The man seemed to be putting his hand inside his cloak and then, turning a little to the side, looking down at an object which he held in his right hand and which he brought toward the light of the shop. Keitaro saw that the glittering thing under the man's scrutiny was a gold watch.
"It's only six. It's not that late."
"It is late if it's six. I was just about to go home."
"I'm really sorry."
Again the two started walking. Keitaro abandoned his cookie jar and followed. They proceeded to Awajicho and then turned into a narrow side street leading to the foot of Surugadai Slope. Keitaro was turning too when he saw them enter a foreign-style restaurant at the corner of the street. He caught a glimpse of the profile of the man and woman in the strong light streaming from the entrance.
Keitaro had had no idea where the two were going when they had left the streetcar stop. But now that he had found them suddenly entering this establishment, he could not help feeling it all the more beyond his expectations that their rendezvous was turning out to be at such an ordinary place.
The restaurant, the Takaratei, had recently been rebuilt. It was known to Keitaro as a place that had been catering to his university for many years. Often passing it, he had noticed its newly painted facade, half of it facing the streetcar line, the other half with its gable cutting obliquely toward the south. And he remembered those occasions in which he had vigorously wielded his own knife and fork as he sat under a framed picture advertising Munich Beer in a room whose outside walls were painted a glossy pale blue color. To Keitaro, who had no clear expectation of where the two would go, but who had trailed them under the vague impression that he might himself be drawn into some maze enshrouded in purplish hues, it all seemed too commonplace, this foreign-style restaurant whose kitchen poured forth even onto the street the strong smell of potatoes and meat frying in oil. But then he thought that having them penned within this common restaurant accessible to anyone was safer and far more convenient for him than it would have been had they hidden themselves never to appear again in a place far too elegant and mysterious for him to enter. Fortunately, he had enough money in his wallet to appease his appetite, made keen by the winter air, at a place of this class.
He had intended to go directly up to the second floor after them, but when he came to the entrance with its strong light cast onto the street, it suddenly occurred to him that since his face was already known to the woman, it would be unwise to thrust himself almost simultaneously into the same room, thus possibly arousing her suspicions that he had been following her. Assuming the casual look of a pedestrian, he stepped across the light thrown on the street and continued walking down the dark, narrow lane about a hundred yards until it came to an end at the foot of the slope. From there he retraced his steps stealthily, almost as if his own shadow were folded back into his body. He returned to the lighted entrance and went in.
As he had been there several times, the interior he knew. There were no rooms for guests downstairs. Meals were served on the second and third floors, but the latter was only used on the few occasions when there were too many diners. He felt certain he would find the two of them either in the dining hall on the left near the landing or in the one to the right farther down. If they were not in either of these rooms, he would even dare to open the door of the long and narrow room in front. With such thoughts in mind as he was about to head upstairs, he saw a waiter in a white uniform standing at the foot of the stairway, ready to show him into a dining room.
Since Keitaro was still carrying his walking stick when he arrived at the top of the stairs, the waiter took it from him before showing him to his seat. "This way please," said the waiter, leading him into the dining room on the right. Keitaro watched where the waiter was putting the cane. Hanging in the same place was the black fedora he had noticed some time ago, and there as well were what looked to be a salt-and-pepper cloak and an overcoat the same color as the woman's. As the waiter pushed the bottom of the coat aside to put in the bamboo stick, the coat's silk lining with its large patterns caught Keitaro's eye. When the head of the snake had vanished behind the coat, Keitaro allowed his eyes to drift to its owner.
Fortunately, her back was toward the entrance as she faced the man she was sitting with. Realizing that a woman who hears a newcomer enter a room may feel like turning around except that the fear of losing her dignity will keep her from doing so (unless the action is absolutely necessary), Keitaro felt momentarily relieved as he observed her back. And exactly as he had calculated, the woman did not turn. He proceeded near her table and was about to sit in the row next to theirs, right behind her, back to back. At that moment the man lifted his face and looked at Keitaro, who had not yet turned to seat himself. The man's table was decorated with a bonsai, a pine and a plum tree in a Chinese-style pot. A dish of soup was before the man. Without lifting his soup spoon from the dish, he exchanged a glance with the newcomer. The distance between the two of them, less than six feet, was lit up by electric lamps whose brilliance was further heightened by the white tablecloths all around them. Under such favorable conditions, Keitaro looked at the man's face to his heart's content. He recognized exactly as Taguchi had described to him the large mole between the man's eyebrows.
Except for the mole, Keitaro noticed nothing remarkable in any of the man's features. The eyes, nose, and mouth, when seen separately, were each common enough, yet when these were put together, each occupying its position on the man's longish face, it was evident to anyone that the face possessed the dignity of a gentleman. When the man's eyes met Keitaro's and he stopped the movement of the spoon in his dish, Keitaro was given the impression that there was something noble in the other's bearing. After he sat down with his back to the man, he thus began to reflect upon what was usually meant by the word "spy." It seemed to him that there was nothing in this gentleman's manner or physiognomy that justified his being spied upon. When each of his features were taken into account individually, Keitaro felt them too commonplace to conceal any secrets. By the time he had settled down in his seat at the table, he felt disappointed, as if a third of the interest in this task entrusted to him by Taguchi had evaporated. He began to have renewed doubts about whether it was morally right to have accepted such a job.
