To the Spring Equinox and Beyond (26 page)

When Chiyoko got into her rickshaw, she held in her arms the cedar box containing the urn and settled it on her lap. As the rickshawman began his run, a chill wind crept in through the space under the blanket covering herself and the box on her lap. The slender branches of the zelkova trees, whose tall light-brownish trunks lined both sides of the road, swayed as though they were welcoming them and seeing them off. Although the fine twigs grew out so thickly that they crossed each other high overhead, the streets the vehicles were traveling through were strangely brighter than Chiyoko thought they would be. Thinking this to be quite unusual, she raised her head again and again to look toward the distant sky.

On their arrival home Chiyoko placed the ashes in front of the Buddhist family altar. The children immediately gathered around and asked her to take off the lid to let them see what was inside, but she absolutely refused.

Soon the entire family sat down to lunch in the same room. It was Sunaga who started the conversation. "I guess it still looks like you have lots of children, but one is missing now, isn't she?"

"I don't think I made so much of the child while she was living, but now that she's gone," Matsumoto said, "it seems I've lost the most precious thing. So much so that I almost wish one of these here could take her place."

"That's not nice," Shigeko whispered to Sakiko.

"Oh please, Auntie, try to have another child just like Yoiko-san—as like as two peas—so that I can embrace it."

"A child like Yoiko wouldn't do unless it actually was Yoiko herself. It's not like making a porcelain plate or a hat. Even if I did have a new baby to take her place, we'd never forget the lost one."

"I've come to hate seeing any visitor with a letter of introduction on a rainy day."

  Sunaga's Story

Ever since Keitaro had seen the figure of the woman before Sunaga's gate, he had imagined some string of destiny binding her with Sunaga. This string was as subtle as an aroma in a dream; thus, while he was actually seeing the real Sunaga and the real Chiyoko, it often disappeared somewhere and floated away. But while their existence as common mortals did not ordinarily provide any stimulus to his unaided eye, there were times when the bond linking them came into view, uniting them inseparably as though such were ordained by karma. Even after Keitaro had gained access to Taguchi's house, he heard not a word about any relationship between Sunaga and Chiyoko, nor did his direct observation offer him any kind of hint beyond their ordinary kinship as cousins. And yet his original association dominated him so insistently that somewhere in his mind he always felt inclined to regard them as a couple, as a connected man and woman. It seemed to him that a young man unaccompanied by a girl, or a young woman without a man to link arms with, was, after all, a kind of deformity—they were not being what nature intended each to be. His linking of Sunaga and Chiyoko according to his own perceptions may have arisen from his own moral demand to confer as quickly as possible on the two of them, still fluttering about in their "deformed" state, the capacities that nature had endowed them with.

We need not inquire more deeply into this thorny problem in order to argue about it on behalf of Keitaro, that is, to debate whether his thought had arisen from some moral imperative or anything else, but the fact is that when he happened to hear of late some talk about Chiyoko's marriage arrangements, he was somewhat troubled by the contradiction between the world inside his own mind and that outside. He had heard this talk from the houseboy, Saeki. Of course, houseboys are not in a position to know completely the behind-the-scenes circumstances of an affair before it is brought to a conclusion. With the muscles of his moony face more strained than usual, he had merely said, "It's been talked about a lot." The name of the man who would become Chiyoko's husband was of course unknown to the boy, but it was evident that his status was that of a businessman.

"I'd taken it for granted that Miss Chiyoko would marry Mr. Sunaga. Wasn't that the way it was supposed to be?"

"I guess not."

"Why not?"

"When you ask it like that, it's hard to give a clear answer, but if you think about it a bit, you'll see that it would just be too difficult."

"You really think so? They look like a perfectly matched couple to me, what with their relationship and their ages—five or six years' difference is just right."

"Well, if you're not in the know, they seem so. But behind it all there probably are lots of complications."

Keitaro wanted to inquire minutely into what Saeki had called "complications," but he was annoyed that the houseboy seemed to be treating him as an outsider. Moreover, it would have been a disgrace to Keitaro if it became known that he had pried into the family's affairs by pumping information from no more than a doorkeeper. Finally, there was little likelihood that Saeki could know as much as his words laid claim to, so Keitaro decided to let the matter stand. On this occasion he had gone by chance to the back room of the house to greet Taguchi's wife and to talk awhile, but since she seemed her usual self, he did not have the nerve to bring up any words of congratulation.

Keitaro had made this visit to the Taguchis a few days before he went to Sunaga's house, where he had heard from Chiyoko the misfortune of her uncle's family at Yarai. It was actually with the intention of ascertaining Sunaga's feelings about the marriage problem that he went, after so long an absence, to visit his friend. No matter which woman from whatever place Sunaga married, and no matter which man of whatever origin Chiyoko was given to in marriage, none of it obviously had anything to do with Keitaro. Yet could the destinies of these two people be so easily parted without leaving behind some lingering regret? Was not, as Keitaro imagined, some phantasmal string, some bond invisible to themselves, binding them in the darkness of the unknown? Was not a flickering glimmer of what might be described as a sash woven of dreams sometimes clearly visible to their eyes while at other times cut off from their vision so that they were left alone, separated from each other? Such was what Keitaro wished to ascertain. Of course, he was clearly conscious that this desire was no more than his own curiosity. He was equally aware, however, that as far as Sunaga was concerned, it was not improper for him to have his curiosity satisfied. More than that, he even believed it his right.

