Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

I

Nobuko had her hands behind her back and was leaning against the half-open window frame, gazing at the scene inside the room.

In the center of the room was a large rectangular table. The chandelier's light fell sharply onto the mouse-gray carpet, illuminating both the chaotic pile of documents on the table—thick binders smeared with blurred purple typewriter ink, memos pinned at their corners glinting—and the two men seated across from each other, intently comparing notes through the scattered papers. Just as the light illuminating the entire room was monotonous, so too was the work of the two men—dull and tedious. A swarthy, gaunt man wearing a homespun suit held a binder in his left hand, his eyes darting across pages as he flipped them and rapidly recited long strings of numbers. Facing him, Nobuko’s father Sasa sat lightly on his chair, blue pencil in hand, diligently checking the numbers. He was wearing a smoking jacket with a tasteful striped modified collar. Though appearing at ease, he had already been engrossed in that busy, mechanical work for over thirty minutes.

To Nobuko, who was merely observing, neither the substance of their work nor the necessity of doing it now made any sense. That she was quietly observing from her withdrawn position by the window stemmed primarily from a habit she had conceived since childhood—the conviction that one must never disturb her father during his busy periods. However, she gradually found herself drawn into the rhythm of their activity. A flat voice, neither rising nor falling in intensity, continued rapidly: “Two eighty-seven comma two sixty.” “59,303 comma 427…”

It was like the diligent hum of a spinning wheel. As this continued, Sasa's blue pencil moved with near-mechanical agility—swiftly, briskly, in meticulous and precise motions. There, a unique rhythm arose of its own accord. As she watched intently, she felt something akin to the powerful steadfastness—and simultaneously vigorous excitement—that the regular operation of machinery imparts upon the human heart. They tidied away two large-format binders in one go. And when they had finished somewhat sluggishly reading through the third thin memorandum, Sasa appeared with an air of having shed a heavy burden,

“Ah, thank you for your hard work.”

He bowed his head and pushed back his chair. A sudden release of tension swept through the room. Even Nobuko felt vaguely relieved, and suddenly she sensed the noise of the outside world pressing in broadly from behind her. It was just after dinner, the height of the evening exodus. From Broadway lying directly below their fifth floor, an unceasing flow of countless human footsteps, chatter, and laughter blended and mingled, rising up as a thick gaseous mass of aimless noise. Through the immense urban din that permeated even the night sky came the sound of a car horn: KEEEEEEEROOOOON… From beneath the lamppost came the intermittent high-pitched cries of a child hawking evening papers: “Evening papers! Evening papers!” The man in homespun swiftly gathered the documents and stowed them in his yellow handbag. Then, after exchanging a few words with Sasa and greeting Nobuko from afar, he abruptly assumed an air of importance and left. Sasa saw the man to the doorway.

When he returned, he blew out the cigar smoke with relish.

“Well—shall we be off?” Nobuko left the windowsill, came to the nearby sofa and sat down, then asked.

“Are you really planning to go?”

“Why? “You’re going too, right? “I’ve already given our reply.” “I—want to cancel.” “Why?” “I’m exhausted——and… it doesn’t seem very fun anyway.”

“Hmm…”

Sasa gazed silently at the smoke he exhaled for a while, then eventually said slowly.

“There’s no need to fuss with your kimono—just come as you are. Going will bring its own rewards.” “Besides, if you don’t meet as many people as you can while I’m around, you’ll be left helpless when the time comes.”

Tonight, she and her father had been invited to a gathering—something like a tea gathering—hosted by the Japanese student club. They had received an invitation about an informal meeting centered around a certain Doctor of Literature who had recently arrived from their homeland, but Nobuko felt no curiosity whatsoever. She herself was also a new arrival in New York. She had gone out alone that afternoon to shop in the unfamiliar streets downtown and returned with her nerves frayed. The prospect of having to maintain proper decorum among people until night was something she found rather wearying. However, Sasa—healthy and vigorous—would often not accommodate Nobuko’s timidity. He, with a vigor unexpected for a man nearing sixty, always dragged Nobuko along. In this lay a clear intention: during his own stay, he would have her learn the lay of the land and establish friendships to leave in place. He had come to this city on company business for a mere three months. Once he returned home, Nobuko was scheduled to remain behind alone. During their travels, she had generally followed her father wherever he went, even if reluctantly. From city halls to the stuffy, poorly ventilated rooms inside the wire-mesh cages of certain large banks where people buried under mountains of gold coins counted money with bloodless fingers. Nobuko, unfamiliar with the area and without any fixed purpose of her own, had no choice but to do so—otherwise her days would have stretched long and tedious, as dull as a discarded stone.—

Even now, she certainly did not want to go. However, when she considered being left utterly alone in the hotel room until around midnight after Father departed, even that prospect didn’t seem too dreadful.

While Nobuko swung her legs restlessly and dawdled, Sasa paid no heed and strode off to the bedroom with the purposeful gait of an activist. Before long, from the wide-open doorway came the splashing sound of water and the light, dry clack of a hairbrush being set down.

From the window came the nocturnal city’s sleepless bustle and the restless flickering of advertisement illuminations circling the rooftop of the building across the way. Reflecting the lights of the world below, a portion of the black night sky, softly moistened, could be seen. Suddenly, in Nobuko’s chest— "Being left behind would be terrible!"

Such a childlike, aching thought welled up inside her.

She hurriedly rose from her chair and followed after her father. Sasa had already finished grooming his hair and was standing in the middle of the room, slipping one arm into his jacket. Seeing this, she said flusteredly: “I’m sorry, but could you wait just a moment? I’ll go after all.”

Nobuko hurried to the mirror.

Sasa looked at his watch. “We can’t linger much longer.” “Right away—five minutes!” Nobuko swiftly adjusted her hair and donned a small, round brown hat.

II

As the block numbers increased, the foot traffic dwindled, and the streets grew desolate.

The father and daughter gloomily turned left at the corner by a large decorative window with drawn blinds. As they entered from the main street, it abruptly darkened, and even their footing on the gently sloping pavement became hard to discern. Beyond one main street ahead lay the Hudson River, where sharp night winds occasionally cut through from the water. In Riverside Park, gas lamps glowed dimly with a cold pallor among leafless trees. Nobuko felt an extraordinary tension from both the cold and the eerie unease of having strayed into this desolate place. She involuntarily clung tightly to her father's arm.

“It’s so dark here… Do you have any idea where we are?”

Sasa walked with his heels clicking, constantly paying attention to the row of houses on his right, and answered in a somewhat more subdued voice than usual.

“It must be a bit further ahead. But I tell you, seeing every last one of these houses looking exactly the same starts to get to you.” “If only they’d put up more streetlights…” Indeed, on both sides stood narrow house entrances with low iron railings and three or four steps—dozens of them lined up, each identical to the next. The sparse light from the streetlamps along the pavement did not reach the modest doorways set slightly back. They pressed on, peering into the dimly lit entrance of nearly every house as they went, their sense of desolation growing. Just as they were growing thoroughly weary, a single brightly lit arched window—its light spilling outward—appeared before them. Through gaps in the curtains came glimpses of men standing inside and the sound of indistinct voices. —

Nobuko pulled her father by the arm. “Here!”

Sasa looked around the exterior and ascended the entrance steps. He pressed the doorbell. A short, abrupt sound rang out immediately on the other side of the door. Nobuko felt expectation and curiosity. Having been struck by a strange unease in the dark side street, to her this old door with its frosted glass panes seemed to hold some warmth and cheer beyond its single layer. Immediately a human figure appeared against the glass. The oak door opened inward with unexpected smoothness. The man who had opened the door widened the entrance further upon seeing them and greeted them in a formal tone.

“Thank you for coming. Please…”

As soon as Sasa entered the entrance hall, he began taking off his overcoat. Nobuko surveyed her surroundings. Against the right wall stood a tall hat rack with a mirror. On the left side sat a bench adorned with a deeply carved grape leaf relief, from which one could look up at the gentle staircase ascending to the second floor. In the back was an open room screened from view by heavy curtains. From that hall echoed the exclusively male voices of intense conversation. The sturdy brown oak pillars and glossy mirror panels shining under the lights throughout the area gave Nobuko a pleasantly comfortable impression. A fresh kind of smell permeated the area, seeping into her senses. The scent of furniture polish, tobacco, wool, and another odor rising from something like dried leather goods all blended into one—the distinctive odor of a residence inhabited solely by men.

After helping Sasa out of his overcoat, the man who had opened the door said.

“This way, please. Many ladies have already arrived...” As she bowed her head slightly, Nobuko saw the man’s face clearly for the first time. He wore a white shirt with a low collar, a black necktie, and a plain black suit that showed slight signs of wear. Though his face was gloomy, his round, large jaw caught her eye. Nobuko, while climbing the stairs,

“Is Ms. Yasukawa here?” she asked. The man, who appeared to be thirty-five or thirty-six, answered in what seemed to be his natural low tone.

“She has arrived.”

When they reached the top of the stairs, the door to one of the rooms was half-open, and from inside came the sound of women talking. He, “Ms. Yasukawa,” he called out. “Mr. Sasa has arrived.”

The voices inside abruptly fell silent.

“Oh! Is that so?” With her voice came Yasukawa’s figure appearing on the threshold, taking long strides with a slight forward lean. The man who had guided Nobuko retreated downstairs. Yasukawa Fuyuko had been a senior student when Nobuko was briefly enrolled at a vocational school. She had been known to everyone as an excellent and diligent scholar. Though they had exchanged only a few words before, Yasukawa remained the sole person here whom Nobuko could call a friend from across the ocean. For about a year now, Yasukawa had been studying educational psychology at C University.

Yasukawa stared at Nobuko with apparent curiosity. “I’d heard the rumors—but since I never go out myself—I didn’t know a thing about you coming. Welcome! When did you arrive?”

“About three weeks ago.”

Yasukawa asked in the same brisk tone she’d had during their school days—unchanged to such a degree that Nobuko was surprised by its consistency.

“You came with your father?” “Yes. I’m his tagalong.”

Nobuko felt she was being treated like a junior in front of these women. “He’s downstairs again tonight.”

“Yes.—That’s good. “Where are you now? “Your lodging—”

“Brent Hotel.” “Ah! I’ve been there once before—Let me introduce everyone. This is Ms. Takasaki—she graduated from Higher Normal School and specializes in home economics.” “This is Ms. Natori—her field is music—”

Nobuko bowed her head precisely toward each person. When the round of greetings and brief responses ended, Nobuko felt a hazy emptiness—something between disappointment and unexpectedness. Among those present, there was not a single person she could find appealing at first glance. Though differing in specialties and appearances, they all seemed like dependable sorts—people endlessly occupied with both material and mental matters, perpetually driven by something, exuding an air of relentless urgency. These qualities, along with their parched attire, were uniformly shared by all without exception. Nobuko removed her coat onto a nearby chair.

The school conversation that had once been interrupted, along with the rumors about international students, soon revived. A certain person spoke kindly to Nobuko. She answered amiably each time. However, her heart grew strangely heavy. Nobuko found the cramped, stifling atmosphere of the life contained within this room somehow oppressive and impossible to grow accustomed to. Despite having come all this way into new landscapes and human lives, Nobuko felt terror at the plight of these international students—who neither saw nor heard anything, who even among friends could only discuss coursework, assignments, busyness, or gossip that would stir no interest in outsiders.

The feeling of being bound did not leave Nobuko even after she moved to the downstairs hall.

In the corner of the hall, Sasa sat comfortably in an armchair in high spirits, chattering away about something. Leaning against a pillar near the curtain by the entrance with his arms crossed, the man who had earlier guided her upstairs was talking to another man seated in a chair. On the lap of the man sitting in the chair was curled a single black-and-white mottled cat, unusual for such a setting. This man had a relaxed air as he stroked the cat’s back repeatedly while speaking. The domestic scene made her feel pleasantly at ease. Nobuko tried to ask Nakanishi—the late-arriving beautiful woman sitting beside her who spoke in an emotionally charged voice—the name of that man.

Then, the man from earlier awkwardly maneuvered his large, bony frame over and stood next to the table directly in front of her. He made a gesture as though brushing dust from the edge of the table, then in a low voice,

“Good evening—”

he began a greeting that resembled an opening address. Several faces around turned toward the voice. The bustle throughout the hall quieted. Someone shifted a chair on the densely patterned parquet floor.—A deliberate cough sounded.…… The man, keeping his eyes downcast, expressed perfunctory satisfaction at the gathering of many people, concluded with Dr. Matsuda’s words of welcome and introduction, and took his seat. Dr. Matsuda was a kind-looking, middle-aged to elderly man. He stood up from his seat and began discussing his observations on American paintings from the perspective of art's regional characteristics in a conversational manner.

He spoke in a slightly hoarse and flat voice, proceeding matter-of-factly. Nobuko's interest soon began to wane. As she listened to the lecture, she started comparing the faces of the men lined up across from her. Most men had twisted their heads toward the professor standing on the hall's right side, so from Nobuko's position only the left halves of numerous faces were visible. Glossy-skinned faces with swollen upper eyelids and commonplace features; complexions darkened by coarse pores that suggested foul breath; those with smooth, clammy skin stretched thinly from cheek to mouth—the way they crossed their legs or leaned back in chairs all seemed to reveal hidden aspects of character. Nobuko found this observation intriguing. A young man's face that had looked sharply intelligent when viewed head-on now appeared to expose dull weakness in profile—Nobuko suddenly felt faint unease about her own seldom-seen profile. One by one it came to the man sitting diagonally opposite her—a middle-aged man whose name and occupation she didn't know.

He settled deep into his chair, crossed his arms firmly across his chest—apparently out of habit—and sat with his head slightly bowed. While casting a glance that wouldn’t draw his notice, Nobuko felt a faint unease stir in the corner of her heart. In his profile was something none of the men she had observed until now possessed. With all other men, one could sense their features and builds shared the same density of vigor—that they were bundled together by the same flesh and blood concentrated in their chests—but with this man alone, there existed a strangely discordant mismatch between his broad-shouldered frame reminiscent of northern stock and the face perched atop it. When following the same intensity of gaze upward from his feet to his face, there abruptly emerged a complexity that made one’s vision falter—an unadorned quality, something sentimental, an impression of emotions not fully radiating outward but turning inward—all coalescing into shadows that pervaded his pale profile with its tightly drawn lower lip.

Nobuko’s gaze retreated once or twice. Her curiosity stirred toward that somber profile. What his face held was neither the cheerful confidence typical of accomplished men nor heroic valor. It was something shadow-like. It was close to darkness. Every time she looked, that shadow was the sort of thing that made her intensely want to know where it came from and what it was.

Dr. Matsuda’s talk ended. Around them arose more relaxed laughter and conversation than before. The door from the hallway opened, and ice cream and sugar sweets were brought in. Then the man who had piqued Nobuko’s curiosity stood up again. He proposed that since there were new faces present, they should go around introducing themselves in order. Nobuko, who detested such things, instinctively looked toward her father in the distance as if seeking salvation. Her father sat there cheerfully, a charming smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, appearing thoroughly pleased by the proposal.

“Well then—as the saying goes, let the proposer begin, so if I may be so bold, allow me to start.”

His full name was Tsukuda Ichirou. He was majoring in comparative linguistics at C University and was said to be studying ancient Indian and Iranian languages. His hometown was Ura Nihon, and alongside his research, he was helping with YMCA work. He, “As for matters I can assist with, I will do my utmost to consult with you, so please do not hesitate to speak your mind.”

he concluded. What kind of necessary emotional connection could there be between the study of ancient languages and such a practical YMCA job? Nobuko felt that something didn’t sit right with her. But his specialized topic gave her a vague sense of satisfaction. She thought she had sensed something bearing a temperamental connection between what showed on his face and his research. Those who stood up afterward were almost all majoring in politics, economics, sociology, law, and similar fields. The one holding the cat was Sawada, a person studying botany. The women also each briefly stated their aspirations and objectives. Nobuko, out of awkwardness, bluntly stated only, “I am Nobuko Sasa. ――Please treat me well,” she said and sat down. Faced with these people, she simply couldn’t muster the courage to confess that what she wanted was to know the vast depths of human life—to write at least one good novel before she died.

The father and daughter returned to the hotel a little before twelve.

As Nobuko, in her post-bath loungewear, fiddled with the finely crafted silver sealing wax tool she had bought that day—it being the fifth year of the European War, with daily Red Cross bazaars for battlefield relief dotted about the city— Nobuko had found that antiquated tool at one of those places—Sasa, having changed into his sleepwear, came and—

“Mr. Tsukuda will be coming tomorrow at nine in the morning, so be sure to remember,” he said. “Mr. Tsukuda—you mean the one from tonight?” “Hmm... I’m quite concerned about Nanba’s nephew—the one I was asked to look into—but I can’t manage it alone, so I thought I’d have that man lend me a hand.”

Sasa said roughly. “That man’s been here a good while—he should be able to find some lead.” “Unexpectedly—no, actually, he might very well know something like that.” “……Trying to find one man who’s been missing for years in a place this swarming with people—it’s no small feat!”

And then, “You should get to bed soon too.”

He briskly got into bed, looking every bit like someone relishing the prospect of sleep after exertion.

III

The next morning, Nobuko awoke as usual with restored energy and a refreshed spirit. The bedroom curtains were still closed. From the narrow gap in the curtains, a single quivering, slender golden thread-like beam of light pierced into the dim room, creating a small, blazing torch-like glimmer on the powder jar atop the dressing table.

With a calm heart, she threw off the covers and sat up. Nobuko craned her neck and gazed at the distant bed. Father had apparently risen first, and the bed was empty.

Nobuko looked at the clock by the pillow. It was half past nine. She suddenly remembered last night's promise.— She put on her robe and opened the window. It was another fine day. The sky was slightly hazy, and the morning sun shone warmly over the late October streets and buildings.

Nobuko washed her face, tied up her hair, and changed her clothes without particular haste. She went down to the hall in the same neat navy dress with a white silk collar as the night before.

The morning hall was tranquil and pristine, its marble columns and potted tropical plants standing in dust-free air. Nobuko looked around the sparsely populated hall. Near the entrance to the dining hall, Father and Tsukuda sat side by side talking. She went straight there. “Oh, you’re up.” She greeted her father good morning. And then, to Tsukuda who had drawn up a chair for her, “I must apologize for last night,” she said.

“I’m the one who should apologize. You must have been exhausted.” Sasa and Tsukuda quickly resumed their conversation. They decided to place an advertisement seeking Nanba Takeji in the Japanese-language newspaper and have Tsukuda investigate the city’s lodging registries.

As she listened to their conversation nearby, Nobuko felt that even though Tsukuda had come here, he still carried in his face and voice the atmosphere she had noticed the night before. Moreover, sitting face-to-face like this, he had a way of gathering her broad, drifting emotions and drawing them into some narrow place. What was this thing she felt being drawn to? It was clear that it was not something external. His clothing, in the clear morning light, did not appear any more stylish than it had the night before, nor was it of particularly fine quality. Rather, it looked rather shabby. As for his features, they were far from falling into the category of a handsome man—if anything, they were even gloomier than they had appeared under the lamplight. And yet, for some reason, he possessed something that stirred curiosity within Nobuko.—

When the conversation came to a pause, Sasa,

“How about joining us for some tea? — Actually, we’re about to have our meal.”

Sasa invited Tsukuda. Tsukuda initially declined but then took a seat at the table. Nobuko heard from him about the paths by which laborers from Japan became vagrants and stories of a certain gambling addict. Tsukuda was not a good conversationalist. He was not the type of man to initiate topics on his own. He said he needed to attend his class and soon excused himself to leave. Nobuko left the hotel with her father, who was heading downtown before eleven o’clock, and together they went to the subway station. There, they parted, and she alone walked to the museum.

Except for Saturdays and Sundays, the museum was hushed. To the right, there was a room filled exclusively with Rodin's works. In front of Rembrandt’s “Flower-Bearing Woman,” a man who appeared to be Italian was copying it. He bent his blouse-clad back with artistic fervor, earnestly comparing the original painting and his own canvas again and again as he painstakingly tried to capture the mysterious original’s splendid hues—but to Nobuko’s eyes, his canvas appeared as nothing but grotesque. In one area, there was a middle-aged woman meticulously copying a painting of an Arabian man brandishing a spear astride a leaping black horse—perhaps for use on a magazine cover—with lithograph-like precision. Nobuko had a light lunch at the café downstairs and wandered about.

Just as she was about to leave, she suddenly thought of something and turned back upstairs once more. After wandering for a while and asking an attendant, Nobuko entered an unoccupied exhibition room. It was a display room for ancient Persian artifacts and manuscripts.

Nobuko was astonished to learn that the silverwork with intricate arabesque patterns, carpets, and ceramics whose beauty lay in the unparalleled contrast between blue and black glazes—all of which she had broadly admired as Turkish-style artworks—were in fact creations of Iranian artisans. She felt a profound nostalgia and interest, especially toward the decorative tiles hanging on the broad wall at the far end upon entering. It depicted nobles at leisure—a cheerful composition where young aristocratic men and women conversed beneath spring trees in full bloom, while a maidservant approached from afar, her robe fluttering in the spring breeze as she offered a wine bottle. From the princess’s plump, rounded cheeks to her bold eyebrows to the style of her scarf-draped garments, it perfectly resembled the customs of the so-called Tenpyō period. But that was not all. From the charming shapes of flowers blooming profusely across the surface to the forms of trees and birds in flight, and even down to the familiar color schemes of yellow, purple, green, and blue glazes richly adorning them—all of it could not help but evoke memories of Nara-period art.

Nobuko felt her body grow hot. Her mind darted restlessly between Persia, China, and Japan in rapid association.—But Nobuko’s knowledge of Eastern art history was too meager to immediately discern proper connections among these three. With a gaze that still showed bewilderment and curiosity, she looked at the numerous picture scrolls in the glass cases. There were paintings of a large-headed king with disproportionately large eyes, wrapped in a headcloth and riding a palanquin, as well as hunting scenes. In the margins were characters that appeared to be records. Yet the characters—decorated in vermilion and gold, resembling patterns—were such that without the accompanying paintings, Nobuko could not even discern which end was up. She steadily descended the museum’s many stone steps, doubting in amazement whether Tsukuda could truly read such characters.

On Saturday, Nobuko went out with her father from the morning to visit an acquaintance in the suburbs.

They returned to the city after three o’clock, but as Sasa said he had business downtown until evening, Nobuko went back to the hotel alone first. When she started toward the elevator, someone called her name. When she turned around, a nimble, freckle-faced bellboy came running up and reported briskly. “There’s a guest.” “The guest has just arrived and is waiting over there.” Nobuko returned to the hall, wondering who it could be. When she looked, there in the same corner near the cafeteria entrance as yesterday morning was Tsukuda. His purpose became clear to her at once. The way he had staked out a particular spot as if designating it his own somehow made Nobuko sense his diligence. Nobuko greeted him with a relaxed demeanor.

“Good day—” “Father hasn’t returned yet, but might I be able to assist you?” Nobuko took a seat facing him. “As I’ve completed placing the newspaper advertisement you requested yesterday, I wished to deliver the receipt—” “Oh, thank you ever so much.”

Nobuko briefly looked at the slip of paper she had been handed and put it into her handbag. Tsukuda watched her hands as he spoke. “Additionally—this morning at Mills Hotel—the municipal lodging house we discussed—I went there to check, but I couldn’t find the name in the recent registries.” “...I requested the March registry and examined it thoroughly—” “Oh my, you needn’t go to such lengths all at once.”

Nobuko was surprised at how he found the time for such things. "My father is such a busybody that when he makes requests, he does so in a rushed flurry, but you can take your time and do it whenever you're free, you know." "No, it's no trouble. Since I had the entire afternoon free yesterday—please tell your father when he returns that the advertisement should appear in the newspaper the day after tomorrow. As for Mills, I'll go check there again within the next two or three days... since I have some leads."

“Please take care of it.” But somehow, she didn’t feel like getting up and saying goodbye just yet—Tsukuda, too, showed no sign of haste, nor any indication of reaching for his hat and gloves resting on the nearby side table. Nobuko, after a moment,

“The Iranian language you’re handling—it’s utterly mysterious, isn’t it? Yesterday when I went to the Metropolitan, I took a look—but I couldn’t tell at all which end was the head or the tail.” She said with a laugh. Tsukuda also shook his head and laughed. That smile was like ripples spreading across a tranquil lake. He,

“What kind did you see? A scroll or a stone rubbing?” he asked. “The scrolls in the glass cases—the ones with paintings. Do Persians still use characters like that today?” “The characters likely aren’t that different. As for the language itself, it has changed considerably since ancient times—though even the characters used in antiquity were different; they employed cuneiform script back then—”

Nobuko, drawn by interest, looked at Tsukuda’s face. "What kind of things did they write with such characters?" "Just records and things?"

“No!”

Tsukuda forcefully denied. “There are many epics and stories.—Though, in the much older days of that cuneiform era, it was mostly short records—like those of kings conquering other peoples—carved into things like rocks—”

As Nobuko became engrossed in the conversation, she began to speak without pretense, candidly. "So as the characters gradually grew more complex and increased in number, they became able to write various stories—that’s how it went, I suppose.—What kinds of stories were common... What sort of temperament do they reveal?" "In what they wrote—"

“Well…”

Tsukuda fell silent in thought. When he showed no sign of continuing, having kept Nobuko waiting with some impatience, he finally spoke. “Generally speaking, it tends toward pessimism.” “About humanity itself? Or resentment toward their historical circumstances?” “Their suffering stems largely from political oppression—that nation has endured subjugation by various peoples since antiquity.” “……” Nobuko asked about his field’s academic significance and research objectives. Comparative linguistics struck her as fascinating—a vital interdisciplinary pursuit intertwined with ethnic psychology, social structures, and civilizational cycles. Tsukuda obliged without complaint, answering her questions courteously though with occasional terseness. He produced a small notebook to demonstrate modern script specimens.

They talked for nearly two hours. Tsukuda soon stood up, saying he had a patient to visit. “Is the patient Japanese?”

“Yes, that’s right. “They’ve improved quite a bit, but since I make it a point to visit once every week, they’re probably waiting.” Around that time, a malignant flu was spreading, having pervaded nearly the entire world. In New York City as well, countless patients died every day, their brains or hearts attacked. Even rumors that German submarines had come to the coasts of the United States and spread germs were something Nobuko had read about in the newspapers. She said to Tsukuda with a laugh.

“Visiting patients is all well and good, but just don’t go catching it yourself.”

Then, Tsukuda said with unexpected seriousness.

“I will probably be fine—I received various preventive injections three or four months ago.” “Oh, why?” “The Y.M.C.A. had me get them when I’d fully prepared to go to France. Typhus and scarlet fever.—So I likely won’t catch them.”

He said gravely while picking up an old-fashioned bowler hat—reminiscent of a seasoned scholar—from the table.

“Moreover, the course of such illnesses differs depending on one’s state of mind.”

She wanted to ask why he had decided to go to the battlefield.

Without giving Nobuko any explanation, Tsukuda politely took his leave and disappeared into the crowd with an awkward gait.

Nobuko returned to her room. The closed space held both the gentle slanting afternoon light and a stifling oppressive warmth. She opened the window wide. Then removing her hat and coat with the intention of resting first, she lay down on the sofa. Her hands clasped beneath her head. Under them lay layered cushions pressed soft and comfortable against her skin. The sofa's high armrest cast a gentle shadow over her eyes from where she lay. Warmth... Absolute silence in the room save for faint city murmurs drifting through the open window—just enough to notice without disturbance... The calmness soothed her nerves until drowsiness crept in. Yet she didn't sleep. With entranced eyes open, she gazed at the white ceiling where aged afternoon light—devoid of brilliance—played across its surface and at the wallpaper's subdued twig pattern—thinking. For Tsukuda's antiquated black bowler hat still lingered in Nobuko's mind......

Meeting Tsukuda and talking with him held genuine interest for Nobuko. Since beginning her travels, she hadn't encountered such conversational opportunities until meeting him. Hearing new details about his specialized research intrigued her—Nobuko reflected. Why did he leave such a peculiar impression? He obstinately kept wearing that antiquated bowler hat—the sort favored by elderly Jewish gentlemen—as though rebelling against modern trends. This hat-like distinctiveness—some lonely, unsatisfied quality—pulled at Nobuko's heartstrings. Could sympathy arise from his circumstances—persisting with impoverished research despite advancing age? Or did her own vigorous sense of vitality paradoxically attract her to his shadowy existence?—Nobuko flipped onto her stomach across the sofa and kept ruminating.

IV

Two or three days later, Tsukuda came bringing a report from his investigation of the employment agency.

No trace of Nanba Takeji could be found anywhere. Sasa, further relying on Tsukuda’s connections, requested that similar advertisements be placed in Japanese-language newspapers published across major cities in the central region. Tsukuda made frequent trips to the hotel for these consultations. He also brought and lent out the C University course catalog that Nobuko had casually mentioned.

On the evening Tsukuda came visiting with that printed material, Nobuko was in the downstairs hall with her father and a guest. Nobuko was not enjoying her father and his guest’s conversation in the slightest. The elderly guest, at times staring at Nobuko’s face for long intervals as though she were still a girl of about ten, continued speaking of iron—a topic utterly unrelated to her.

Just then, Tsukuda appeared at the edge of the hall with his coat draped over his arm, hat in hand, and a gloomy expression. She welcomed him animatedly. Sasa introduced Tsukuda and the elderly guest named Togo. With his natural affability, Sasa kept trying to provide topics common to both guests. Tsukuda also responded with polite demeanor and words to Sasa’s remarks and Togo’s somewhat paternal questions. But to Nobuko, it was clear that Tsukuda was not in the least genuinely enjoying the conversation. That he was entertaining them as if it were merely a social obligation dissatisfied her. Gradually, that silent pressure became unbearable. Without even having time to consider whether she needed to dwell on Tsukuda’s attitude or not, she rose from her seat. And to her father and Togo,

“Excuse me for a moment.” After excusing herself, she turned to Tsukuda— “Won’t you come over here? You’ve brought the catalog, haven’t you?” —and invited him to the adjacent table. Tsukuda pulled out a C University catalog of considerable thickness from his coat pocket and drew a chair closer to Nobuko’s side. A gentle light poured down from the tall guest room lamp behind them—its shade iridescent—onto their small table. She flipped through the catalog, and whenever she found an interesting lecture title, she asked about its reputation.

“Oh, here’s yours!” “Professor, what strange names they all have.”

“Ah, those are Persians.” “There’s also a Syrian instructor… You’ll find one named Yohanan around there.” “—What countries are the students from?” “A bit further ahead… There are only two students now—myself and…”

Nobuko turned the page. Indeed, there were only two students. Tsukuda and a Mrs. Flora Sidney. “That woman has been studying for quite a long time now. Her husband is also at C University, I hear. She says she wants to write her thesis, but since Dr. Fossett is in poor health and she can’t make progress as she’d like, she often gets angry—” “Is Dr. Fossett already elderly?” “Well—he’s about fifty-six or seven, I suppose. He drinks too much whiskey and smokes too much, so he sometimes collapses.”

The question that had arisen when she first met him for the third time resurfaced in Nobuko’s mind. She asked. “Does Dr. Fossett value you highly?” At the blunt question, Tsukuda seemed to hesitate for a moment. He hesitated briefly once more before answering unclearly. “I don’t know if you could say he values me particularly highly. Dr. Fossett is a fair man—but there are so few of us, and hardly anyone takes such courses—so I suppose he thinks I’m at least persevering without growing bored.”

“You mentioned before that you tried to go to France, didn’t you?... What did the professor say at the time?”

Nobuko, while listening, looked straight at Tsukuda’s face, “That was good—he told you to go right away?”

he said—though her tone had been nearly interrogatory—when he abruptly made an awkward face and apologized. “I apologize for asking so many questions, but...”

Tsukuda answered without any apparent offense, rather with a flatness that Nobuko found anticlimactic.

“Dr. Fossett didn’t say anything particular.” “Since he knows once I decide something, I won’t listen back—”

And he, in a manner that suggested he believed it was genuine kindness, “His wife was so delighted that she went out of her way to give me something she’d knitted from yarn,” he added.

“…………” To Nobuko, the professor’s wife’s encouragement struck her as typical of a run-of-the-mill patriotic woman and felt grating. Was there truly no one around him who would speak to him with genuine concern at times like these? “Did your friends agree too?”

He blocked Nobuko as though recoiling. “I’m not one to talk much about myself, so...”

“That may be so.” Nobuko felt a fierce dissatisfaction toward him and his surroundings.

“————”

She restrained the words she had been about to blurt out and shifted the conversation to a different focus. “The other day, when you told me about that matter, I found it rather strange—there wasn’t any compulsory obligation involved, was there?” “That is not the case,” he said. “Because I thought doing only what I liked during such times was too self-indulgent, I resolved to do it—thinking that if it could be of even a little help to those who were suffering.”

Tsukuda’s eyes took on a stubbornly confident look. Nobuko stared back at those eyes with her own clouded by thought, resting both arms on the open C University prospectus as she replied slowly. “Is persisting in your specialty self-indulgent…? It’s not mere dilettantism, is it?” “What you’re doing—” “If it’s truly your own work, I wouldn’t call it self-indulgent…” “But…when the whole world suffers…”

“I think it’s permissible not to abandon my vocation as long as circumstances allow.” “After all, isn’t racing about battlefields hardly the sole means of serving humanity?” “However prolonged or violent wars become, they’re merely temporary tempests. We ought to—nay must—fix our gaze ahead and press onward.” Nobuko reasoned that had Tsukuda genuinely believed in his convictions, her argument would not have rendered him speechless. She awaited Tsukuda’s response. But he—

“Hmm.” He groaned and said nothing. “Of course, if you had given up on your specialty entirely—if you came to believe that what you were doing held no meaning whatsoever for the present or the future…”

Nobuko said this as her second probe. She wondered if this had managed to touch upon the motive hidden deep within Tsukuda’s heart. Then he dodged the question that had come straight at him and muttered to himself in an extremely sentimental tone.

“Either way, I am an ascetic monk exactly as per Dr. Fossett’s nickname.” “I’ll likely end up being a lifelong burden on the university library.”

