Quicksand (7 page)

Well, as you saw in Mitsuko's letter, I went to pick strawberries with my husband one Sunday. Actually, I'd been hoping to go to Takarazuka again, but he wanted to take me out to Naruo, since it was such a fine day. Thinking I'd better humor him for once, I reluctantly agreed. But my heart was still with Mitsuko, and I couldn't enjoy the outing. The more I longed for her, the more my husband's efforts at conversation irritated me, even angered me, to the point that I would hardly reply to him. I spent the whole day moping. Apparently that was when he decided he'd have to do something about the situation. As usual, though, he only looked glum, and since he wasn't the kind of person to show his emotions, I had no idea he was so infuriated with me.

When we came home that evening I learned I'd missed a telephone call, and began fuming at everyone in the house. The next morning Mitsuko's reproachful letter arrived. I called her up immediately and arranged to meet at the Hankyu Umeda station. We went directly to Takarazuka, without even stopping off at school. Every day from then on, for the rest of the week, we went to Takarazuka. That was when we got our matching kimonos, and had the souvenir photo taken that I showed you. . . .

Then one afternoon a little past three, while we were talking together in the bedroom again, almost a week after the strawberry-picking excursion, our maid, Kiyo, came rushing upstairs to announce that the master had just returned.

“Really, at this hour?” I exclaimed, all in a fluster. “Hurry, Mitsu!” I'm sure we both looked nervous as we went down to greet him.

Meanwhile, my husband had changed from his suit into a light serge kimono. He frowned slightly when he saw us, but then remarked casually: “I had nothing to do today, so I left the office early. You two seem to be cutting classes yourself.” And he added, to me: “How about a cup of tea and some cakes, since we have a guest?”

With that, the three of us settled down to polite talk as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But I was startled when Mitsuko absent-mindedly called me “Sister.”

“Don't be too intimate,” I used to tell her. “It's better for you to call me Sono, rather than Sister. If you get into the wrong habit, you'll come out with it before other people.”

Yet whenever I said that, she took offense. “I hate it when you're so distant! Don't you like to have me think of you as my big sister? . . . Please, let me call you Sister—I'll be
very
careful if anyone else is around.” But that day it finally did come out.

After Mitsuko left, there was an awkward silence between my husband and me. And the next evening, as if it had just occurred to him, he suddenly asked: “Isn't there something funny going on? I have a hard time trying to understand your behavior lately.”

“What's there to understand?” I shot back. “I'm not aware of anything.”

“You're on awfully good terms with that girl Mitsuko,” he went on. “What exactly is she to you?”

“I'm very fond of Mitsuko! That's why we're such good friends.”

“I know you're fond of her, but what does being fond of her mean?”

“It's just a feeling! It isn't something you can
explain
!” I was purposely defiant, thinking I mustn't let him see any weakness in me.

“Don't be so sensitive,” he said. “Can't you just tell me calmly? Being ‘fond' has all kinds of meanings—besides, there were those rumors at school. I was only asking because I think it's to your disadvantage if people misunderstand. Suppose talk like that gets around; you'll be the one to blame. You're older, and you're a married woman. . . . How could you face her parents? And it's not just you—I'd have no excuse myself if people thought I'd condoned your behavior.”

What he said cut me to the quick, but I remained stubborn.

“That's enough,” I told him. “I don't like your meddling in my choice of friends. You can have any friends you want, and I hope you'll let
me
do as I please! Surely I'm responsible for my own actions.”

“Well, if you two were ordinary friends, I certainly wouldn't meddle. But taking off from school nearly every day, doing things behind your husband's back, shutting yourselves up alone together—it just doesn't seem healthy.”

“Oh? So that's the way you feel about it. With your nasty imagination, aren't
you
the one that's behaving badly?”

“If I'm at fault, I'll apologize. I only hope it's my imagination. But instead of accusing me, shouldn't you search your own conscience? Are you sure you have nothing to be ashamed of?”

“There you go talking like that again! You know I find Mitsuko attractive—that's why we became friends. Didn't you yourself say you wanted to meet her, if she's so beautiful? It's natural to be attracted to beautiful people, and between women it's like enjoying a work of art. If you think that's unhealthy, you're the unhealthy one!”

“All right, but you could enjoy a work of art in front of me; you needn't shut yourselves up together . . . and why do you both look so nervous when I come home? Another thing: it bothers me to hear her call you Sister, when you're not even related.”

“Don't be absurd! You haven't the faintest idea of schoolgirl talk, have you? Girls often think of each other as older sister and younger sister, if they're good friends. You're the only one who finds it strange!”

That evening my husband was oddly persistent. Usually as soon as I seemed irritated he would give up and say: “You're impossible.” But this time he kept after me.

“Don't try to lie your way out of it: I've already heard all about it from Kiyo.” And he added that he knew I wasn't just painting—he wanted me to confess what I
was
up to.