Unfortunately, Chiyoko's story that day and then Sunaga's mother's joining them prevented Keitaro from finding an opportunity to bring up this personal matter with Sunaga, although he ended up spending a considerably long time at his friend's house. When it suddenly occurred to him that the three persons who happened to be before him would certainly be well matched as son, wife, and mother-in-law, he thought on his way back home that it would be the easiest task in the world to unite them according to the formalities of the world.

The following Sunday favored all office workers with fine weather, so Keitaro called on Sunaga early in the morning to invite him for a walk in the suburbs. Sunaga came out to the entrance, but being indolent and self-willed, he did not readily acquiesce. However, he was at last compelled to slip on his shoes after some strong urging from his mother. Once someone got Sunaga to put his shoes on, he would easily move in any direction Keitaro wanted, silently accepting his friend's lead and not, when consulted about where to go, insisting on any particular direction himself. When he and his Yarai uncle, Matsumoto, went out together, they would both walk on without considering where they were headed, so that they often ended up at a place least expected by either. Keitaro had heard about such instances from Sunaga's mother.

That day they went by train from Ryogoku as far as a station at the foot of Konodai Plateau. They strolled leisurely along the bank of the beautiful wide river there. In a lighthearted mood that he had not felt for some time, Keitaro looked out over the water, the sailboats, and the hills. Sunaga praised the view too, but complained about the cold, blaming Keitaro by saying it was not yet the season for walking along such a bleak embankment. Telling Sunaga that if he'd walk faster, he'd warm up, Keitaro began to quicken his pace. Sunaga followed with somewhat of a bewildered look on his face. They reached a spot near Taishakuten Temple at Shibamata and stopped at a restaurant called the Kawajin. Sunaga was again compelled to frown, this time claiming that the broiled eel they had ordered had been sweetened too much.

Keitaro, distressed that because their mood was not ripe for it he could find no opportunity to enter into any kind of confidential talk, took the occasion to remark, "You Edoites are quite fastidious, aren't you? Are you even so hard to please about finding wives?"

"Any man would be if he were allowed a voice in the matter. It's not limited to Edoites. Even a country bumpkin like you would be," Sunaga replied with perfect nonchalance.

"You Edoites are also rather blunt, aren't you?" Keitaro couldn't help saying and burst into a laugh. Sunaga seemed equally amused and laughed aloud.

After that their conversation progressed as harmoniously as their mood. Sunaga commented that lately Keitaro seemed to have settled down quite a bit, which Keitaro accepted quietly.

"You mean I've gotten a little more serious? But you're tending to become more and more obstinate," Keitaro bantered.

Sunaga, with good grace, admitted his weakness. "Sometimes I hate myself for being like that."

They were now in a congenial mood in which they could look directly into one another's eyes without feeling any restraints. It was fortunate for Keitaro that the problem of Chiyoko was brought up during such a time, since he had been wanting to hear what the actual story was. He directly assailed Sunaga with the rumor he had heard the previous week that she was shortly to be married. Sunaga didn't show the least sign of agitation, but in more somber tones than usual replied, "Apparently another offer's about to be made. I hope it's settled this time." He then added with a sudden change in tone that seemed to indicate he had grown weary of the subject, "Unknown to you of course, there have been many such discussions."

"You don't feel at all like marrying her yourself?"

"Does it look that way?"

And so their talk proceeded, each trying to drag the topic on until it was driven either to the point where something critical had to be confessed or the subject had to be dropped. Finally, with a wry smile Sunaga said, "You've brought your cane with you again, haven't you?"

Keitaro, smiling too, went out to the restaurant's open corridor and returned with the inevitable cane. "Uh-huh," he said and showed Sunaga the snakehead.

Sunaga's story was much longer than Keitaro had expected.

My father died years ago. He died suddenly when I was very young, when I had no real understanding of the affection that exists between a parent and child. Since I have no children, my affection toward those of my own flesh and blood may still be comparatively weak, but the feeling of endearment I have toward the parents who brought me into the world has developed considerably since that time. I often wish that in those days I had had the love for them I now have. I was, in short, quite cold toward my father, although he himself never indulged me either. The portrait I have of him in my mind is merely that of a stern face, one with high cheekbones and a sallow complexion, a face that could scarcely endear itself to a child. Each time I look in the mirror, I'm reminded of the remarkable resemblance between my own face and the face of my father that I've stored in my mind, and this displeases me. I feel ashamed not only because I have to worry about giving others as unpleasant an impression of myself as my father gave of himself, but also because of the miserable feeling of a son remembering only the unfavorable surface of his father as the sole memento of that father. Judging from myself as I am now—I do have a warmer affection flowing in me than my own gloomy eyebrows and forehead suggest—I suspect my father to have had at the bottom of his heart tears much warmer than my own despite the callousness of his outward appearance.