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  Daisuke’s uncle had been killed in Kyoto when a hooded man had noisily broken into the inn where he was staying. The uncle had leaped from the second-story eaves but tripped and fell on a garden rock and was mercilessly cut down from above. The story went that his face had looked like a piece of sliced-up raw fish. Some days before he was killed, he had walked in the middle of the night from Shijō Avenue to Sanjō in high clogs, wearing a raincoat and shielding himself from the snow with an umbrella. About two hundred yards from his inn, a voice had suddenly called from behind, Master Nagai Naoki. Daisuke’s uncle had not so much as cast a glance behind, but with his umbrella held high, had continued walking to the inn door, where he opened the grating and stepped in. Then, the story continued, he slammed it shut and turned and announced, I am Nagai Naoki. What is your business?

  Daisuke’s immediate response to such stories was not admiration but terror. Before he could get around to appreciating the bravery, he was overcome by the raw smell of blood penetrating his nostrils.

  Daisuke’s current theory was that if it were possible for him to die at all, death would have to come at that instant marking the height of a paroxysmic seizure. But he was hardly the convulsive type. His hands trembled. His feet trembled. It was nothing out of the ordinary for his voice to tremble or his heart to skip a beat. But in recent years he never became agitated. Heightened agitation was a condition that naturally enabled one to approach death, and it was obvious to Daisuke that each time it occurred, it became that much easier to die. At times, out of curiosity, he wished he could at least advance to the neighborhood of that condition. Whenever he analyzed himself these days, Daisuke was startled to discover how changed he was from the self of five or six years before.

  He turned the book over on his desk and got up. The glass doors on the verandah were slightly open and a warm wind blew in gaily. It made the red petals of the potted amanthus flutter gently. Sunlight fell on the large blossoms. Daisuke bent over and peered into the flowers, then took a little pollen from the wispy stamen and carried it to the pistil, where he carefully smeared it on.

  “Did the ants get to it?” Kadono came in from the entranceway. He had on his hakama.*

  * A long, divided skirt, a standard part of formal wear for men.

  Daisuke continued to stoop and lifted only his face toward Kadono. “You’ve already been?”

  “Yes, I have. Yes, they said they were going to move in tomorrow. He said he had just been thinking of coming over today.”

  “Who said? Hiraoka?”

  “Yes. Yes, it looked like he was terribly busy with something. You’re completely different, aren’t you, Sensei. If it’s ants, why don’t you try pouring vegetable oil over them? Then, when they can’t stand it and come out of their holes, you can kill them off one by one. I can do it if you want.”

  “It isn’t ants. On nice days like today, if you take the pollen and smear it on the pistil, it’ll bear fruit one of these days. I have the time, so I’m doing just as the man at the nursery said.”

  “Oh, I see. The world sure has become convenient, hasn’t it? But bonsai are nice things to have around—they’re pretty, and they give you something to look forward to.”

  Daisuke thought it too much trouble to answer him. Eventually he said, “Maybe I’ll quit fooling around for now,” and got up and sat down in the caned easy chair on the verandah. Kadono became bored and left for his own three-mat room at the side of the entrance. He was just about to open the shoji and go in when he was called back to the verandah. “Hiraoka said he was coming today?”

  “Yes, it sounded like he might come.” “Then I’ll wait for him.”

  Daisuke decided against going out. He had been rather concerned about Hiraoka since the other day.

  When he had last visited, Hiraoka’s situation was such that he could not afford to be leisurely. His story then was that there were two or three possibilities he planned to look into, but Daisuke had no idea what had become of them. He had gone twice himself to their inn in Jimbōchō. The first time Hiraoka had been out; the second time he was in, but he was standing on the threshold of the room, still in his Western clothes, scolding his wife hurriedly— or so it unmistakably seemed to Daisuke though he had caught but a glimpse when he went down the corridor unannounced and appeared before their room. Hiraoka had turned toward him slightly and said, “Oh, it’s you.” There was nothing hospitable in his face or in his manner. His wife’s pale face had peered from the room, and recognizing Daisuke, had blushed. Daisuke somehow felt awkward about sitting down. He brushed aside the mechanical invitations to come in and insisted that he had no business in particular, that he had just come to see how they were doing. If Hiraoka was about to go out, they could leave together. With that, he had stepped out as if to lead the way.