Nobuko looked at Tsukuda with a face that seemed both bewildered and surprised. He claims he’ll be a lifelong burden on the library, but hasn’t he failed to find even a glimmer of light or joy in that idea? He even looked sorrowful! He even seemed to be sighing as if lamenting an inescapable fate. If that’s the case, then he should behave honestly like someone cheerful and eager in pursuit of happiness—yet he closes himself off. Why can he remain so composed while placing himself within such a great contradiction? Why doesn’t he firmly settle himself in one place, bathe in ample sunlight, breathe in ample air, and try to live like a human being?

Nobuko’s youthful emotions surged toward Tsukuda with a blend of confusion, bitterness, and pity.

Nobuko, for the first time, understood that the ever-present expression on his face—a look that seemed to declare something was missing, that a wind was blowing through his soul—was likely this bizarre tangle of refracted light governing his entire existence.

Sunk into the armchair and feeling various emotions, Nobuko began sensing a peculiar excitement—oppressively heavy yet restlessly impatient—as she watched Tsukuda’s earnest face. She found herself unable to calmly watch Tsukuda live that way.

V

With November's arrival, the city had fully transformed into an early winter landscape.

In the morning, when she looked out from the hotel window at the roof across the way, she could see steam rising from thawed frost. Office workers and laborers alike all chose to walk along the sunlit side of the same pavement glittering with midday brightness. The afternoons grew short, and dusk turned gray with desolation. On late-night returns from the theater, a bitter wind that made one instinctively raise coat collars and hunch shoulders swept violently through the streets. Since summer, the end of the European War that had begun in 1914 had been drawing visibly nearer.

On the afternoon of November 7th，Nobuko was holed up in the hotel since morning—a rare occurrence. She took a bath，delighting in the bright midday light. She then meticulously wrote a long letter to her mother. After finishing lunch and returning to her room again，she circled around the table where the thick envelope—now needing only a stamp—lay，and began pacing idly about. It was still before two o'clock. On her way back from the dining room，she had forgotten to buy stamps. If she had to go downstairs anyway，maybe she should take a short walk since she hadn’t gone out at all this morning. But where?

Nobuko opened the window and looked down at the street below as if searching for some kind of impetus. The afternoon sunlight illuminated the front of the building with its closed windows, making the thick metal shop signs along the eaves gleam dustily. Under the red-and-white striped awning of the sidewalk, a woman in vividly colored clothing walked by, her shoe buckles glinting. The glass door of the pharmacy opened, reflecting the sunlight. Two men came out from inside. One of them put something into the mailbox directly across from the window where Nobuko was watching. The other man nearby clicked his heels, but soon they set off together and meticulously rounded the corner, disappearing into the side street. At the sight of their retreating figures turning sharply as if swaying their hips, Nobuko found herself laughing involuntarily. The air was warm, dry, and light, with the scent of gasoline drifting pleasantly through the leafless treetops along the avenue. Nobuko was drawn by the lively smell of the street. She closed the window and went to the bedroom. And she put on her hat, donned her coat, and was just about to pick up the letter to be sent when—

Nobuko heard an unusual sound. From somewhere far away came a single siren—sudden, sharp, dragging a long tail of sound—then all at once deep sirens groaned and quivered everywhere. It felt like a forest of noise rising up. The air shook with booming waves. Mingling with these came other sirens shrieking like screams, chasing one after another. Nobuko involuntarily clenched the letter and froze at the room's center. What on earth was happening?! She instinctively threw open the window and peered out. Bang-bang—windows everywhere flew open with matching violence. In that instant, Broadway below struck her as unnaturally flat and small. The sun hung where it always had. Cars kept moving. Yet through the booms and shrieks, the noise kept screaming something urgent.

Nobuko left the window and opened the door to the corridor to look. Here too, doors were being opened and closed. In front of the room ahead, a woman still in her gaudy housecoat was walking around wringing her hands and shouting something hysterically. Nobuko decided that even that woman would do—she wanted to ask what had happened—and started walking toward where she saw people moving. Then, buzzing, buzzing, the elevator ascended at full speed. With a clatter, the screen door opened. From inside, a bellboy in a gold-buttoned uniform leaned his upper body into the corridor, pressed one hand holding a megaphone to the side of his mouth, and shouted in a deep, low voice as if angry.

“Germany surrenders! Unconditional surrender!”

The screen door was slammed shut again with enough force to smash the shouting man’s head. Buzz, buzz—the elevator whirred upward even higher.

Nobuko couldn’t believe her ears. "Unconditional surrender... Germany surrenders..."

Nobuko felt her knees shaking. She looked out the window again to verify reality. Had everything truly transformed this drastically in mere minutes?! Unnoticed until now, an enormous American flag now hung above the hotel's main entrance. From the pharmacy opposite and every window lining its upper floors, flags of varied sizes burst into motion all at once—fluttering frantically as if compelled by some urgent passion—their ripples intensifying with fervent energy. The sirens' wails tangled together and swelled louder. Nobuko's eyes stung with overwhelmed emotion. Down the avenues raced countless automobiles—all streaming flags, all crammed with people—charging toward downtown! Downtown! Vehicles jostled for precedence in their headlong rush. Bang! Bang! Bang! Through it all came sporadic firecracker detonations.

Nobuko sat down on the settee. And yet, had this bloody business of slaughter truly ended forever?

Nobuko stood up again with a thrilling yet aching restlessness that she feared might not be taken seriously. In her agitation, she left the room, leaving behind on the desk the letter she had been about to send. To the streets, to the streets!

6

As Nobuko—who could hardly wait for the elevator doors to open—rushed in, a tall man in a black coat brushed past her, stepping out into the corridor with equal haste. But upon seeing Nobuko enter, "Oh!" He stopped and stepped back into the elevator. Distracted by her excitement, Nobuko looked up at the man's face—to her surprise, it was Hirano, one of Sasa's close friends. Nobuko tightly grasped Hirano's hand. "To our place?"

“Is he not in?” “Yes.—I thought I’d just step out around here for a moment.” “I see.—Well, let’s go down to the lobby either way.” Hirano waved to signal the elevator operator. “Still, walking alone now isn’t wise.” “Yes.” “Just nearby.” “Even nearby.—The whole world’s gone mad, you know.” In the eerily vacant lobby, bellboys—trapped at their posts—watched them with feverish eyes.

“What should we do? — If we go out while he’s away, won’t your father be worried?”

“I was going to ask the front desk to leave a message, but…” “Telling you to stay put is a bit unreasonable, I suppose.” Hirano looked at Nobuko with glittering eyes and laughed shortly. “Well, since I’m feeling restless anyway, let’s go together for a bit to see how downtown looks.”

He entrusted Nobuko’s key to the front desk and left his notebook there as well.

“There we go—all set!” “And—” “Tonight, as thanks, we simply must have your father treat us to a proper feast, won’t we?”

The already jam-packed elevated train crammed more throngs of passengers at every stop as it neared downtown. "Hey, how’s this for a crush!"

“Oink!”

Among the passengers, someone imitated a pig’s squeal. A roar of laughter.

“Excuse me, are you Japanese?” There was a wrinkled old man who, hooking a finger on the brim of his fedora that had been nearly knocked off in the jostling, called out to Hirano.

“Yes.” “Ahem.”

The old man, overly excited, kept clearing his throat and spoke while straining his thin, quivering voice with effort. “Truly, this attainment of peace—ahem—is something we citizens of the Allied Nations cannot help but share in the jubilation over.”

Hirano smiled and, “No, truly, it’s most welcome. After all, we’ve waited such a long time for this.” he replied. The old man heard this and nodded with apparent satisfaction, still continuing to clear his throat. The elevated train in festive uproar went as far as Recta Street. Descending the station’s iron stairs—where trampled extra editions made it impossible to see their feet—and emerging onto the street, Nobuko was overwhelmed by the chaos and tightly gripped Hirano’s arm. Huge soot-stained office buildings loomed on either side like iron cages crushed by relentless work. Thousands of windows faced the avenue like hearts bursting open all at once, left gaping wide. That alone was already a rare spectacle. From those hollow windows, five-colored paper tapes were spewed out, tangled and hanging down. The crowd of men and women meandered through, trampling yellow stenography paper and ticker tape resembling torn string—scraps that until a minute ago had signified money through some connection—singing, laughing, waving flags. There were no windows in the office buildings where any human figures could be seen.

At a certain corner, a streetcar had been abandoned in the middle of the roadway. Even the driver was nowhere to be seen. On the yellow roof that looked strangely powerless, two street children danced to a whistled tune. A hastily assembled band came along playing the national anthem. Amid the human tide,

“Come on, grab a flag to celebrate! How about one? Five cents! Five cents! Get one for keepsakes!” A man ran his shrewd business waving small flags of various countries in both hands. For Nobuko to break ahead alone or cut across the street was utterly impossible. With one hand hoisting a small flag high and the other gripping Hirano’s arm, her petite frame was jostled forward until her nose nearly pressed against the coat back of the person ahead.

They found themselves at the intersection of Wall Street and Broadway. The massive crowds that had surged in like a tide from three directions now swirled around the dust-covered Washington statue at the plaza’s center, unable to move in any direction. In front of a building with pitch-black, filthy columns—exactly what one would expect in the fierce commercial battleground of downtown—a man was giving a speech. Separated by layers upon layers of crowds, his voice did not reach Nobuko at all. Only hands moved in frenzied gestures and a balding forehead could barely be glimpsed. That very absence seemed to embody the extraordinary excitement filling heaven and earth, giving Nobuko an oddly sorrowful impression. Here, a beggar clung to the handle of a mechanical organ, grinding out a teeth-on-edge waltz. In time with it, young men and women—not even wearing hats—were dancing violently.

Every last face was flushed and grotesque. Among both men and women, not a single person could be found wearing a cheerful, earnest, beautiful expression that seemed to welcome the joyous peace. They were uniformly bestial. They fixed their glaring eyes, their mouths bearing drunken half-smiles and spasms of insatiable craving for intense stimulation. It no longer mattered whether the cause of their excitement was the joy of armistice or a declaration of war. What they desired was simply a frenzy that turned daily life upside down. To be intoxicated with self-oblivion! —And forward! Forward! And they were consumed—shoving with their bellies, jabbing with their shoulders. The momentarily stalled human tide began to move slowly again. The barbaric force that had detonated civilization was blatantly closing in from all sides, and Nobuko grew terrified.

“Can’t we get out somewhere? I want to go home.”

“Please wait— T-t-t-t, it’s all this commotion, you see.” “Now’s the chance! Quickly!”

The moment they finally slipped through to the opposite sidewalk, a roar of shouts erupted from the side street on the right. “What? A fight?” Hirano stretched up to look while bumping his face against the brim of the man’s hat in front of him. “They’ve brought out something grand—they’re carrying a straw effigy of the Kaiser!” With great effort, Nobuko peered through the crowd. Indeed, atop a tall pole, a Kaiser made of old Western clothes and cardboard was being carried in, its familiar mustache tilting. On its chest hung a placard that read: “Go to hell!” Those carrying it skillfully raised and lowered the pole. As they did so, the Kaiser made sorrowfully comical gestures. Amid roaring cheers, the effigy was carried with heave-hos to the center of the intersection.

“Burn it!” “Get yourself to Paris already!” “Burn militarism!” Flushed and frenzied, they screamed in piercing sopranos that stung like parched tongues.

“Devil! Give us back our children!”

From somewhere arose a nervous, stifled sobbing. The Kaiser’s straw effigy made increasingly foolish gestures above thousands of faces. A second roar of shouts erupted throughout the plaza. Nobuko saw flames rising hazily. Fire raced across the Kaiser’s plaid tatters. The mechanical organ struck up the national anthem. A thin blue smoke rose quietly into the transparent, slightly languid sky of an early winter afternoon. A faintly acrid odor drifted through the air.

7

Nobuko returned to the hotel about three hours later with a feeling mingled even with an unfulfilled sadness.

She met Sasa, who had just returned, in the lobby. His cheerfulness was so guileless that no bystander could take offense. He indeed called out in the cheerful mood brought on by champagne. “What’s the matter! Thanks to you, I got to see quite a spectacle—splendid indeed. It’s truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! Just look at this—if we’d landed even a month later, we’d have missed out on such a magnificent historical spectacle for the rest of our lives. What an opportunity! It’s all thanks to Mr. Hirano—”

Sasa, in an eager, rapid voice still charged with excitement, recounted the time he had heard the steam whistle during a luncheon at a certain businessmen’s club.

“Well—it was a scene of everyone rising to their feet.” “After all, they were representatives of the Allied Nations—suddenly giving speeches and toasting for Japan—it wasn’t a bad feeling at all.” “And you?” “Were you at the office?” “Back then—” “What a farce—I ended up stranded on a bus roof and jumped off here.”

Around the time when Hirano and the three of them went to the cafeteria, rumors began circulating among the elaborately dressed crowds here and there that today's armistice report had been a mistake. The evening edition had declared that Washington authorities had not yet received any such official bulletin. Yet as night deepened, the city's commotion swelled heedless of such announcements. Nobuko went out to view the night scenery after dinner. Near 42nd Street, where automobiles could no longer move forward or backward, they took to walking.

Under the arc lights unfolded human frenzy more vividly colored than daylight’s. A staggering drunk young woman strode through the crowd, using a short stick to flip up the hat of a man walking ahead. The man flustered. The women shrugged their shoulders, collided with companions, and collapsed into laughter. A soldier in uniform—thoroughly drunk—forced his way against the crowd’s flow. Swaying unsteadily, he shook his wobbling neck and brusquely peered at passing women’s faces. But suddenly lurching noisily, he lunged headlong at a large-framed woman standing directly before Nobuko. The woman screamed and struck his face. He groaned, muttered something, then glared wide-eyed—assuming a terrifying expression as he prepared to leap at her again. On the jam-packed sidewalk, she found no room to dodge left or right. Black shadows scattered chaotically; a man shouted angrily. Startled, Nobuko yanked her father’s arm with all her strength and hid behind a lamppost.

“Let’s go back now! Come on!” “No! I can’t bear this chaos—” “Rather resembles a night parade of demons.”

Nobuko heard the all-night foot traffic and drunken men's loud voices beneath her window.

The next morning’s newspaper revealed that the previous day’s report had been entirely erroneous. The true report was supposed to be transmitted via wireless telegraph from the battlefield by the early morning of the 11th. However, the general public did not doubt the armistice report they had received on the 7th. They remarked with a touch of sarcasm, “The government always speaks after the facts,” and such.

On the early morning of the 11th, while still in bed, Nobuko was awakened by her father and heard the sirens announcing the official conclusion of the armistice treaty. Shaking the cold mist-laden air, the mingled sirens reached her sleepily dazed ears. The sound of the sirens was solemn and calm, having lost that passionate fervor with which they had suddenly blasted toward the sky on the afternoon of the 7th. Nobuko's state of mind mirrored this. With a practical disposition that had lost its emotional freshness, she listened halfway through and, before they ceased, fell deeply asleep again.

On the 13th, the revised armistice treaty was made public. Next, President Wilson’s statement regarding his plan to travel to France for the peace conference became a topic of heated debate.

Nobuko felt an almost visceral ferment of the human spirit.

The winter of 1918 was spring in the hearts of the people. Human society attempted to regain what it had lost with new substance and conviction. Society, having settled its final reckoning with the past, appeared as if an enthusiasm—to deeply doubt, vigorously build, and at least make the world a more livable, rational place—had surged forth with unprecedented reality.

Nobuko felt that stimulus in her own heart. A new light flashed on the horizon. What effect would that light have on her own life?……

The search for Nanba Takeji, who had initially brought Tsukuda into the lives of Sasa and his daughter, ultimately ended in failure in its own right. Yet before anyone knew it, Tsukuda had become an intimate of theirs and remained afterward. Being well-acquainted with the locale and offering many small conveniences, Sasa continued entrusting him with various small tasks. With these errands as his pretext, Tsukuda came and went from the hotel nearly every other day. There were frequent occasions when Sasa was absent. He would chat with Nobuko while awaiting her father's return. As these encounters multiplied, Nobuko gradually came to know even the minutest details of Tsukuda's circumstances. Tsukuda had lost his birth mother shortly after being born, been raised by a second mother, and upon barely turning twenty, crossed to America under the auspices of a certain missionary. For roughly fifteen years thereafter, he had sustained himself through work while pursuing his studies. His seemingly stalwart resistance to life's adversities; his stoic, if faintly embittered, disdain for societal pleasures that remained beyond reach both financially and temporally—these traits found their psychological origins laid bare when one heard his personal history. But could Tsukuda's spirit truly have been so robust, so serenely anchored through stoic resolve?

Tsukuda visited the father and daughter with increasing frequency, talking with Nobuko for three or even four hours without tiring. Gradually, she sensed him revealing what he innately sought through these conversations. For Tsukuda, who seemed so solitary, the awareness that she provided some measure of comfort was not an unpleasant sensation for Nobuko as a young woman. To ask favors of him—and for him to receive such requests—these interactions carried not the dryness of logistical coordination, but fragments of human warmth tinged with unspoken sentiment.

The time for Sasa’s return to Japan was gradually approaching. Nobuko had to determine how to arrange her life should she remain behind alone. What she had considered a simple matter turned out not to be something she could readily decide when confronted with it. It became a subject that arose between father and daughter during evenings. “I myself won’t stay more than another month here at most—if you don’t settle into a proper household somewhere, I can’t just cast you out like one might a boy.”

“That’s right. I’d have been much better off born a boy.” “Ha ha ha! If you and your mother kept saying that together, it’d be nothing but trouble.—……Would you dislike being looked after at Dr. Chetwode’s?” “Well…” Dr. Chetwode was a professor in C University’s art department who specialized in Japanese nishiki-e and similar works. He and Sasa were indeed old acquaintances— Nobuko recalled the elderly woman’s stern, meddlesome expression as she sat wrapped in a white lace shawl, passionately engaged in political debates.

“I’m at my wit’s end.”

“Hmm.”

Sasa also seemed to have no other leads. And so, without fail, it would end like this.

“If only you were going to England—it’d be no trouble at all. Mrs. Layman would handle everything like you were her grandchild.” “Mrs. Layman—that old lady who often sends letters in that amusing handwriting—do you know her?” “When I was there, I often showed her the letters you sent, so even now she keeps asking, ‘How’s Little Nobu?’…” Nobuko was struggling to select a place to settle for yet another reason. Even coming to New York with her father had been primarily motivated by her desire to obtain the opportunity to live as she wished. In the Sasa household, Nobuko was the eldest daughter. There was the looming possibility of her strong-willed mother Takeyo secretly molding her into an idol of grand ambitions, and there were constraints as a daughter of a middle-class family that prevented Nobuko from plunging into life as boldly as she desired. If things continue like this, I’ll have lived barely half a life. The awareness that her life had not yet begun had continued to torment her for at least the past three years. (Nobuko was then nineteen years and several months old by Western reckoning.) Father was traveling. You may come along as well. Whatever discussions her parents may have had between themselves, whatever intentions may have guided their decision—for Nobuko, simply being able to live apart from her parents’ home was itself a monumental matter.

After the Armistice Proclamation on November 11th, whether for better or worse, the epoch-making societal clamor came knocking at the hotel windows, reaching even Nobuko’s heart.

I too want to cast off this existence I’ve lived until now—neither cold nor hot, like a plant confined within shelter. To achieve that wish, choosing an environment where she would place herself for the coming six months or year proved difficult for Nobuko.

After visiting Nakanishi, who was renting an apartment near the university and observing the circumstances, Nobuko finally resolved to enter the dormitory affiliated with C University following Dr. Chetwode’s advice. Yasukawa was also at that dormitory. “It’s merely for experience—that suffices.” “If I grow weary of staying there after some time, I’ll devise a solution then, so it’s acceptable.” “According to Ms. Yasukawa, they permit activities like attending plays at night provided one gives proper notice beforehand, so I believe it’s suitable.” “However, they say one cannot enter unless enrolled as an auditor.”

“That would be acceptable.”

“I’ll… go see for myself within two or three days and decide.” “...Is it all right to have Mr. Tsukuda come?” “If he’s free, asking him shouldn’t be a problem.”

It was a warm, sunny Monday when Nobuko went with Tsukuda to the registration office at C University. Mingling with the students, they completed their registration while moving back and forth along the sidewalk planted with ginkgo trees. Young female students walked briskly, their hair tousled by the wind as they carried books. Nobuko,

“I’ve started to feel a bit excited somehow,” she said to Tsukuda, who walked beside her. “After all, school is wonderful, isn’t it? Isn’t it funny? When I come to a place like this, I feel like I want to study really hard.” Tsukuda tilted only his bowler-hatted head toward the petite Nobuko, walking with his chest puffed out like a man who had undergone military training as he politely replied, “You should certainly do so.”

Nobuko burst out laughing.

“Someone like me who’s so pleasure-seeking could never study like Ms. Yasukawa.” “It’s just that I’m interested in all sorts of things—you’re the one who should apply yourself properly. What now?”

“It’s a translation of sutras. “Something like incantations used by ancient Zoroastrians…” “Is it interesting?” “Well…” “Just reference material?—Is this your first time translating it?” “A Frenchman translated it long ago, but it’s riddled with errors. “So that’s what I’m working on now…”

On the withered lawn beside the building that housed Dr. Fossett’s laboratory, a squirrel was playing leisurely. C University was located in the city center, yet here and there across its campus could be seen broad lawns, tree-lined paths, and even a fountain adorned with a bronze statue of a faun.

They emerged from C University’s main gate onto Broadway. The 116th Street subway station immediately came into view. “What would you like to do? Are you returning to the hotel right away?” “I suppose so.” As Nobuko looked out over the city bathed in late autumn sunshine, she became acutely aware of the hotel room’s crampedness in her mind. “Aren’t you busy? If it’s any trouble, I’ll just stroll straight back on my own—please feel free. …Thank you very much.”

“No, since I’m free this afternoon after all.” Tsukuda said hurriedly, as if to catch up to her. “Then—have you ever been to Riverside Park?”

“No.” “Then I’ll escort you to the hotel through the park.”

VIII They crossed the roadway and emerged onto another wide, polished path beyond, where a thicket of shrubs bordered the sidewalk. A walkway designed like a garden path threaded through the plantings. They slowly descended side by side along it. From the promenade edging the park’s lawns, the Hudson River spread out before them in a single sweeping view.

The Hudson River flowed, warmed by the entrancing winter sun. The broad water surface—heavy yet smooth—shone with a pearlescent luster. Where the river met the sea in its vast course, everything lay shrouded in haze. On the distant opposite shore, winter-bare sparse woods blurred into pale russet as a lone gull-like bird soared without companions. The faint aquatic scent filled Nobuko with nostalgic yet invigorating joy. “...It’s quiet here.” “This is when fewest people come out.” Keeping the river constantly visible to their right, they walked toward downtown.

“Even though it was close to both the school and the hotel, I had no idea at all.” “There was such a lovely place here!” “I’m so glad to have more walking spots!”

Along the way, there were inviting patches of lawn and shrubbery here and there. “This park is so compact and lovely, isn’t it?”

Then Tsukuda interjected nervously, "It would be best not to walk alone around here too often," he said.

“Is that so? Even during the day?” “Because there are unsavory characters around here.” “Ah, I suppose that’s true.” Nobuko understood the intent behind Tsukuda’s warning and answered straightforwardly.

“I’ll be careful about that—but…… Japanese people should be all right, don’t you think?” Tsukuda looked even more doubtful, with profound significance, “Well…”

he hesitated to reply. “Well, you’ll come to understand gradually.” Tsukuda’s answer—implying he had sufficient grounds but was refraining out of propriety—aroused Nobuko’s curiosity. After walking in silence for a while, she asked. “Do you know much about the Japanese people here?” “I believe I do.”

As Nobuko was about to continue speaking, Tsukuda cut her off, “They’re mostly wolves, I’d say.”

he declared curtly.

Nobuko involuntarily smiled. "Wolves"—

She returned to her room with the lighthearted feeling one has after a moderate walk. With habitual nonchalance, she turned the key to the right as usual. Click—a strange resistance met her fingertips, but the door didn’t open. Nobuko bent down and looked at the keyhole. Then, just to be sure, she tried turning the handle. The door opened easily from the inside. The lock hadn’t been engaged. Could it be that a maid had come to clean?—

Nobuko, suspicious, entered the parlor and looked around. Then, Sasa's utterly unexpected voice called out to her from inside the bedroom.

“Nobuko?”

Nobuko felt struck by the shock of her refreshingly carefree mood vanishing in an instant. Sasa had left the inn at nine o'clock that morning with her and Tsukuda, all three together. He wasn't supposed to return until evening. Nobuko hurried over. "What's wrong?" Sasa was half-sitting up on the bed, his face pale. He saw Nobuko and tried to summon his usual bright, warm smile. But he must have been feeling quite unwell—the smile faded midway. Recognizing the anxiety in her father's eyes, Nobuko too became filled with uneasy worry. She began to feel guilty for having idled away her time strolling through the park in good spirits, even though she hadn't known about his condition.

“When did you get back?” She sat down on the edge of the bed and took her father’s hand. “I came back about thirty minutes ago.” “Suddenly. “I’m not feeling well at all—this terrible headache—and I think I’m running a fever.” “Let me see.” Nobuko touched her father’s forehead to check. It was quite hot. “Are you feeling chills?”

“While at Shokin, I started feeling chills—thought something was off—so I hurried back by automobile.” Sasa cut off his words and made a face as if contemplating his condition. After a moment, he muttered to himself in a tone that strained to pass it off as a joke. “Is it influenza?… Finally caught me, has it?” Nobuko felt as though her heart had turned cold. She, too, had remembered it the moment she heard her father’s voice in the bedroom and shuddered.

The malignant influenza that had been prevalent since autumn was still raging. While most epidemics should see their virulence diminish as they near their end, this year’s influenza was the opposite. There were many new patients and many deaths. With earnest composure, Nobuko,

“That might be the case.” “But since you noticed it early—you’ll be fine! Stay strong!”

And then, with the resolute cheerfulness of someone who had abruptly become a mother, "I'm a good nurse, so please rest assured and leave everything to me." While saying this, she deftly removed her outer garments.

Sasa seemed to have been waiting impatiently for Nobuko’s return; he followed her every movement with his eyes as she went to the next room to take off her coat, then returned to wash her hands.

“Was it there? I thought it might be in the large trunk again and searched, but couldn’t find it.”

While saying such things, he loosened his sleepwear himself and had Nobuko place the thermometer under his arm.

It was 38.9 degrees. “How high is it?” Nobuko shook the thermometer to lower the mercury.

“It’s nothing serious… If your mouth gets dry, shall I call for ice water?”

After a while, Nobuko said, "I'll have Dr. Sawamura come over. Okay?" “...Very well.” Sasa seemed to have kept up his spirits until he saw Nobuko’s face. When his mind relaxed, even speaking seemed laborious. He laid his flushed face on the two stacked feather pillows and occasionally let out deep breaths.

For nearly an hour until the doctor arrived—alone with the patient—Nobuko felt an indescribable sense of isolation. How utterly unrelated the life of this metropolis and their very survival turned out to be when it came down to it. The cold indifference of the surroundings struck Nobuko’s heart.

IX

Sasa’s illness was diagnosed as being in the early stages of the currently prevalent malignant influenza, just as Nobuko had surmised. Dr. Sawamura spoke in the accustomed tone of a family physician. “But there’s absolutely no need for you to worry.” “Only very mild symptoms have appeared so far, and after all, with this sort of illness, recovery depends on the patient’s usual state of health.” “Your nutrition is good, you have no chronic illnesses—you’ll be completely recovered within ten days.”

Sasa said that since the hotel was inconvenient, it would be fine to be hospitalized. Dr. Sawamura gazed at Nobuko standing by the bed while, “Since there seems to be an excellent nurse here, it might actually be best for you not to move now.” “Of course, it would be more profitable for me if you had me come to your house—ha ha ha!”

he laughed. The only one who handled the pharmacist’s errands or went to retrieve medicine from Sawamura was Tsukuda. Nobuko called him. Tsukuda soon appeared carrying a bundle of medical supplies. He assisted Nobuko and comported himself with the confidence of one who understood his role. Sasa drank only a small amount of grape liquid at night. Tsukuda and Nobuko went to the dining hall, but the sight of resplendently dressed people chatting and glittering tables now seemed to have completely lost its power to reach her heart. Tsukuda,

“It would be best if you did not worry too much.” He comforted Nobuko.

“I’ve often seen people in far worse condition—no, that’s not it. Just from how terribly bloodshot his eyes are, you can tell immediately, so please truly don’t worry—he’ll be fine.” Over four days, Sasa’s condition gradually worsened. By the third day, even Nobuko—merely observing at his bedside—found it hard to breathe easily, so severe was the patient’s suffering. There was hardly any coughing; only a fever fluctuating around forty degrees and violent headaches assailed him. Every joint in his body ached until he could no longer even turn over in bed by himself. Yet Sasa did not utter a single word of pain to his daughter and kept trying to endure it. That endurance born of paternal affection instead weighed down upon Nobuko’s very soul. Father had always been sickly. Nobuko understood all too well that had her mother been there, things would never have been resolved so simply. Moreover, he was not an emotionally insensitive person. In a foreign hotel, he had contracted an unrelenting illness. How could anyone claim that dark imaginings had never once brushed across his mind? Nobuko herself was often tormented by those ominous thoughts. Thus when she gazed at her father—who seemed to be restraining his sentiment—and at his sleeping face as he eventually drifted off, it struck her heart all the more poignantly.

Tsukuda’s time spent in Sasa’s hotel room had come to occupy more of his day than the hours he spent anywhere else. He first came in the morning and did all the necessary shopping. He assisted with changing compresses. When he had time at the university, he would leave briefly, then return at three or four o’clock—or sometimes even earlier. And he usually stayed until night. There were times when he would sit silently for long periods on either side of the patient’s bed. He would sometimes tiptoe away from the soundly sleeping patient to the next room and drink tea mostly in silence. At such times, even if there was a rustling or swishing noise, Nobuko—her nerves on edge—would startle and prick up her ears. Tsukuda seemed to immediately sense her state of mind; he rose from his seat, tiptoed to the dividing curtain, and peered through it at the patient. While quietly closing the curtain back into place, he shook his head. Nobuko nodded upon confirming the patient remained peacefully asleep... Tsukuda had become such a necessary presence in their lives that she felt no strangeness at his spending such long hours with them. When Tsukuda lingered too long idling, the patient would worry,

“I must say this is causing you terrible inconvenience.” “Since I’m feeling much better today, please don’t hold back… Nobuko, that’s fine, isn’t it?” There were times when he would say such things.

However, Tsukuda answered calmly.

“If I’m busy, I’ll excuse myself on my own accord, so you needn’t trouble yourself over it. Maintaining mental calm is what matters most.”

Around the sixth day, little by little but without relapse, the patient’s fever began to subside. The doctor percussed the chest and examined the tongue,

“Now, this time you’ll certainly be all right,” he declared firmly. “You’ve splendidly passed the critical phase—now it’s just a matter of recovery…” While occasionally stealing curious glances at Tsukuda standing by the wardrobe, he continued: “Your current condition is akin to a mild case of measles. If you let your guard down thinking it’s over, it could relapse and land you in serious trouble. New York’s winds are notorious, so from now on…”

When Sasa made his way to the sofa in the next room for the first time in over ten days, Nobuko was so happy, “Hurray! Hurray!” she cried as she darted around the room.

while shouting, she darted around the room.

"Look, Father! I made quite a good nurse, didn't I?" "There, there." Sasa seized Nobuko's hand and made her sit beside him. "Now then, you may write to your mother."

How happy she was. She felt relieved. Tears of overwhelming emotion streamed down Nobuko’s cheeks. Laughing and crying through tears, she wildly buried her head under her father’s arm.

Sasa progressed laboriously through his recovery period. There were days when his temperature wouldn’t return to normal even after two or three minutes, and at times the severe headaches still recurred. On the first day, Sasa mustered the energy to come out to the next room, but from the following day onward, he only rose to go to the washroom and then spent the entire day bedridden once more. However, in any case, the terrible time passed.

Various people began to come and go around his sickbed. There was laughter. Tea things were carried in. Nobuko felt a kind of freshness and irony from the return of daily life—seeing how the world, which had distanced itself and fallen silent during those times filled with terror, anxiety, and necessity, now quietly reappeared as if nothing had happened.

Lately, the morning cold was quite severe. Nobuko, perhaps due to accumulated fatigue, found it difficult to get out of bed every morning. Even though she should have slept sufficiently, upon waking she still felt her muscles lax, her back clinging to the bed as if glued, which made it difficult to rise. There were times when she lingered until nearly noon. On one such morning, Nobuko gathered her courage and left her bed a little past seven o'clock. She absolutely had to get to B College by nine o'clock. The day before, a postcard had come from Professor Lawrence, who was instructing the students. Fifteen days prior, she had submitted notices to audit English literature and sociology classes, but they had been left unattended due to her father’s illness. It was a notice saying he wanted to discuss those details in person and that she should come.

Nobuko wrapped her sleep-deprived, strangely chilled body in her coat and left having only had coffee and an egg.

It was commuting hours, and at the underground train station, men and women clutching newspapers and briefcases gathered in a crowd. Nobuko boarded the express train that had just arrived. From the hotel, it was supposed to take less than twenty minutes to reach the university. She got off at 116th Street. While puzzling over how the platform’s layout differed slightly from when she had gotten off with Tsukuda before, she passed through the ticket gate and emerged onto the street. Glancing at the street, Nobuko was at a loss. The street was undoubtedly 116th Street, but it was certainly not Broadway. Far from being able to see C University’s buildings from the station plaza, the structures lining both sides of the street were all warehouse-like. The people who had been spewed out from underground along with her briskly and indifferently vanished around the corner, leaving behind only men in striped trousers, black jackets, and hunting caps or laborers in work clothes plodding along sparsely on the grimy morning sidewalk littered with old newspapers.

