hysteria.
In a short while, the outburst began to subside. Then she became once more the quiet, graceful, deep, beautiful woman she usually was. Her brow was especially clear.
Daisuke asked, “Would it be all right if I saw Hiraoka and tried to settle the matter?”
“Can you do that?” Michiyo seemed surprised. “I believe that I can,” answered Daisuke firmly. “Then, however you see fit,” said Michiyo.
“Then let’s do it that way. It doesn’t seem right for the two of us to do anything while deceiving Hiraoka. Of course, I intend to talk to him so that he’ll understand the facts well. And where I’m wrong, I’m prepared to apologize. It may not turn out as I want. But no matter how badly it goes, I intend to work it so that nothing outrageous can come of it. If we leave things half done like this, it’s painful for us, and it’s not right to Hiraoka either. It’s just that if I go ahead and do this, then you won’t be able to stand up to Hiraoka—I can’t help thinking about that. That’s where I feel sorry for you. Though as far as that goes, I’m in disgrace too. If it’s proper to bear moral responsibility for one’s deeds, no matter how humiliating it is, then I ought to tell Hiraoka about what has happened between us even if it yields no other benefits. Besides, in this situation, it’s a confession we have to make in order to resolve things for the future, so I think it’s all the more necessary.”
“I understand. Anyway, if it goes badly, I’m prepared to die.” “Die—all right, even supposing death is the solution, how much time is there—besides, if there were any danger of that, why would I take the initiative to tell Hiraoka?” Michiyo began to weep again.
Daisuke waited for the sun to decline to send Michiyo back. But he did not see her off as he had the last time. He passed about one hour in his study, listening to the cicadas. He felt relieved, having seen Michiyo and cleared his chest about the future. He picked up his brush to write Hiraoka and ask for a suitable time for a meeting, but he was suddenly overcome by the enormity of his responsibility and lost the courage to continue beyond the salutation. Then he abruptly stripped to his shirt and dashed out barefoot into the garden. Kadono, who had been lost to the world in deep sleep while Michiyo was there, now appeared on the verandah, holding his shaven head between his hands. “It’s too early, isn’t it? The sun’s still out.” Without bothering to answer, Daisuke burrowed into a corner of the garden and swept out the fallen bamboo leaves. Kadono reluctantly took off his clothes and joined him.
Although it was a cramped garden, the dryness of the soil made it quite a task to moisten adequately. Halfway through, Daisuke said his arms hurt and wiped his feet and went inside. He sat down on the verandah with a cigarette. Seeing this, Kadono teased from below, “Sensei, is your heartbeat a little irregular or something?”
That evening he took Kadono to a fair in Kagurazaka and brought home two or three pots of autumn grasses that he arranged beneath the eaves where they would catch the dew. The night was deep and the sky distant. The color of the stars shone dark and dense.
That night Daisuke went to bed, having deliberately omitted drawing the shutters. It never crossed his mind that it could be unsafe. He put out the lamp and lay by himself inside the mosquito netting, peering from the dark into the sky. Inside his head the events of the day flashed vividly. In another two or three days, the final outcome would be clear, he thought, and his heart leaped for joy. Then, before he knew it, he was drawn into a big sky and bigger dreams.
The next morning he made up his mind and wrote to Hiraoka. He said that he wanted to see him privately about something and wished to know when would be convenient for him; he himself would be free at any time. This was all he wrote, but he still placed the
message in an envelope.
When he had moistened the gum and affixed the red stamp, he felt as if he had finally given official recognition to crisis. He called Kadono and had him toss the fateful letter into the mailbox. When he handed the letter over, his hand had trembled slightly, but once that was done he became blank and fell into a stupor. When he recalled that three years ago he had stood between Michiyo and Hiraoka and worked toward their marriage, it seemed like a dream.