  Hiraoka said that he had wanted to find a house and settle down quickly, but he had been too busy to look for himself. Even when he would hear about a place through the inn, either the people had not moved out or the walls were being painted. He grumbled about everything all the way to the train, where they parted. Daisuke felt sorry for him and said, in that case, he would have his houseboy look for a place. Business was bad, there shouldn’t be too much trouble finding a vacancy. With this assurance, he had left Hiraoka.

  True to his promise, he had sent Kadono out to hunt. No sooner had he left than Kadono was back with a reasonable find. Daisuke had him show the couple the house, and they thought it would probably do; but since Daisuke felt an obligation to the landlord, and moreover, planned to have Kadono look further if this house did not suit them, he had sent Kadono back to get a definite answer. “I hope you went over to the landlord’s to tell him they were taking it?”

  “Yes, I stopped on the way back and told him they were moving in tomorrow.”

  Daisuke sat back in his chair and thought about the future of the couple who were setting up housekeeping for the second time in Tokyo. Hiraoka had changed considerably since they had parted at Shimbashi three years ago. His record was that of a man who had climbed but one or two rungs on the ladder of life before stumbling and falling. The only fortunate thing was that he had not climbed very far; but that meant only that there were no obvious wounds to be exposed to the eyes of society; his emotional state already betrayed signs of impairment.

  This had been Daisuke’s immediate impression the first time he saw Hiraoka. But when he considered the changes in himself over the past three years, he thought it possible that they had affected Hiraoka’s reaction toward him, and he revised his assessment. Still, when he recalled Hiraoka’s manner, his words and gestures that time Daisuke had gone to the inn and left so hurriedly with him without even going in, he was forced to return to his original conclusion. That day the center of Hiraoka’s face had been a bundle of nerve endings. Whether it was the wind or a grain of sand, he had uninhibitedly twitched his brows, which looked as if they were subject to constant irritation. Everything he said, regardless of the content, sounded restless and pressured to Daisuke. Hiraoka’s manner, in short, brought to mind a man with weak lungs who was struggling to swim through a mass of gelatin.

  “He’s in such a hurry,” Daisuke had murmured to himself after seeing Hiraoka off at the streetcar stop. Then he had thought of the wife left behind at the inn.

  Daisuke had never yet addressed Hiraoka’s wife as “Okusan.”* He always called her “Michiyo-san,” just as he had in the days before she was married. After leaving Hiraoka, he had toyed with the idea of going back to the inn—perhaps he would have a talk with Michiyo-san. But somehow, he could not go. He even stopped in his steps to think it over, and though he could find nothing wrong with his going, he still felt uneasy and could not go. If he mustered up his courage, he thought, he could do it. But for Daisuke to be so courageous would be a painful effort. Once he got home, however, he was restless and somehow dissatisfied. So he went out to drink. Daisuke
could drink enormous quantities and that night he drank especially heavily.

  * A general term designating married women.

  “Something must have come over me then.” Leaning back in his chair, a comparatively detached Daisuke examined his own shadow. “Did you want something?” Kadono came in again. He had taken off his hakama, so that his dumpling-like bare feet showed. Daisuke looked at his face without a word. Kadono, too, looked at Daisuke’s face, and for a moment was left standing blankly.

  “Didn’t you call me? Well, well,” he said and disappeared. Daisuke did not see anything amusing in this.

  “He said he didn’t call me, Auntie. I thought it was funny. I told you I didn’t hear him clap or anything.” These words came from the morning room, followed by laughter from Kadono and the old woman.

  Just then, the much-awaited guest arrived. Kadono, who had gone to answer the door, came back with a somewhat peculiar expression on his face. He wore this expression all the way to Daisuke’s side, where he said, almost in a whisper, “Sensei, it’s Okusan.” Daisuke left his chair without a word and went into the living room.