Nobuko made up her mind and began walking determinedly uptown. The school was on 120th Street. If she retraced this street back to 120th Street, there should be a side street connecting to Broadway either on the right or left. After walking exhaustively, she finally encountered a traffic police officer. And then she discovered she had taken the wrong train and ended up far east of Broadway. Professor Lawrence, who had apparently visited Japan before, laughed with deep sympathy at Nobuko’s story of getting lost. The matter was his recommendation that it would be beneficial to convert some of the time she had allocated to English literature into free composition. For this purpose, she was introduced to a woman named Miss Pratt.

10 Professor Lawrence recalled tales of Nikko and Kamakura—including the folklore of Hidari Jingoro’s sleeping cat that supposedly mewed—and spoke of legends like one from a certain temple in Rome where mural angels were said to appear at the bedside of dying parishioners. Nobuko’s head began to ache as the talk went on. It was different from an ordinary headache—a sensation as if a metal band were being tightened around her head from forehead to occiput. Intermittently, when the tightening grew stronger, even moving her eyeballs became painful. Her eyeballs hardened, and it hurt when she tried to move them—that was the sensation she felt.

Because the room temperature was unnaturally high, Nobuko—ordinarily healthy—at first thought she was merely flushed. Thinking a walk might improve her circulation, she went outside and began walking along the sunlit sidewalk toward the hotel. Though it was a balmy December noon, Nobuko found herself racked by unbearable chills. A tremor ran through her body from the spine outward, every stimulus—from automobile horns blaring to the unyielding pavement beneath her thin-soled shoes—pounding into her skull with merciless intensity. The first struggle was simply to keep her eyes properly open. Had she not feared collapsing in public, she would have buried her head in any dark corner and slept at once... In this frail, tearful state, she boarded a streetcar at some nameless intersection. The yellow-painted car advanced lazily through sunlight, lurching forward only to stop again—clatter-clatter—noisily halting at every block. On the cold rattan seat, eyes shut tight against the swaying motion, Nobuko barely suppressed waves of nausea rising with each jolt. She returned to the hotel room half-conscious.

In the bedroom, Sasa was sitting up, leaning against the pillow. Tsukuda was also there; he stood in front of the wall, talking about something.

Nobuko, without looking at either of them, “I’m back.”

“I’m back,” she said. After taking off her hat, she tossed it down near the foot of her father’s bed and

“I feel so unwell I can’t bear it.”

she pleaded. When she saw her father’s face, the urge to cry welled up within her. Sasa, who had been chatting cheerfully, was truly startled by Nobuko’s tearful voice. “What’s wrong?” Sasa placed his hand on Nobuko’s chin and turned her face toward him. “What a terrible color your face is! “Are you cold?” “Huh?” “What?” “Are you in pain? That won’t do—go rest immediately. Here, lie down right in this room.” Nobuko did not answer but remained sullen, her eyes glaring sharply as she scrutinized Tsukuda’s attire. She, without any pretense,

“Are you going horseback riding?” she asked.

Tsukuda wore only his suit jacket over a khaki-colored coarse-woven shirt and knee-high boots. Seemingly startled by Nobuko’s question, “Ah, this is Y.M.C.A. attire,” he replied curtly. “You should rest… It must be exhaustion.” “Surely… because he was worried.” With his assistance, Nobuko removed her coat. “Now—come lie down here,” Father shifted toward the adjacent bed and threw back its coverlet.

“I’d rather go over there.”

Nobuko, supported by Tsukuda, dragged her feet to her own bedroom and closed the door. “Ah, could you please tell her not to lock the door?”

Father’s voice called out. How cold her nightclothes were! How icy cold they were! Cold—so cold—so bitterly cold that Nobuko chattered her teeth and curled herself into the smallest possible shape. Her head felt as heavy as stone—oh, if only someone would stroke it! If only someone would cover her more warmly—how wonderfully comforting that would feel!……

No one would help, and there was nothing but this flimsy covering... Cold... Like a drenched rabbit. Truly a drenched rabbit. Nobuko pressed her face against the pillow like a child. "Mother... Mother..."

Nobuko gradually grew dazed as tears streamed from the corners of her eyes.

Nobuko abruptly came to her senses. It was now night all around. The electric lights blazed fiercely, revealing her father standing there in traditional Japanese clothes with a troubled expression. Dazzled by the light, she tossed restlessly in bed, anxious that her father might still be overexerting himself. She tried to voice this concern but found herself voiceless. When she attempted to turn over again, her head went numb as if she'd plunged from a hundred-foot height. Chaos engulfed her once more. The chills subsided only to be replaced by raging fever and violent convulsions.

Her body twitched, twitched, and arched back with a strangely surging, irresistible force. Her entire body convulsed. Each time, Nobuko let out a sad, broken cry. She wanted to firmly grasp something and control this painful, exhausting impulse. But there was no solidity anywhere. Both inside and outside her head were engulfed in a swirling vortex of light, as if surrounded by flashes. The sea of light ceaselessly swayed, flashed, raced about—restless. It was bright, so bright it hurt.

“I’m exhausted… Let me sleep.” “Let me sleep.”

She continued muttering deliriously while convulsing repeatedly. Her consciousness flickered between lucidity and darkness. Around two in the morning, an utterly distraught Nobuko was carried from the hotel to the hospital. In the automobile, she briefly regained awareness. She comprehended she was being taken to the hospital. But who held her like this, cushioning her head? She forced open her gritty, aching eyes and peered intently through the gloom. It was Tsukuda. When he noticed her opened eyes, he spoke while gently rocking her body on his knees as one would soothe a child.

“Is it painful?” “Please hold on a little longer.” “You’ll feel relief soon.” “Any moment now…”

Nobuko had all her clothes changed in the hospital room at midnight. Tsukuda entered just as the night nurse was leaving. He stroked Nobuko’s forehead while,

“Now that we’re here, you can rest easy… Rest well without worry,” he said. “It’s all right—I’m here with you.”

Wanting desperately to sleep soundly and escape her suffering through slumber, Nobuko closed her eyes. When she was about to fall asleep, convulsions seized her. Her body twitched. Each time, she moaned in the same way as before.

"Let me sleep... Let me sleep..."

“Oh, you can sleep now. Go on and rest.”

Nobuko eventually drifted into sleep despite it all. Every joint in her body melted away, and her mind seemed drawn into some dark, distant yet comfortable place. She let her disheveled head fall onto the pillow and nearly began to snore. With a peculiar sensation, she half-woke. Something touched her face. Suddenly, softly and lingeringly, lips were pressed against hers. Every nerve awoke electrified. Tsukuda’s presence burned itself back into her awareness. Feeling a new shudder course through her body even as consciousness slipped away again, Nobuko wrapped both arms around Tsukuda’s neck and crushed her lips against his.

Someone touched Nobuko’s arm.

“It’s morning now.” And she made Nobuko’s arm release from Tsukuda.

“I’ll stay with you this time. This gentleman needs his rest as well, you see.”

Her arm fell limply onto the pillow. Nobuko looked at the nurse with fever-clouded eyes that refused to focus. She sensed cold gray dawn light streaming into the room. Nobuko reflexively murmured.

“So—it’s morning.”

She couldn’t tell whether she had slept at all or not, and felt utterly exhausted, as though her body and mind had been battered all night by relentless waves. "I’m sleepy… unbearably sleepy." “There, there—such a good young lady you are. You must get some rest now.” Nobuko flashed a faint, twisted smile. Tsukuda’s voice came. “—Well then, I’ll come again. Is there anything you need me to bring?” Battling the sensation of being dragged into heavy sleep, Nobuko barely managed to gather her focus.

“Then bring the box—the blue leather one—with a comb and such inside.” “And… give my regards to Father.” A single round pill was administered to her. Tsukuda was already gone. As expected, at some unknown time, she was made to swallow two spoonfuls of cocoa so bitter it made her want to vomit.

Nobuko was abruptly roused by hushed voices quarreling at the doorway.

It was dim around her—whether evening had come or not, she couldn’t tell. In the dimness, a harsh tone resounded.

“Please refrain from speaking.” “That is my own affair.” “I have been expressly permitted by her father to come and go here.” “Yes, I am fully aware of that.” “You may enter the room, but you must refrain from addressing the patient.” “It is absolutely necessary for her nerves to rest.”

Tsukuda entered. Looking down at Nobuko on the bed, he said at last as any ordinary person would, "How are you feeling?" he said.

“Oh! Please don’t!” Nobuko felt embarrassed by his oddly insistent manner toward the nurse and took no pleasure in being questioned. She muttered in her aching head, as if she might cry. “Why does that person keep speaking?”

When she remained silent, Tsukuda pressed his question again insistently. “How are you feeling?” Nobuko did not answer and reproached him sorrowfully. “Why must you keep speaking?” Nervous tears suddenly filled her eyes. Nobuko fell asleep while feeling utterly dejected.

II

I

The dormitory’s dining hall was at the top of the eighth floor. The room expanded deeper inward as the building’s wing projected outward. Dinner was underway. Dozens of tables covered with white cloths were surrounded by a great number of girls sitting around them. A murmur of voices shimmering like heat haze, laughter, and the clinking of dishes resounded through the air. From where Nobuko sat, one of the doors leading to the main kitchen was visible. The door constantly opened and closed. Each time a waitress carrying a serving tray kicked it with her toe while entering or exiting, glimpses flashed into view—kitchen staff and cooking stoves with large pots. A warm breeze from the kitchen wafted in.

Nobuko's table was set for eight. But there were always only seven people there. She was especially looking forward to meeting Yasukawa tonight. When she saw Sakiko’s face, Ah! I'm so hungry! she had been chatting nonchalantly about this and that, enjoying how it dispelled the gloom that had weighed on her since morning. However, when Sakiko saw Nobuko enter a moment late, she properly crossed her arms below her chest, lightly tilted her head, and as she would with her foreign friends—

“Good evening.—How are you?”

she offered a formal greeting according to custom. Despite her hunger, Nobuko began eating her tasteless dinner.

That morning, Nobuko attended a lecture on nineteenth-century English literary history from ten to eleven o'clock. When the time ended, she hurried to Avery Hall. It was a library and research room related to art, architecture, and similar subjects. A few days after moving into the dormitory, Nobuko had happened to come to this building to visit Yasukawa. Yasukawa had been researching the traditional stylization long used in Japanese artistic patterns here, but it was the secluded quiet and the building’s compact layout that appealed to Nobuko. While the grand library was magnificent, its interior—resembling a parliament—had been terribly hard to settle into. Nobuko decided that from the next day she would come to read and write. Tsukuda also came here.

Nobuko, as she did every morning, felt a quickened pulse as she approached a desk screened off from the passageway by a large partition. Tsukuda had already left for his lecture. On the desk lay his familiar black leather briefcase he had left behind. Nobuko understood he intended to return here later. She began reading the novel. When she had read a few pages, a woman's light footsteps stopped outside the partition.

“Oh—so this is where you were.”

Nobuko looked up in surprise. Tamako stood there wearing a hat and coat that were entirely black, her face with its beautiful skin standing out even more. “Well, you found me! There—”

Nobuko took Nakanishi’s hands and had her sit next to her. “When did you get back?” “Last night, after eleven.” They exchanged glances and spontaneously smiled. “How was it?”

Tamako had been visiting her fiancé in Boston for about a week. “It was lovely there—so quiet compared to here. The inn felt comfortable too, calm and settled…” “Are you alright?” “Thank you, I’m perfectly fine.” Tamako’s face—still glowing from the cold outdoor air—shone with fresh delight as she spoke in her characteristically open manner. “And I’m truly glad I went. He’s just begun this marvelous research project—apparently it’ll be quite significant once completed, though he says it’s terribly demanding.” “So he told me my visit gave him great encouragement…”

Soon, with glistening eyes, she gazed at Nobuko as if caressing her from straight ahead, "How have things been since then... with you two...?" she asked.

“…………” Nobuko gave a complicated smile that hovered between wryness and awkwardness as she lowered her head. “Oh, it’s much the same as usual.” “What about today? Is he coming?” “He seems to have gone to his lecture now—oh, let’s have lunch together, all three of us—it’s been ages… don’t you think?” “Thank you—but—what time? Now…” Tamako glanced at her wristwatch. “I can’t today—I must go to Brentano’s now. More importantly, I came with an important message.” “Do you have any plans this Saturday?”

It seemed that Yokoo and Higuchi—young men Tamako had grown close to recently—wanted to invite her and Nobuko to the opera. They were also in the same club as Tsukuda, and Nobuko occasionally spoke with them. “Let me see.” “It’s ‘Samson and Delilah,’ they say—” When she heard the title of the piece, Nobuko wanted to go see it. However, Saturday night was when anyone would want to spend it in a particularly lively way—but what would Tsukuda do? Just as she was hesitating to reply, feeling it would be inconsiderate to leave him alone like that, Tsukuda entered. Nobuko waited impatiently for the exchange of greetings to conclude, then told Tsukuda about the invitation she had just received.

“What are you going to do—I’d like to go for a little while, but…”

Ignoring Tamako and Nobuko, who were talking while standing, Tsukuda sat down in a chair. When he had listened to Nobuko’s words to the end, he seemed displeased and— “I’m not invited, of course?” he retorted. Tamako looked at Nobuko in surprise.

“This time it’s just me... I thought it might be a problem if you had other plans, so I had Ms. Nakanishi wait.” Tsukuda, without looking at the two, shifted his bowler hat to one side and began arranging books and notes on the desk while saying,

“You may reply as you see fit.” During her four months of interactions with Tsukuda, Nobuko had frequently heard such words from him. She still felt the same fresh pain as when she first heard them, “...Wouldn’t it be better if we both had our way?” she said. “You may respond according to your own judgment.—But...” “Oh, never mind.”

“Do you truly comprehend gentlemen like Mr. Yokoo and Mr. Higuchi so thoroughly?”

Because even Tamako had been drawn into this awkward position, Nobuko was filled with an aching sadness. She contorted her expression and remained silent for a moment before whispering resolutely to Tamako. "I'll back out this time... "It's such a kind offer, but... even if I decline, will you still go?" "I'll be fine on my end." Tamako, with her perceptive ease, placed a hand on Nobuko's shoulder as if to encourage her and said. "Well, that might be better. A place like that—even he could go there, you know." "I'll make sure to let them know."

They walked together to the entrance. “Please let them think I have a prior engagement.”

“Let’s do that—” As she walked, Tamako suddenly said in a feminine, pleasant whisper, “Mr. Tsukuda is jealous, isn’t he? But that just shows how strong his love is—you’re fortunate, you know.” Nobuko looked unconvinced. Then, with a warmth and insistence befitting an upperclassman, “It’s true,” she pretended to glare.

Nobuko returned to her desk. Tsukuda neither looked at her nor opened his mouth. Nobuko was by nature unable to endure such unnaturalness for long. She, “Hey.” she called out. Tsukuda raised his face.

“What is it?” “In situations like this, you should clearly state your feelings—since we’re consulting each other.” “Was I wrong to tell you to do as you think best?” “That’s not it... But this way nothing gets settled, don’t you see? It’s wrong to tell me with words to do as I please while your demeanor makes it impossible for me to act freely. Since we’re consulting each other, I intend to fully honor your feelings.”

Tsukuda remained silent but looked up at Nobuko obliquely with a gaze tinged more with the whites of his eyes and spoke as if lodging a complaint.

“You know you have no right to tell me not to go, don’t you?” When Nobuko, teary-eyed, remained silent, he suddenly muttered in a low, hurried voice, as if agitated and heated.

“You can go if you want, you can go if you want. You needn’t worry yourself about someone like me at all.” “It’s not because I want to go that I’m saying this—and this sort of thing will keep happening from now on…”

Just as she was about to speak, five or six students entered. They each took their seats at the large desks—mostly empty at both front and back. Nobuko had no choice but to fall silent.

Just like that, starting at two o'clock in the afternoon, Nobuko set out for Miss Pratt's place.

Miss Pratt was a large-framed woman who carried a certain Dutch-like solidity about her. When she said "Yes," it wasn’t in the hasty nasal tone typical of New York women, but pronounced slowly, deliberately elongating the space between each syllable. In the peaceful atmosphere of the female teacher who lived with her mother and boarders, Nobuko always found domestic comfort.

Last Tuesday, the conversation turned to the dormitory. Nobuko found that no matter how many days passed, there remained an aspect of dormitory life she couldn’t temperamentally acclimate to. For one thing, there were too many people.

Nobuko said half in jest,

“It’s exactly like a beehive. And since everyone’s a queen bee…”

Nobuko laughed. Miss Pratt tilted her head with its thick chestnut hair and pondered,

“Please come to my place from Thursday afternoon onward; a change of scenery would do you good. Let’s have a chat.”

she said. Because of that promise, Nobuko went out, leaving her unresolved feelings with Tsukuda as they were.

When she knocked on the apartment door, Miss Pratt’s mother came to answer.

“Good day.”

“Ah, good day.” “Welcome.”

The old woman amiably guided Nobuko into the hall. And, with a doubtful look in her honest blue eyes, she asked in a subdued whisper. “Now, unfortunately, there’s another student here for lessons. What is your business?” Having a free afternoon and thinking she had been invited, Nobuko was somewhat taken aback.

“Today is Thursday, isn’t it?” “Yes, indeed…” “In that case, I’m terribly sorry to trouble you, but could you please inform Miss Pratt that I’ve come? If it’s inconvenient, then I can come back another time.”

Just as they passed each other, Miss Pratt came hurrying out wearing a Japanese haori. She greeted Nobuko without giving her a chance to speak and ushered her into her parlor. “It’s already been about thirty minutes—forgive my rudeness—but you would wait for me, wouldn’t you?” She peered at the bookshelf. And took out a copy of Austen’s paperback and handed it to Nobuko. “Please read this for now.” “Well then, excuse me for just a moment.” From the two large windows in Miss Pratt’s room, part of the vacant lot on the university grounds and the side of the university president’s residence could be seen. On the sofa and bed were neatly arranged chintz fabrics and small quilts, serving as calm, tidy decorations for the room. Nobuko sat in the rocking chair and began to read the book she had been given.

Before long, voices bidding farewell in the hallway, and the rustle of Miss Pratt’s clothes approaching.

Just as the conversation between them was finally beginning to gain momentum, another student arrived for lessons. Miss Pratt seemed to have planned this from the start; after saying a few words to Nobuko, she left for the parlor. *She would have to wait a full hour more—*

Nobuko began meandering about the room. In the vacant lot beyond stood a large tree withered by winter. At its crown—resembling an inverted broom thrust skyward—a single bright red oval leaf clung inexplicably, fluttering faintly. Before the clear February azure sky, it appeared beautiful like a drop of freshly fallen blood. Gazing at this scene, Nobuko suddenly became aware of finding herself in an absurdly awkward situation. Miss Pratt was conducting her lessons in that self-absorbed manner. Yet here I sat in this parlor where I had no wish to stay—hat removed, coat taken off—dazedly waiting as though obeying some unspoken command. What reason could I possibly have for being here? Nobuko let out an involuntary chuckle. But truly—why am I here at all?

Though I am her student, isn't it odd that she would summon me here only to leave me alone repeatedly like this? If it was meant as kindness to give me a different room, why hadn't she said beforehand—"I'm busy, but if you want to do something alone"—? Normally, Miss Pratt was a very attentive person. When she thought of that, Nobuko began to feel increasingly uneasy. She crossed her arms and stood stiffly, looking down at her discarded coat and hat as though posing a question.…

Now that she thought of it, there was indeed something that came to mind.

It had been about ten days prior. After the lesson, Miss Pratt—from whom had she heard it?— "You’ve been constantly with Mr. Tsukuda lately, I hear?" "Is that so?" Miss Pratt asked. Nobuko answered that she was. "It seems Mr. Tsukuda was also exceedingly kind to Ms. Takasaki in the past and did all sorts of things together with her."

Sensing something suggestive in Miss Pratt’s manner of speaking, Nobuko answered simply.

“That’s what I was told—I heard it from him.” “When he was at a university out west—there was some unpleasant incident involving a woman—well, let’s say something that tarnished his dignity as a gentleman—I happened to hear such a story recently.” “Oh, that story? About how a policeman misunderstood a woman he was talking to somewhere at night and did something…”

Miss Pratt said,

“Did Mr. Tsukuda tell you?” she said with a hint of surprise. “Yes, I heard—but why did there have to be a need to tell you such rumors about others?” Nobuko said, showing mild displeasure.

“I believe one cannot take rumors at face value—there are people who carelessly embellish facts without responsibility.”

“Indeed it is! I certainly don’t believe all of it!”

Miss Pratt casually changed the subject. But perhaps that impulse to broach the topic had shaped today’s peculiar invitation—one that seemed to say, “Stay in the room quietly by yourself and think—you must have something to tell me”—wasn’t it? When this realization struck, Nobuko felt irritated by Miss Pratt’s shrewdness in discerning her childish susceptibility to suggestion. Even without all this, she had never meant to conceal her dealings with Tsukuda from Miss Pratt. When the right time came, she would surely confide everything first to the Miss Pratt she respected so deeply. But never on such coerced terms as these. Nor would it be as some heart-to-heart between equals—the sort where Miss Pratt seemed to secretly expect being consulted for advice on what ought to be done—.

Nobuko made up her mind. "No matter what happens today, I will not be the one to bring up Tsukuda." Even if I were to rush over tomorrow morning and tell her everything—today, I absolutely will not! Never!

Nobuko waited until Miss Pratt had finished and arrived. Then they went for a walk together in Morningside. Miss Pratt seemed to have discerned Nobuko's feelings and did not mention the plan that might have existed within her. Only once or twice, on occasions that seemed purely coincidental, did Tsukuda's name come up.

Two

That day was, so to speak, one where shadows of mood overlapped by chance. But if that were the case, would there ever be a day without anything unpleasant? While her body had entered the dormitory as a solitary student, Nobuko’s inner life did not proceed as simply as that of a typical female student, for her deep connection with Tsukuda had already taken root in her heart. Among the students, there were plenty who had lovers or fiancés yet lived in the dormitory. The Maison de Plantin across from the dormitory was not only favored by students who slept in but also became especially lively at night thanks to such people. They would chatter cheerfully with their visiting lovers and, on Saturdays, amuse themselves by dancing. Friends would make each other’s lovers into friends as well, form a group, and some would merrily go out to evening parties.

One time, Yasukawa said, “Japanese people are indeed still inferior because we lack sufficient social training.” “The students here even consult their friends’ opinions when choosing someone they like.” “You’d be ashamed to even befriend a man your friends would ridicule!” Yasukawa said. Yasukawa had a strong admiration for foreign things. And so Nobuko, whose feelings often rebelled against such notions, at that moment too, “So thoroughly Republican, huh?” she laughed. “My approach is different—I like myself, so I like him.” “And that’s fine with me.”

Even so, Nobuko and Tsukuda’s romance seemed to possess an unparalleled darkness and poignancy that set it apart from the relationships around her. On the night they visited the hospital, Tsukuda kissed Nobuko as she lay half-dazed. She took this as his passionate confession and responded in kind. For him, it had become impossible to return to their former emotional footing after that—and Nobuko found herself equally incapable—leaving them both growing increasingly unable to stop thinking of each other. ...Is love always accompanied by such feelings of turmoil, anxiety, and sorrow?

The certainty that she had gained someone she both loved and was loved by initially gave Nobuko a deep sense of calm and hope. For Tsukuda, however, this was not the case. And as their emotional intensity grew, his ceaseless inner anxiety mounted. It could not help but infect Nobuko as well. The peaceful yet noble radiance that should have let them feel greater vitality through mutual love and supporting each other was not easily granted to them.

Tsukuda was a lover who lacked confidence.

One evening about twenty days ago, Nobuko was invited to dinner by several friends. They were people from companies and public offices that Tsukuda did not know. In addition to Nobuko, many other women also attended.

The next day, Tsukuda became abnormally nervous.

“You—are you displeased because of where I went last night?”

Then, Tsukuda glanced at Nobuko from under his eyebrows and said.

“Do you think there’s some reason for that?” “There! There! That’s where the trick lies!” Nobuko shook her finger in mock admonishment at Tsukuda. Then she said, “Since this will keep happening from now on, please do understand properly… all right? “I truly do care for you—I love you. “That’s precisely why I hold this conviction: that I can feel secure with anyone. You understand, don’t you? “This is how I feel. “I already have my guardian spirit. “When you truly cherish someone, you can’t possibly become self-indulgent. “And above all—it’s our mutual shame that we can’t calmly handle even such trifling matters!”

Tsukuda, avoiding Nobuko’s direct gaze, muttered without relenting. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you.” “I know you have sincere feelings for me.” “But—you trust people too easily.” “People in this world are never what they seem on the surface.” “How can you mingle with others so carelessly… That’s what worries me.” “If people can’t be trusted, then how could I possibly trust you like this?”

If he believed she wasn’t fickle, then what was Tsukuda afraid of? Could it be from jealousy, as Tamako had said? As for that jealousy—if he could understand his own feelings, Nobuko thought painfully, it would be needless. She couldn’t meet people Tsukuda didn’t know or interact with them.—That was too stifling. Nobuko grew irritated at narrow-minded Tsukuda and, in resolute moments, would sometimes think she ought to act freely as she believed—without meticulously weighing his feelings at every turn. He should suffer as much as he needed to and learn how to process such feelings on his own. Feverishly, she reached almost the point of resolution. Yet even as she thought this, Nobuko’s heart suddenly yearned to cradle his head and smother him with kisses,

“Ah, it’s fine—just know that!” A passion as if to say just that flared up. Nobuko understood Tsukuda’s pain. He was tormented by being thirty-five years old, by his extreme poverty, by his lack of social standing, by his less-than-stellar reputation. Tormented by these things, he suffered from being drawn to Nobuko’s youthful ardor, suffered from his own lack of confidence, and must have been burdened by layers upon layers of anguish. Nobuko wanted somehow to ignite her own heart and enter into a dignified life together. For them, she understood the path ahead alone was bright. But how could Tsukuda find peace of mind and nurture these feelings they’d cultivated together with her in a sound manner?

As she thought this through, tears welled up in Nobuko’s eyes. Does he too believe acceptance requires marriage?

III

People all married. Men and women married. Marriage was carried out as one of life’s natural promises, just as humans had eyes and noses. Nobuko harbored something like a vague doubt regarding that. She understood the human longing for a home—the powerful desire of men and women in love to live together and be recognized as a pair. As for Tsukuda, Nobuko was not merely harboring medieval Platonic emotions. Someday, she and he would become one in body. Even then, she could fully perceive how much more convenient it would be if they were treated as a couple. However, when it came to marriage, a vague sense of oppression, constriction, mediocrity, and anxiety always assailed Nobuko. Why did people who married settle down as if they’d reached some goal in life and become so harmonized with society? Many men and women passed their entire lives as if guided by something other than themselves, before they even realized it. The thought of getting married and living out her life in such a way was repugnant to Nobuko. She had no desire to marry and have children, nor did she harbor any wish for her husband to achieve so-called success and have her be addressed as “Mrs. So-and-So.” Tsukuda had his work. I had my work. And economically too, Nobuko had no need to rely on him as a provider. The reason she wanted to live together with him, support each other, and move forward together was solely because, in a position where their love could be nurtured straight, they wanted to grow more abundantly, broadly, and courageously. For men and women who loved each other, was marriage truly the only path? Was love between men and women inherently such a constricting thing? In the end, the conviction that life could take some slightly different form would always arise strongly in Nobuko’s heart.

Tsukuda had never even uttered the word "marriage" from his own lips. But how he suffered! Seeing how he suffered, Nobuko could not help but sense something of what he truly sought. Because he did not permit himself the right to speak up proactively, all the more, the feelings of conflict within him weighed heavily on Nobuko with a painful sense of responsibility.

It was an evening when March was about to arrive in four or five days.

Nobuko was alone in her room. It was self-study hours, and the dormitory was at its quietest hour. Occasionally, there was only the sound of small shoe heels walking down the concrete corridor. Nobuko was sitting at her desk. The green-shaded reading lamp silently illuminated the white pages of the notebook and the leather spines of the books. Nobuko was transcribing a portion of *The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter* to take to Miss Pratt.

Stories had always been something she loved. Since it was work she had chosen herself, she was filled with enthusiasm—on some days so captivated by their fascination that she paid no heed to grammatical errors or outlandish turns of phrase, immersing herself completely. But tonight, she simply couldn't make progress. It was not only because the necessary expressions were absent from her meager vocabulary. The ardor needed to focus her mind until interest welled up was somehow lacking in her chest. That was how it felt.

Nobuko felt within herself a lack of tangible response—as though the shadow of her entire existence had abruptly thinned—whether she tried to think or attempt writing. Lonely—that was what she had become. Tsukuda was traveling on YMCA business to a certain city north of New York.

When she heard about this, Nobuko rather gladly agreed. “That’s fine—please go ahead.” “It’s good for us to be apart sometimes.” “My feelings might change—”

She thought it would be good both to reconsider her feelings and to give rest to her nerves, which were prone to overstimulation. On the first evening, Nobuko relaxed in her nightclothes early after dinner, comforted by the knowledge that no one would come to visit her in the downstairs hall. She tidied the clothes chest at her leisure, read books, and the pleasure of solitude after so long seemed to captivate her. Around nine o’clock, when she took a bath and prepared for bed, Nobuko felt the leisurely joy of idleness—something she had long forgotten—illuminating her body like the rising moon.

The next day—that is, today—was a day of leisure. Even so, out of habit, she went to Avery Hall a little after ten o’clock. And when she sat down at her usual table, Nobuko felt an indescribable sense of dissatisfaction surrounding her. The crisp air held a certain chill; the entire building, devoid of human footsteps, felt oppressively vast and hollow—so this was what emptiness felt like. Nobuko perceived all the things around her with an intensity that was strangely new.

Whenever the entrance door opened or she sensed someone approaching, her nerves grew intensely strained. Tsukuda was now hundreds of miles away and would not return for another two days. Despite being fully aware of that fact, in that moment, a 'what if?' feeling heightened her palpitations. The morning had stretched to the length of an entire day. In the end, Nobuko felt a wretched pain as her heart had lost too much of its freedom.

She left the library. She strolled through the park along the Hudson River and shopped on Broadway. And before she knew it, night had fallen…… Nobuko fought against her own feelings and, after finally copying just enough of *The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter* to serve as an hour’s task, hurriedly put away her notebook and dictionary. She stood up from her desk with vigor, as though anticipating something good. But—inside the small dormitory room, there was only herself. There was no one waiting for her to finish, nor anyone to turn to and say, “Ah, finally done!” The dressing table mirror brightly reflected the room’s white walls. Nobuko’s face took on the look of a lonely young animal. She crossed her arms restlessly over her head and stood before the window.

Through the pitch-black cold night, the protruding wing of the same dormitory's keyhole could be seen. Like pierced paper lanterns aglow, countless windows shone with light from within. Through one uncurtained window, across the icy air, glimpses of young women's heads and white blouse shoulders flickered. Every window seemed peaceful and warm, as if happiness unknown to others had alighted there. Nobuko suddenly felt an impulse—to seize any instrument, thrash it with all her strength, and smash this loneliness drowning her. She perched on the bed's edge and began humming a tune while tapping rhythm with her shoe tips. Is this my own voice? Was this wretched, quivering whisper mine?

She abruptly stopped singing and picked up a magazine. But soon Nobuko lost even that resistance. She knew it was futile to try distracting herself from this feeling. Nobuko knew she couldn't go on without Tsukuda. This desolation—as if the world had emptied out—made everything feel like mere time-killing until she could see him again. Whether walking streets or reading books, even the air grew strangely thin and suffocating. Who but Tsukuda could save her from this? Did he know she was here yearning like this, her heart aching?

Tsukuda’s face floated up before Nobuko’s eyes. Gradually, it grew larger. Tsukuda raised his familiar old-fashioned derby hat, looked at Nobuko, approached, and let slip a gentle smile. Nobuko closed her eyes—hot and cold—trembling throughout her body as she clung to the phantom Tsukuda. The feel of his cheek… his lips—the texture transmitted to her palm when stroking his soft hair… Nobuko moaned his name.

Leaning her head against the wall and lost in reverie, Nobuko was brought back to herself by the sound of a knock. She hurriedly rubbed her tear-soaked eyes with the backs of her hands.

“Please come in.”

However, the door did not open, and the receptionist girl called out from outside.

“There’s a telephone call for you. Please come to the hall.” “Oh, right. Thank you.” Who could be calling? Nobuko tidied herself up with feigned nonchalance while harboring suspicion and went downstairs. In the hall, cheerful-looking men and women clustered here and there. Three girls in evening dresses, bunched together like a bouquet, made their way through the crowd and left, their faces mingling delight with bashfulness. The elderly superintendent in a black dress sat beneath a corner marble column, gazing at the lively bustle while maintaining a practiced smile.

Nobuko entered the telephone booth. As she thought that if someone were to invite her somewhere, she would refuse, she picked up the receiver. “Hello? Hello?”

“Is this Ms. Sasa? I’ll connect you right away.”

Click-click-click went the sound of the connection.

“Hello?” “Hello?... Are you—” When she heard a voice—faint and intermittent, crackling from afar—Nobuko instinctively gripped the silver-glinting base of the desk telephone and leaned forward. “Mr. Tsukuda?”

“Is this Ms. Sasa?” “How are you?” Nobuko, overwhelmed by the welling joy and longing, found herself unable to speak. She, in a voice just loud enough for the other party to hear,

“Hello?... Hello?...” While whispering this, she pressed her trembling hot forehead hard against the mouthpiece. There was tenderness in Tsukuda’s voice too. “How’s the weather in New York? We’re having an awful blizzard here—can you hear me?” Nobuko—her emotions unsteady—let out a stifled, breathless whisper.

“I can hear you—how kind of you to call.”

“Are you alone?” “Yes.” “We had a meeting until just now—it kept me rather busy.—The weather here is dreadful—I thought I’d see how you were doing…”

“Thank you.”

Once again, a lump of fire welled up in Nobuko’s chest. If she could, she would leap to his side in an instant and hurl herself into his hands, wanting this reckless passion of hers to be seized and crushed by hands that burned with equal intensity—overcome with inexpressible emotion, Nobuko pressed her forehead against the mouthpiece and fell silent.

“Hello?” “What is it?” “What’s the matter?” “………”

A silence heavy with emotion arose on the other end as well.