He spent the next day in anticipation of Hiraoka’s reply. The following day as well he stayed at home, counting on its arrival. Three, four days went by. Still there was no letter from Hiraoka. Then the day came when he normally would have gone to Aoyama to get his money. Daisuke’s purse had become exceedingly light. Since that day when he saw his father, Daisuke had resigned himself to the likelihood that he would no longer receive assistance from home. He could not think at this point of casually dropping in as if nothing had happened. Why, he could get along for two or three months just selling his books and clothes, he told himself, making light of it. He also thought, in a commonsensical vein, that once things settled down he could take his time and look for a job. Daisuke had already begun to believe—prior to any actual experience—the words that people liked to repeat almost as a proverb, that it was quite difficult to starve to death, one always managed somehow.
On the fifth day, he braved the heat and took a streetcar to Hiraoka’s office, where he found that Hiraoka had been absent from work for two or three days. Daisuke went outside, and as he looked up at the dirty windows of the editorial office, he thought that he should have telephoned before venturing out. It was even questionable whether Hiraoka had received the letter. Daisuke had deliberately addressed it to the newspaper office. On his way home he stopped at a secondhand bookstore in Kanda that he frequented and asked them to come and look over some books he no longer needed and wished to sell.
That night he did not even have the heart to water the garden. He stared absently at Kadono’s form, clad in a white net shirt.
“Are you tired tonight, Sensei?” asked Kadono, clanging his pail. Daisuke, his heart weighted with anxiety, could not answer coherently. At dinner, his food had virtually no taste for him. He pushed it past his throat as if he were drinking, then threw down his chopsticks. He called Kadono and said, “Would you go over to Hiraoka’s and find out whether he received my letter of a few days ago, and if he has, ask if you might have an answer, and wait for it.” Still worried that Kadono had not really understood, he further explained that he had sent a letter saying such and such addressed to the newspaper office the other day.
After he had sent Kadono on his way, Daisuke went out to the verandah and settled in a chair. When Kadono came back, he had blown out the lamp and was sitting still in the dark.
“I’ve been to the Hiraoka’s,” called Kadono in the dark. “Mr. Hiraoka was at home. He said he had seen your letter. He said he would come over tomorrow morning.”
“Oh? Thank you,” Daisuke answered.
“He said he had meant to come sooner, but there was sickness in the family, so he was delayed. He sent his regards.”
“Sickness?” repeated Daisuke involuntarily.
“Yes. It seems that his wife isn’t well.” Kadono’s cotton summer kimono with its white background was the only thing that loomed dimly in Daisuke’s field of vision. The light left to the night was much too faint to illuminate their faces.
Daisuke grasped the arms of his cane chair with both hands. “Is she very unwell?” he asked sharply.
“Well, I really couldn’t say. But it didn’t sound like it was on the light side. But if Mr. Hiraoka can come over tomorrow, it can’t be that serious.”
Daisuke was somewhat reassured. “What is it? What’s wrong with her?”
“Oh, I forgot to ask.”
Here their exchange came to an end. Kadono retraced his steps along the dark verandah and went into his room. As he sat listening quietly, Daisuke soon heard the sound of a lampshade knocking against the chimney. Kadono must have lit a light.
Daisuke remained motionless in the night. Even as he was still, his heart trembled. The arms of his chair gleamed with perspiration. Daisuke clapped his hands and called Kadono. The dim white of Kadono’s kimono appeared once more at the end of the verandah.
“Oh, you’re still sitting in the dark. Shall I light the lamp?” Daisuke declined and asked again about Michiyo’s illness. He asked every question he could think of—whether they had engaged a nurse, how Hiraoka was taking it—even whether Hiraoka had taken time off from work on account of his wife’s illness. But after all, Kadono could only repeat what he had already said, and anything he added was mere conjecture. Even so, questioning him was more tolerable for Daisuke than sitting silently by himself.
Before he went to bed, Kadono brought a letter from the night mailbox. Daisuke took it from him in the dark and made no attempt to look at it. Kadono, almost as if to prompt him, said, “It looks like it’s from your home. Shall I bring a lamp?”