  Hiraoka’s wife had rather dark hair for a fair-complexioned woman. Her face was oval with clearly shaped brows. Glancing at her, one felt a vague loneliness, reminiscent of the old ukiyoe woodblock prints. Her complexion had noticeably lost its luster since their return to Tokyo. So much so that Daisuke had been a little startled the first time he saw her at the inn. Thinking she might not have recovered from the long, tiring train journey, he had asked if that was what was wrong, but was told no, she always looked like this these days. Then Daisuke had felt sorry for her.

  Michiyo had given birth one year after leaving Tokyo. The baby had died soon after, and Michiyo’s own heart seemed to have been damaged in childbirth. She had often been ill since. At first, she had just rested at home, but no matter what she did, she could not seem to make satisfactory progress. She had finally gone to a doctor; he said he could not tell for sure, but it might be a certain heart disease with a difficult name. If that was the case, then some of the blood pumped into the arteries was backing up; this was a chronic condition with little hope for a complete cure—a verdict that had alarmed Hiraoka. Perhaps because he exerted his utmost for her recovery, she regained a good deal of her spirits at the end of a year. There were many days when her complexion had its old, clear glow, and Michiyo herself was feeling quite encouraged when, about one month before their return to Tokyo, she suffered a setback. The doctor’s story was that this time, her heart was not at fault. It would never be strong, but it had certainly not worsened. He could detect no impairment in the functioning of the valves for the time being—this was what Michiyo herself told Daisuke. Then Daisuke looked at Michiyo’s face and wondered if her condition was caused by some sort of anxiety after all.

  Michiyo’s eyelids had two beautiful lines, one above the other, making a distinct fold. Her eyes were on the long and narrow side, but whenever she fixed her gaze, they somehow became extremely large. Daisuke attributed this effect to her irises. He had often observed this eye movement of hers in the days before she was married and he still remembered it well. Whenever he tried to picture her face in his mind, those black eyes, blurred as if they were misty, rose immediately, even before the outline of her face was complete.

  Shown in to the living room from the hallway, Michiyo took a seat facing Daisuke. She placed her lovely hands one above the other upon her lap. The hand she placed underneath had a ring; the one she placed above also had a ring. The latter was of modern design, a large pearl in a narrow gold setting—a gift from Daisuke three years ago in celebration of her wedding.

  Michiyo lifted her face. Daisuke, instantly recognizing those eyes, blinked in spite of himself.

  She had planned to come with Hiraoka the day after they arrived, but she had not felt well, and after that, she would have had to come by herself, so she had just not gone out at all; but today, she was just... So she began, then cut herself short. Then, as if she had suddenly remembered it, she apologized—the other day, when Daisuke came to see them, Hiraoka was about to go out, and they had been very rude. . . . “You should have stayed and waited,” she added with feminine graciousness. But her tone was subdued. It was, nevertheless, her normal tone of voice, and it served all the more to remind Daisuke of the past.

  “But he seemed to be terribly busy....”

  “Well, he is busy, as far as that goes—but it would have been all right. Even if you’d stayed. You’re being so—formal.”

  Daisuke thought of asking if something had happened between them that day, but decided against it. Normally, he might have gone so far as to ask whether it wasn’t true that she was being scolded then—her face was red, what had she done wrong? Their relationship was close enough to have permitted as much, but he felt that her present charming conversation was a painful effort to cover up an awkward situation, and he did not have the heart to joke.

  Daisuke lit a cigarette, and dangling it from his lips, leaned back in his chair and relaxed. “It’s been such a long time—shouldn’t we get something to eat?” As he said this, he thought that his manner was in some small measure comforting to the woman.

  “No thank you, not today. I can’t stay,” answered Michiyo, showing a glimpse of an old gold tooth.

  “Oh, come now.” Daisuke lifted his hands behind his head and knitting his fingers together, looked at her. She bent over and pulled out a small watch from her obi. When Daisuke gave her the pearl ring, Hiraoka had presented her with this watch. Daisuke remembered how, after buying their respective gifts at the same store, they had exchanged glances, then laughed as they went out.