Nobuko felt his emotions traveling along the night wires, vividly pressing in upon her. The sensation pressed closer and closer—the distance separating them seemed to close entirely—until finally, it even seemed Tsukuda would soon be right there on the other side of the wall. After a moment, he spoke. “It might be about time.—Shall we hang up?” “Is that so?” “Have you been in your room all this time? Good night. I will return the day after tomorrow as planned.”

“Around what time?” “Since I’ll probably take tomorrow’s night train from here, I should arrive by evening.” “I will see you this evening.”

She said goodbye. And then, in a daze, she took the elevator back to her room.

IV

Nobuko hardly slept a wink that night.

The next day was a gloomy drizzle. Returning from Miss Pratt’s and shaking off raindrops from her Western-style umbrella in the entranceway, she found Yasukawa emerging from the elevator dressed to go out. She spotted Nobuko and called out to her. “Ms. Sasa, do you have some time now?” Nobuko, captured by the unceasing inner thoughts that had persisted since the previous night, looked up at Yasukawa with a dazed expression.

“Why?” “If you’re free, I thought you might like to come with me to 125th Street.” “Shopping?” “Yes, just a bit.”

Nobuko felt that walking a little would do her good. The decision had already been made last night.

“Then please wait a moment. I’ll just leave this clutter here and come right back.” Nobuko left her books and notebooks at the reception. Though it was precisely because of its proximity that they ran their errands there, the area around 125th Street was a seedy neighborhood. Dust, banana peels, apple skins, and the stench of cheap gasoline from delivery trucks filled the streets. Broken windowpanes revealed yellowed semi-basements where shoe repairers, secondhand clothes dealers, and counterfeit metalworkers kept shops like rat’s nests. In a jeweler’s display window, diamonds priced at hundreds or thousands of dollars sat tagged—in such a place, one could only assume them to be fakes.

Yasukawa bought a pair of shoes. Nobuko bought a roll of ribbon, a white lace tablecloth, and two adorable duckling toys. Yasukawa looked at Nobuko’s childlike purchases, “You’re such a strange one—what will you do with two of those things?” She laughed. “They’re cute, aren’t they? They look absolutely adorable. I’ll give one to Mr. Tsukuda too.” Nobuko carefully cradled the fluffy, insubstantial paper parcels, held up her umbrella, and made her way back along the thoroughly soaked pavement.

Despite not having slept, Nobuko's mind was clear. The problem that had long tormented her had reached its natural resolution. There was a sense of composure. This by no means indicated an easy path forward. The trials of womanhood were about to begin for her. As long as she retained this fervent determination to support Tsukuda, Nobuko refused to acknowledge herself as someone who would fear such hardships. If he consented, her resolve was already fixed. In Nobuko's breast, alongside hope, lay an inexpressible thread of sorrow—a premonition of misfortune. This concerned her parents. She loved them dearly, and could well imagine what sort of young man they would envision as her partner. To speak impartially, Tsukuda clearly bore no resemblance to any figure that might appear in their imaginings. Should they learn of her resolution, they might be shocked, displeased, resentful even. No—they would surely resent it, at least initially. Yet she would not retreat. Even considering the worst outcome—that this might become a lifelong source of emotional discord— The previous night, Nobuko had contemplated this and wept bitterly. And she prayed that her parents might come to understand her feelings. She prayed too that Tsukuda, should fate ordain it, might become a good son to them.

The next day, after five in the afternoon, a call came from Tsukuda. Nobuko asked him to come to the library around seven, explaining she would go there herself.

Nobuko ate her evening meal tastelessly, with a solemn air, as though attending a ceremony. Returning to her room, she tied a slender rose-shaped ribbon around the neck of the duckling and wrapped it in tissue paper. Brushing her hair and putting on her hat, Nobuko went outside with a face slightly paler than usual.

The rain from the previous day had cleared up, leaving a windless, damp evening. In the moist black sky, countless stars sparkled. Under the distant glow of streetlamps, Nobuko passed through the university grounds where the leafless treetops and the dome of the main library loomed faintly, and went to Avery Hall. Tsukuda was nowhere to be seen. Nobuko went to the main library and opened the door to the special room in the corner of the third floor. Under bright, shadowless light, bookshelves stood ranked like a forest, and Nobuko's footsteps echoed sharply against the ceiling. In the reading room came the sound of someone rising from their seat. Nobuko quickened her pace. Tsukuda was there. He was alone.

He faced the entrance, standing with his left hand resting on the back of a chair as if to welcome Nobuko as she entered. The moment she saw his face—somewhat haggard—she felt the axis that had supported her until now crumble with a resounding noise. When the initial excitement had subsided somewhat, Nobuko sat down next to Tsukuda. She asked briefly about how his trip had been. She took out a thin white paper package. “A souvenir—please open it.”

Tsukuda peered curiously as he unwrapped the package, and when he saw the duckling that emerged from within, a smile lit up his face at once. “This is adorable! Thank you.” “What’s the matter?” “I found it yesterday and bought it.” “With Ms. Yasukawa.” Tsukuda clumsily stroked the fluffy down with his flat fingertips, tried making it walk on top of his briefcase, and innocently played with the duckling. Nobuko gazed at his peaceful face with a pained heart. He had no inkling of what she herself was about to say in the next moment. Their fate was about to be decided in those very minutes!

Nobuko felt a kind of ache in broaching the serious matter. She lowered her eyes and laid her own hand over Tsukuda’s. Intense emotional turmoil came first, and her tongue grew heavy and stiff. Nobuko abruptly called his name.

“—Mr. Tsukuda.” Startled, Tsukuda looked at Nobuko. The moment their eyes met, Nobuko’s face contorted as though struck by a sudden pain in her chest. She reached out her hand and pulled his head toward herself. And, pressing her mouth close to his ear, she began to whisper. “I... I...” But suddenly, tears Nobuko herself hadn’t anticipated welled up with terrible force. She pressed her face against Tsukuda’s profile and burst into sobbing tears. Tsukuda, not knowing the reason, hurriedly tried to move Nobuko’s face away from his chest.

“What’s the matter?” “Huh?” “What’s the matter?” Nobuko clung even tighter to him and whispered in broken phrases through her tears. “I... I’ve thought... If I were to marry... I...” Tsukuda straightened as if struck and, with both hands, clasped Nobuko’s face to bring it before him. Nobuko, drenched in tears with her face flushed and trembling, blurted it all out in one breath like a child making confession. “If it’s not with you, I won’t have it.”

V

At the edge of Riverside Drive stood General Grant’s mausoleum. At the top of the stone steps, a plaza surrounded the monument-like building. Below them lay the dark Hudson River and a winter-withered park, with not a soul braving the cold night wind for a stroll. Nobuko and Tsukuda had left the library and come here. They were clearly agitated. However, their mood was earnest, or rather somber. When Nobuko confessed her feelings, Tsukuda—

“How could such a thing be possible!” “How could such a thing be possible!” With a groan, he embraced Nobuko so tightly it seemed his bones might shatter. Tears streamed down from his eyes. What greater consent could there be than this! Nobuko realized she had correctly voiced the hope that had also lain within his heart.

She gradually calmed down.

“There are still more things I need you to hear. Shall we walk a little?”

Thus, they came to Riverside at this hour of the season, where the streets were sparse.

Nobuko had never imagined she would lay bare her heart in such a manner. She had meant to calmly discuss various practical matters arising from the emotional journey that had brought her to this resolution—saving that final declaration for last—yet all sequence and logic had scattered like leaves in a storm. Now she found herself having to retrace their steps and properly explain the beginning to him.

With Tsukuda holding her arm, Nobuko began to speak haltingly as they slowly circled the stone-paved plaza. “Everything I’m about to say comes from my own selfishness, though it’s all gotten mixed up in this strange order.” “But it’s important—please do listen.” “In daily life... there are so many things that can’t be handled through affection alone...” “Of course that’s true.” Tsukuda replied with earnest intensity.

“Please tell me everything,” Tsukuda said earnestly. “We’ll discuss it thoroughly—I’ll do everything in my power. For four or five years now, I’d completely abandoned any thought of marriage... This is truly unexpected—unbelievable. At this point...” “It’s the same for me,” Nobuko replied, her voice trembling slightly. “Unexpected... But while you were away, I thought it through—this decision came from wanting to nurture what’s growing between us into something true and splendid. It’s not because I simply want to play at being husband and wife.”

“I understand that.” “We want to become people who feel secure in each other and gain even a little more depth and breadth.” “If we can manage emotionally without complications, I even think things like sharing a house or other practical matters don’t matter at all.” “But if you aren’t at peace, then ultimately I won’t be either.—”

They walked a few steps in silence. Nobuko asked. “This is where I’m being selfish—but could you truly remain unbothered if your own wife were inept at household matters yet eager to study?—I truly do love you. “But I also love my work.” “Just as much as you!” “You know—when put into words this might seem like nothing—but I think it’ll be quite challenging if we start living together—”

Nobuko, striving not to lose courage and pressing Tsukuda’s arm against her body with all her strength, said. “I don’t think I can ever return to how I felt before meeting you.” “So I’ve resolved to nurture it as much as I can... Even so, I can’t abandon my work.” “That alone I cannot do.” “Even if I may never accomplish anything decent in my life, I can’t give it up.” “If I must stop it... then I... would have to bid farewell.”

Clenching her lips, Nobuko barely restrained her tears. Tsukuda asserted with heartfelt conviction, his whole body straining to dispel those doubts. “Such concerns are entirely unnecessary—I know what matters deeply to you.” “How could anyone professing love demand you abandon that! I would sooner cast myself aside than hinder your fulfillment.” “I never sought a housekeeper… From the first, I’ve wished to help a woman with her own vocation become magnificent—only my inadequacy shames me.”

Nobuko, overwhelmed with joy, involuntarily stood stock-still there.

“Really? Do you truly think that?”

“It’s true!” “Look at me.”

Tsukuda also stopped and, grasping both of Nobuko’s hands in his own palms, turned his face toward her.

“Look at me. “I won’t lie to you.” “—Thank you! “Thank you! Thank you!” Nobuko, teary-eyed, shook her captured hands again and again with all her strength. “Thank you so much! “Do you realize how happy I am?” “Thank you!” “Oh, absolutely!” “Thank you!”

Nobuko sat down on the frost-covered stone bench. She knelt before nature on this cold night. "Who was it that bestowed this happiness upon me? Was I truly loved and blessed so much?" she wondered, feeling so grateful she could weep. Ah, truly! To think I would encounter something like this!

The reason Nobuko couldn’t stop her tears wasn’t solely due to the joy of his understanding. It was the joy of him declaring his own feelings for the first time with manly authority. Ah! For the first time, he spoke to her in a manly way.

Tsukuda, worried, stroked Nobuko repeatedly.

“Are you all right?… You mustn’t overexcite yourself.”

“I’m fine. “As if I’d ever get sick! “…But let’s both be careful and stay healthy—after all, we’re poor. “We’ll help each other through life together. “I have no intention of taking anything from my parents—not that there’s anything they’d give me anyway.”

Nobuko laughed as if delighting in their very poverty.

They stepped down onto the sidewalk and walked heedless of the harsh river wind blowing through the cold.

Tsukuda, eventually noticing, looked at his watch.

“It’s past nine-thirty… Is that all right?”

Nobuko had written "library" in the dormitory’s sign-in ledger. The library would be closing soon. Nobuko thought for a moment. “It’s fine.” “If it doesn’t work out, I can just explain the reason to Miss Lee tomorrow.” Nobuko’s heart was filled with courage through her conviction that she was already united with him in every way. But if she had to part with Tsukuda in just about two hours even at the latest, there was still one more thing weighing on her mind. That was a serious matter. Tsukuda had still not mentioned it at all. Nobuko felt a fresh discomfort in finding the starting point. Nobuko, in an awkward manner,

“There’s another serious matter, but—”

she began to say. “What is it?”

“……”

Nobuko hesitated to say it.

“What is it?” “——……The matter of the child.”

“……I understand.” “In what way?”

This time, it was Tsukuda who hesitated. “In other words…” “I believe that unless we can joyfully raise a child under suitable circumstances, that child will never find happiness with either of us.” “Is that what you’ve been thinking too?” “That’s correct—there’s also work to consider…” “First of all, we’re already determined to barely scrape by with just the two of us.” “I refuse to become a parent who can’t even provide adequate education.” “And… there’s something inside me that simply can’t smoothly transform into a mother——”

Nobuko said in a low voice. “Do men understand this fear…? There’s something that becomes unbearably frightening—instinctively——” Then Tsukuda said in an extremely prosaic manner. “It’s probably nothing—such things.” Nobuko felt slightly hurt by his tone, which lacked warmth. “Don’t think of it as nothing.” “Even as I feel this way, I have such strong feelings that I can’t calmly handle these matters in a purely scientific way like the women here do—it feels wrong toward myself or toward something bright and lofty and beautiful—don’t you see?” “……For me, both of these are true feelings――”

They came out onto the side street leading to the dormitory. Tsukuda spoke as if wrapping Nobuko within his very heart. "Set your mind at ease—I would never do anything to make you suffer. Those feelings might change someday... Not that I—you understand, don't you? I do believe I grasp such matters at least somewhat." Only now did they become aware they'd grown thin as winter ice. They went into the coffee shop directly facing the dormitory.

Tsukuda escorted Nobuko to the entrance of the dormitory, where the lights had already been dimmed.

VI

It was March, when winter and spring changed places. The weather became unsettled. In the morning, there were flurries of powdery snow; by noon, the sun shone brightly; and at night, a thick fog enveloped the city. The next day, the wind blew fiercely. The air was so dry it made throats ache.—Whether clear or cloudy, there was no denying winter melted away day by day. The treetops of the street trees began to take on a supple bend. While walking along the street on her way shopping, she suddenly noticed red and green flags fluttering high atop a towering spire. There was nothing there. There was nothing but the familiar Stars and Stripes fluttering high in the sky. Yet people felt something like a sparkling joy leap from those flag colors and that sky into their own hearts—if only for today. Their eyes softened even as they wondered. ……That was indeed spring’s restrained harbinger.

That day, the light snow that had fallen the previous night lay on the university lawn and in the shaded areas of the pavement.

Nobuko was invited to lunch by the wife of a certain industrialist. Nobuko, firmly holding in her heart something she could not fully grasp no matter how much she thought about it, from the joy of sitting among ordinary people, was charming, talked animatedly, and laughed often. At two o'clock came Miss Pratt’s lesson. However, since she had been with Tsukuda until late the previous night and had been invited out today, she hadn’t been able to prepare anything. Even though she had arrived about five minutes early, Miss Pratt was already waiting for Nobuko on the sofa in the side room where they usually sat. Nobuko said frankly.

“Today I’ve been such a slacker, you see. I’ve come unprepared, but will you forgive me?”

Miss Pratt tilted back her thick, chestnut-brown bangs and looked at Nobuko. “Why?… Well, do sit here.”

Wrapping her arm around Nobuko’s back, she settled Nobuko snugly beside her. “Why couldn’t you?” “I was supposed to do it last night, but I ended up talking with Mr.Tsukuda until too late, so I couldn’t manage it.” “This morning I had an invitation from Mrs.Sakabe, so I didn’t have time.” “……Today I’ll tell you something verbally instead—would you please correct that?” “Of course that’s acceptable… but—”

Miss Pratt, without removing her hand from Nobuko’s back, instead pressed her even closer with deep emotion and said— “You’ve been a bit too busy lately, don’t you think?” “With various things…” Nobuko sensed genuine concern in Miss Pratt’s voice. “Are you feeling unsettled?”

“I wouldn’t say that’s the case, but…”

Nobuko naturally began to speak of what had been accumulating within her these past days. "I was aware that you had kindly shown concern about Mr.Tsukuda and me for some time...... When you called for me that day, it was related to that matter, wasn’t it?" Miss Pratt said yes with her characteristic gravity.

“So that’s how it was—you’re quite perceptive, aren’t you…” Nobuko said, filled with trust. “Thank you. I am so happy we could speak so openly.” “At that time, you see, my feelings weren’t settled yet… and I disliked bringing up such matters in that manner.” “But I always thought that when the time came, and if necessary, you would surely consult me.” “You do know that I, though my help may be limited, wholeheartedly wish for your happiness, don’t you?”

Nobuko fell silent. On the white wall before where they sat side by side, the faint glow from the snow outside was reflected. As the snow melted rapidly, the quivering of ceaselessly rising steam could be glimpsed even within that bright whiteness.

After struggling, Nobuko spoke in an artless, flat tone. “I love Mr. Tsukuda.” “...I thought as much.” “...We have entered into an engagement.” “Engagement?”

Miss Pratt, who had been calm, looked so astonished in that moment that Nobuko instinctively averted her eyes. Nobuko felt a pang of sadness. Was my engagement to Tsukuda truly such an unpleasant, shocking thing? Miss Pratt soon regained her composure and apologized to her.

“I’m sorry… It was so sudden… truly unexpected… you…”

A long silence fell.

After a moment, Miss Pratt murmured as if on the verge of tears, overwhelmed with emotion. “You are truly young! You are a dear person. I want somehow to see you happy all your life.”

She embraced Nobuko to her chest and kissed her forehead. With an aching pain that pierced her soul, Nobuko felt the nature of these words—what might be called the first solemn benediction she had ever received. This is not the blessing an ordinary fiancée receives. Was there not a resonance of pain, pity, and sighing? Nobuko realized that in some cases, she must even be prepared for scorn or contempt to compound this burden.

Miss Pratt asked. “Does your father know Mr. Tsukuda?” “He does.” “Did you inform him? About that matter.” “I wrote immediately, in detail—and besides, I had already informed him of my feelings long ago…” Miss Pratt repeatedly voiced her fear that Tsukuda might be up to something. For Nobuko, nothing was more painful than this, and she felt terribly sorry for him. If he were the son of a wealthy family, if his name were listed in the social register, who would say such things? Even if that man truly intended nothing more than to deceive and console me, society would remain silent. Tsukuda is in such a position that even his defense would be met with disbelief!

Nobuko felt pain as if being demeaned. She said stubbornly, “Well, Miss Pratt. The one who loves that person is me. The one who trusts that person is also me. No matter how much everyone dotes on someone, if I don’t love them, I don’t love them, and if I can’t trust them, I won’t trust them. But if I love and if I trust, then at least within me, as long as that feeling remains, it cannot be swayed.” Nobuko stayed at Miss Pratt’s until nearly dusk. She returned filled with both a kind of lightness from having bared her heart and a somewhat melancholic sentiment about their bond.

VII

On Sunday—Nobuko was invited, along with Miss Pratt, to tea at Mrs. Churchill’s residence in a bustling part of the city. Miss Pratt— “It’s quite interesting. In New York, people always say that everyone lives according to the latest lifestyles and trends, don’t they?” “And yet, right in the midst of such a metropolis, fragments of the Victorian Age live on, neatly preserved under the name of Mrs. Churchill.” “Let’s go see it once—before you suffocate, I’ll be sure to take you out.”

Having said that, she took Nobuko there. Nobuko spent two hours there with interest, yet in genuine constraint. She heard about rare heraldry, along with boasts about family lineage, from Mrs. Churchill—who wore wool socks and stoked the stove with logs.

After five o’clock, the two made their way to C University’s assembly hall.

There was a Sunday dinner party hosted by the Y.M.C.A.'s Cosmopolitan Club. The majority of its members were students studying abroad from various countries; they organized discussions, conducted research activities, and gave lectures advocating New Worldism as their guiding principle. Before these events, attendees would have a simple meal at tables arranged in rows throughout the grand hall. Nobuko, following regulations, wrote her name and nationality on the paper provided at the entrance and fastened it to her chest with a pin.

Today, as there appeared to be no particularly interesting events elsewhere, it was a bustling gathering. The doors opened ceaselessly as men and women from various countries assembled. Nobuko sat with Miss Pratt by the fireplace in the hall. She positioned herself facing the entrance and discreetly monitored the comings and goings. Since yesterday evening, she had not seen Tsukuda. He was supposed to come tonight. That Nobuko had come despite her lack of enthusiasm—it could even be said she had come solely because she wanted to see him.

Just as she had nearly grown tired of waiting, Nobuko unexpectedly caught sight of Tsukuda in a direction completely opposite to where she had expected. He was standing right in front of the men’s lounge at the back, facing the entrance, and talking with a Philippine youth. While talking, he also appeared to be glancing outside now and then. After parting with the youth, he walked toward Nobuko with his distinctive gait. He still did not know that Nobuko was there in a chair nearby, hidden by a group of people. As he gradually approached and was about to pass by the other side of the crowd without noticing her, Nobuko involuntarily touched Miss Pratt’s knee with her left hand.

“Miss Pratt.”

The moment the voice escaped her lips, Nobuko realized her blunder. What an idiot I am! Hadn't Miss Pratt known Tsukuda all along? The instant she saw him, Nobuko found herself compelled to state clearly once more,

“Miss Pratt, that is Mr. Tsukuda.” She felt a violent impulse to inform her. Without time to think, she called out “Miss Pratt.” Yet what had she meant to accomplish by telling her? Miss Pratt—who had been conversing with a woman said to have been a missionary in China for many years—slowly turned her head during that pause and answered.

“What is it? Nobuko-san?” The pause between her call and Miss Pratt’s response finally rescued Nobuko from her foolish confusion. “Oh, please excuse me. It was a case of mistaken identity.” As a final diversion, a Polish youth passionately performed a polonaise, and the gathering came to an end.

It was just a little past nine o'clock. Miss Pratt persistently urged Tsukuda and Nobuko to come to her home. She was with another person—a Belgian woman who taught French. “If you’d like, please do come. “It’s been some time since I last offered proper Japanese green tea hospitality. “Now doesn’t that sound agreeable?”

Nobuko found herself unable to refuse due to their persistent urging.

The four of them went to Miss Pratt’s apartment.

Her mother was out. Since she had begun preparing the tea set by herself, Nobuko also went out to the dining room. “Shall I help? Would you like me to pour this hot water?”

Nobuko turned on the electric heater switch. Perhaps because she had just come back from outside and begun her tasks immediately, Miss Pratt seemed somewhat hurried. She arranged sweets in a bowl and carried them to the parlor. When she returned, “Well? It’s already boiled, hasn’t it?” she said while touching the kettle. Less than three minutes had passed since it was turned on. “It’s only just been switched on—you must wait a little longer.” Miss Pratt, still pressing her palm against the gleaming aluminum kettle’s body, said,

“It’s gotten quite hot.” “Only on the outside.” “It’s ready now!” Nobuko laughed. “How impatient you are! I’ll bring it over once properly prepared, so please wait there. I know what I’m doing.” She found it endearingly amusing that Miss Pratt—ordinarily so sensible and composed—was fussing over something as trivial as hot water. Yet Miss Pratt kept insisting, without reason, that it had already boiled.

“It’s fine—it’s definitely ready. Look—it’s making noise. Let’s take it off.”

The stubbornness in her voice and eyes abruptly put Nobuko on guard. This was no childlike eagerness to hurry over and join the others—rather, it felt like an obstinate resistance rebelling against some unspoken thing. “Then I’ll turn it off.”

With that, she turned off the switch and carried it to the parlor.

The water was, of course, only lukewarm, resulting in terribly bitter tea. Even Miss Pratt could not help but give a wry smile. "I've lost to you, Nobuko-san. We've ended up with summer-grade tea..."

Nobuko vaguely sensed a strange atmosphere brewing around her and grew uncomfortable. Miss Pratt kept offering topics of conversation, but there was something unnatural about it. She deliberately made Tsukuda the focus of conversation where she could have ended with vague remarks to no one in particular. Each time, “Mr. Tsukuda, what is your esteemed opinion on this?” or, “Please let me hear your esteemed opinion.”

Tsukuda looked annoyed and gave no clear reply. Moreover, Miss Pratt kept pressing him relentlessly without altering her approach. She, “Mr. Tsukuda, what was your field of expertise again? I believe I asked once before, but I’ve forgotten...” When she said this, Tsukuda answered brusquely, making no effort to conceal his irritation. “There’s nothing of particular interest about it.” Nobuko interjected.

“His specialization is ancient linguistics, particularly Iranian...” She said this in a conciliatory tone. “If you’d like someday, we could visit a museum together—with Mr.Tsukuda as our guide. I’m sure it would be fascinating.” Then Miss Pratt used her own words to edge Nobuko into remaining behind.

“I want to hear these things directly from you yourself, Mr. Tsukuda.—So… for what purpose are you conducting this research?”

This was no casual discussion. It had taken on the air of an interrogation. Nobuko couldn’t understand why Miss Pratt was acting so strangely tonight. Before Nobuko’s anxiously watching gaze, Tsukuda crossed his arms and answered with an increasingly listless, petulant air.

“It’s research for research’s sake.” “...Forgive me, but I consider that a dodge.” “Of course I know true scholarship isn’t about utility, but if you’re researching purely for academic pursuit, doesn’t that mean you must have some clear scholarly objective?” “That’s what I want to understand—even a dog digs because it smells something.” “My apologies—I’m not in the mood for this tonight.” “Perhaps we could discuss it another time when things are calmer.”

“Oh, we’re not arguing at all—we’re just having a serious conversation about some perfectly ordinary topics with all due seriousness, aren’t we?”

Miss Pratt glanced at the two people beside her with a smile that made Nobuko shudder. No one could return the smile. It was clear that hostilities had broken out between her and Tsukuda. Nobuko realized for the first time that Miss Pratt had invited Tsukuda to her home specifically to have this conversation. "Well then, even if I must regrettably admit my inability to grasp your esteemed specialization—might I at least inquire what purpose you hold as a human being in this life...?"

The Belgian woman, who had been sitting there perplexed while gazing intently at the three of them all this time, now spoke up. “Miss Pratt, isn’t that enough now?” “The matter is becoming too—” “It’s quite all right—you needn’t concern yourself—”

Miss Pratt stared directly at Tsukuda, her upper body rigidly upright in the chair, and declared in a condemning tone. “I am fully aware of what I am saying. “Mr. Tsukuda, silence isn’t always golden, depending on the circumstances.” “...” “And you, Nobuko-san—”

Nobuko opened her eyes wide because her own name—which she had not anticipated—had been invoked. “You’ve already established certain goals for your work and life. Do you have nothing to say? Can’t you speak?”

Nobuko could no longer stand it. She seethed with frustration at Tsukuda’s evasive attitude and at Miss Pratt’s calculated scheming in deliberately exposing it before others and herself. Nobuko understood perfectly well that Miss Pratt was trying to lay bare Tsukuda’s true nature under the guise of acting for her benefit. A man who degrades himself in public! Does Miss Pratt believe I’m withdrawing my affections because I think that way?

To Tsukuda, who remained obstinately silent, Miss Pratt spoke as though delivering a slap. “Your refusal to speak proves your character is hollow.” “You have no ideals, no passion, no convictions whatsoever!” “And with that attitude toward Nobuko-san—”

“—Miss Pratt!” Miss Pratt looked at Nobuko, who had turned pale. She made a nervous movement and fell silent.

VIII

Nobuko gradually came to feel Miss Pratt’s kindness as a burden. There was something about Miss Pratt’s approach that Nobuko couldn’t bring herself to accept. On the day of their next lesson, neither spoke a word to the other about what had happened that Sunday night. But Miss Pratt abruptly—

"The other evening at the Cosmopolitan Club, I realized something." Miss Pratt began.

Nobuko placed both hands on her notebook and looked up at Miss Pratt with visible weariness. "When we sat down at dinner that evening - don't you recall how Mr.Tsukuda arranged our chairs? His manner differed entirely when attending to yours versus mine - surely you noticed?" Nobuko shook her head.

“No.” “He was perfectly polite toward me—his manner was beyond reproach.” “But toward you he did it carelessly with just one hand.”

Whenever she went to Miss Pratt’s place, some topic of this sort would come up. The time that had been her most enjoyable until now had become something thoroughly unsatisfying. Miss Pratt’s partiality toward her—which went beyond merely holding unfavorable feelings toward Tsukuda—was painful for Nobuko. When Tsukuda’s minor flaws were laid bare with such womanly meticulous cruelty, Nobuko found herself burning with defiance instead.

It was the day of the triumphant return for the soldiers who had been deployed from New York City to France.

The dormitory had been nearly empty since early morning. Nobuko, lately unable to muster much interest in such matters, remained in her room savoring the dormitory’s unprecedented morning stillness. The streets visible from the window were deserted too, giving the feeling of a Sunday morning. Nobuko stood by the window gazing at the holiday-quiet streets outside, twirling the ends of her braided hair around her finger. Then came a knock at the door behind her. Thinking it might mean Tsukuda had arrived, she felt flustered. They had promised to take a long walk across the Hudson River starting around eleven o'clock. As she walked toward the door, Nobuko—

“Come in—who is it?” she called out. “You’ve come.” The one who opened the door and appeared was Takasaki. “Oh, how unusual! Please do.” Takasaki, as her field of study was home economics and she lived with an American family, was not someone Nobuko interacted with closely on a regular basis. “You’ve gone out quite early, haven’t you?”

“Yes. This is quite normal for me—I happened to be passing by, so I thought I’d stop in.” Naoko, as Nobuko urged, opened her coat collar and hung it on the chair. “You really should take off that coat.”

“Yes, but—I can’t impose for that long…” Though petite, her face—with its abundant black hair, thick eyebrows, and resolute, large mouth—was strikingly beautiful as she looked around the room and began making small talk by praising Nobuko’s health. Yet there remained something distinctly uneasy about Naoko’s demeanor. In her heart lay something she had been considering, and now she spoke of matters holding little real interest—merely a preamble to broaching the subject—that was the impression she gave. After minutes passed in this unstable state of mutual unease, Naoko—

“Well, the thing is,”

With that, she launched into the main topic.

“The reason I came by today is partly because it’s been so long since we last met, and also because I wanted to have you hear a bit of my meddlesome concern.” “Oh, I see. Thank you—what is it about?” “It’s nothing serious, really…” At that moment, as if to disguise her emotional agitation, Naoko raised her hand, adjusted her hat slightly, and said. “You—I hear you’ve grown quite close to Mr. Tsukuda lately?” “Lately?”

“Yes.” “Regarding that—though you must surely know—about a year ago, I myself had occasion to trouble Mr.Tsukuda considerably in various ways.” “Of course it wasn’t anything financial or such... He helped me with my academic work and introduced me to job opportunities...” Once she began speaking, Naoko revealed her resolute character and continued without hesitation.

“He truly was just a friend I became close with after coming here, but as he was older, I suppose I came to rely on him almost as one would an uncle.—Since we associated for quite some time, I know that no matter what people may say about Mr.Tsukuda, he is by no means a dishonorable man.” “Even when we were alone together late at night in the apartment, that was entirely proper.” “That’s something I can state openly and righteously before anyone.”

Nobuko felt a heartwarming sensation as she listened. Though she hadn't sought it, she might have taken quiet pleasure in this unsolicited testimonial for Tsukuda. That Naoko's endorsement of his conduct also indirectly affirmed her own innocence brought a smile to Nobuko's face. She gently acknowledged the other woman's words. "I've never given such matters any thought." Naoko looked at Nobuko with gleaming eyes.

“You are indeed like that. I know it well. But back then, such dreadful rumors spread about us that—though I myself have not an ounce of guilt—I felt it pitiable for Mr. Tsukuda and inconvenient for myself, so I temporarily cut off contact. What I meant to say is this: I still hold goodwill toward Mr. Tsukuda even now, but that man cannot transcend being a friend… You—you certainly won’t be happy.”

“Is that so? Why?” “Why…? Because that’s just what I think.” “On what grounds?”

Naoko answered confidently. “After all that time we spent together, I’ve come to understand him a little—he’s certainly not a bad person, but—I just can’t help thinking that way.” Nobuko said.

“When you say that, I feel I understand it.” “There’s something in his nature, you see.” “—Isn’t that right?” “I understand that perfectly well.—It’s not as though I’m so infatuated that I don’t understand a single thing.” “—But what do you think?” “I have one belief, you see.” “—I believe love can change a person.”

Naoko suddenly looked at Nobuko with a vague, elusive gaze.

“...That might be possible,” Naoko conceded, “but—” “I’m certain it is,” Nobuko countered. “When good qualities buried by circumstances finally receive proper nourishment, they’ll blossom.” “Mr. Tsukuda is kind... I too wish for his happiness,” Naoko offered cautiously. Nobuko leaned forward eagerly. “What I can’t abide are those rosy-cheeked youths brimming with shallow cheer. A man must have known life’s bitterness to be worth knowing at all.” Her voice softened yet grew more intense. “He understands darkness and sorrow—yes—but also true radiance. Don’t you see? Mr. Tsukuda’s surrounded by too much shadow now.” She clasped her hands as if willing light into being. “I believe he’ll emerge from it—that he’ll cultivate a profound, steadfast brightness within himself.” Her eyes shone with conviction. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

“……”

When it came to such points, Naoko seemed unable to grasp Nobuko’s feelings. She sighed and nodded vaguely. "But why do only people who say Mr. Tsukuda is no good come to me like this... I wonder if things are the same on his end."

Nobuko murmured.

Naoko, now having said all she needed to say with the practicality of someone who had fulfilled her duty, gathered her bag and gloves.

“Anyway, I finally got to tell you what I’d been thinking all this time—what a relief.” “Whether you take my advice or not, I just had to say it first.” Naoko finished fastening one glove,

“I must apologize for intruding.” “Well then, until we meet again.”

With that, she took Nobuko’s hand.

“Is that so?” Nobuko gave a strange, vacant reply. Naoko exited into the hallway with brisk footsteps.

“Farewell.” “Goodbye.” Naoko walked down the hallway with an air of someone convinced she had fulfilled her moral obligation, holding a bag in her right hand and waving with her left as she grew more distant.—Nobuko watched her retreating back until it disappeared around the corner, and as she closed the door, a faint, distorted smile formed involuntarily at the corners of her mouth.

Within two weeks, Nobuko received another unexpected visit from an unexpected person.

One afternoon, a business card was handed over. Torahiko Tanaka was the son of a friend of Nobuko’s father. She was meeting this young man for the first time. Nobuko went down to the hall. He was waiting in the alcove. After concluding his initial greeting in a gruff, slightly brusque manner, he abruptly demanded with an angry edge.

