To the Spring Equinox and Beyond (37 page)

Sparing time from my evening walk, I talked with them as we enjoyed the coolness in the upstairs room. At my mother's request I hung at the end of the eave a Gifu paper lantern with the seven autumn flowers printed on it and lit the small candle inside. Chiyoko suggested turning off the electric lamp because it gave off too much heat and did so without waiting for anyone's consent, throwing the matted floor into darkness. The moon had risen high in the windless sky. Leaning against a pillar, my mother said the moon reminded her of Kamakura.

"It seems strange somehow to see the moon at a place where we can hear streetcars," said Chiyoko, who had grown accustomed to living at the seaside for the past several days. Settled in my rattan chair, I flapped a round fan.

Saku came upstairs a few times. Once she brought in a tobacco tray with a charcoal fire and placed the set near my feet. The second time she came in carrying a tray with ice cream ordered from a neighborhood shop. Each time I couldn't help comparing the two young women, one who accepted as her lot in life the position of a humble maid, as though she had been born back in the feudal age when strict class distinctions existed, the other endowed with enough pride to behave as a lady in no matter whose presence. Chiyoko took no more notice of Saku's existence than she would have of any other woman's. On the other hand, Saku, after she stood up to return downstairs, did not fail to look back at Chiyoko from the head of the staircase. Reminded of the two days I had passed at Kamakura with Takagi living close by me, I looked with pity at Saku who, though she had stated quite definitely she had no need to think because she had no subjects to think about, was now presented with the elegant and poisonous question of one Chiyoko.

"What about Takagi?" was often at the tip of my tongue. However, because something other than a simple interest in information was driving me forward, something nastily mixed with ulterior motives, each time I was about to bring up the topic, I felt I was being scolded from afar for the unfairness of the question, so that I finally thought it unworthy of me to ask. What's more, I felt that as soon as Chiyoko departed and my mother was alone with me, we could freely talk about him. In truth, though, I wanted to hear about him directly from Chiyoko and to definitely keep in mind what she thought of him. Was this induced by jealousy? If anyone listening to my story says that's what it was, I have no objection. As I view it now, it seems hard to call it by any other name. And if so, am I that much in love with Chiyoko? If the question comes to that, I can't help being at a loss for an answer. As a matter of fact, I did not feel the pulsation of that passionate a love for her. It may then follow that I am two or three times more jealous than most men. Perhaps I am. A more appropriate criticism, however, might be that it was all due to my inherent egoism. Let me add only one thing: From my point of view, if jealousy of Takagi still kept burning in me even after my departure from Kamakura, it was not only because of some defect in my disposition, but because Chiyoko herself was deeply responsible. I won't hesitate to assert that due to the fact that it was Chiyoko who concerned me, my defect came to dye my heart in a deeper color. Then which aspect of Chiyoko was corrupting my character? The answer to that question was beyond my comprehension. And yet it occurs to me that possibly it was her kindness that was affecting me.

As usual, Chiyoko was outspoken. No matter what subject came up, she had something to say about it. I took this as evidence that she had nothing on her mind. She said that since going to Kamakura, she had begun to teach herself how to swim and that she was now enjoying going out over her head. She had been amused by Momoyoko, who was quite cautious and who had tried to stop her by calling out in a loud voice, almost apologizing, "It's not safe!"

Listening to Chiyoko, my mother looked half-anxious, half-amazed. "What a rash thing for a woman to do! For my sake I beg you never to do such a dangerous prank again. Be a good girl," she implored.

Laughing, Chiyoko said only, "You can trust me," and then she casually turned toward me as I sat on my chair in the open hallway. "And I suppose you too, Ichi-san, don't like such tomboys?" she asked.

All I said was "Not very much" and looked outside at the moonlight flowing over everything. If I had forgotten to pay respect to my character, I would certainly have added, "But Takagi-san does." That I hadn't dragged myself that low was at least fortunate for appearance's sake.

Anyway, that was how outspoken Chiyoko was. But even late into the night when my mother finally suggested we all ought to go to bed, Chiyoko had not brought into the conversation a word about Takagi. I saw a great deal of deliberateness in that. I felt as if a dark blob of ink had dropped on a white sheet of paper. Until I had gone to Kamakura, I had believed Chiyoko to be one of the purest women in the world, but in the short two days I had spent there, a suspicion of her "art" had been raised. And that suspicion was now taking root in me.

"Why wouldn't she talk about Takagi?"

This question tormented me as I was lying in bed. At the same time I was quite aware of the ridiculousness of having my sleep disturbed by such a question and was all the more irritated for the foolishness of being that tormented by it. As usual I was in bed alone upstairs. My mother and Chiyoko had their beds laid side by side inside a mosquito net in a downstairs room. Imagining her calmly asleep just below me, I couldn't help thinking that it was I, sleepless and wriggling, who was after all the defeated one. I even hated turning over in bed. It seemed a disgrace to have the weakness of my still being awake heard downstairs like some kind of intelligence report of her victory.