Daisuke finally consented to having a lamp brought into his study and by its light opened the envelope. The letter was addressed to him by Umeko and was quite long:
I’m sure you’ve been quite annoyed over this matter concerning a wife for you. For our part, your father and brother and I have also been very worried. But all our efforts notwithstanding, you refused Father outright the last time you were here. It was terribly disappointing, but now I have resigned myself. I found out later that Father had gotten angry with you and told you he would not be bothered about you any more and that you were to be prepared accordingly. I wonder if that is why you have not come since. I thought that perhaps, on the day of your allowance—but you still did not come, and I am worried. Father says to leave you alone. Your brother is as easygoing as ever. He says that you’ll come over once you’re hard up, that we can make you apologize properly to Father then. If it doesn’t look as though you’re going to come, he says he’ll go over and talk to you. But as far as the match goes, all three of us have given up, so I don’t think there is any reason why you should be troubled further on that score. Although Father does seem to be angry still. As I see it, it is going to be difficult to return to your old relationship for some time to come. And maybe, given the circumstances, it is best that you stay away. But I am still worried about the money we give you every month. Knowing you, I think it would not immediately occur to you to provide for yourself, and I can see only too clearly the difficulties you will be faced with right away; it makes me terribly sorry for you. I am arranging to send you the usual sum, so when you receive it, try to make it last until next month. Some day Father will be in a better humor. I will have your brother put in a word for you. If there is a chance, I will apologize for you too. Until then, it would be best for you to keep your distance as you have been. . . .
Umeko had written much more, but being a woman, she had repeated herself a good deal. Daisuke pulled out the enclosed check and reread the letter from beginning to end. Then he carefully rolled it back and thanked his sister-in-law wordlessly. The hand that had signed “From Umeko” was rather clumsy. The colloquial style* of the body was as Daisuke had recommended to her in the past.
* It was only in the early years of the Meiji Era (1868–1912) that a few writers experimented with the use of the spoken language in their works. Until then, written (literary) and spoken Japanese had been strictly distinguished. The practice of writing as one spoke in informal contexts gradually became popular.
Daisuke gazed intently at the envelope in front of the lamp. His old life had been extended for another month. His sister-in-law’s kindness was certainly welcome, but for Daisuke, who sooner or later had to make a fresh start, it was nevertheless poisonous. Still, since he did not intend to begin working for a livelihood until things were settled with Hiraoka, his sister-in-law’s timely gift came as precious sust
enance to him.
That night too he blew out the lamp before going under the mosquito netting. Kadono had come to draw the outer doors, and he had let him go about it without objecting. Since they were glass, he could still see the sky. It was darker than the night before. Wondering if it had clouded over, he even got up and went to the verandah to look up through the glass toward the eaves. A shiny streak flowed diagonally across the sky. Daisuke lifted the netting again and went in. He could not fall asleep and flapped his fan back and forth.
The situation with his own family did not weigh too heavily on him. As for jobs, he braced himself to accept whatever happened. It was Michiyo’s illness, its cause, its outcome, that sorely troubled his mind. He also tried to imagine the various forms his meeting with Hiraoka might take. That agitated his brain more than a little. The message was that Hiraoka would come the next morning around nine o’clock, before it became too hot. Needless to say, Daisuke was not the sort to prepare conventional remarks with which he might open his conversation. What had to be said was clear from the start, and the order in which these things were said would depend on the circumstances. That part, therefore, did not bother him; but he was concerned about making himself understood in as peaceful a manner as possible. That was why he had shunned excessive excitement and hoped fervently for a night of repose. He shut his eyelids with the desire for sound sleep fixed firmly in his mind, but as luck would have it, his head was clear and he found it even more difficult to fall asleep than the previous night. The summer night began to lighten faintly. Unable to withstand it any longer, Daisuke sprang up. Barefoot, he leaped into the garden and passionately trod on the dew. Then he went back to the cane chair on the verandah, where he dozed off while waiting for the sunrise.
When Kadono came to open the doors, rubbing his sleepy eyes, Daisuke came to with a start. Half the earth’s surface was already bathed in red sunlight.
“Why Sensei, you sure are early,” said a startled Kadono. Daisuke went straight to the bathroom and splashed water on himself. He would not eat any breakfast but had a cup of tea. He looked at the newspaper but barely understood what was written. As he read, the words he had just read swarmed and faded away.
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