“Yesterday at a certain place, I heard a rumor that you and Mr. Tsukuda are engaged or something of the sort. Is it true?” Nobuko, who had been wondering about his purpose, looked at the young man in surprise. What connection could this swarthy youth with East Asian features and sharply arched eyebrows have to the matter? Nobuko felt displeasure and answered coldly. “Does this concern you in some way?” “What concern could I possibly have!” “I came solely because my father and yours are friends—I thought it wrong not to warn you despite your awareness.” “Mr. Tsukuda is a hypocrite.”

Nobuko stared straight at Tanaka. "Why do you think that way?" "It's not that I think so—it is so!"

More than these visitors, what wore on Nobuko’s nerves were Tsukuda’s renewed skeptical feelings. The resolute man who had been filled with passion that night when they walked around General Grant’s mausoleum and talked had vanished somewhere. Instead, Tsukuda had grown frighteningly more sentimental than before. Nobuko tried to forget the anxieties and unpleasantness from the outside world by sitting face-to-face with him, attempting to bolster each other’s courage. “Look, let’s truly live a good life together. As long as we ourselves remain steadfast, we can face anything that comes our way with peace of mind. Let’s help each other and build a truly happy life, okay?”

Tsukuda gazed at Nobuko hungrily. And he muttered in a profoundly gloomy tone. "I do hope we can do that." "But... I don't know... Time will prove everything." "Until then, it's all a great big 'IF.'"

“—Why? “Haven’t we already decided?” “Once we’ve decided, shouldn’t we carry through in a way that justifies our decision?” “Coward! To say such things now—” They became so inseparable they couldn’t bear to be apart for even a moment, their attachment deepening increasingly as they continually shed tears from these clashes of tangled passion.

Easter passed, and May arrived in the north with its dizzying vastness.

The trees were all at once wrapped in fresh verdure and quivered with delight under the abundant sunlight. The scent of young leaves that tickled the nostrils permeated the air—morning, noon, and night. In the suburban woods, beneath last year’s decayed fallen leaves, various wildflowers began to bloom.

At dusk, when a sleepy mist settled over them, in the marshland arose a chorus of small creatures—Swish, swish, swish, swish—like the sound of a horsehair bow drawn across a Chinese fiddle. Chirp chirp chirp, trill... The warbler sang. Nature listened all night to the restless clamor of spring. Nobuko, as if pushed by the waves of early summer, grew impatient with their fate. She often stayed awake through the nights.

As soon as the university’s long summer vacation began, Nobuko departed with Tsukuda for a lakeside resort. She severed all communication with Miss Pratt and the dormitory supervisors—who had disapproved of the plan—prepared to face their criticism.

Nobuko and the others stayed at the lakeside until nearly October. When they returned to the city, they notified their acquaintances of their marriage. The day that she was to remember was one when an autumn drizzle dampened the city streets.

They went to a restaurant on Broadway for dinner. They silently watched the ornamental lamp glowing on the dining table. Then, from directly behind the partition at Nobuko's back, a man's blunt Japanese voice came through clearly.

“Hey, Nobuko Sasa got married, I hear.”

Another hoarse voice responded. "Huh... What sorta guy is he anyway?"

“A pampered pooch—she’s hitched to some Americanized guy named Tsukuda or whatever!”

Nobuko heard the sound of someone slurping liquor loudly.

Three

One

The entrance, with a lantern-shaped lamp on the wall, was gloomy on the rainy night. The aged ceiling hung oppressively low, and through her thin silk socks, the tatami felt cold and hard against her feet. What was happening? No one came out. As she neared the narrow wooden flooring where the folding screen box stood, a maid’s startled face suddenly appeared from the frosted glass door at the far end. When the maid saw the four people approaching with her father at the front, she seemed utterly shocked. “Oh my!”

Without even greeting them, she suddenly dashed into the back. There came the familiar soft sound of Mother’s footsteps, light as if tiptoeing. Nobuko had been convinced Mother was bedridden, so when she heard those brisk, eager steps, she was startled—thinking Mother had risen in agitated excitement upon hearing of her return. Nobuko hurriedly tried to open the thick door. From the other side too, someone abruptly rattled the handle, and the door swung open. Takeyo appeared jostling against the maid.

“Oh my! What’s happened, Nobuko dear!”

Her mother’s face was so fraught with emotion that Nobuko found herself at a loss for words and took her hand. “Are you all right? You’re up and about?”

“Oh, I’m quite all right now.—You must have been so cold… But still, it’s a relief you’re unharmed.”

Nobuko, “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.” She wrapped her arm around the back of her mother, who was wearing a padded robe. “We can talk as much as we like later.” Mother resisted Nobuko’s light push by bracing her legs. “I’m really all right, don’t worry—I’m usually up anyway.” “But you—”

Nobuko looked at her mother’s face with doubt. Mother appeared slightly haggard, her hair pulled back tightly. Nobuko asked in a soft voice, “What about the baby?” Wearing a faintly awkward expression, “No, you see...” Mother began to say in a low yet firm tone,

“I’ll explain everything properly later.”

After whispering this, she suddenly raised her voice cheerfully and called her younger daughter. “Tsuya-ko! Tsuya-ko! Where are you? The big sister you’ve been waiting so eagerly for has come home!”

Then, she went ahead and opened the door to the room where Father and her brothers were.

“What a strange child—she’s been making such a fuss waiting since this morning. You should go near the fire. What wretched rain today.”

Nobuko had returned to the house where she was born after a year’s absence. As she walked through the tatami rooms and corridors, she felt an inexplicable sense of incongruity, as though she were a guest visiting relatives. Nobuko sat down on the long bench beside the fireplace. On the opposite side sat her father and younger brother side by side. The nostalgia of reuniting after so long flowed between them. But now—where should I begin? Nobuko laughed, “What’s wrong?” she said to her younger brother.

“Heh, heh, heh.” In that short time, he had gained a more youthful appearance and gave an awkward, bashful smile. Father left to change his kimono. Mother was sitting beside the table, giving instructions about the meal. On the wall behind Mother hung a framed ayu painting. Both that painting and the biscuit tins piled in the corner of the room seemed just as they had been on that clear September morning last year when she had hurriedly glanced at them before departing. And yet, Nobuko felt that between people lay a year’s worth of days—inexpressible in words and eventful.

By and large, Nobuko’s return to Japan was a sudden event even to herself. She had never even dreamed of returning within that year. She had just married Tsukuda at the end of October. In a modest apartment near the university, their new life had finally begun. Regarding their marriage, there had been frequent exchanges of letters between her and her parents. Amidst these exchanges, a single letter that seemed to have slipped in among them startled Nobuko. From Father had come the notification that Mother was due to give birth in December; that due to her longstanding severe diabetes, the doctors were by no means optimistic about her prognosis; and that they deeply regretted Nobuko’s absence from their side at this critical juncture. Nobuko was perplexed. She loved her parents. She could not bring herself to coldly reject their plea for her presence. At the same time, she still felt deeply attached to her life with Tsukuda. Tsukuda was currently in a situation where leaving C University was impossible. If she were to return, Nobuko would have to go back alone.

After much consideration, she finally decided to return to Japan. The separation between Tsukuda and me would not be the last. But who could predict Mother’s life?

Nobuko went out of her way to reserve a cabin.

While crossing the rough December Pacific, she continued to think about her mother, who must be waiting for her, and about Tsukuda, whom she had left behind in the foreign land. It was a lonely voyage. As she approached Japan, her anxiety grew—the fear that some misfortune might be awaiting her. Two days before entering Yokohama Port, Nobuko sent a wireless telegram to inform them of the arrival time and to inquire about their well-being.

Exactly that night, a ball was being held on the ship. Past ten o'clock, Nobuko looked down from the salon railing at the people dancing below. The ship pitched violently. Amidst the music came thunderous crashes of waves against the hull—the entire vessel creaked and groaned before lurching sharply to starboard. The dancers lost their footing on the slender heels of delicate shoes. Sliding uncontrollably, the women instinctively clutched at their partners' arms. The men planted their feet wide to brace them, abandoning all pretense of dance steps as murmurs rippled through the crowd. These accidental stumbles became impromptu entertainment; each mishap brought cascades of laughter, delighted shrieks from women, and sudden eruptions of applause. The ship's grand hall remained warm and brilliant with feverish excitement. Nobuko felt the contrast acutely—this buoyant revelry within versus the dark winter sea's roar outside.

A steward appeared at the entrance of the room. He held a piece of paper in his hand. Since evening, Nobuko—who had been anxiously awaiting a reply telegram—found her attention drawn toward him. The steward wove through the dancing crowd for a time, then exited back the way he had come. He was still clutching the slip of paper in his hand.

Nobuko stood up from one of the low chairs along the railing and went out to the top of the grand staircase to look. The steward, dangling both arms and swinging them leisurely in front of his body in time with his steps as he climbed the stairs, upon seeing Nobuko standing there, professionally adjusted his posture. “Are you Ms. Sasa?”

“—Telegram?” “It seems we have just received it.” “Thank you very much.” Nobuko immediately opened it and read while standing. “HAHA ANZAN ANSHIN ARE”—Mother safe delivery, be at ease—. Nobuko felt as though a dance tune suddenly began to reverberate in her ears—intensely, hollowly. If only this had come two weeks earlier! However, Nobuko overcame her emotions. Until she saw her mother’s face, Nobuko had believed that on the day that telegram was sent, a brother or sister had been born.

Though she did look haggard, Mother’s condition was certainly not that of someone who had welcomed a new child just two days prior. And also—why had she brushed it off so lightly and casually, even though Nobuko had rushed back for that very reason with such urgency that one could almost hear her breathless gasps? Nobuko sensed only a flustered commotion in the air of the entire house—the kind that greets someone who had returned so abruptly with preparations still in disarray. Did Mother even understand why Nobuko had returned at this point? ――

Nobuko lowered the younger sister she had been holding on her lap. She said, drawing in a deep breath of dissatisfaction that wouldn’t escape outward.

“Well... I suppose it’s about time to change into my kimono...” She stood up and looked herself over, still wrapped in her coat. “This isn’t comfortable at all, and it feels rather odd.—Where’s my kimono?”

II “After all, since I was asleep, I couldn’t possibly manage everything—it’s beyond words.”

Takeyo placed both hands on the table and stood up. "I did tell you earlier to keep it warm, but look at the state it’s in now."

The rooms that had been under construction when Nobuko departed were now completely lived-in. Mother’s living room had become a neatly kept four-and-a-half-mat space. When the low tea-room-style sliding doors closed behind them, Nobuko— “Hey, what on earth is going on?” she began. “There seems to be some misunderstanding.”

While adjusting the kotatsu’s heat with her head bowed, Takeyo answered. “Ah… The truth is, I hadn’t expected you to return so suddenly.”

“Why?” Nobuko thought she had heard something unexpected. “I sent a telegram as soon as I received that letter, but it didn’t arrive?” “I hadn’t known anything about Father saying such things until just recently.” “But this time, I was prepared.” “Since it began abruptly sooner than expected, when the time came, we ended up without even a midwife present.” “When was it?”

“November 28th—it was a month early, you see.” “…………”

Nobuko, knowing nothing, had arrived in San Francisco that very day.

Takeyo gazed intently at the silent Nobuko and said, "But still, Nobuko dear, you’ve managed to recover so well. When I heard you’d fallen ill over there, I was beside myself." "At that time, we were in such a state here too—everyone bedridden throughout the house." Takeyo paused for a moment. "And you... We’ll discuss everything properly later—I must hear your thoughts—but I was terribly worried."

Nobuko blushed. “Because I was far away and couldn’t make out all the details clearly.” “That may be so, but first of all—I only know about this Mr. Tsukuda from what I’ve briefly heard from Father—and isn’t that all? Given how someone like him tends to speak, you can’t take it at face value—and then there were all those strange rumors. Either way, I thought everything would become clear once you returned—truly, I could hardly wait.”

Mother’s tone was deeply compassionate, imbued with a warmth that forgave even while harboring resentment. Nobuko realized for the first time that she had been awaited in a sense entirely different from what she had imagined. The reason why the mood of the house had somehow failed to align with her own feelings became clear. At the same time, Nobuko—who had until now been tense with a certain nervous sharpness—felt her parents’ warm affection enveloping her like a warm bath. Takeyo said with a laugh, in a manner that seemed less directed at her daughter and more like the well-meaning teasing one might give a younger woman.

“—And yet, I’m amazed you managed to muster the resolve to come back all by yourself.” “Well, I thought it was serious...” Nobuko, finding it strangely awkward to say Tsukuda’s name directly to her mother, omitted it and spoke. “Anyway, I couldn’t leave the university now.” “It was actually better that you came alone—there’s much we need to discuss, as this is a significant matter for the family. Since Father is that sort of person, he probably won’t say anything to you—but it was tough on me alone, both inside and out.”

Takeyo picked up each item one by one—the thin blouse Nobuko was taking off, the delicate things adorned with cute lace—and examined them closely. “Women’s things are lovely wherever you go—what do you call this one?”

She noticed that Nobuko was wearing items she herself had helped pack into the trunk at departure time, and said nostalgically. “Oh, you still have that?” “As usual… I didn’t make any kimonos or anything like that at all.” “What became of the tanzaku I gave you?” “I do have it.”

On the morning Nobuko was to depart, Takeyo gave her a parting gift: a poem that read, "Beloved child, may you lead even when seas divide us; your mother watches over you from afar."

“Madam.”

At that moment, the maid called her mother from outside the sliding door.

“The meal preparations are nearly ready, Madam.” “Shall we go then?” “Yes—but I want to see the baby first.” “She must be asleep by now.” Mother led the way and slid open the decorative paper door of the parlor after turning a corner in the hallway. Beneath a lamp dimmed with a shade and drawn to one corner, the nurse folded laundry. Encircled by small bedside screens lay a red futon swollen like a pincushion. Nobuko crept forward on tiptoe, knelt down, and peered at the infant’s face as it slept soundly. It was so small she couldn’t discern whether it favored its mother or father—the idea that this was her sister felt jarringly unreal. She tilted her face upward and whispered to Mother, who loomed behind her in a half-crouch, peering over her shoulder.

“What’s her name?” “We decided on Yukiko, but…” “It smells milky, doesn’t it?” When they returned to where everyone was gathered, Father cheerfully remarked, “You’ve finally come out—looks like you had quite some private matters to discuss, I see.” Nobuko gradually felt relaxation and enjoyment seeping into her heart and body.

Three

With the clear, resonant sound—clang, clang-clang-clang—as if someone were striking metal with a small hammer, Nobuko gradually awoke. The sound produced by deftly moving hands carried a certain richness, yet seemed to deepen the morning’s tranquility all the more. Nobuko knew from the reverberations that it was clear outside.

I wonder what Tsukuda is doing around this time. This morning, after the night had passed, the vivid awareness of having returned pressed upon her, and she felt a lonely ache. Mother was writing letters at the dining room table.

“Good morning.” “How was it? Did you sleep well?” Takeyo set down her brush and moved the inkstone aside as she spoke. “It’s been so long since we’ve eaten a meal together like this. “It gets quite lonely during the day with everyone away.—What would you like?” “What will you have, Mother?” “I’ve been having bread lately.” “Then I’ll do the same.” Nobuko had slept beside her mother the previous night. They had talked about many things in the darkness. This morning too, her mother’s conversation seemed endless. Nobuko too had her heart full of words. Yet all of them lay beyond her mother’s experiences. Especially—

“Say, Mother... I wonder what he’s doing now.” How could she say such a thing?! Because she was holding back what she most wanted to say, Nobuko felt constrained. Takeyo, overjoyed at having regained a conversation partner after so long, spoke cheerfully, utterly indifferent to Nobuko’s feelings. “Isn’t it funny? Father kept asking this morning what you talked about last night.” “Oh, right—it’s because we excluded Father, I’m sure.” “What did he say then?”

“What do you mean? I just told him what we talked about.” “Was he satisfied?” “You were the one who said you wanted to sleep with me specially. So he thought—maybe you’d gotten yourself into a family way or something,’ he said.” Takeyo laughed as she said this, as though it were some absurd joke.

Nobuko felt a strange bitterness. If I were actually in such a condition, what expression would Mother—who so firmly believes such a thing could never happen—make then? She understood clearly from her mother’s subtle vocal inflections how her marriage was being regarded. Recalling how Father, who had come to meet her at the ship yesterday, had been restless and acting as if to avoid drawing attention, Nobuko felt an unpleasant sensation.

“The world truly is detestable. Once your situation became known, Mrs. Tsumura—who’d never once stepped foot here before—came rushing over practically crowing ‘I told you so.’ If we didn’t meet them, people would think it even stranger, so I had to endure this swollen belly and meet every single one—it was utterly unbearable.” “Since that girl is willful by nature, you should simply remain unperturbed.”

Takeyo seemed dissatisfied that Nobuko merely said that and did not express gratitude for the pain she had endured. She spoke in a sullen tone.

“Well, you were far away, indulging in your whims and being all high and mighty, so you could afford to act composed or whatever—but things aren’t that simple for us. If you just keep it at this, there will at least be some regard for appearances.” Nobuko did not take her parents’ concern lightly, but being spoken to in that manner left her feeling unfairly accused. “I am truly sorry for causing you so much worry. But I didn’t act that way while disregarding you, Mother. There was simply no other way—”

“I don’t think so.” “If you want to love someone, then love them—but surely there could have been a way for you to preserve our dignity a little more.” “First of all, I’ve never even met the man—and besides—” Takeyo voiced her deep suspicion and said: “That Tsukuda man is questionable to me.—It’s not just me; everyone has their doubts.” Nobuko found it bitterly amusing—her mother’s tone as she repeatedly called him “Tsukuda” without honorifics, as if she too had already decided he was unworthy of being addressed as “Mr. Tsukuda.”

“Why?” “I explained everything in detail, didn’t I?”

Mother looked sharply at Nobuko.

“That’s right—you did tell me honestly.” “But that’s the Mr. Tsukuda you saw—the Mr. Tsukuda you think you saw, isn’t it?” “It’s just what Mr. Tsukuda told you, isn’t it?” “Is that really the whole of him—without error?”

Nobuko answered as if taking in her mother’s intense words. "He doesn’t lie to me." “I pray that it is so. It’s a matter of a lifetime—even I want to believe your beloved as he is, want to love him as you love him—if only that were possible. But as long as doubts remain, I won’t believe until they’re fully dispelled—it’s in my nature. All this time, I’ve always been the one who gets resented, navigating through all sorts of dangers alone.”

Nobuko felt a kind of pressure from her mother’s resolute tone. The fact that she seemed to believe she could destroy even this current situation through her own willpower, if she chose, filled Nobuko with unease. Nobuko retorted.

“What is your greatest doubt, Mother?—If there’s something I can explain, I should do so.” “The reason is…” Nobuko felt she had finally collided with what she had anticipated. “This time, I’m not playing around. “Even if Mother and I disagree, my resolve won’t change.” “So let’s try to understand each other as much as possible, okay?”

Takeyo poured herself some black tea and took a sip. “...Since it’s something we must discuss eventually, very well—everyone says you’re being deceived.”

“He never hid from the beginning that he has nothing.” “By not hiding it, he’s pandering to your childish sensibilities.”

“No way!” “Then why doesn’t he act like a proper gentleman—return home first no matter what you say—and obtain our consent before proceeding? It’s precisely because you have substantial parents backing you—because he thought there’d be no loss for him no matter how it turns out—that he latched onto you, isn’t that right?”

Nobuko took her mother’s hand and pressed it into her own. “That’s a misunderstanding! Absolutely! Besides—such matters aren’t one-sided—I bear half the responsibility too! First of all—if I thought like you do—I couldn’t bear it! What could anyone possibly want to deceive me for? I don’t have anything worth that!” “…Things exist on a scale,” Takeyo countered coldly. “Even a one compared to zero becomes something of substance.”

Takeyo, her hand still held, kept her guard up and stared intently at Nobuko’s face and hair, but eventually said, “But surely his being at the university isn’t a lie?” “What?” “Well, no—there are those who say this Tsukuda is a laundryman.” Nobuko felt deep indignation, but her mother did not seriously engage with this, “I just can’t make sense of it at all!”

Nobuko answered.

“He might just be scheming to monopolize all our relatives’ laundry, you know.”

IV

Nobuko felt that she had changed upon returning. Tsukuda entered Nobuko’s heart and life.

Even on her parents' side, there remained something unresolved that prevented them from fully regaining their former feelings toward Nobuko. Such days continued. As days passed, Nobuko too came to feel that Takeyo's unsettled feelings toward Tsukuda and the general turmoil were only natural when viewed against the surrounding circumstances. What Nobuko had written in her letters and what Sasa had said stood in complete opposition to the rumors reaching Takeyo through newspapers and other sources. Takeyo—who had never laid eyes on Tsukuda herself—found herself unable to determine which account to trust. Knowing only her husband's good nature and Nobuko's naive single-mindedness, it was perhaps inevitable she inclined toward viewing Tsukuda—the easiest target for speculation—through lenses of distrust and malice.

But from Nobuko’s perspective, it was terrifying how her mother harbored such unreasonable suspicion, as if any man appearing around her daughter must surely be a villain. Because Tsukuda was poor and lacked social standing—which only deepened Takeyo’s suspicions—Nobuko felt a public indignation. That Nobuko had returned to her former self was of course a joy to Takeyo. Yet whenever they faced each other, Takeyo seemed unable to keep from speaking of the loneliness and hardships she had endured during Nobuko’s absence. Their conversations inevitably turned to Tsukuda. At the mention of his name, Takeyo lost all composure.

The long daytime after Father had left for the company became quite a burden for Nobuko.

“Nobuko.”

Takeyo called Nobuko from the living room. Nobuko was usually in her room. Her mother’s unreserved call left her with a vaguely bothersome feeling. But Nobuko immediately stood up and went, then opened the sliding paper door to her mother’s parlor. “What do you need?” Takeyo had spread open a dye sample book on her lap. She brought the book closer to the bright shoji screen and, while intently distinguishing the colors, said, “Kikuya came by, you know.” “What are you planning to have dyed?”

“I have a bolt of wild silk, so I thought I might make a haori jacket—but lately, whether it’s because the dye plants aren’t what they used to be, there are hardly any colors that satisfy me.”

Takeyo soon asked Nobuko, as if suddenly remembering. “Now that you mention it, what became of that purple Yuzen-dyed kimono you took with you?”

“I have it.” “You probably can’t wear that anymore either—though the pattern is lovely—”

Still half-absorbed in the color samples, "What do you intend to do? You can't just leave that kimono as it is." "It's fine... I don't need it." "Even if you say you don't need it, that won't work." "Well then... I suppose we'll just have to make do with this." Takeyo handed the maid a white bolt of fabric and the sample book, then muttered in a tone that gradually broadened with thought as she closed the chest of drawers. "I wonder, what kind of place is Mr. Tsukuda's hometown?"

“Well… why?” “I haven’t been there yet, so I don’t know either.” “But really—such odd provincial customs! At the very least, when you returned like this, there ought to have been some sort of greeting, don’t you think?” “Or perhaps… isn’t Mr. Tsukuda even telling his parents?” “That’s not the case, you know.” Takeyo said with sarcasm, as though her pride had been wounded. “So they intend to deign to remain silent until the bride’s parents send their greetings?”

“They probably don’t know what to say, so they’re keeping quiet. If they themselves were to come back, they’d surely handle it properly.”

Nobuko, having no other choice, said with feigned nonchalance. That displeased Takeyo. She said, “Well, I suppose that’s just fine between the two of you—since everything else about you is unconventional anyway—”

She snapped the chest of drawers shut with a clack of the metal ring. "But I've been thinking lately—just because something deviates from the norm doesn't automatically make it right." "Parading nothing but peculiarity becomes a nuisance for everyone else."

“I’m not putting on some eccentric act. It’s simply that Mother and I have different temperaments and ways of thinking—that’s all.” “So you believe every single thing you do is absolutely right?”

Unexpected matters often led to these emotional arguments. Nobuko, too, initially always endeavored to maintain composure. However, Takeyo’s fierce, merciless character ultimately left even Nobuko unable to remain composed. When provoked, Nobuko, like her mother, would reveal her innate unyielding, fierce nature.

It was a day in late January.

Once again, their argument flared up over something trivial. Nobuko said, almost bewildered.

“Since I came back, it feels like we’ve just been repeating the same things over and over.—Let’s stop this, please… I do understand your intentions, Mother. But—let’s stop talking like this.”

Then Takeyo, her cheeks flushed, snapped— “You’ve changed too—you were never like this before.” Takeyo snapped. “We once had the sincerity and purity to exchange opinions thoroughly with each other.” “That was your nature.” “I don’t know whose influence it is, but this new attitude of yours…” Nobuko felt her emotions flare up as if something had poked her in the chest. Takeyo, with the instinct that only women—or rather, only mothers toward their daughters—possess, always skillfully drove a poisoned needle into Nobuko’s most vulnerable spot in this manner. And she provoked her opponent into fierceness. However, that day, Nobuko too finally restrained herself and replied.

“I’m not being evasive out of cunning. I’m simply saying I won’t engage in arguments just for the sake of arguing.” “You call that doing as you please—indulging yourself to your heart’s content and dragging your parents’ name through the mud. But how dare you demand I stay calm—after all the hardship I endured sending you all the way abroad! For once, try putting yourself in my shoes!” When Nobuko saw Takeyo’s fingers—weathered with age—as she spilled tears and wiped them away in frustration, the wretchedness of mother and daughter quarreling over such matters struck her heart. She stood up from where she had been sitting opposite her mother and sat down on the carpet beneath her mother’s knees. And she said soothingly, trying to make herself understood.

“Mother, please—just for once, try to look at Tsukuda as a person separate from all this. Is there anyone among the people you know whom you think I could love? Have you ever once thought it acceptable to let me freely interact with even one person who’s appeared around me? There isn’t, is there? No matter who it is—the moment someone seems about to form a deep connection with me, they become worthless in your eyes.”

“…I’m such a terrible old hag, aren’t I?”

Grabbing the hand that was about to turn away abruptly, Nobuko—

“That’s not what I meant!” she said.

“Mother, to be fair, you’re too much of an idealist when it comes to me.” “—Don’t you see?” “How much hope you’ve placed in my work and success—if you’d only consider that, you must realize?” “Mother, in some ways, you want me to achieve what you couldn’t in your own life, isn’t that true?” “Isn’t it?” “There may be some truth to that.”

Takeyo answered in a manner that suggested she couldn’t even muster indignation in response to this.

“There’s a great deal of it. Mother, you seem to take pleasure in viewing me as someone pure and elevated in solitude, transcending things like romance.” “I’m not telling you to stay alone at all. If there’s a good person—if there’s someone who can enlighten you—I’ll gladly welcome them anytime.” “My feelings about marriage... are probably different from yours, Mother.” “That goes without saying—I know.”

Returning to her acrid tone, Takeyo interjected. “Your ideas are downright Bolshevik.”

“Ordinary daughters aim to marry, settle into married life, become one with their husbands, and secure the most stable existence society currently offers—isn’t that their purpose? “So they look for men from families sharing their class and traditions—or at least allowing whatever social climbing fate permits—but my difference lies here… I was raised exactly as I was raised, and all I’ve seen are things I’ve seen myself. “I feel not an ounce of interest in men whose parents mirror your world, Mother. “If anything, it fills me with dread. “So when I’m drawn to someone, it’s always because there’s something different about them in that regard—do you understand? That’s why, whether Tsukuda is good or bad aside, I know you’ll never approve on this point. “Because I’m a barbarian—when it comes to life or anything else—I refuse to accept anything unless I seize what I want with these two hands…”

Nobuko fell silent. Takeyo too remained silent. The two of them remained like that for a long time in the evening dusk, where the low flames of the hearth occasionally flickered and flared up, casting a dim red glow over their surroundings.

V

The sky cleared completely, and the wind blew, rustling the camellia’s glossy leaves.

In a corner of the untended garden, where Japanese kerria grew in a tangled thicket and broken twigs and fallen leaves lay piled haphazardly, Japanese irises sprouted neat, uniform buds. Only the vivid green sprouts there appeared so bright and beautiful that it seemed as though sunlight gathered specially upon them.—Warmth… Narrowing her eyes, as she gazed at the interplay of light and shadow within that intense green, a strange, fierce sensation coursed through Nobuko’s entire body. Nobuko stretched with all her might, feeling a thrill that caught in her throat. She swung her arms round and round, fists still clenched. Her arms trembled, white and gleaming.

The wind passed through again.—The thicket of true bamboo rustled softly.

In the detached veranda, Tamotsu was enthusiastically working on something. Approaching, Nobuko— “What are you doing?”

she called out. “They’ve come up, see.”

Showing the innocent profile with a swirl of downy hair, Tamotsu did not take his eyes off the box he was peering into.

“What is it?” Nobuko stretched her neck over her younger brother’s shoulder. It was a seedling box measuring approximately two by three feet. On the exquisitely sifted fine black soil, sprouts that had grown to about a quarter of an inch stood in frail, spindly rows. “What kind of sprouts are these?... They look a bit spindly, aren’t they? But they’re fine as they are.” Tamotsu finally, “They’re just not thriving at all!”

With a perplexed expression, he looked back at Nobuko. “When it comes to cyclamen seedlings, even experts don’t have an easy time with them.” “So of course I’m bad at it... but I can’t help feeling discouraged.”

Nobuko laughed.

“But impressively, they’ve sprouted after all.—They’ll gradually grow bigger, won’t they?” “I don’t know—they’re prone to rot, you see.” “If you warm them just right for sprouting, mold immediately grows in the soil.” “The trouble is, look at this one here—see how it’s strangely lacking vigor?”

Tamotsu pointed to a single withered sprout in the corner of the box. "I can’t figure out why this keeps happening. I did exactly as the book said with the soil and everything, but…"

Tamotsu was fourteen years old. Throughout the winter, he brought this box to the veranda, putting in a brazier, covering it with a glass lid, and delighting in the sprouts' growth.

Having unexpectedly found a listener, Tamotsu eagerly began explaining the difficulties of cultivating cyclamens. That even if they sprout, they won’t bear flowers for several years, and that adjusting the temperature and humidity is no less difficult than cultivating orchids. He would eloquently—though at times with a childlike muddle—expound on the knowledge he had thoroughly memorized from the gardening book he carried around whenever he had a spare moment. “You see, so it’s only natural you can’t do it without a greenhouse.” “Just the other day, without me even knowing, a dog stuck its leg in and ended up uprooting them!”

Nobuko responded briefly out of affection. But to be honest, Nobuko wasn’t even half listening to what Tamotsu was saying. Her state of mind had been out of balance since morning. Because her attention had become scattered and distressing, she had come out of her room, but within the vibrant atmosphere of the late March garden, the heavy, intense, and at once languid emotions lingering within her seemed only to intensify.

Nobuko circled around the annex to the back of the bathhouse. The coal cinders crunched loudly, crunch, crunch. “Who is it?”

“Me.”

The window slid open with a clatter, and Tsuya-ko— “Big sister!” No sooner had she peered out than Takeyo’s striped haori came into view. “Where’s Tamotsu?”

“He’s over at Flame’s place, fretting away—says the cyclamens are rotting—” Tsuya-ko— “Can I, Mother? Please? “I’m really fine now, okay? Come on, Mother!” She heard this. Tsuya-ko, being surrounded only by her brothers, had taken to referring to herself as “boku,” “boku.” “It’s no good—we’ll end up having to call Mr. Hosoya again.” “What are you throwing a tantrum about?” “She says she wants to go outside—even though she’s only been up for two days! If she goes out now, she’ll just start hacking away again… That hopeless asthmatic.”

Nobuko wandered from there to the side of the maids’ room. The shōji were thrown open wide, and right by the window, the maids sat facing each other, sewing. The two of them kept their heads bowed as they sewed a dark brown men’s silk kimono and haori with a black, finely splashed pattern. When she saw this, Nobuko felt a surge of emotion she had been restraining—a turbulence that seemed to gush forth toward those garments. They were Tsukuda’s clothes. They were hurriedly sewing for his return preparations.—Nobuko slipped away to the guestroom garden so as not to be noticed by the women.—

Since returning last December until March arrived, there were times when Nobuko longed to see Tsukuda so desperately it brought tears to her eyes. But no matter how much she agitated herself, the resignation that he couldn't return until his work reached a natural pause had become a sort of psychological anchor. However, it was finally settled that Tsukuda would return to Japan in early April. Particularly after March 19th, when the ship carrying him departed Seattle, Nobuko felt she might collapse under the accumulated weight of long-suppressed anticipation. Each day until his arrival in Yokohama passed in terrible ennui—a mental stagnation born of overripe expectation. Had she possessed ample funds to prepare a proper welcome for him, Nobuko would have found great relief. Yet she had no money whatsoever. For Tsukuda's travel expenses, Nobuko had not only used money earned through her own efforts but compelled her parents to contribute a substantial sum.

“I have various things I want to buy. Give me the money.”

Thus, she was in no position to make such demands. First of all, in the Sasa household, there was not a single person who rejoiced at the news that Tsukuda would be returning within a few days.

At night, when her parents were whispering about something, Nobuko would innocently enter. They suddenly fell silent, "Do you need something?" she was asked.

At such times, her parents felt more like a married couple than parents to Nobuko, and a sorrowful sense of alienation assailed her. With this impatience—its natural outlet blocked—when Nobuko sat alone thinking of Tsukuda, a sickly heat tormented her heart.

At last, it was the second day. That day was a Sunday.

When she opened her eyes, Nobuko thought, Ah, just one more day today! She thought. Just today… Just today… How exhausting this single day would be for her!... Nobuko hated having people look at her face or speak to her. How happy I would be if Tsukuda suddenly came in while I was lying here like this. With a mood so gloomy it felt oppressive, Nobuko went to the dining room. A place setting was laid out on the table. Beside her, Takeyo was cutting a castella cake.

“—A guest?” “One after another.—Even on my day off, it’s like this… Having you at home does no good at all…” “Right, right.”

Then, Takeyo suddenly brushed aside the wrapping paper and decorative cords of the confectionery box in front of her.