“There's nothing to confess. I'm not a professional painter hiring a model—it's a diversion for me. I don't have to be so serious and businesslike.”

“Then why not work down here, instead of always staying upstairs?”

“What's wrong with working up there? Go and visit an artist in his studio—even a professional isn't always grimly slaving away. You can't make a good painting unless you take your time and work when the spirit moves you.”

“That's all very fine, but I wonder if you ever intend to finish it.”

“I'm in no hurry. Mitsuko's so beautiful I can't take my eyes off her—not just her face but that lovely body. When she poses for me I could study her hour after hour, even without painting a stroke.”

“She doesn't mind if you spend all that time looking at her undressed?”

“Of course not. No woman is embarrassed to show herself to another woman, and no one minds being admired.”

“Even so, people would think you were crazy, having a young girl stand around naked in broad daylight.”

“That's because I'm not like you, so
conventional
. Didn't you ever want to see a gorgeous movie actress in the nude? To me, it's the same as looking at a beautiful landscape. I'm spellbound; somehow it makes me happy, glad to be alive. Tears come into my eyes. But I suppose you can't explain that to a person who has no sense of beauty.”

“What does a sense of beauty have to do with it? You're just being perverse!”

“And you're just narrow-minded.”

“Don't be ridiculous! You've poisoned yourself reading sentimental trash.”

“And you're insufferable!” I turned away, trying to cut off the argument.

“As for that Mitsuko, I can't believe she's a decent young woman, or she'd never dream of intruding into our bedroom, trying to break up our marriage. She must have an evil character. You'll get into trouble yourself if you keep on seeing somebody like that.”

An attack on the one I loved stung far worse than an attack on me, and the moment he started criticizing Mitsuko I flew into a rage. “The very idea! What right have you to say that about my dearest friend? I'm sure there's no one in the whole world as virtuous and beautiful as Mitsuko! She's simply divine—she's as pure in heart as Kannon herself! It's evil of
you
to slander her. You'll be sorry for it!”

“There, you see! You're out of your mind, talking like that! You're a raving lunatic!”

“And you're a living fossil!”

“Somehow you've turned into a terrible, loose woman. You're completely shameless!”

“Isn't that just my own character? Why did you marry a woman like that, when you knew it all along? I suppose you wanted my father to pay for your education and a trip abroad. That must have been the reason.”

Even my usually mild-mannered husband was aroused. The veins stood out on his forehead, and for once he roared at me.

“What? Say that again!”

“Yes, I'll say it over and over! You're no real man; you only married me for money. Spineless coward!”

Then suddenly he drew himself up and shook his fist at me, and something white came whizzing by and crashed against the wall. I ducked instinctively, so I wasn't touched, but he had picked up an ashtray and thrown it. Never before had he raised a hand against me, and my temper flared.

“Is
that
how you feel? I'm warning you—if I get the slightest scratch, my father will know about it. So go ahead and do your worst. Beat me! Kill me! I want you to! I told you to kill me!”

“Idiot!”

That was all he said. He looked at me in disbelief as I yelled at him, weeping and half-crazed.

Neither of us said another word. The next day we only glared at each other, keeping silent even after we went to our bedroom that evening. But around midnight my husband turned to me and grasped my shoulder, drawing me toward him. I pretended to be asleep and let him do it.

“I went a little too far myself last night,” he said. “Still, you must realize it's because I love you. I may seem cold, with my blunt manner, but I don't think my heart is cold. If I'm at fault I'll try to correct it—can't you respect the one thing I ask? I won't interfere with you in anything else, only please stop seeing Mitsuko. Just promise me that much.”

“No!” I shook my head vigorously, my eyes still closed.

“If you won't, you won't, but at least don't bring her into this room or go anywhere alone with her. And from now on let's go out and come back together too.”

“No!” I shook my head again. “I can't stand being tied down—I've got to be absolutely free!”

With that, I turned my back to him.

AFTER THAT OUTBURST
I wasn't afraid of anything. Why should I care? I longed all the more to be with Mitsuko. But when I hurried to school the next morning she was nowhere in sight. I called her home, only to be told she had gone to visit a relative in Kyoto. Eager to see her, and with the emotions of last night's quarrel surging in me, I dashed off that letter, but after I sent it I asked myself what she would think of a frantic letter like that. Suddenly I felt anxious again, wondering if she might say she felt guilty toward my husband and had better keep her distance.

Then the following morning, as I was waiting in the shade of the plane tree, she came running up to me, calling out “Sister!” in front of everyone.

“I just got your letter, Sister, and I was so worried I couldn't wait to see you!”

Putting her arms around my shoulders, she gazed up at me, tears in her eyes.

“Oh dear, Mitsu, you must be upset by what my husband said about you. . . .” I began to cry too. “Does it make you angry? I'm sorry; I shouldn't have written that letter.”

“It's not that—as long as it's just about me, I don't care what anyone says. But are you sure he hasn't turned
you
against me? Are you quite sure, Sister?”