After giving his order, Keitaro looked as if he were in a daze, his hands not even touching the bread before him. The man and woman had stopped speaking for a while, perhaps in modest consideration of the new guest seated near them. But by the time a white dish warmed for serving soup was set before Keitaro, they seemed to have recovered their mood, and Keitaro heard their resumed dialogue.
"No, I can't tonight. I've got something to do."
"What?"
"Well, something important. It's not something you can easily talk about."
"Then don't. I know exactly what it is. As if keeping a person waiting so rudely wasn't enough!" She seemed to be pouting.
The man, perhaps conscious of the people around them, broke into a low laugh, and their conversation subsided.
The male voice then said fitfully, "Anyway, it's too late now. Let's go some other time."
"It's not late at all. We can get there soon enough by streetcar."
That the woman was urging and the man hesitating were obvious to Keitaro, but of where they were arguing about going, the place in question, he had no idea.
Keitaro kept staring at his knife and at a piece of reddish carrot beside it which he had left on his plate, hoping perhaps to be able to locate the place by listening to them a little longer. The woman continued to urge the man to go. Although he warded off each of her attacks with some excuse or other, he was invariably tender in his attitude toward her, careful not to make her angry.
By the time Keitaro's next dish, meat and green peas, was set before him, the woman began to yield. Keitaro had been secretly wanting her to insist on having her own way or the man to eventually give in. To his disappointment, Keitaro found her not resolute enough.
&nbs
p; He wished for the chance to at least catch the name of the place they were speaking about—it hadn't been mentioned yet—but now that they were not to go, the subject had to change, and for the time being, he had to resign himself to not knowing.
"Then we don't have to go," the woman began again, "but let me have it instead."
"'It?' What do you mean by 'it'?"
"You know. That thing from the other day."
"I don't have the slightest idea——"
"You really are rude! You know very well!"
Keitaro wanted to turn slightly just to glance at them. At that moment, though, loud footsteps could be heard on the stairs, and a few guests came noisily in. One was a soldier in khaki and long boots. As he walked across the floor, the saber hanging from his belt rattled. The group was shown into the room on the left. Their noise had interrupted the conversation between the man and woman, and Keitaro's curiosity had accordingly been suspended until the light from the glittering sword had subsided.
"You showed it to me the other day. Remember?"
The man did not say whether he had or hadn't. Keitaro of course had no idea what they were talking about. He regretted that the woman had not come out directly with the name of the object she desired to have. Somehow he himself was anxious to know what it was.
"How could I have brought such a thing here with me now?" the man asked.
"No one ever said you had it on you. I'm only asking you to give it to me. The next time."
"If you want it so much, you can have it. But——"
"Wonderful!"
Again Keitaro wanted to look back, wanted to look at the woman's face. And at the same time he wanted to catch a glimpse of the face of the man. But considering that he was sitting in a direct line back to back with her, he had to restrain himself from that rash an act. He merely stared blankly ahead, like a person too embarrassed to know where to turn his eyes. Soon a waiter came up from the kitchen with two white plates, set them before the couple, and took the old ones away.
"It's a little bird. Would you like to try it?"
"Thank you, but I've had enough."
She seemed not to touch the broiled bird. Instead, she moved her unoccupied mouth much more freely than her companion did. Keitaro inferred from their conversation that what the woman had asked for was perhaps a coral or some such stone. Speaking as if he were a connoisseur of these items, the man explained various things to her. But the information could have pleased only a dilettante; Keitaro himself found it neither interesting nor comprehensible. The man told her in detail about ingenious imitations made of paste, fingerprints pressed onto their surfaces to dupe the innocent, but these counterfeits, due to their less smooth feel, could easily be distinguished from the genuine coral imported of old. From the context, Keitaro could make out that she had exacted his promise to give her a very precious and very rare piece, quite an antique and hardly obtainable nowadays.
"Yes, I'll give it to you, but what use will you make of it?"
"What use do you make of it? You, a man, having such a thing?"
Presently the man asked, "Would you rather have cake or fruit?"
"Either will do."
This signal of the approaching end of their meal sounded to Keitaro, who had been carried away by their talk, like a sudden reminder of his duties. He had already formed a plan for his actions as the observer of their conduct after dinner. He had known from the first that it would be unwise to go downstairs with them. If he were to leave his seat later than they, he would, even in less time than it takes to smoke a cigarette, certainly lose sight of them in the nighttime darkness and the throng of pedestrians along the pavement. If he wanted to be certain about tagging along behind them, it was absolutely necessary for him to leave first and to wait for them somewhere in the shadows, unseen by the couple. It would be best, then, to settle his bill as soon as possible, so he called the waiter to bring it.
The man and woman were still quietly talking. They no longer had any particular subject to give them an opportunity for an exchange of views or sentiments, so their conversation flowed on like loose clouds blown away one after another.
The woman came out with a comment on that distinguishing mark of the man, the mole between his eyebrows.