“A telegram came.” “Telegram?” “From the ship, most likely. “It was right there just now...”

Nobuko suddenly felt her heart race and joined in searching the area. If something had gone wrong now, it would be unbearable. “Was there a name on it?” “Hmm, let me see…” To Nobuko, that composure seemed unnatural and unpleasant. The telegram emerged from beneath the current affairs cartoon. Seeing the characters “Tsukuda” as the sender, Nobuko felt somewhat relieved. It read: Arrival on the 2nd in the afternoon.

“The second—if we’re talking about the second, that’s today.” “Exactly.”

“That’s strange… It says arrival on the second afternoon, but…” Looking at the clock, Nobuko was once again overwhelmed by a flustered and perplexed state of mind. Merely stating “afternoon” made it impossible to determine whether it meant 1 PM or even 6 PM. “I’ll go ask.” Nobuko inquired with the shipping company, her manner betraying anxiety even as she made the call. A young clerk answered curtly, “It enters port today.” “What time? Is it evening?” “No, it’s early. It’s likely already outside the port. If you’re meeting him, you must hurry.”

Nobuko returned from the phone with a peculiar expression. “So it really is today after all…” “What’s with that face?”

Takeyo looked up at Nobuko—who stood rigidly in place—and gave a wry smile. "You can't just stand there spacing out. If you're going to go, then go—tell Father or do what you must." While changing into a kimono in her room, Nobuko felt ambushed. However sudden this might be—if he whom she had waited for so ardently were arriving even a minute sooner—she should have been leaping for joy, yet— Now that the moment had come, she found herself unable to feel the imagined delight, struck instead by this unexpected numbness. He was finally returning—yet until she saw him with her own eyes, even this fact—that he, the him who lived in her heart, was coming back—felt strangely unreal.

Nobuko recalled that summer dawn from fifteen years ago. Because her father was returning to Japan from Britain after five years, eight-year-old Nobuko had not slept that night. That morning—behind her mother who had set up her mirror stand under the hanging lamp and was arranging her hair—as she swatted mosquitoes with a fan, Nobuko remembered how her mother’s uncharacteristic silence had felt frighteningly alien. Now she understood those complex emotions her mother had harbored that morning as a wife.

The Sakuragicho-bound train was empty. Facing them were only a middle-aged man who appeared to be an idle pleasure-seeker employed at a foreign trading firm, a woman in her early thirties, and a few other male passengers sharing the ride. The train rattled and clacked along, glittering in the warm sunlight as it raced through the disordered landscape bridging Tokyo and Yokohama. Sasa took out a small notebook from his pocket and examined it. After some time had passed, Nobuko inquired.

“What time?” “Well, it’s probably still around two o’clock.” He took out his watch. “Hmm, it’s ten minutes past... Took longer than I expected.” Sasa, lightly tapping his coat-covered knee with the notebook held open between the pages by his index finger as he gazed out the window, suddenly twisted toward Nobuko and whispered affectionately in a low voice. “You mustn’t get so excited—people are watching.” He returned to his original position and added in a slightly raised voice.

“I deserve sympathy—if you make me blush like that, I’ll be done for.” “No… Father”

They rode a rickshaw from Sakuragicho. The rough port rickshaw puller hunched his chest forward and dashed off, shouting like a Chinese coolie.

The Korea Maru had just been moored alongside the quay. As workers fastened the gangplank, a sailor leaning from the Korea Maru bellowed instructions across the water. Responding in kind, several men heaved a wheeled gangway across the cobblestones. Impatient crowds already swelled around them—eager reunions erupting heedless of decorum, heartfelt cries cutting through calculated propriety. Nobuko gripped her father's arm and plowed through the human tide. Her eyes never stopped scanning the upper deck's railings where faces pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, desperately seeking Tsukuda among the throng.

There were indeed a great many faces. They overlapped one another, blending into the colors of hats and overcoats, making it impossible for her nearsighted eyes to distinguish each one individually. Before long, those who had come to meet others and those who had disembarked seemed to have found each other—men waving their hats and shouting “Hey! Hey!” in delight, women in formal haori with family crests bowing from this side. Because the ship was large, the faces of the lined-up passengers looked small, as if confined. Nobuko grew sad,

“Can you see him? Can you see him?” “Can you see him? Can you see him?”

she asked her father repeatedly. “Staying in this hubbub makes it hard for them to spot us too—let’s move somewhere less crowded.”

They pushed through the surging crowd pressing forward and stood near the customs warehouse. As they watched, a man descended a short flight of steps from the upper deck and emerged onto the middle deck near the bow. A black overcoat—a bowler hat. Nobuko involuntarily raised her whole body along with her right hand and, while waving it fervently above her head, announced to her father: “I see him, Father! Over there—the one in black!” He too took off his hat, faced them, and waved slowly and broadly. Waving her hand even more vigorously, even more wholeheartedly, Nobuko shuddered with emotion, tears welling in her eyes.

VI

The automobile turned the corner of the slope along the stone wall. Sandwiched between her father and Tsukuda and jostled by the ride, Nobuko felt her anxiety deepen as they drew nearer to the house. What impressions would Tsukuda and Mother make on each other at their first meeting? Nobuko was slightly worried—trivial though it was—about Tsukuda’s pallid complexion. That he was poor at conversation and not one to smoothly initiate topics on his own also concerned her. At the entrance, under Mother’s direction, solemn-faced houseboys and maids stood lined up to welcome them. Sasa handed his hat to the maid and said lightly, as if dispelling the awkward atmosphere.

“It’s been years since I’ve had my shoes taken off like this.” “You’re the sort to catch cold from your feet, aren’t you?” “In Japan we still can’t escape this nuisance.”

Tsukuda stiffened and answered without a smile. "No, it's fine." Nobuko had stepped up onto the entrance platform first and exerted herself as if pressing a signal button toward his heart—willing him to relax! Be natural! she wished.

Takeyo, who had changed into formal clothes, stood before a chair near the parlor entrance to welcome them. Nobuko stepped forward first. "We're home." She greeted her mother. Then she introduced Tsukuda to her. Sasa supported this from beside them. "This is my wife.—Mr. Tsukuda—As I mentioned earlier to Mr. Tsukuda, we've been deeply indebted to you." "That does seem to be the case." Takeyo responded with solemn dignity, her large frame maintaining an air of authority. "This meeting has truly come about through an unexpected connection—it's an honor to make your acquaintance."

Tsukuda was unable to properly handle Takeyo’s formal manner of reception and answered awkwardly—his words halting and insufficiently formed. “I have been greatly indebted to Mr. Sasa.” “…I look forward to your kind consideration.”

“Oh, do take a seat. …Though you must be quite worn out.”

Sasa began to speak to his wife.

“It seems Mr. Tsukuda gets quite seasick—they say he slept through more than half of the voyage.” “Oh my, that must have been dreadful.” Takeyo looked toward Tsukuda as though expecting some words from him. Tsukuda rested his elbows on both sides of the chair, clasped his hands in front of his chest, and nodded as he looked at Takeyo. “I’m quite all right now.” he said.

Nobuko leaned against the back of her father’s chair and stood there, watching the psychological dynamics of their meeting unfold. The fact that Mother had been uncertain about how to conduct herself toward Tsukuda was evident from the way she had been standing when they entered. Should she respect Tsukuda and maintain a certain distance when speaking, or was he someone she could treat in a relaxed, informal manner as Nobuko’s spouse? It seemed she had tried this out through these two brief exchanges. Had she already sensed something discordant from Tsukuda—something like a bad taste on the tongue? Otherwise, why would she need to fidget restlessly with the tips of her pristine white tabi socks like that from time to time? Nobuko, avoiding looking at that pale, raw creature’s ear-like figure who filled her with unease, said to her father,

“Father, wouldn’t you like to change clothes? Thank you very much—today, you know...” Nobuko explained to Tsukuda as if trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere. “A telegram arrived right when I’d overslept. You can’t imagine how flustered I was! Even Father got summoned unexpectedly, see?” “Ah—but Sunday worked out. Other days are impossibly busy. If you don’t take proper care, you’ll develop neurasthenia. Foreign countries have established rules, but here we lack any proper system or principles for living. Everything’s done blindly—a complete mess. Well, consider yourself home now—please relax awhile.”

“Thank you very much. I’m afraid I’ll be causing you considerable trouble...” When Nobuko returned after showing Tsukuda to the bathhouse, Takeyo stood at the parlor entrance speaking in hushed tones to her husband with an agitated expression.

Sasa left for the study, passing Nobuko on the way.

Takeyo grabbed Nobuko there and spoke as if warning her. “Does Mr. Tsukuda always have such a complexion?” “That’s not just a normal complexion.” Nobuko, finding her own prediction to have been so accurate, couldn’t help but laugh innocently. “It’s because he was seasick the whole time, poor thing—though of course he’s never had what you’d call ‘apple-red cheeks,’ mind you.” “I wonder if people who’ve lived abroad long all end up like that… It’s strange somehow—they can’t even manage proper greetings.”

“It’s because you greeted him so grandly that he was taken aback.” When Tsukuda had washed his hands and face and returned, and fruits and tea had been laid out on the table, Nobuko called to her younger siblings: “Come here, everyone! Tea’s ready!” The three of them came at once. Nobuko introduced them one by one to Tsukuda: “Mr.Waichirou，Mr.Tamotsu，Tsuya-ko.” Tsukuda smiled gently at Tsuya-ko, who stood shyly with her bobbed hair, and extended his hands: “Come here.”

and extended both hands. “Now go on and let him pick you up.” Because everyone was watching and laughing, Tsuya-ko grew increasingly self-conscious and made no move to approach Tsukuda, “Big Sis.”

Tsuya-ko clung to Nobuko. Sensing that everyone was watching with joking yet earnest attention to see whether little Tsuya-ko would go to Tsukuda’s lap or not, she wanted Tsuya-ko to take a liking to him. “What’s the matter? “Tsuya-ko, let him hold you. “There we go—Big Sis is moving along with you now…”

Nobuko, with Tsuya-ko clinging to her like a small monkey and still perched on her lap, edged toward Tsukuda. Tsuya-ko suddenly threw both arms around Nobuko’s neck in a vise-like grip. Holding her breath, she stiffened her entire body and dug her feet into the tatami mats in resistance. Though her face remained buried against Nobuko’s shoulder, she was surely moments away from flushing crimson with exertion and erupting into sobs. Nobuko ceased moving. “All right, stop this! We’ll postpone it for today.”

“This child is quite peculiar, you see. Until just last year or so, she was afraid of tofu, afraid of silk floss—she even took a dislike to her own father, leaving me quite at a loss.”

Then, Tsuya-ko turned her back to everyone and, while being held by Nobuko, put on airs as if— “The kannushi too.” she added in a small voice. For the first time, heartfelt laughter erupted. “Kannushi” was Tsuya-ko’s word for a Shinto priest.

Around ten o'clock, the maid—

“How would you like me to prepare the bedding?”

came to ask. “Well…”

Takeyo looked at Nobuko. “Your room should be fine, right?” “That’s fine.” “Well then, as usual—” “Um, regarding the bedding and such—which ones should I prepare?” Takeyo, without moving from her spot, answered in a manner that suggested it was naturally something Nobuko should do. “Well—there must be something… Nob-chan, if you don’t go check for yourself, you won’t know.”

Nobuko silently led the maid to the storeroom. She had her open the cupboard. “That… the striped one and the Hachijō one.” Nobuko had the maid take out the bedding and went to the washroom. She turned on the electric light, watched her face in the mirror as she smoothed her hair with her palm, and felt a lonely, despondent sort of feeling. Could this be the feeling of welcoming him whom she had so longed for? There were too many people around, it was mentally exhausting, and Nobuko felt more melancholy than ecstatic joy. She turned off the light. And she left the washroom. At that moment, the sound of the door in the distant room opening grew loud. Tsukuda, with half his body out in the corridor and looking down as he tried to put on his slippers, came into Nobuko’s view.

“Waichirou, go with him.” “No, I can manage alone—I went earlier too… Huh? I’ll be fine…” Tsukuda walked straight down the dark corridor toward her, as though he could see Nobuko standing there and perceive the desire in her heart. Nobuko forgot her undiminished self from just a moment before. She suppressed her laughter like a mischievous child who could barely contain her glee, her heart pounding so hard it seemed to pulse in unison with the surrounding darkness, as she quietly stood hidden beside the corner bookshelf.

Seven

About a week later, Nobuko returned to his rural hometown with Tsukuda. They stayed for a little over ten days.

For Nobuko, it was a trip that mixed enjoyment with reserve. She realized that Tsukuda’s elderly father, his brother and sister-in-law, younger brother, and other blood relatives—though long separated from him and having lived lives entirely separate from both Tsukuda and herself—were nevertheless considerate toward them.

The rapeseed flowers were in full bloom, their golden blossoms towering high in continuous rows, their radiance reflecting off the distant Hakusan Mountain Range. In the old village, houses with black-painted plank fences lined both sides of a narrow road. Jōdo Shinshū was thriving there, and the village temple served as both a clubhouse and a community hall. In each house, splendid Buddhist altars were adorned. It was said that their size governed the status of the household. “In this area, everyone treasures such things, you see.” Nobuko, finding it unusual, gazed at the metal-fitted double doors and the transoms inside where relief carvings—colored in red and light blue—depicted the life story of Shinran Shōnin. The old man warming himself by the hearth fire would always go to the Buddhist altar before retiring to his bedroom. He lit the Buddhist oil lamp, donned his ceremonial robe, and recited something akin to the Tannishō. Then, under his breath,

"Namu, Namu, Namu" he returned while feebly chanting the nenbutsu. From the large crossbeam of the ceiling, blackened by smoldering fire smoke, hung a straw rice bag. The large overlapping shadows of those silently watching the glowing fire crawled across the wooden floorboards and swayed on the plank door, stretching and shrinking. Their entire way of life was steeped in time-honored traditions, much like that Buddhist altar.

When they returned to Tokyo, the cherry and magnolia blossoms had already fallen, and the maple trees had begun to spread their young leaves.

Nobuko was sprinkling water in front of the room with a watering can one day, holding up the hem of her kimono with one hand.

With the persistent fair weather, compounded by the fact that the ground around her room had been disturbed during the building extension, the area had become severely dry. Under the eaves untouched by rain, the soil had become as dry and crumbly as kinako flour. It absorbed water endlessly. When she moved the watering can briskly, the water droplets spread and fell onto the soil with a soft, clear sound of uniform drops. A refreshing scent of soil rose. Nobuko, gradually stepping back, continued sprinkling with single-minded focus.

The shoji screen slid open, and Tsukuda peered out. He silently watched Nobuko’s actions for a while, then said, “That’ll be over soon.” “Soon enough.—But… you can stop if you want.” “—I’d like some tea—” “Then wait a moment—I’ll be right there.” “I want to drink it here—”

Nobuko cut off the flow from the watering can and looked up at Tsukuda standing by the threshold. "—Why don't we go over there, hmm?"

“…………” Tsukuda expressed his discontent through silence. “Since you left at noon and haven’t come back, let’s go out and talk a bit.” “It’s surely about time you’d want some tea over there as well.” “I could go, but—it’ll take too long.”

“You’re impossible! This or that—you’re always throwing tantrums over something!”

Nobuko reproached him, mixing seriousness into her jest.

“You have nothing to do, yet you say you’re busy—I won’t let that excuse pass!”

Tsukuda did not yet have a steady occupation.

After returning from their trip, Nobuko placed two desks in the two adjoining six-tatami rooms. He sat hunched awkwardly before them, writing job applications and haphazardly sorting through old notes. These rooms had originally been built as Nobuko’s private study—connected to the engawa veranda yet arranged like a separate annex. Through the combination of Kuramae’s wide veranda and the back staircase on the second floor, they stood isolated from the other rooms. When they sealed off the single sack-like entranceway, they could spend whole days without seeing another soul, gazing out at the front garden. This layout proved ideal for Nobuko and Tsukuda’s tête-à-tête. Yet when she actually began living there with him, Nobuko found this convenience both blessing and burden. For Tsukuda had always been prone to seclusion. When Nobuko fussed over his every minor need, he would only emerge from the room when strictly necessary—at mealtimes, when using the toilet, answering the telephone, or when her father came home.

Before departing for the countryside, such an incident had occurred. It was indeed that time when he had said he wanted to drink tea in his room. Nobuko, without giving it much thought,

“Then I’ll bring it for you.”

With that, she went to the dining room. Mother was discussing dinner preparations with the maid. When she saw Nobuko, “What is it?” she asked. “Tea.” “Is there any hot water?”

Takeyo reached out and touched the iron kettle. “Ah, it’s just the right temperature.” While Nobuko arranged the teacups, she prepared the teapot herself. “There’s delicious steamed red bean cake—should I cut some of that for you?” In her mother’s unhurried manner of pouring the tea, the clear delight she took in drinking it together with Nobuko was plainly evident. Nobuko went to fetch Tsukuda from the room, leaving the three teacups arranged. “Please come. Mother’s expecting you, and it’s putting me in a difficult position.”

She urged him repeatedly, but Tsukuda ultimately didn’t move. Nobuko had no choice but to return and lie to her mother. “He says he can’t get away right now. I’ll just take this and go… I’ll be right back, so please wait for me, all right?” Mother remarked ironically, without malice.

“Well, well. It must be quite inconvenient, living like you’re in a boardinghouse.”

Turning her back to her mother as she was placing teacups on a small tray, Nobuko felt an unpleasant sensation—as though the two of them were something shameful, huddled and cowering in some corner of this large house. In the corridor spanning several rooms leading to their room, Nobuko’s emotions churned complexly.

Having had such experiences, she returned the watering can to its place and, as she picked up the bucket, said to Tsukuda, "My feet got dirty, so I'll go around to the bath area. Please go ahead and wait there."

Nobuko entered the bath area from the rear. While washing her feet on the dirt-floored area, she occasionally strained her ears, attentive to whether the sliding door of their room would open. Not a sound came through. After wiping her feet, Nobuko went to Kuramae and called out. "Aren't you coming?" "I'm here." At his response, Nobuko slid open the door herself. "Come now—that's enough."

Tsukuda remained standing by the threshold facing the garden, only turning his face toward Nobuko. A somber horizontal wrinkle had formed on his forehead. She could read the plea in his expression—an annoyed look that said she should have understood. Nobuko approached him and spoke in a low, earnest tone. "You know, staying in the same house yet only showing your face at mealtimes—somehow that feels wrong." "Since we’re living together, we must get along, mustn’t we?" "So please come—we didn’t have things like this at our house in O Village, did we?"

He answered in a voice that conveyed a sense of obligation toward Nobuko. “Then I’ll go.”

VIII

An extremely subtle, nervous discord gradually began to spread throughout the house. Nobuko herself sensed it viscerally as well. At dinner, she helped with the cooking as usual. During that time, Tsukuda remained in his room. When the table was set, Nobuko,

“Come on, everyone!”

she called out. Her youthful voice carried through the house. Tamotsu from the backyard, Waichirou too—and of course Tsuya-ko— “Dinner! Dinner!” she shouted as she came clattering over. Nobuko washed her hands and took her seat. Though Father and Mother were already poised with their chopsticks, Tsukuda alone remained absent. Tsuya-ko piped up, “Mommy? Can we eat now?” Nobuko grew uneasy. Then Tsukuda slid open the front door—bowing slightly to all present— A mere minute or two they’d waited. Yet like some grand dame making her entrance last at a ball, he stood apart—conspicuous guest—and Nobuko sensed them all, dimly yet freshly aware: *Ah—there he exists.* Nobuko—

“—What were you doing? You’re late,” she said. She wanted him to apologize for making everyone wait.

“Everyone’s been waiting for you.” Tsukuda sat on the zabuton cushion as if hardening both knees, staring fixedly at the tabletop, and murmured indistinctly,

“Well... just a bit.”

And he turned only toward her parents and greeted them.

“My apologies for the delay.” “No.—Well, have you coordinated with Mr. Yamazaki? Since I happened to meet him at the club today, I spoke with him again properly.”

……Gradually, the meal grew lively. By the end, everyone except Nobuko forgot the initial slight tension they felt. However, this kind of thing did not end with just one occurrence. The next day, then a day later again the next day, and the day after that—for some reason, the same thing kept occurring. The faint feeling that would soon vanish grew clearer with each recurrence, becoming for Nobuko a kind of troubling premonition. At mealtimes, Takeyo would say with suppressed irritation.

“You should tell Mr. Tsukuda sooner rather than later not to make everyone wait endlessly like he’s some guest.” “I will.”

“After all, don’t they say foreign universities cultivate an easygoing spirit among young men? He could at least help you here—is he like this even when you’re alone together?” Nobuko untied her apron strings while twisting her mouth into a vinegary smile.

“It’s not like that.” “Well, if that’s how it is…”

Takeyo said nothing more and began adjusting the table's flower arrangement. She plucked the leaves of the cornflower that had begun to wilt and, leaning back slightly, examined the branches' arrangement.

Flower arranging was merely a manual task, and Nobuko intuitively sensed that her mother’s heart was filled with things she wanted to say. Takeyo said nothing more after that.

A few days before April ended, Nobuko was invited to a friend's house along with her female cousins. Though cloudy, it was a beautiful day where thick, glossy green leaves on the ground stood vivid against the lustrous gray sky. Around four o'clock, when Nobuko went to the washroom to get ready, Tsukuda left the room with her and began tidying the bookshelf built into the corner of the wide veranda. The bookshelf was shared by the family, and though they called them books, there wasn't a single proper one among them. It had become a dumping ground for old magazines. Takeyo had casually mentioned how several years' worth of women's magazines had been haphazardly crammed into the shelf until they collapsed into disarray, causing one glass door to jam shut. Nobuko was startled to see what he intended to do now,

“When I said that, I never intended for you to be the one to do it.”

she tried to stop him.

“You can just leave it alone—things like that. If it’s truly necessary, you can just have someone else do it, you know.” “What’s wrong with doing it? If it can be of even the slightest use to everyone, that’s good enough.” “If you’re doing this to take your mind off things, then fine…”

Nobuko, holding her half-combed hair in one hand, peered at Tsukuda through its strands. He planted himself squarely before the bookshelf on the wooden floor, sitting cross-legged as he opened the door and began sorting through dust-coated old magazines. Now something seized Nobuko’s eyes—eyes now trained through habit to discern his moods—and would not let go. She nearly, Unhappy?

She started to ask. But she stopped. If he was in a bad mood, would I cancel my plans to go to Tomizuka? No. Returning to the mirror, Nobuko reflected on her own emotions—which had somehow come to function in this manner—and smiled a wry smile. As Nobuko leaned close to the mirror’s surface to apply her face powder, thoughts progressed quietly and heavily within her head. And Nobuko felt that it was not just herself, but many married women who were weighed down and rendered listless by these seemingly petty, simple troubles of the heart.

When she finished getting ready, Nobuko tried to lift her spirits and said lightly to him, “I’ll be going.” She rustled her obi and kimono as she leaned over Tsukuda, who sat cross-legged, and touched his cheek. “Since Father is out tonight, why don’t you have a nice long talk with Mother?”

As night fell, a fine rain began to fall. Around nine o'clock, Nobuko, growing restless with thoughts of home, requested a rickshaw. In the drizzling rain of late spring, the rickshaw's interior felt clammy with humid warmth and the scent of its oilcloth canopy. Moreover, there were many uphill slopes that prolonged the journey. When she returned home, no shoes were visible in the entranceway. "Where is Father?" "Father has not yet returned." Walking further inside, Nobuko wished she might encounter Mother and Tsukuda deep in amiable conversation. As she opened the door, she imagined their cheerful faces turning toward her,

“Oh, you’re back!—We were just talking about your flaws.” If they had said that to her, how delightful it would have been! How truly delightful it would have been! In the dark corridor, Nobuko found herself beginning to smile involuntarily. Yet that warm fantasy soon stiffened into numbness—humans possess an intuition akin to animals instinctively sniffing out the safety of their den or approaching danger when sensing the atmosphere of their dwelling. Nobuko grew wary of the deathly stillness permeating every room—a chill that seemed to seep from somewhere and linger even in the hallway. She quietly opened the door.

“I’m home.”

Tsukuda was not there. Her younger brothers were also not there. In the night air, there was only Mother alone. Nobuko involuntarily looked around the room as if searching for something. “The rain wasn’t too much trouble, was it?”

Takeyo closed the magazine and looked at the clock. "No, I took a rickshaw... Father still hasn't returned, has he?" "He'll surely be late tonight—it's that pottery group again, as usual..." She observed Nobuko with a composed, scrutinizing gaze as she sat there with her coat still untied. "Why don't you go change into a kimono?" Nobuko obediently stood up. Moving briskly, she opened the sliding door to her room. Tsukuda was at the desk. "I'm home."

“Welcome back.”

He answered without turning around or even moving his head, remaining seated with his back to Nobuko as she entered.—This too was unnatural. What had happened?—Nobuko sensed an unpleasantness flowing between her mother and Tsukuda. Nobuko felt a confusion akin to being squeezed between rocky, unfriendly cliffs that she could neither push nor pull with her own strength.

After changing, Nobuko went to see her mother again. Takeyo, who seemed to have been waiting impatiently for her arrival, suddenly spoke with irrepressible frankness.

“Mr. Tsukuda must be quite disturbed, mustn’t he?”

What had been accumulating in Mother’s heart all this time finally overflowed.

“Oh… Did something happen?”

Takeyo stared fixedly at Nobuko. "You already heard about it from him over there, didn’t you?" "No." "...So this is how it is..." Even as she spoke, Takeyo wore an expression of clear displeasure. "—Repeating such things might seem childish, and it’s truly unpleasant… but I suppose I must start from the beginning for clarity.—Not long after you left, I invited him for tea, thinking he might be lonely alone." "Since Tamotsu and Tsuya-ko weren’t around, and it seemed like a good opportunity, I had intended to have a proper talk with him alone." "As you know, I still haven’t fully accepted that man into my heart, and there’s been no proper opportunity for a serious talk until now—in my mind, I wanted to exchange opinions about you without reserve, you see. It’s unbearable for both of us to keep up this strangely formal pretense where he just superficially calls me ‘Mother’!"

“That’s right.” “Because I was foolishly honest, I expected Mr. Tsukuda would sense that and sincerely open up—but that was my mistake.”

A fresh wave of anger revived on Takeyo’s face. She flushed red to the tips of her ears. “He’s impossible! “He...” “Why?” “Why do you ask… He’s utterly cold… Not an ounce of appreciation in that man.” “No matter how uneducated someone might be, if you speak to them with sincere feelings, they’d respond earnestly—but him? He just keeps backing away, I tell you.” “He just keeps harping on how he’s prepared to do anything for you, how he’s resolved to make sacrifices—it’s not like I’m suddenly demanding he martyr himself for us!” “I’m not insane.—I’m trying to discuss this so you can establish yourself properly and he can live comfortably too, but—it’s not even becoming a proper discussion, is it?”

Knowing both Mother’s temperament and Tsukuda’s nature, Nobuko understood these dissatisfactions well. Mother was speaking so earnestly from the heart! Nobuko felt sympathy for her mother’s frustration—that heated heart with nowhere to go. Even so, Nobuko couldn’t bring herself to think it was entirely Tsukuda’s fault. She neutrally, “He isn’t good with words…” she said. “Besides, even if we try talking about me—it’s awkward for anyone, isn’t it? There’s no concrete problem to address right now…”

Driven by her mother’s unsparingly impassioned speech and faced with Tsukuda’s persistent—and characteristically vehement—insistence on sacrifice and effort in response to those elusive, abstract demands, Nobuko felt an inexplicable sense of futility.

“Well… I suppose that’s how it seems—but that—it was around dinnertime when the call came through to him.” “Since he’d been talking at such length, I should have refrained, but without thinking, I asked where the call was from.” “‘A relative in Asakusa,’ he said, I suppose?” “I’d never heard of any such relatives, and since Asakusa struck me as such a working-class district, I blurted out, ‘My, what an unusual place to be staying!’” “Then that man grew terribly sullen—even changed complexion—and said, ‘Mother, do you think I’m up to something improper?’ Can you imagine!” “I simply couldn’t make sense of it!” “But given how grave he looked, when I considered it carefully—you must have planted some vile suspicion in him…”

Nobuko felt as if her brow were being wrung, listened while turning aside, and propped her cheek on her hand. “...I said, ‘Such thinking is a disgrace to you,’ but...”

When Nobuko returned to the room again, he remained seated at the desk with books spread open on both sides. The stubborn hollow at his nape seemed to address her. “I know what you’ve come to hear.” “You’ll understand me eventually… But believe what you will.” “I won’t justify myself.” Unable to repeat her mother’s words or endure staying in that stifling room, she retreated to the Kuramae corridor. Crossing her arms, she paced back and forth while swaying her body rhythmically. A ten-candlepower lamp suspended from the high ceiling cast light across the wooden floorboards. Through the dimness, she glimpsed the lattice shutters of the storehouse. Her tabi-clad feet slid against the corridor’s polished surface—smooth yet unyielding. Had this floor always been so treacherously slick? The night seemed determined to unsettle her. Loneliness sharpened her movements until she walked in exaggerated undulations.

Nine

The bathroom was thick with steam. Nobuko, having tucked up her hem, was washing Tsuya-ko’s body in the large basin. The smell of melted soap and the hot dampness of the steam seeped through her clothes, making her feel uncomfortable. Tsuya-ko soaked a large sponge with hot water, squeezed it with both hands, and while pouring the water over her belly from above, giggled boisterously. “Sis, look, look! The hot water’s stinging my belly button!” “Look, look!”

Takeyo was soaking in the bathtub. To Tsuya-ko, who was fooling around too much, she would occasionally— “You mustn’t make such a racket.”

While saying this, she began talking to Nobuko. It was criticism of Tsukuda.

Since the unpleasant incident that had occurred the previous night while Nobuko was away, she seemed to have lost all reserve and even her last vestiges of respect toward him. Whenever she spoke to Tsukuda or about him, her tone invariably took on a particular quality tinged with contempt and a consciousness of conferring favor. She said this while combing back her damp stray hairs with a temple comb.

“Well, in any case, since no human being is perfect, even if we must forgive each other… The more I see that man, the more doubts I have—thirty—how old is he?” “Thirty-five or thirty-six, I suppose—but in any case, to have remained pure until that age—it’s just…”

Nobuko, “Turn that way, turn that way,” and made Tsuya-ko turn her back. Then she said bitterly,

“Let’s stop this talk… now.” Takeyo scooped up fresh bathwater and, while washing her face, said through gaps in the hand towel with an unsteady voice.

“—When I think about it, you’re such a womanly person—blind when you fall for someone—even seeing you two together makes it painfully clear you’re the one loving more… If that suits you, then so be it—”

After a while, she muttered again, as if to herself. “I can’t keep this up forever—well, if we’re both going to ruin ourselves together, then so be it. I’ll just have to resign myself to you being that kind of person.”

Fundamentally, there were many incompatible elements between Sasa’s family life and Tsukuda’s nature. The Sasa household had come to enjoy a certain degree of material prosperity, both externally and internally, since Nobuko’s father’s generation. The household’s atmosphere—as if in a period of burgeoning—was energetic, exclusive, conquering, and teemed with a primitive vitality that was not very intellectual. Everyone talked volubly, ate heartily, and slept soundly. Even the single fact that Tsukuda alone frequently suffered stomach ailments and lacked the others’ robust appetite served to accentuate how he remained a foreign element within this household.

Takeyo, who lived and moved as the very embodiment of the household’s atmosphere, found it grating on her nerves that Tsukuda was neither a fearsome enemy to be vanquished nor someone who assimilated—remaining instead stubbornly that foreign element. She grew increasingly irritated and hurled openly spiteful words at Nobuko. At dusk, when Nobuko was in her room, “What are you doing when we’re so busy? Go call your sister—Tsuya-ko.”

Her mother’s voice called out. “Sis, and—” “Yes, yes.”

Takeyo, standing and waiting for Nobuko as she came out,

“I don’t know what business you have, but you should at least help out here a bit.”

she said. “When even one more person joins the household, the kitchen gets that much busier—it’s a problem when you act like some guest.” As if she were alone, simply, Hateful Mother! Even though you’re not busy at all— She couldn’t say it. Mother was venting her irritation toward Tsukuda, who had taken Nobuko away, and her loneliness toward Nobuko, who had let herself be taken by him. As Nobuko tidied up the table and such, Takeyo watched her,

“What on earth is Mr.Tsukuda doing every day?” she pressed on. “Is he really going to be able to go to university?” “He said it’s starting next week…” “Well, I suppose that’s fine—but if people ask and he’s not going anywhere at his age… that would be a problem. You must properly express your gratitude—Father went all the way to Dr.Tsumura’s house the other day despite his busy schedule, just for that…”

Tsukuda began attending university. He was affiliated as a guest researcher at Dr.Tsumura's laboratory. He would likely become a lecturer in his field before long, but that alone wouldn’t sustain a livelihood. He asked people he had met during his time in America to help him find employment. For such visits, he could not feel at ease staying in Nobuko’s room and went out every day. In the evening, he returned home around the same time as Sasa. Compared to the elderly Sasa, who had spent his day occupied with official duties, it was Tsukuda who kept complaining how tired he was. Nobuko felt a forlorn sadness at this.

After dinner, he would join the family gathering for a while. But after some time had passed, he would inevitably, “I must excuse myself—there’s something I need to attend to…” make this announcement before withdrawing alone to the room before the storehouse. Maintaining disciplined study habits was naturally no simple matter in the Sasa household.

Because the master was not a reader, from after dinner until bedtime, there existed only cheerful bustle within the household. Tsukuda’s inability to mingle and engage in play with everyone—this sentiment was understood by Nobuko. Yet every night, though it seemed he could have simply stood up and left in silence, he would inevitably do so in an awkward manner,

“I must excuse myself.” He declared in a stiff, formal tone. It was as if he were proclaiming that he alone—even now—had weighty matters requiring his attention. As he turned his back on everyone, clattered open the door, exited, and finished closing it behind him, those who had been chatting idly felt an almost reproachful weight settle over them and fell silent for a few seconds.—Those delicate moments of pause made Nobuko feel a pang of sorrow. There, she—

“Hey.”