While I was thinking over this same problem from different angles, its various phases became apparent. Her silence in not even mentioning Takagi's name was nothing more than her kindness to me. She had deliberately kept away from this topic out of sheer consideration not to offend me. When interpreted this way, it made me feel I had behaved in such an irrationally ill-humored way during my Kamakura stay that it had robbed Chiyoko, who was so simple and pure, of the courage to say even Takagi's name before me. If so, then I was a disagreeable animal that showed itself in public only to offend. And so it would be better to stay at home, to keep myself from associating with others. But if it was "art" without that "kindness" preceding it and this was what she really was . . .

I broke up the word "art" into minute parts and pondered its meanings. Was her real intention to lure me by making Takagi a decoy? And in so luring me, was her intention without any ultimate purpose except to enjoy herself by giving a momentary stimulation to my affection for her? Or was it to tell me to become like Takagi in a certain way? And when I did, was she going to tell me she might as well love me? Or was it to say that she would enjoy seeing Takagi and me fight over her? Or was it to tell me to give her up by bringing him before me and letting me realize that she had already found her man? I went on and on theorizing like this. And I thought that if it's art, it would mean battle, and if it's battle, it must inevitably end in either victory or defeat.

I remained vexed at myself, defeated and sleepless. As I had turned off the electric light after the mosquito net had been hung, the darkness pervading the room oppressed me so much I felt suffocated. It grew unbearably painful keeping my eyes open, looking at what they could not see, and having only my mind working. I had patiently resisted even turning in bed, but I suddenly got up to switch on the light. I went out to the hallway to open the shutter a little. There was not even a breeze under the declining moon. I felt on my skin and throat only a relative coolness.

I awoke the next morning about an hour and a half earlier than I had when I had been alone at home. I immediately went downstairs and found Saku sifting ashes in the oblong brazier in the sitting room, her ginkgo-leaf hairdo covered with a white towel. Seeing me, she said, "Oh, you're up so early!" and she went to arrange the things I needed to wash up with. On returning from the bathroom, I walked on tiptoe through the dust-filled sitting room and went out to the entrance. On my way I peered toward the room where my mother and Chiyoko were lying inside the mosquito net. My mother, who was apt to be awakened by the slightest sound, was still in a quiet sleep, perhaps fatigued from her train journey the previous day. Chiyoko was of course sound asleep, as though buried at the bottom of a dream, her neck against her pillow.

I went out to the front of the house with no particular aim in mind. I had long forgotten what a morning walk was like. The colors of the street, though little different from usual, were yet untouched by heat and throngs of people and so seemed as peaceful as a Sabbath. The streetcar tracks, stretching straight ahead along the ground and giving off a burnished light, enhanced the calm. But I had not exactly come out to walk. Since I had gotten up too early and was merely walking to fill up a superfluous fragment of life with some kind of physical movement, I could not find much interest in heaven or earth, nor on the streets either.

About an hour later I got back looking rather tired, only to be greeted by the questioning faces of both my mother and Chiyoko.

"Where have you been?" my mother asked. "Your color isn't good. Is anything the matter?"

"You didn't sleep well last night, did you?" Chiyoko added.

I didn't know in the least how to answer the latter question. I wanted to retort elatedly, "I slept quite well!" Unfortunately, I wasn't that much of an artist. But then I was too proud to confess I had slept poorly. The result was that I failed to reply.

The three of us had breakfast at the same table, and as soon as we were finished, the hairdresser arrived, my mother having asked her the day before to come in the morning when it was cool. With her newly washed white apron covering the front of her figure, the woman put her hands on the floor beyond the threshold and made a friendly greeting regarding my mother's safe return. The woman had that facile way of speech common in her trade, and she gave full play to her skill. Each sentence she uttered gave my shy mother the opportunity to talk proudly about her summer trip. My mother looked sufficiently pleased, but couldn't talk that glibly about it. Soon the hairdresser chose the youthful Chiyoko as someone she could have more of an effect on. With invariable ease Chiyoko was quite naturally able to deal with anyone she happened to be with, so whenever she was addressed as "young lady," she could enliven the conversation by responding at considerable length. When the subject of Chiyoko's swimming came up, the hairdresser said, "That's quite fine. And very active. All the young ladies nowadays are learning to swim," which sounded to everyone like the concocted flattery it was.

It must sound ridiculous to mention this odd fancy of mine, but actually, I like seeing women having their hair made up. The way the woman somehow contrived to bind my mother's thinning hair into a little round knot wouldn't have made a nice picture to look at, even if a skillful hairdresser had done it; still, it furnished me with enough diversion for killing time. As I watched her hands move, I began imagining to myself how magnificent Chiyoko's hair would be if it were combed out and arranged in such a Japanese way. Chiyoko's hair has a beautiful gloss to it; it's soft and smooth, long and luxuriant. Had I been my usual self on this sort of occasion, I would have suggested that it would be a good chance for her to have her hair done too. But just then it was difficult for me to make such an intimate request. Yet it so happened that she herself said that she somehow felt like having her hair set.

"Go ahead. It's been quite a while since it was done," my mother encouraged. And the hairdresser chimed in eagerly, "Yes, have it done up! The moment I saw your hair, I had the thought that it was too good to be in that foreign style." Finally Chiyoko sat down before the mirror stand.

"I wonder what style it should be."

The hairdresser recommended the
shimada.
My mother was of the same opinion. Suddenly Chiyoko called out to me, her long hair combed back down over her shoulders. "Ichi-san, what style would you like?"