"How did you come to have it on that part of your face?"
"It didn't just suddenly appear the other day! It was there when I was born."
"Well . . . it's too bad you have it right there."
"Too bad or otherwise—it can't be helped, since I was born that way."
"You ought to have it removed at the University Hospital."
At these words Keitaro lowered his face so much that he saw his reflection in the fingerbowl water. Placing his hands on his temples as though he were trying to hide them, he chuckled to himself. Just then the waiter brought in Keitaro's change on a small tray. Keitaro rose quietly and stepped unobtrusively to the landing. The waiter standing there announced down the stairs in a loud voice, "Guest leaving!" At that moment Keitaro realized he had forgotten to pick up his walking stick, which he had handed earlier to the waiter. It was where it had been placed, behind the skirt of the woman's long overcoat hanging from the hat rack in the corner of the dining room.
Keitaro stole back, careful not to draw the attention of the man and woman, and quietly withdrew the walking stick. As he put his hand to the snakehead, he felt on the back of his hand the smooth silk lining of the woman's overcoat and the soft wool on the inside. Again he went over to the landing, almost on tiptoe, and there, with a sudden change of pace, stepped rapidly down the stairs.
As soon as he was outside, he crossed the streetcar tracks to the opposite side of the street where there was what looked like a tailor's or a second-hand clothing store. He remained standing in front of the shop, his back toward the light coming from it. In this position he felt certain not to miss the two coming from the restaurant, whether they turned to the right or left or headed toward Renjakucho around the corner from Nakagawa or proceeded directly from the entrance toward Surugadai Slope along the narrow side street. He leaned securely on his cane as he watched the restaurant entrance.
When ten minutes or so had gone by without bringing even the shadow of the persons into the focus of his attentive eye, he began to have doubts. All he could do was look up at the windows on the second floor, the only lighted ones, and peer vainly through, hoping for their early departure. Whenever he turned his wearied eyes away from the restaurant, he looked up at the dark sky spread over the rooftops. He had entirely forgotten the existence of the great night, deluded as he had been by the artificial light shining only on the earth. A cold rain seemed to be threatening in the darkness overhead, and Keitaro felt the lonelier for it. It suddenly occurred to him that while he had been in the restaurant, the couple had taken his presence into account and had thus chatted on ordinary matters, but now that he was fortunately gone, they might have entered into a serious discussion it behooved him to catch. With this doubt in his mind, he looked up at the black sky and saw there the vivid figures of the two persons sitting tete-a-tete.
He regretted his excessive precaution in leaving the restaurant so early. But again he thought that if he had kept rooted to his seat, he would have heard them talking only on ordinary topics, so the result would have been almost the same as leaving early. There was no other way but to endure the cold and maintain his watch from where he now was. The sudden fall of a few raindrops on the brim of his hat made him look up into the black sky again. Overhead all was darkness and, unlike the street with its tram lines where he stood, very quiet. For a long while he kept his face turned upward, expecting rain on his cheeks. While he was thus gazing at the formless dark, his anxiety about the threatening weather left him, and there rose in him instead the sudden wonder of why he had chosen to do such a disquieting job under such a quiet sky. At the same time he fancied that the bamboo walking stick he now held in his hand was responsible for everything. He gripped the inevitable snakehead
, and two or three times cut the air with it as if taking revenge on the cold. Just then the shadows of the two persons for whom he had waited so impatiently emerged at the restaurant entrance.
Keitaro's eyes first went to the white scarf around the woman's slender neck. The couple immediately turned into the thoroughfare and, opposite the side Keitaro was on, were about to retrace the way they had come. Keitaro crossed over. The two walked along rather slowly, glancing into each gaily decorated shop front. Behind, Keitaro had considerable difficulty in keeping his pace attuned to their excessively slow steps. The man had an aromatic cigar in his mouth, and as he walked, slightly colored puffs of smoke were exhaled into the night air. When they were wafted behind by the wind, they gave an agreeable stimulus to Keitaro's nose. Sniffing, he patiently traced their slow steps.
The man's height when observed from the rear made him look a little like a Westerner, and the strong odor from his cigar helped somewhat in maintaining the illusion. Then Keitaro's association of ideas transferred itself to the man's companion. He imagined the woman as the foreigner's mistress, her leather gloves a gift from the man. As he secretly amused himself with this fantasy, which he knew was quite unreasonable, the two reached the streetcar stop where they had met. Halting a moment, they soon crossed the tracks to the other side. Keitaro did the same.
Again they went from the corner of Mitoshirocho over to the farther side. Keitaro crossed to the same side. The two walked on toward the south. About fifty yards from the corner was another of those iron poles painted red, next to which they stopped. Realizing for the first time that they were going to head southward by way of the Mita line, Keitaro decided he too should take the same car. Both looked back toward his direction simultaneously. Their action was quite natural because the streetcar would come from that direction. Nevertheless, Keitaro felt ill at ease. He turned up the brim of his hat and pulled it down forcefully. He passed his hand over his face. He went and stood as far back as he could under the eave of a house. He looked around in different directions. These were trying moments for him as he waited impatiently for the streetcar.
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