And she was the first to break that awkward silence herself. "Listen, everyone—do you know this story?" One time a policeman caught a sneak thief. After dragging him to the police box and beating him mercilessly, he demanded: "You bastard! How dare you do something so shameless? You idiot! What happened to your conscience?" "What's that? Sir?" "What happened to your conscience? Every human has one—that's why they can't commit evil deeds! Don't you know that, fool?"

“Huh… Well… What’s that? My parents were crushed to death in an earthquake ten years back.” “Oh! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha!” Ha ha ha. While laughing along—What a stupid pun, what a stupid self—Nobuko grew angry at herself for fretting over such trivial matters. To Nobuko, while Tsukuda could not feel at ease staying and chatting with everyone like that, what lay on his desk in the room was by no means important work. She knew he was either rewriting outdated translations of Iranian poetry or laying out drafts, dipping his brush into the ink bottle while likely writing yet another resume.

10

The maelstrom of emotions surrounding them grew increasingly complex and intense, leaving Nobuko more tormented with each passing day. Her simple, passionate nature made her react wholeheartedly to every stimulus—from her mother, from Tsukuda—ricocheting between them. Rebounding this way and that, colliding and springing back—Nobuko began yearning to settle into steady work. Since Tsukuda's return from abroad, unprocessed emotions and experiences had churned turbulently within her heart. One day, she told him:

“I’ve started wanting to settle down and focus on my studies a bit more.” “Very well, go ahead and do it.” “We have to move—but—” “...”

Tsukuda gazed at Nobuko with a doubtful, uneasy expression.

“Oh no, that’s not it—it’s just moving the desks. Since we’re in each other’s way here, I want to go back to the original room.”

Then, Tsukuda remained silent for a while before taking Nobuko’s hand and asking in return. “Is it truly only for studying?” “Of course.”

However, in that moment, Nobuko felt a tiny needle-like doubt flicker through some corner of her heart. Is that really all there is to it?... Nobuko declared even more cheerfully. “Of course! So will you help me?” “Of course, I’ll help you.” Both of them were already wearing serge suits. They carried both ends of the oak desk that Nobuko had inherited from her grandfather and moved it along the garden path to the side of the guest room.

"Isn't it too dark here?" "But this is fine, right? Here..."

Only the guest room and entrance remained as architecture preserved exactly from when the tea master had built them long ago. The room—part of which faced an old-fashioned small garden—had columns so worn by years of dust that even they were damaged. Nobuko faced the desk she had placed on the newly cleaned old tatami mats, and Tsukuda sat on the genkan step— “Butterbur sprouts come out under that pine tree in spring.”

“Oh—” “What is it?”

“A lizard.”

Under the early summer sun that fell on the garden moss and illuminated the white plaster wall textured with brushstrokes, they chatted while gazing at the view. Sitting in this room, memories of her childhood came flooding back to Nobuko’s mind one after another.

One summer day, when she was playing alone, she casually lifted a square tile-like object that lay on the stepping stones. Beneath it, the dry, crumbly soil was mounded up, and to her surprise, there were a great many rice-like particles there. The ants scurried about in a panic, carrying off those rice-like particles, and fled with a rustling sound that seemed almost audible as they moved their legs.

At the unexpected sight, Nobuko was startled. But as she kept watching, her fascination grew, and she used a bamboo stick to flip over another tile. That spot was empty. Another one. There it was! There it was! Savoring the thrilling sensation of seeing those rice-like objects each time, she walked through the heat, flipping over tile after tile. Nobuko fondly remembered those ant eggs. The girl’s excited emotions seemed to possess a transparent intensity that would never be experienced again.

Even with the paper spread out before her, in such a mental state, Nobuko could find no means to organize her current tangled emotions. At present, just as her real life was more than she could handle, so too was the material beyond her capabilities. To avoid the fierce whirlwind of arguments that would erupt at the slightest provocation, Tsukuda stayed in the room before the storehouse, Nobuko in her small room, and Takeyo in the central dining room—the three of them lived separately for several days. “Are you in here?”

One afternoon, Takeyo, her chignon catching on the low sliding door, entered Nobuko’s room. “It’s surprisingly breezy in here, isn’t it?...” “It’s because of the lower windows.” Takeyo looked around the area as if she had come to someone else’s house, “Is Tsukuda coming back this evening?”

“I suppose so… Since he didn’t say anything specific.” “In that case, there’s no need to hurry…”

Changing her tone, she then, “I’ve been thinking about various things myself lately…” she said. “…” “My, my—you’re making a face as if this were someone else’s business.” Nobuko impetuously, “What do you mean?” she could no longer hold back from saying.

“Well, if it’s such a bother, I can just not say anything.” “Oh, come on! What is it now?” “It’s about you two, eventually. “About that person—wasn’t there talk that he isn’t the eldest son?”

Nobuko wondered suspiciously, “Yes, why?” and looked at her mother’s face. “So that means he’s to be adopted into another family, then?” “Well…” “Isn’t that right? If there’s an heir, then the second son would be free, wouldn’t he? To tell you the truth, I’ve discussed this thoroughly with Father—since you can’t seem to part with him anyway, I think it might be best to just adopt Tsukuda into the family.” Nobuko, “Why?...” she said, her eyes widening in shock. “——Isn’t that strange? We already have Waichirou and Tamotsu in the family.”

“That’s true—it’s not for the family’s sake. Why would I—it’s obviously something I’ve thought of for you two, isn’t it?” Nobuko couldn’t clearly grasp her mother’s meaning. Even uncomprehending, she instinctively felt intense wariness. “For *our* sake—we can manage on our own!” she said. Takeyo replied with visible frustration,

“That’s exactly why I say you’re naive about the world!”

she declared decisively. “First of all, just think—even with the school matter, wasn’t it precisely because of Father’s introduction that Dr. Tsumura readily took him in like that? Otherwise, who would show such favor to Tsukuda—a man of unknown origins and no background?” Nobuko felt a pang of sorrow at her mother’s character—as if she couldn’t bestow ten measures of kindness without first loudly declaring, This is ten! Ten, so receive it with that understanding! and repeating it over and over. Because her voice was so loud, she couldn’t help but think—What on earth! Even now, with bitter resentment, Nobuko answered her mother’s words with silence.

“To society as well, if he were to take the Sasa name, who knows how much more weight it would carry than remaining as Tsukuda—some nobody from who-knows-where. If we did that, at least *his* worth would be recognized.” Nobuko seethed,

“I don’t care if he never gains any such worth!” she blurted out harshly.

“Tsukuda is perfectly fine as Tsukuda—a person’s worth isn’t something that can be swayed by such things.” “Because you’re blinded right now, I’m sure he seems splendid to you.” Takeyo said slowly, her voice piercing. “Otherwise, his position would be rather awkward.” “If he’s an awkward person, then let him stay that way. “That—adopting him…” With the humiliation inflicted upon both Tsukuda and herself, Nobuko’s face flushed. She steadied herself and spoke as if explaining to her mother.

“Mother, you don’t understand my feelings at all. Didn’t I tell you repeatedly? I intend to live a life with fundamentally different aims from yours—and anyway, when you look at it broadly, ‘Sasa’ is just another name nobody recognizes or knows where it comes from. It’s only within the circles where the Sasa name matters that you operate…” “Well, I’ve only ever known a confined life. But facts prove it in this case too, you know.”

“If that’s how it is, then I absolutely refuse.” “Well then, why don’t you try discussing it properly with him?” Takeyo laughed with biting sarcasm. “You may refuse, but Tsukuda will consent.”

Regarding that matter, Nobuko did not say a single word to Tsukuda. A few nights later, on the veranda where Tsukuda was also present, Takeyo suddenly brought up the matter again. “Well—about the matter from before, you’ve of course discussed it with Mr. Tsukuda by now, haven’t you?” Nobuko sullenly answered, “I won’t.” “…………”

Tsukuda asked from the side. “What is it?”

“—……”

Then, Takeyo, “We’ve talked about all sorts of things regarding the future—after all, we can’t keep supporting you forever—and we’ve even discussed it with your father… It can’t be helped, Nobuko-chan.”

Nobuko felt a reluctant sense of goodwill toward her mother, who unexpectedly seemed unable to broach the subject outright. She said, "So let's just leave it at that." "Will that suffice?"

The moon illuminated the garden. The broad leaves of the fatsia and Chinese parasol trees glistened as if wet. On the opposite side, the depths of the tree shadows and branches were unnaturally dark, making the garden appear to hold an oppressive force it had never shown before. With her knees drawn up as she gazed at this scene, Nobuko listened intently to her mother’s exchange with Tsukuda. Tsukuda would surely refuse. He would refuse—

“That is our line of thinking, but—”

Eventually, Takeyo came to a pause and requested Tsukuda’s response.

“Admittedly, Nobuko—being of the temperament you’re well acquainted with—is acting as if she’s suffered some disgrace, but...” Nobuko strained every fiber of her hearing, awaiting Tsukuda’s response. “……” “How about it? We certainly don’t think it would be bad for you either.”

“I will consider it and give my reply in due course.” Nobuko turned around sharply, “You don’t need to consider that—I already know you wouldn’t.” she exclaimed. “You couldn’t possibly be considering that, could you?”

While looking at the silent Tsukuda, Takeyo said. “You step aside—Mr. Tsukuda must have his own opinion.” Nobuko felt a despairing unease at her mother’s sarcastically calm words. Takeyo, having unconsciously prodded Tsukuda this way and that, was now attempting to bind Nobuko together with him even more firmly under her control. Nobuko thought that if such a thing were to happen, it would spell the end. More than her mother’s love that sought by any means not to let her go, Nobuko felt a terror that threatened the very foundation of her existence. The fact that Tsukuda had not immediately—with a single word, as Nobuko had anticipated—laughed off the matter was a source of profound unease for her.

Tsukuda stood up and left. Clinging to his heels, Nobuko, “Listen—is this really a matter you need to consider?”

and looked up at his tall face while still standing. “I—no.”

“……” “Our life together would absolutely cease to exist if you were to do such a thing.” “That’s why I said I’d consider it, didn’t I?” “Just a polite formality? Well?” “—” “Really— Just tell me now. Which is it? You refuse, of course?” “Well… but—if that would bring you happiness— I’ve already given myself over.”

Eleven Tsukuda’s reply—his true intentions unclear yet perversely demanding gratitude—cast a shadow over Nobuko’s heart. His ambiguous response made her recall her mother’s scathing criticisms of him, plunging her into anxious torment. She was not so naive as to miss the bitter edge in his words—“I’ve already given myself over”—nor to take them at face value. Yet terror gripped her; she could not bring herself to deem it hypocritical phrasing. Moreover, her reason laid bare the reply’s intricate nature—hinting he bore no particular aversion to adoption; indeed, it suggested he might even consent, had he not cloaked his answer in vagueness out of deference to Nobuko’s stance.

——

First and foremost, Nobuko found it regrettable that Tsukuda had given a reply that met her mother’s expectations. Her mother must have been unable to suppress an inward “I told you so.” To think “I told you so” would be nothing less than acknowledging the speculation that Tsukuda was indeed the cunning social manipulator she had predicted—a man who had dragged Nobuko into marriage solely to exploit her. For the sake of their love, Nobuko found this unbearable to contemplate. For Tsukuda’s honor, for her own honor, for her mother’s sake, and for the purity of true love that lies within the human heart, Nobuko was absolutely determined not to let this matter come to fruition.

Takeyo, who already struggled to trust others and even took a certain pride in occasionally seeing her suspicions proven true, would only further entrench that cynical worldview of hers. If Tsukuda had—if by any chance (and Nobuko thought this with all her might, truly by any chance)—introduced impure calculations into their marriage, then the world must be made to know such a thing could not be so easily dismissed. How could Nobuko possibly conceive that the love she strove to legitimize—even to the point of clashing with her parents and defying her surroundings—was merely Tsukuda exploiting her naivety to manipulate her into laboring to love him!

That night, Nobuko was overcome with a sickeningly acute anguish. If only Tsukuda had maintained a composed and resolute demeanor, she thought as she wept. The feeling that she was alone in life made her cry.

After that, from time to time, Takeyo would— “What’s your answer?”

said Takeyo.

“No—please, let’s pretend this conversation never happened.” And Nobuko pressed Tsukuda. “It would be better for you to give a clear answer quickly and be done with it.” “You really should refuse—you know that, don’t you?” Whether Nobuko was absent or present, Takeyo would seize any opportunity to corner Tsukuda and demand an answer. “You’ve said you’d do anything for Nobuko’s sake—surely you wouldn’t go back on your word now.” “After all, there are properly sent letters from abroad as well…”

Tsukuda’s face turned ashen and his eyes grew wild as he said, his voice quivering, “My sincerity will surely be understood in time.”

“I can endure anything.”

However, whether to become Sasa’s adopted son or not—to refuse or consent—he never explicitly stated. For some reason, when it came to that point, Tsukuda—with extreme caution and stubbornness—did not reveal his intentions. Gradually growing impatient, Takeyo began bringing up the matter whenever she so much as saw Nobuko’s face. One day, when Nobuko could no longer endure the suffering, she finally declared, “No matter what you say, it’s no use.”

she had declared. “Even if Tsukuda agrees, I refuse.” “No matter what Tsukuda’s motives are, go ahead and consent.” “Later, you will never be able to think of it as pleasant.” “I absolutely refuse to do anything that would muddy the purity of everyone’s lives!”

In fact, had things unfolded that way, Nobuko’s emotions would have moved exactly as she had said—yet Takeyo became violently agitated, as though she had been struck. She said through tears. “Really—you’re completely oblivious to a parent’s heart.—What good does it do to torment me so?” “If you marry into another family, you’ll become part of their household—and when I die, that’ll be the end of it.” “Go die in a ditch then—go ahead and heap even more shame upon us!”

Nobuko also said through her tears.

“Mother, even cedar saplings grow apart when they get bigger, don’t they? “Exactly—human lives are the same way. In a few years, Mother, you’ll surely come to understand why I’m being so stubborn about this.” “I don’t intend to be stubborn without reason.”

The younger brothers and sisters who were nearby stood up one by one and left the room. Even during that time, Mother had been making preparations to legally register Tsukuda into the family. Nobuko had no idea, but while she was at her desk, “You are being called.” The maid came.

“What is it?”

Takeyo sat there seething, unable to focus on anything,

“Tsukuda is a dreadful man.” said Takeyo.

“Why?” “Why? You—he’s fully aware himself that he can’t become an adopted son!”

Nobuko, unable to grasp the reason, fell silent. “The other day, Father met Mr. Ida at a gathering and consulted him about registering Tsukuda into the family—yesterday we received a reply that legally, the head of the household cannot permit an adoption.” Tsukuda had been the second son of the Okamotos but had succeeded to the family name of a distant branch of the Tsukuda family.

“Really, I had completely forgotten about that.” “Well, well—you must be so relieved by that! But we’re the ones left looking like fools here. I’m sure Mr.Tsukuda is having a good laugh to himself.” “No way! He didn’t realize that either.” “Do you think so? How suspicious.” “But I must say—he’s quite something, that man who drifted through fifteen years in America. He knows full well that if he were to clearly say ‘no’ just once, he wouldn’t be able to keep up this son-playing act here anymore.”

“Oh, come on!”

Nobuko deliberately sighed loudly. “How pitiful! That person—it’s as if he was born to be spoken ill of.” Finally laughing, she said, “Thou shalt not be born to become Nobuko’s husband.”

“A person is born only to be told, ‘Thou shalt not become Nobuko’s husband,’ I suppose.”

Due to the family registry issue, Takeyo’s feelings underwent a complete transformation. She declared that if Tsukuda harbored no ulterior motives, he should leave the Sasa household immediately as proof. “You may hate this too, but I’ve endured enough—let’s settle this tomorrow and part ways.” Takeyo seemed unable to find any outlet for her despair at her daughter being wrested away except through tears and vicious curses. Her proud nature couldn’t bear to weakly acknowledge her own grief or tolerate others’ pity. She raged fiercely, as if trying to incinerate herself with blazing passion.

“I may be a parent so bothersome you wish I were dead, but since Tsuya-ko is still young, I’ll have to ask you to let me live a little longer. In that way, watching my lifespan shorten must be quite amusing for you, I suppose.” Oh... Oh... Nobuko wept, unable to find words to express the affection within her. From girlhood, she had been bound to her mother by a passion unlike that of ordinary parent and child. They had sustained between them both fierce love and hatred. As a woman, her mother had been at times a complete parent to Nobuko, at times a friend, at times a rival. In any case, her mother had lived by confronting Nobuko with every raw angle of existence. For Nobuko too, her mother had been an existential counterpart demanding full strength—to recognize their temperamental differences, to critique their ways of living, in short to shape herself into a woman who was no mere replica of her mother. This had required no half-hearted effort. Between them burned an uncanny flash of life’s intensity—the very antithesis of the nostalgic repose a daughter typically feels toward her mother. Now, as she stood at the gate to life’s next phase, how could she convey to her mother this painful radiance of memories crowding her soul? And once more through her tears Nobuko thought: How extraordinary this mother-daughter love must be—that speaking of parting meant wounding each other with full force, so deeply entwined they could only separate through that very violence.

The less passionate, peaceable Sasa was at a loss as to how to handle such emotional struggles between his wife and daughter. He tried to soothe his wife on one hand while pleading with Nobuko with a heartfelt sigh on the other. “You’re always the one stirring up trouble in this family! Why can’t you be more tender-hearted? Accept love—let’s live in peace… eh?” “Throw away those principles that torment both yourself and others!” Nobuko barely managed,

“It’s not about any principles, Father.”

She could only answer with inexpressible sorrow. Sasa too，driven by heartache，in the straightforward manner of a businessman’s anger，finally— “Get out! If you abandon your parents，then I too have abandoned one child! Now，get out forever!”

he cried out.

IV

I

They moved. The house was located deep within a narrow alley between the brick wall of a doctor’s residence in front of Kichijōji and the wooden siding of a leaf tea shop. They could reach their parents’ house in about fifteen minutes by passing through Kichijōji. They moved during the sweltering peak of August. Nobuko had walked too much every day searching for a house, developed a fever, and was confined to bed. On the day of the move, she watched from her sickbed as rickshaw pullers carried out the bookcases along the garden path. After they had gone, Nobuko stood up from her sickbed and, staggering slightly, adjusted her kimono.

Her mother was alone on the second-floor veranda, lying on a long chair. Still pressing the round fan to her chest, she lay listlessly beneath the glossy green leaves of the phoenix tree that spread from the eaves. Nobuko climbed up from the back stairs and stood silently beside her. Her mother was also silent. After a considerable time had passed, Takeyo asked without looking at her daughter. “Are you done now?” “It seems mostly done.” The two of them fell silent once more. Since continuing like this would get them nowhere, Nobuko—

“Well…”

Nobuko said. A contorted, pained expression appeared on Takeyo’s face. When she saw that, Nobuko felt a pain as if her chest were being torn open. “...I’ll take my leave now.” No other parting words would come. Clearly unable to hold back her tears now, Nobuko could not bear to look at her mother a second time. Leaving behind her choked sound—which might have been a cough or a prelude to speech—she clattered down the stairs. Putting strength into her feet, as she descended step by step, tears spilled from her own eyes. When she had fully descended, she pressed her head against the handrail post and cried for a while, overwhelmed by an unbearable feeling.

Living separately was only natural—and what’s more, it was something they had all wished for—yet how strange it felt. The act of leaving the house where I had grown up—this feeling of true separation pierced my soul with such sorrow and pain. The pillars of the old house suddenly awoke, and she even felt them staring in astonishment at her as she tried to leave. Nobuko felt that from this moment on, all the memories of her childhood and girlhood spent here would remain behind with the house. I left alone. Yet the memories would live on and dwell forever in this house, retaining their original freshness and diversity. Farewell! O mysterious, bright, dark life of my childhood—farewell to it all.

The house faced west and stood at the sheer edge of the cliff. In the afternoon, the western sun streamed in through the veranda—which opened on just one side like a small box’s mouth. Though the sun blazed with full force up to the room’s wall edges, the breeze flowed through just as freely, and Nobuko did not feel particularly hot. Such a cramped little house, such a western sun—Nobuko sat bathed in the glittering yet unburning slanting light of summer, feeling an unfamiliar emotion. Generally speaking, that year had seen the housing shortage reach its peak. They had paid the highest sum their meager means allowed and finally obtained that unhealthy residence.

Once the commotion of moving had settled down, Tsukuda went out every morning to either the university or, failing that, the private university where he had recently found employment. Around eight o'clock. From then until evening at four-thirty or five o'clock, Nobuko would live all alone. How leisurely the long, bright summer days passed!

One afternoon, Nobuko was leaning against the open fusuma at the boundary between the eight-mat and six-mat rooms, playing the ukulele.

As usual, the western sun had already danced its dazzling way across about a third of the tatami mats. Spreading a shabby music score open before her knees and sitting cross-legged, Nobuko was engrossed in practicing a folk song full of flats. Hao, hae, haae... Hao, Hae, Haae... Though she tried to create a triple refrain with strum-strum-strumming, Nobuko's fingers would not move like those of the Hawaiian youth in the music score's illustration—the one wearing a large floral wreath around his neck as he played the ukulele. Surely at least one crucial part must have slipped. Or perhaps due to irregular pressure, the vital note wouldn’t sound. Nobuko kept time in her head—one-two-three, one-two-three—trying again and again. When living each day without anyone to talk to, Nobuko found herself wanting to at least let her voice out along with the instrument.

Hao, hae, haae…… How terrible I am at this! Someone who can play the shamisen would surely improve in no time. As she earnestly practiced, Nobuko's mind dwelled on such thoughts. Not only that, but she had begun hearing every sound from the neighboring house. The structure resembled a duplex, with Nobuko's residence and the adjacent house tightly joined by a single plank wall. Though they had never met face-to-face, a Chinese family lived there alongside a Japanese household. They seemed to be letting the Chinese boy use the bath—the sound of splashing water echoed through.

“Young master!” “There we go, good boy, aren’t you?”

The voice of the Japanese woman handling housework sounded gentle on the surface, yet carried a restless impatience that seethed beneath. In hesitant Chinese, the mother’s admonishments to her son also reached her ears. Nobuko became aware of the monotony in the sounds she drew from her instrument. That Chinese speech felt unnervingly subdued—and as the western sun blazed ever more intensely, Nobuko found herself gripped by an indefinable melancholy. Or rather, "gripped" wasn’t quite right; the sunlight was so harsh that it seemed to wring the melancholy straight from her heart.

They had acquired a house, Tsukuda had secured employment—in short, their life was now beginning as planned. Yet Nobuko found herself unable to acclimate to that existence. Take, for instance, a certain dinner party here. The dishes were of course being served by tailcoated waiters according to the gilded menu. There were no uninvited guests, nor was the guest of honor absent. From the toast to the table speeches, everything proceeded flawlessly according to the program. Moreover, there were times when—after having attended the entire event from start to finish and borne witness to its proceeding exactly as scheduled—amidst the gathering as a whole, she would feel no interest or significance in any of it, suddenly driven by a strange unease to look all around her. Could he find solace in the realization that not a single soul around him bore the same burdensome cares as he did? On the contrary, she would only feel increasingly out of place there.

Nobuko was no different. The role of wife did not suit her. To concisely state why it didn’t fit was difficult—nay, impossible. It must lie in profound depths, being a matter of delicate emotional nuances. The only thing Nobuko understood was life’s narrow orbit—its heaviness and lack of youthful flexibility. From now on, this was truly our life. O my beloved—when we stepped into life with such abundant hopes, life itself came to surround us like a pasture fence before we knew it, and Nobuko found herself pressed nose-to-nose with this unwieldy, immovable thing called a husband.

Tsukuda did not seem to feel any of this at all. The previous night, curled up in bed, he had read aloud from the elementary Latin reader he would take to work: “The army was routed. We had achieved victory, captured five enemy generals, et cetera.” He would take this prepared reader and go off to work, then return. He would undoubtedly go to work tomorrow morning as well. Nobuko could find no opportunity to express her feelings to him. Moreover, she occasionally looked back on the emotional life they had experienced. From the time they had first met until today, there had been too many upheavals in their lives. Fighting against their surroundings while striving not to lose sight of their mutual love—his efforts to protect himself and her efforts to protect herself—because of all these things, Nobuko’s heart had remained perpetually tense and stimulated. Since those things had vanished, had I lost all drive? Had I become an Amazon who had forgotten how to live in peace? There were times when Nobuko thought that way. But that thought did nothing to dispel the sense of mismatch with the life before her...

Nobuko put the ukulele into its bag and stood up.

II

Nobuko locked the kitchen door and went out. On the main street out front, the tram let out a noisy screech as it ran through the dust.

At the stone-paved area before Kichijōji’s temple gate, three young girls were tossing a ball and passing it under their legs in time with their song. Nobuko passed by the bell tower and took the back street. Diagonally crossing yet another chaotic main street, she emerged into a quiet neighborhood of old estates. She intended to meet her mother and Tsuya-ko on her walk.

Due to the gate repairs, a plasterer was at work. The apprentice was listlessly stirring the plaster in the wooden trough. Tsuya-ko, while holding onto the student’s hand, stood captivated watching it. Nobuko saw the scene from afar and couldn’t help but laugh. The student noticed this and said something to Tsuya-ko. Tsuya-ko abruptly raised her face and, upon noticing Nobuko approaching slowly along the street, "Oh, Sis!" she came rushing over. “Where’s Mama?”

“She’s here.” “Sis, why didn’t you come sooner? You said you’d come right away the other day!” “Yeah…”

Nobuko helped Tsuya-ko step through the debris of straw mats and scraps of wood. Tsuya-ko walked along holding up the edge of Nobuko’s sleeve, staring intently at her sister’s hands and laughing. “Ah, I’ve found it, O-zuru-san!” “Yeah, I figured it out properly—after all, you told me the other day, didn’t you?” “But this one’s different!” Nobuko said, feigning ignorance. “Just old newspapers.” “No way! I know! I can see it perfectly well—it’s Kodomo no Kuni!”

Since there were women's geta lined up in the entranceway, Nobuko went around through the gate into the garden. In the shadow of the potted asparagus plant by the window of the Western-style room, the guest's small, neatly arranged chignon was visible from behind. In July, when Nobuko had clashed with her parents over whether to register Tsukuda into the Sasa family, she had stood by that very window shedding sweat and tears. Nobuko clearly recalled her own vehement words from that time. That was all in the past now; life now flowed with a changed countenance—this sensation struck Nobuko particularly strongly.

While Nobuko and Tsuya-ko were concealing the trash, her mother—having seen off the guest—leaned out the window and called to her. “Come upstairs.” When she climbed up, the sliding doors between two rooms stood fully open, with a crimson felt rug laid out in the larger space. On an oversized tray sat paintbrushes, a brush washer, pigment dishes, and similar tools. Takeyo was trimming Chinese paper atop the rug. When Nobuko saw this, “Oh,” she said. “Painting practice? Has Mr. Izumi finally begun coming to instruct you?”

“Ah. With all this and that as usual, it didn’t make much progress, but finally…” “Today’s the second time.” “Starting at my age, I’ll never become a real artist anyway—if I can just manage not to mess up even a simple colored paper piece, that’ll be triumph enough, don’t you think?” Nobuko felt tenderly toward her mother’s newfound determination to take up painting. “That’s perfectly fine! “Just having something to pour yourself into practicing is reason enough to celebrate—let me see? The one from before… the very first…” “This one from before… the very first…”

“After all, I haven’t held a paintbrush in years—I’m completely out of practice.” “If I’d kept at it since Ms. Kobin’s time, I’d surely be some minor artist by now.” Takeyo laughed brightly, as though delighting in her own fervor. It was a carefree laugh. Nobuko felt a slight jolt, wondering if painting practice could really affect one’s heart so profoundly. Nobuko had previously thought that her mother should seriously take up waka and had even encouraged her to do so. Instead, she had found no connection to that path and turned to painting. In her youth during her school days, she had received kind guidance from Noguchi Kobin; that had become the link. Takeyo showed her a Chinese paper about the size of a large colored paper on which she had drawn bamboo.

“What do you think?”

Then she too leaned in from the side to look.

“Even though I think I understand it perfectly well in my head, when it comes down to it, the brush just won’t obey.” “Hahaha. It’s as if you’ve been doing this for ten or twenty years already! Hahaha—‘the brush won’t obey’? You’re getting ahead of yourself!” “There you go teasing me again! Anyway, you’re the expert here.—That’s a joke, of course.” Takeyo brought out Mr. Izumi’s painting to show her and offered a few critiques on it. “What do you think? It lacks too much spirit, don’t you think? I’ve become too much of a professional—I can’t stand things that feel stiff.”

Nobuko noticed an unfamiliar Chinese lacquer box with mother-of-pearl inlay placed beneath the stepped shelves. The design featured bold pomegranate fruits, but the colors of the inlaid shells had both depth and richness, making it truly splendid.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it? When did you buy this?” Takeyo, perhaps making a clean copy of her bamboo painting, rested one hand on the rug and dipped her brush in ink.

“Hm?” Takeyo gave a vague reply. “Let me see?” “Ah, that one? Beautiful, isn’t it?” “It’s Father’s usual indulgence.” “He said to use it as my paint box and gave it to me.” To Nobuko, it seemed she could see her father that night—deliberately feigning ignorance as he had someone carry that large bundle into the room. “Father remains such a faithful husband… We’ll be punished if we don’t treat him kindly.” “...Lately I’ve come to think so too.”

Takeyo tilted her head, gazing at the slender bamboo branch she had painted, and spoke slowly. “Lately Father has been truly good... I’ve even come to feel sorry for him... Though his temper remains dreadful as ever...” “Wasn’t he always a decent husband?” “If you knew how difficult he was in his youth! You couldn’t possibly understand.” “...But even so, when he brought that piece, Father showed himself a man of pure sincerity.” “Without that quality—you... Now that I’ve observed various men over time, I see it clearly... He possessed a purity Tsukuda could never approach—that much is certain.”

As she gazed at the gradually forming painting and listened, Nobuko felt a pleasant amusement at her mother’s cheerful, womanly boasting about her husband. Yet there lingered just a sliver—the merest sliver—of forlornness within it.—Nobuko found herself feeling a tender yet strained sentiment, as if she had become an elder sister hearing her younger sibling’s guileless pride in her spouse. “Well… Since Father’s love remains so certain, Mother can boldly maintain that strong front in all manner of things.” “When the foundation is sound, one can leap about carelessly atop it… Isn’t that how it should be?”

“Well… I suppose that’s just how it is.”

Downstairs, the two drank tea. Whenever they talked about Kuuya, her throat grew irritated, and Nobuko furrowed her brow and cleared her throat. Then Takeyo, who had been about to bring the teacup to her mouth, stopped her hand and glared at Nobuko. "Oh, that's exactly the same!"

Nobuko asked back with innocent curiosity. "What do you mean?"

“That throat-clearing of yours—Tsukuda does that same affectedly pretentious kind too.” Nobuko twisted her lips into a bitter smile that barely reached her eyes.

“Don’t be silly—it’s just a coincidence.” “No, that’s not it—you’re exactly the same, because…”

Nobuko said reluctantly yet calmly, “Please don’t scrutinize every little thing like that—I do them without any particular thought.”

Nobuko received a still-life photographic print from the photos Waichirou had recently become engrossed in and took it home. At dinner, Nobuko spoke to Tsukuda.

“Today, I went out to Dōzaka after lunch and made a new discovery.” Tsukuda appeared uninterested. “Huh,” he said. “What do you mean?” “About Mother… I’ve started to see things a little differently.” “Up until now, perhaps due to a habit from my childhood, I think I may have taken Mother’s words and actions far too seriously.”

Nobuko explained the simplicity and honesty of her mother’s heart that she had come to perceive that day. “So all sorts of things—whether kindness or spitefulness—must emerge artlessly and straightforwardly without connection between them depending on the moment, don’t you think? There’s nothing calculated—no scheming to do this or that. Don’t you agree?” On her way back from Dōzaka, Nobuko had pondered these matters and felt she had discovered something like a path toward peace. Her interactions with her mother had been an unceasing burden, but now that something resembling a vantage point for simplifying her understanding had formed there, she even sensed a kind of purity within herself. If Tsukuda too could grasp this, she thought his disposition might change—and with this hopeful expectation, she had begun speaking of it. Yet he remained entrenched in apathy. He answered while using a toothpick, forehead creased as he looked up at her sideways.

“I won’t pass judgment.” “Not judgment—perspective! Since we’re bound together for life anyway, we ought to cultivate the wisest possible understanding between us. For mutual benefit… A well-meaning yet rather superior mindset…” “Well—understanding will come when it’s time to understand.”

As he said this, he wore a peculiar—not particularly noble—expression on his face and cracked each knuckle one by one with a series of pops. Nobuko averted her eyes with an anguished expression. What had long dissatisfied Nobuko was how Tsukuda generally disdained lively topics of human interest, but even more unbearable was his habit of cracking the joints of his blunt, flat-knuckled fingers whenever disengaged or mildly irritated. He had recently taken up this habit. When she heard the sound of his bones cracking, Nobuko felt her spirits sink.

(How awful.) He cracks his fingers too. Karenin too made a cold, unpleasant face and snapped his fingers at his desk. Is he like Karenin? (Then?)

Nobuko impulsively reached out a hand as if to say, “Stop,” even now. But restrained by something incomprehensible, she fell silent. Would he do it again? Nobuko watched his hands with a distant, dark feeling toward herself—a sensation like awaiting pain. However, he stood up without noticing. And at the desk, he began unwrapping the furoshiki-wrapped bundle he had brought from work. Nobuko remembered the small Chinese cabinet she had seen at her mother’s place and spoke.

“The mother-of-pearl had such a beautiful color—they’re making it into a paint box, you know. What I saw today looked exactly like they’d set a large opal into it.” “Hmm, that must be terribly expensive.” “Yes… You know how there are usually those bluish ones or pale pinkish ones? “This was completely different—so complex in how it shone. “…it was like a flame.”