  “Oh, it’s already after three. I thought it was only two. I’d stopped by places on the way over,” she explained as if to herself.

  “Are you in such a hurry?’’

  “Yes, I’d like to get back as soon as possible.”

  Daisuke took his hands from his head and tapped the cigarette ashes. “You’ve become awfully domestic in three years. I guess it can’t be helped,” he said laughingly. But there was something bitter in his tone.

  “Oh, but we’re moving tomorrow.” Michiyo’s voice was suddenly animated.

  Daisuke had completely forgotten about their moving. But taken in by her cheerful tone, he followed up ingenuously, “Then you should come for a long visit when you’re moved in.”

  “But,” Michiyo started. She was at a loss for an answer, and her forehead betrayed her confusion. She bowed her head. Presently, she lifted her face; a faint crimson had spread over it. “You see, I really came to ask you for a little favor.”

  Daisuke’s sharp intuition told him immediately what it was that Michiyo had come for. In fact, ever since Hiraoka had returned from Kyoto, Daisuke had subconsciously resigned himself to being faced with this problem one day.

  “What is it, don’t hesitate to ask.” “You couldn’t lend us some money?”

  Michiyo’s words were as guileless as a child’s but her cheeks were nonetheless red. Daisuke found Hiraoka’s situation painful indeed, that he should have to force this woman to undergo so humiliating an experience.

  Listening to her story, he discovered that it was not that they needed money for moving or for setting up a household. When they left the branch office, they had brought with them three debts; one of them had to be taken care of immediately. Hiraoka had given his word that he would pay the debt within one week of his arrival in Tokyo; for certain other reasons too, this debt could not be neglected like the others. So a worried Hiraoka had been running about since the day after their return, trying to put together the sum, but so far, it seemed, without success. That was why he had had no choice but to send Michiyo to Daisuke’s for help.

  “Is this what he borrowed from the branch manager?”

  “No, that one can be put off forever, but if he doesn’t
do something about this one, it could even affect his plans here.”

  Daisuke thought that that could well be the case. When he asked the amount of the debt, it turned out to be only five hundred yen. What a trifle, he thought; yet actually, he himself had not a penny at his disposal. He realized that although it seemed as if he had never been inconvenienced for money, he was, in fact, quite restricted.

  “But why did he get into debt like this?”

  “It makes me miserable to think about it. Of course, I got sick, too, so you can say it was my fault, but ...”

  “So it was from the expenses when you were sick?”

  “No. There’s a limit to what you can spend on medicine.” Michiyo did not explain further. Nor did Daisuke have the courage to ask further. Looking at Michiyo’s pale face, he felt in it an undefined anxiety for the future.

  CHAPTER V

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING Kadono hired three carts and went to Shimbashi to pick up Hiraoka’s luggage. It had arrived long ago, but because the couple had not found a place to live, it had been left at the station. Counting the time needed to get back and forth and to load and unload the carts, this was bound to be at least a half-day job. Unless Kadono hurried, he wasn’t going to make it, Daisuke warned the minute he got out of bed. Kadono answered in his usual manner that there was nothing to it. He was unhampered by a sense of time and so could give such a breezy answer; but when Daisuke explained the circumstances to him, his face began to show a glimmer of understanding. When told that in addition to delivering the luggage, he was to stay and help until all the cleaning was done, he readily assented, saying yes, he understood, everything would be all right, and left.

  After he left, Daisuke read until past eleven o’clock. Then suddenly, he remembered a story about a man named D’Annunzio who had furnished part of his house in blue and part in red. D’Annunzio’s reasoning seemed to be that these two colors expressed the two principal moods of existence. Accordingly, rooms where excitement was called for, such as the study or the music room, should be painted in red as much as possible. Bedrooms and the like, on the other hand, where the spirit should repose, were to be done in bluish tones. Thus the poet seemed to have satisfied his curiosity by applying a psychologist’s theory.