However, Tsukuda—ignoring that topic—tidied away the pencils and pens on his desk and asked somewhat abruptly. “Did you look it over?” “Yes.” “How is it?”

Nobuko,

“Well…” she said.

“I’ll bring it anyway.”

Tsukuda was making preliminary preparations for a short book related to his field of expertise—a general introduction to Persian literature. Nobuko had been selected as precisely the sort of lay reader this work required. She brought the manuscript, roughly two inches thick, from her desk drawer. Tsukuda flipped through the pages with the practiced motions of one handling his own work. “Do you have any criticisms?” Nobuko had no wish to dampen his spirits. That Tsukuda had labored with such earnestness to produce this much work was something in which she too took genuine pleasure.

“I wouldn’t call them complaints exactly, but there are parts I think could stand improvement.” “Which parts?” “Don’t some sections feel incomplete? The explanations are insufficient in places. When read by someone without prior knowledge, it leaves them wanting. And—how to put this—I sense spots where the writing doesn’t fully delve into the material’s depths…”

Tsukuda said dismissively. “Well, it’s different from something like a novel.” “Of course it isn’t interesting. After all, it’s just a side job... Even organizing the materials alone isn’t easy.” “That’s right—all the more reason you have to make it into something excellent.” Nobuko said, straining yet conscious of a spark of insight welling up from within.

“From the perspective of your career, this is more your true path than being a schoolteacher, so you must refine it into something that leaves no room for excuses.” They discussed the manuscript for some time. Yesterday afternoon and this morning, as she read it, Nobuko realized that simply because it was written by her husband did not make her the slightest bit more generous as a critic. On the contrary—perhaps because her expectations had grown—she had become more sensitive and exacting. When she encountered passages riddled with clichés—as often seen in mediocre pamphlets—or convoluted sentences devoid of clear thought or emotion, Nobuko felt a jumble of sorrow and irritation.

“No good, no good! What on earth is this?” To prevent her temper from erupting and discarding all decorum, Nobuko needed to constantly remind herself that this was merely a draft—her husband’s first attempt. Simultaneously, she found herself doubting her own nature. Would a truly kind-hearted person harbor such feelings about something like this? Could it be that my own vanity and narrow-mindedness make me suffer so over this deficiency—this absence of what one might term a refined literary sense?

—— Tsukuda too had his various reasons, so they fell into heavy silence several times. When they had finished a section, Nobuko said with relief, “Ah, we’re finally done! It’s been such a struggle with both of us pushing so hard!” She stretched out her hand and capped the red ink. “Well, why don’t we take a breather and chat a bit?” “We can talk—but you must have had enough fun in Dōzaka already.” “I didn’t come here to have fun or anything. Not really. You’re different from others—did anything unusual happen?”

“Well….” “Then let’s do it this way.”

Tsukuda said as though he’d had a good idea.

“Since we’re talking anyway, why don’t we jot this down as we go, hmm?…… It doesn’t require much thinking, so it should be fine.”

He pulled out a small brown-covered account book from beneath the pile on the desk. Nobuko teased him playfully upon seeing it— “Haaah—”

With that, she was at a loss. "Hell’s ledger?" Nobuko said, revealing her true feelings beneath the joke.

“I want to enjoy—oh fine, the household account book—it’s not even funny.” Tsukuda, calmly writing the date in the household account book, lectured the fidgeting Nobuko. “When you look back years later, you’ll understand what our life was like then and find it interesting.” “Today—let’s see… Bread, fifteen sen… Three yen for Mr. Taga’s farewell party.” “And yours?”

Nobuko answered, her enthusiasm dampened. “—I just bought Tsuya-ko a copy of *Kodomo no Kuni*.”

Nobuko’s room was a three-tatami space facing north, with two frosted-glass shoji screens standing. The top panel was transparent glass through which she could always see the earthen storehouse of the leaf-tea shop, the grimy corrugated iron fence tops, and the weather-beaten eaves of her own house, all bathed in the same light. From there, the sky was not visible.

On the frosted glass, there remained a crude doodle in thick pencil left by a child who had lived there before, growing larger toward the end. 5×82÷1.1＋000

III

Their home had no visitors.

It was likely because they had not received higher education in Japan. Tsukuda had almost no one who could be called a friend. Tsukuda often went out for walks in the neighborhood at night. Nobuko accompanied him. They bought podocarpus and cypress-like plants little by little. They planted them along cliff edges bathed in the setting sun and on either side of bare latticework. In that area, one could only glimpse the distant treetops of Koishikawadai, and each tightly packed house had no space for proper trees to grow. In the alley, the podocarpus stood lush and green, catching the children’s eyes. In the afternoon, when school let out, boys would naturally gather around the two podocarpus trees, each less than four feet tall.

“Hey, what’s this tree?”

“It’s a pine tree!”

“That’s wrong! I tell ya, it ain’t a pine.” “Pine needles’re prickly when ya touch ’em.”

Just when it seemed quiet, suddenly one of them shouted.

“Hey! Hey! That’s not right!” Then another whispering voice spoke timidly. “We’ll get in trouble.”

When Tsukuda was home, Nobuko found herself unsettled. Whenever he caught wind of those voices, his face would harden as if facing an adult adversary. He would quietly slip off his geta and circle around to the garden, stealing toward the small door set into the wooden fence. Without making a sound, he would undo the latch before suddenly materializing and advancing wordlessly toward the children. The whispering cluster would scatter in blind panic. The clatter of footsteps tumbling through the narrow alley bore witness to their genuine fright. As these scenes repeated themselves beyond mere comedy, Nobuko felt an odd desolation—something akin to vexation.

“There’s no helping it—they find it novel. Letting them into the garden would be better.” Tsukuda replied with nervous agitation, “It’s disgraceful to tear up what someone painstakingly planted. “I refuse to let them in—absolutely.” Nobuko sensed his obstinate possessiveness. When they walked out together, Nobuko wanted books more than plants. She frequented secondhand bookstores. Whenever something caught her eye, she would pull it out,

“This.” She showed it to her husband. Tsukuda took the book in hand, turned it over here and there, and asked in return. “Is this truly indispensable?” That tone left Nobuko dejected. She resigned herself and returned the book to its place. “Then I’ll try again later.” Nobuko knew she’d feel equally unsatisfied whether she bought it or not. Living as husband and wife now made her realize something unexpected—that Tsukuda, despite his lifelong experience with modest means, still didn’t know how to command their circumstances with bold cheer.

Nobuko was generally at home. She would either read books or listen to the women from the row houses chatting at the well beneath the cliff. The days passed slowly. She waited through until Tsukuda returned. She wanted to talk like a breached levee and have him talk too. Yet Tsukuda did not seem to find amusing what amused Nobuko. He hardly listened with real attention. What he spoke of eagerly were mostly incidents from work and rumors about colleagues. In a low voice that signaled "This is just between us," Tsukuda said,

“Today when I went to see the secretary a couple times for business, Mr. Tsutsumi asked me in a hushed voice, ‘Do you need something from the secretary?’” “Hmm, and then?” “I just said, ‘Well, I have something to discuss’—but everyone’s pitifully on edge.” “Since I go talk to them without hesitation whether it’s the secretary or anyone else, I’m sure they all find it quite unexpected.”

Tsukuda wasn’t without skill in that regard.

—— “Gogol, you know.” She laughed, but deep down, Nobuko felt that her husband too was clearly playing the role of a minor functionary within that system, and she felt a melancholy sorrow that he did not complain about it.

Autumn deepened. Moonlight fell across the garden. Its pale glow illuminated the serried rooftops below the cliff throughout the night, while insects chirred ceaselessly beneath the floorboards. After frosts began silvering the ground, the clatter of thick-soled wooden clogs on frozen roads would reach Nobuko’s pillow each dawn at six—factory workers trudging through darkness that still clung to the morning.

Nobuko gradually felt bitter dregs accumulating in her heart. She hungered ceaselessly every day. Though these cravings weren’t for anything particularly lofty, the lack of artistic nourishment—as vital as food to Nobuko in the prime of her intellectual growth—tormented her deeply. Having grown accustomed to American women’s lifestyles through long observation, Tsukuda let Nobuko sleep as much as she wished. He even did the daily shopping without complaint. At least she wasn’t left utterly alone in the kitchen. But even when she devoured books and pondered deeply with a mind saturated like a well-rested sponge—who was there to share it with? Now that their lives had settled into routine, Tsukuda seemed to have discarded the scattered mental baggage he’d carried until then. His literary world remained frozen at Shakespeare and Bacon issues stockpiled years ago—he likely hadn’t perused even a single magazine since. Yet he retained an instinctive teacher’s knack for deftly parrying Nobuko’s emotional charges. —What monstrous loneliness this was! Nobuko would sometimes collapse into violent sobs, struck by terrifyingly hopeless desolation.

“Oh, why am I so lonely? Are you lonely?…… Let’s try to make it a little better.” Tsukuda, perplexed and frowning, embraced Nobuko while stroking her back, bringing his face close to hers in a soothing manner as he whispered repeatedly. “You shouldn’t cry so much. It’ll get better in time—you’ll get used to it.”

It was precisely this "getting used to it" that Nobuko feared most of all. The fact that humans, like domesticated animals, would eventually grow accustomed to any circumstance filled her with sorrowful terror. Will I too become accustomed to this life? And then—over years—would I lose my passions and interests, becoming someone utterly unlike who I originally aspired to be, ending my life without even realizing I'd become that person? Nobuko lamented the life slipping invisibly away and was seized by anxiety—

When March came, one day she went to Ugatsuka. Relatives' children had gathered there, making it lively. Waichirou gathered everyone and took a photograph. When that was done, Waichirou came to fetch Nobuko separately once more.

“Since the light’s just right today, how about we take another shot with only you, Sis?” “All right.”

Nobuko had always been formal by nature and disliked having her photograph taken by professional photographers. When her brother suggested it, she grew curious about how she might look these days. "Well then, I'll have you take it... but I don't want some blurry ghost of an image." "Don't worry! There's absolutely no way I'd botch it on weather like this!"

Nobuko, accompanied by her brother, made her way to the garden of the guest room. And then she stood before the osmanthus tree. When she went a few days later, it had been developed. “They’ve just finished drying—they should be ready now.” Nobuko went with him to Waichirou’s workroom. At a small window lined with numerous chemicals—partitioned off at the back of the laundry area—the photographic prints were drying. “Oh my! There are so many! Are they all from that time?” “No—there are some from when I went to play at the university’s main building with Tsuya-ko later.” “—Well, there was still film left over from just the other day.”

“Let me see… Let me have a look.” “This is the one taken at the university.” It appeared to have been taken by surprise as Tsuya-ko, playfully joking around with her brother, turned toward them laughing, and the movements of her limbs looked rhythmic and beautiful. “This one’s from the other day. Gen-chan moved a bit, so it ended up blurry.—The one with just you is better, Sis.” “Oh?” Nobuko was handed a print developed in sepia. As a photographic print, it was beautifully finished. However, at first glance, Nobuko felt a strange sensation—though the photograph was unmistakably of herself, she couldn’t readily accept it as such. Something different from how she had imagined herself was vividly present in the face that stared straight ahead with hands clasped. Were there originally two such thick vertical shadows above my eyebrows? It was an aged, complex, stern countenance. Yet only around the mouth was there a smile feigned with excessive calmness, making it an ugly face.

"Is my face really like this?"

She wanted to ask so badly.

Nobuko gazed intently at her own face.

Waichirou seemed to think her prolonged silence meant she was dissatisfied with the photograph. He said apologetically, "It could have been a bit darker overall. Next time, I'll redevelop it properly for you." "This will do fine, thank you." Nobuko said while looking over the photograph once more. "It's... quite clear."

IV

The season arrived with its beautiful climate of rich green leaves upon the plateau and sunlight filtering through them. At their house on the cliff's edge, life remained as monotonous as ever. Life kept rotating narrowly and expressionlessly. Though swept up in that rhythm by an irresistible force, Nobuko remained unwilling and unable to abandon her resistance. Nobuko's mood found peace only during those moments when the two of them sat absentmindedly on the veranda, neither speaking of anything particular nor laughing, simply gazing at the trees. Exactly like two dogs stretching their forelegs in a sunny spot, resting their chins upon them while dozing. But this sleep-like tranquility never lasted long. Always, it would be Nobuko who first began feeling an inexpressible dissatisfaction with their state of being. Was this truly how things stood for the man and woman who had begun their life together with such fervor two years prior?

The ideal of a good married life—that banner they had raised in those days—had not, of course, completely vanished. If Nobuko spoke to him about the unease she felt, he would immediately bring up that banner again. He tried to reassure her with that. Yet even that had lately come to feel so dubious. Nobuko found it dreary that her husband believed everything could be resolved with a verbal vow of love—that merely repeating "I love you, I love you" would suffice. Even when loved—just as one needs food—even when loved, Nobuko required a vibrant existence. In their daily trivialities, they would neglect to address each other’s feelings, leaving matters unresolved. When Nobuko, overwhelmed, shed tears, he would suddenly grow fervent, protesting how could his love not reach her?—Nobuko could only speak, at a loss.

“You see, these things stem from everyday feelings that can’t be put into words… You seem to mistake the sheer stubbornness of convincing yourself you’re in love for love’s true strength.” “Oh, such sarcasm! Then keep thinking that!” That was why sitting side by side like dogs grew desolate, “Hey—” Even when she called out to him, she would typically leave her words unfinished. Tsukuda never even questioned it.—Was this what passed for peaceful domestic life?

Nobuko had become unable to endure this life that felt like being submerged in a swamp. The outside world was May. A bright, invigorating May. Hadn't my own heart once been like this? As the early summer air thickened around her, her thirst to travel grew more desperate. Even if she were to go out, Nobuko had only one destination in mind. That was the rural Tohoku countryside where her grandmother lived alone. There, Tsukuda would surely have consented. She secured Tsukuda's agreement by claiming she wanted to work.

Because it was the busy farming season, the Tohoku Main Line express was not crowded.

Nobuko found a comfortable seat on the shaded side of the train. Amidst the restless excitement of boarding, as they left behind the cluttered, grimy outskirts of the metropolis and watched the countryside gradually unfold beyond the window, she felt an indescribable spaciousness and calm seep into her heart. Telegraph poles, people, and forests swept over the fields, appearing and vanishing in an instant. Nobuko felt childlike delight even in this. The gentle swaying and rhythmic clatter of wheels soothed her nerves, yet in her heart bloomed a joy surpassing mere comfort—joy, delight—it was no ordinary pleasure of sightseeing. The weight pressing on my body had finally lifted—Ah! This was the crisp freshness of that first unconstrained glance around. She devoured the sensation greedily. This absence of restraint! Such lavish freedom! This oceanic swell of power rising within—

The scenery along the railway line was familiar to Nobuko since her childhood. The train approached Nasunogahara. It ran through a grove of dwarf trees clad in fresh young leaves. They surged and clashed like green waves on both sides of the train. Beyond the crystal-clear horizon, the Nikkō mountain range stood towering, their snow-capped peaks glistening. If there had been no one around, she felt so moved she might have stretched her arms toward those mountains with all her heart. Feeling her life returning to herself, she stood firmly by the window as if astride a galloping horse, gazing at the distant peaks—then the train's sway and nature's rhythms intertwined like sound waves, sending a musical pulse surging through her entire body.

Swish, swish, clack, clack,

(But his mountains—) Suddenly, a refrain surfaced from the depths of her memory and leapt after it. Swish, swish, clack, clack—But his mountains—

Swish, swish, clack, clack—But his mountains—

—His mountains—

Nobuko was surprised at her own agitation. Had I been caught up in nostalgia for the fields and mountains like this? And how voraciously I must have been indulging in my own freedom! For Nobuko, no desire arose to bring her husband along and share in this joy or the vivid impressions of nature. Her feelings were the opposite. She was happy precisely because she could view these mountains, this dwarf tree grove, all by herself. Unhindered by anyone around her, gazing, savoring, and sensing with her entire being—this very pleasure was what truly made her feel the revival of a freedom she had long lost.

Five

Throughout the house, there was only one mirror. An old hanging mirror with cracks in its mercury hung on the pillar next to the sink. After coming to the countryside, every morning when she washed her face, Nobuko carefully peered into that mirror. Depending on the day or the light, when her freshly awakened forehead appeared clear and smooth in the mirror, Nobuko felt a joy akin to an auspicious sign that she could live with a righteous heart throughout the day. For some reason, when the shadows appeared particularly heavy, she would feel gloomy for a while. She rubbed at it several times and wondered if these wrinkles would stay with her for the rest of her life.

Grandmother lived with a maid and a woman named Otoyo-san, who had originally been a stranger but was now like a distant relative, the three of them together. Nobuko went out into the open air every day and pruned the garden trees with her grandmother. The holly and hinoki cypress in the hedge were recklessly extending their spring buds. They would tend to them as one would shear the matted coats of wild horses that had wintered through. While pruning with shears, Nobuko talked about various things with her grandmother.

“I’ll be real busy from now on. We gotta pick the tea... but somehow the men who process it keep gettin’ fewer every year. Even if we pay ’em, they just don’t come no more. Next year, we might have to stop producin’ tea altogether.”

“If it’s not enjoyable, you should stop. After all, going to all that trouble won’t yield much anyway.”

Otoyo-san, who was shelling walnuts as she sat plopped down on the veranda, spoke up. “Madam, if that’s weighing on your mind, those of us around you can’t help but feel sorry for you.” “Let her take it easy! At her age, Grandmother should be able to make all her various pleasures her work.”

Grandmother clamped a slightly thick branch, straining her frail arms to manage it, and answered. “We can’t just leave it standin’ like some empty house.” “Why not just come to Tokyo? You wouldn’t have to tend to anything at all… It’d make a fine little retirement spot—small and snug. Come along with me next time.” “Hmm...”

Grandmother, while thinking, had Ms. Otoyo bring out the bark-brimmed hat. “The sun beats down so fierce, my bald head’s gettin’ hot. Why don’t the two of you live there together?” Nobuko stepped back and gazed at the shape of the maple branches she had pruned. “Where to? To your retirement home?”

“That’s right! Then you wouldn’t have to waste money on rent—that’d be more useful than me living there.” “That won’t do—it was built for you, Grandmother…” “If I told you to let me live there, that’d be fine, wouldn’t it?” Nobuko said cheerfully, laughing. “I appreciate it, but I must decline. I’d be scared of getting scolded.” “…If a country bumpkin like me went there, I’d surely be laughed at. Truly, someone like me—raised with nothing but country ways of earning a living, unable to read or write—now it’s so bitterly regrettable.”

Grandmother withdrew to the tea room to meet someone.

Otoyo-san said to Nobuko, who was sitting on the veranda. “It would truly be fitting for Madam to join us there...” “She just doesn’t seem inclined to do so at all.” “You should really try persuading her properly.” “The things you say are so intriguing to listen to, I must say.”

“This time again, I was asked... to bring you along...” Otoyo-san intensified her tone, “You really must do this,” she said. “While I am imposing on you like this, I will do any service within my humble power... but I too...”

She changed her expression slightly and looked into the basket.

"I don’t know how long you’ll remain like this, and..."

She had been an elementary school teacher until middle age. Then she married, and had been widowed by that husband two years prior. “Do you have something to talk about?” “Well... a little... I’ve been thinking a lot about the future myself, you see—”

After some time, Ms. Otoyo asked Nobuko. "How much longer do you plan to stay?" “Well…”

Nobuko swung her legs idly and managed a listless smile.

“No plans. I’ll stay until I feel like going back.” Otoyo-san glanced at Nobuko with a feminine, furtive look.

“Since Mr. Tsukuda understands everything so well, you’re truly fortunate, Nobuko-san.” “……” “...How often he’s alone, even though he’s a man. Do you receive letters from him?” About five days prior, he had sent word that Nobuko should stay as long as she was satisfied, and that he would wait as long as needed, looking forward to the time when his love would be understood. When she received this letter, Nobuko felt not so much happy as irritated and lonely. He, of course, knew that Nobuko was unable to work and was living preoccupied with him from afar, yet he made no mention of it, instead neatly presenting his own stoicism. From then on, Nobuko wrote no detailed letters either.

It was an evening two or three days later.

From outside the low hedge,

“Nobuko-san! Nobuko-san!” A shrill woman’s voice called out.

“Is that you there, Nobuko-san?”

At that moment, Nobuko was reading aloud a newspaper sent from Tokyo to everyone. Outside was dark, and with the light overhead, Nobuko couldn’t see anyone from where she was. “Who is it?”

“Who’s there at this hour?” Grandmother muttered while peering outside. “It’s me, Tobita. “I’ll come around to your side.” “Please do.”

Tobita was a woman from this village named Miho who was married to a Tokyo company employee. Nobuko was not close with her—rather counted among those she disliked. When had she come here? Why had she come to visit? The voice of Miho—whom Nobuko had thought to be alone—sounded as she removed her geta at the inner entrance while speaking to someone. “Come on—you too! Why hesitate?” “It’s all right!” Nobuko stood up to look. Behind Miho, who was about to step onto the entrance platform, two plainly dressed women lingered hesitantly in the darkness. With excessive politeness, they said they should take their leave now that night had grown late. In any case, all three ended up entering. The two women were Miho’s sister and her friend—people approaching thirty. Miho wore a gaudy Oshima-patterned kimono and greeted them in a boisterous tone.

“I came late last night, you see. “Today I spent all day chatting with these people, and when I went out for a walk toward the Grand Shrine earlier, Tamotsu made this vacant face and said you’re here.” “What a dunce! If he’d told me sooner, I’d have dropped everything and rushed right over! So I thought, ‘I simply must see you now,’ and came straight up! Honestly, country people have no tact—utterly brainless, I tell you! And when did you get here?” “When ever did you arrive?”

“Well… I suppose it’s been about ten days now.” Nobuko felt as though she were recoiling from Miho’s volubility.

“I suppose you’re working on something, aren’t you?” “Not at all! I’m just idling away.” “I’m usually terribly busy myself, you know! Father, bless him, tells me to do whatever I want—so lately I’ve been practicing calligraphy, taking flower arrangement lessons, managing the household, and even have to make time for a baby in between! Ha ha ha ha! It’s just nonstop, ha ha ha ha!”

Miho’s sister, her hair bound up in a married woman’s chignon and sitting quietly with timid reserve, gave a bitter smile. “Well...” she said.

“But isn’t that how it is? “Hey… Tobita just won’t let us go, you see.” Miho’s hysterical state became apparent to everyone. She talked on alone, as if possessed, her eyes gleaming above a face thickly coated in white powder. Nobuko understood why the two companions had tried to avoid coming in, and why they sat looking uncomfortable while keeping glancing at her and Miho. Wondering if she was losing her sanity, Nobuko felt a flicker of unease.

“Have you been well all this time?”

“No, you see, I’ve been through such an ordeal!”

Miho said she had undergone surgery for a gynecological condition and had come here immediately after being discharged from the hospital. “When I’m with Father, you know—look, no matter what, you—” Nobuko fell silent because Miho’s mental state seemed unhinged—no matter what was said, she would steer it toward sexual matters. The two companions also seemed concerned about this,

“It’s about time we took our leave,” they urged insistently. “We can come by during the day for a proper chat then—Grandmother must be ready to retire for bed by now.” “Let’s do that… How long will you be staying here, Nobuko-san?”

Nobuko gave the same reply she had given to Otoyo-san. Miho— “Oh my! How can you say such a thing!” Miho exclaimed. “Is there a wife who would say such a thing while leaving her husband behind?… Leaving him alone is dangerous in the first place, isn’t it?” “You endure it so well—in my case, I couldn’t!”

“Come on, let’s go, Sis.”

Even after they had gone out toward the gate, Miho’s voice could still be heard chattering animatedly.

After a little while, Grandmother said in a thoroughly exasperated manner.

“What in the world is with that woman!”

Nobuko was carried away by the comical tone and burst out laughing.

But were ordinary married couples really as Miho had described? Such doubts arose in Nobuko’s heart. She had not even been aware of the kind of danger Miho spoke of regarding their traveling separately as a couple.

Even as she lay there thinking this, Nobuko found herself paradoxically dissatisfied with Tsukuda’s character—with how it failed to stir any anxiety or jealousy in her. Tsukuda’s steadfastness in character seemed to stem from how seldom he was charmed by the intriguing or endearing qualities of others.

Six

Otoyo-san often went shopping to a town a little over one ri [about four kilometers] away. Each time she did so, she asked Nobuko if she needed anything. Nobuko had her buy men's unlined kimono fabric. She had it tailored and sent it to Tsukuda.

When Otoyo-san went out, Grandmother said, “It ain’t just shopping—she’s fixin’ to stop by Shinmachi again.”

In a hushed voice, she said to the neighboring old women who were sewing together with her conversation partners.

“That’s right… But Otoyo-san really does look young, doesn’t she? She could pass for just over thirty… She’ll find a good husband again in no time.” Grandmother, holding a needle in her aged, trembling fingers as she threaded it, with the spitefulness of an old woman, “If I were Otoyo-san, I’d hate to get married past forty—folks these days just can’t stay single even when they’re old, can they…” “Goodness… *giggle*”

Nobuko found it both frustrating and pitiable how Otoyo-san, anxious about her future, was rushing into marriage like taking out endowment insurance. She felt sympathy for her situation—surrounded by ignorant old women exchanging knowing glances and whispers. She said to Grandmother, “Grandmother, no matter what you do, you can’t make that woman live happily for the rest of her life, so it’s better not to fuss and say all those things. After all, everyone finds their own happiness.”

Then, Grandmother began to recount her past in an oddly contrary manner.

“I s’pose you could say I was born under an unlucky star. When I was young, your granddad kept us poor with all his business ventures, and now I’m old, even my own sons can’t stand me… The only joy left to me is seein’ you.”

Having said that, she shed tears.

Otoyo-san expressed her anxieties about her future while playing a clumsy game of five-in-a-row with Nobuko. Before long, she stopped going to Shinmachi—and consequently, to the town for shopping as well. Later, she spoke of how she had taken it upon herself to decline the marriage proposal that had been arranged with the dentist. Nobuko felt as though she were observing specimens of women’s lives—varied yet uniformly failing to proceed as desired. Whether it was Grandmother or Otoyo-san, none of them were living as they wished. Even so, they went on living. They went on living, listlessly squirming through the gloom. Nobuko felt heartened that she herself had not surrendered to life’s dissatisfactions. As she observed them, Nobuko truly did not want to live such a life; she felt an enthusiasm welling up within her to remove obstacles, persistently confront life, and forge the existence she envisioned. In a family spanning generations, wouldn’t it be possible for at least one woman to look back on her life with joy?

In mid-June, Waichirou came for his conscription eligibility examination. They were one such pair of siblings—not particularly close, but on good terms. Nobuko was delighted to spend several days in the countryside with him after so long. Waichirou had suffered from pleurisy in recent years, so he might have been Class B or Class C. Therefore, this stay felt all the more carefree. In Grandmother’s dresser drawer lay an old Fūgetsu confectionery box. Inside were old photographs that had been stored away. There was one commemorating Nobuko’s hundredth day after birth; another showed her slightly older self standing primly like an elder sister beside Waichirou, who wore a velvet sailor hat and was supported by a nursemaid. Grandmother, beaming with pleasure, showed them—now grown up—the photographs.

“Oh my, I wonder when this was taken… Not from this era—remember how we used to panic about child-snatchers coming around? After seeing Yoshisan off that time, I carried you on my back from the edge of the slope and ran home like mad, didn’t I?” “It’s true—how absurd. But back then I was genuinely scared, Sis—I mean, we were dead serious about it!”

“Next time, Waichirou will have to carry you on his back, Sis.” “You’re this big? I’d be done for!” “Ha ha ha!”

When Grandmother wasn’t around, they spoke more openly. Waichirou was navigating that age of exploring love. Longing, anxiety, and passion seemed at times to violently shake his spirit. He spoke with calm trust and youthful honesty about his intricate psychological states and the peculiar, lovelorn atmosphere among his cram school peers—a mood wholly mismatched with his own sensibilities. To Nobuko, these topics belonged to a world apart from theirs, yet she felt deeply interested. But what moved her more was Waichirou’s sincerity—how he still clung to their childhood bond and seemed to confide these matters directly to her alone, even leaning on her somewhat. Nobuko found this trust almost overwhelming to bear.

Waichirou spat out a cherry pit and tossed it into the garden like skimming a stone across the sea as he said, "You’re nothing like us, are you? I can tell." "You mean about those kinds of things? That I’ve got it all figured out and settled?" "Yeah." "Is it because I’m married?" "It’s not entirely that, but..." "If you think that’s why because I’m married, you’re wrong… Marriage isn’t some final answer—it’s an exam question they’ve thrown at you, and a real tough one at that…"

Nobuko involuntarily formed a suggestive smile. Waichirou assumed a dazzlingly complex expression.

“It’s strange.

“I can usually figure out my classmates’ feelings if they just say a word or two—but with you, I’m completely at a loss. It’s so strangely elusive, like grasping at air… and then you start crying at the drop of a hat…” Nobuko felt affection in Waichirou’s expression. “Do you want to see some gaudy, colorful display?” “Well, yeah… And honestly, I can’t stand listening to friends’ conversations—they’re so trivial… it makes me worry.” After a pause, Nobuko asked.

“That young lady—the one you used to take photos of and such—what became of her? Is she still fooling around?” “Ah, that person’s no good.”

Waichirou answered clearly in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Didn’t she come here earlier to swing?” “I felt like I might have some undesirable traits—what do you think, Sis?” “Looking up at people like that—it’s underhanded. I hate it.” Nobuko thought that he, who had once been sentimental, was beginning to gain a steadiness in his step like someone well-adapted to life. “…You’re quite steady… more admirable than I am.” “Nah, that’s not true.” “Truly!—It’s innate and can’t be helped, but this habit of mine—immediately spinning fantasies—has its pros and cons.”

Nobuko added haltingly, as if talking to herself. "I do see what’s there to see, but when some twist of fate makes me fall for someone, I think, ‘That may be so,’ and convince myself the things I dislike should vanish… Yet they don’t vanish at all—once it becomes reality." "If being disappointed by that is how it ends, then perhaps it’s better to have a disposition like yours—one that doesn’t chase mirages from the very start."

After getting into bed, Waichirou asked Nobuko her opinion about a certain girl she also knew. Nobuko realized, for some reason, that his interest now lay with that girl. She found herself at a slight loss for how to respond. According to Nobuko’s impression, the young lady was not like those girls made of nothing but gaudy-colored air that Waichirou had spoken of earlier—but in exchange for lacking that flashiness, she also had no vivid or endearing qualities. In short, she seemed too ordinary by nature. A lamp had been left on in the adjacent room, so a faint light streamed through the transom of the partition, illuminating only the ceiling.

“It’s nothing… just the most ordinary thing… but since I’ve been made to feel thoroughly sick of it myself, I don’t want to say this or that about it.” And yet, Nobuko thought. Since my dealings with Tsukuda began, how many anti-Tsukuda remarks I’d been subjected to! Those people likely aimed to make me give him up, but in reality, that hadn’t happened. It had worked inversely. If by any chance a romantic issue arose for Waichirou, she resolved that she at least would maintain a respectful silence until he truly sought her counsel. What kind of love would this brother have? What sort of marriage would he make? As an adult, how did he perceive his sister’s romantic entanglements and married life? Nobuko suddenly felt curious and, half-laughing,

“What kind of person would you want to marry?” she asked.

“Well… I don’t know.” “Our feelings haven’t yet reached such practical matters.” “Well, there’s no need to rush.”

“Hmm.”

Waichirou replied earnestly. "I think so too."

Eventually, he said, seeming slightly uncomfortable yet with deep interest.

“I wonder what someone like Mr. Tsukuda felt when he got married.” “Truly.”

Out of a delicate emotion, Nobuko said nothing more, but that very thing was part of the question in her heart. With what feelings had Tsukuda married, and how did he intend to guide their married life? Nobuko could not firmly grasp it. For example, even considering his feelings in sending me to the countryside like this—was it because he was so blindly devoted to me that he would let me do anything, and thus left me be? Or was it because he remained composed, thinking that if he let me do what I wanted, I would eventually grow tired and come back? Nobuko thought his heart must be a mixture of both, but treating her in such a manner—what kind of life did he intend for them to attain? When pushed to the ultimate point, she always found herself at a loss. Though she could not clearly put it into words, she felt something that would form the core of the life she wished to attain. If he were to possess that quality, nothing would be swifter than feeling. From somewhere, it would surely reach straight into Nobuko’s heart—there could be no case where it failed to save her from disappointment.

The evidence was that—(Nobuko thought and thought)—before he had uttered a single word about loving her, had she not felt that he loved her? — As if mocking the two of them, Nobuko had lately found herself thinking this way again at times. ―All these were just things I’d been imagining and tormenting myself over. There was nothing complex about him. Truly—just as he himself said, there was nothing in him.

As if trying to make herself increasingly aware of the pain of disillusionment, Nobuko thought more and more contemptuous things about herself and him. However, she knew well. That her heart did not truly mean those things, and that were anyone to whisper even half as much about him to her, she would sever ties with them. Whether she struck him or kicked him, he was already a part of her. Without feeling pain and suffering herself, Nobuko could not even slightly reproach him.

After some time had passed, Nobuko suddenly thought she heard Waichirou’s voice. She had thought he’d long since fallen asleep. —Nobuko quietly, “Were you awake?”

she tried calling out. Waichirou didn’t reply and mumbled unintelligible words. It was sleep-talking. Nobuko laughed at herself in the darkness. He had a habit of making sucking sounds with his tongue while asleep. As she listened in this mellow state, Waichirou suddenly spoke clearly—

"Ah—"

he drew out a long "Ah—" and sighed. Nobuko reflexively propped herself up on one elbow, rose up, and peered into his face. For someone lost in sleep, his sigh held too much genuine emotion. As for sleeping—he was still asleep. He let out another short “Ah—” of a sigh, then in a low, urgent tone,

“Ah, I’m so miserable—I’m so miserable.” While uttering this, he fluttered the fingertips of both hands resting on his chest in small, fanning motions. Feeling she had inadvertently glimpsed a fissure in his youthful spirit, Nobuko was filled with both affection and anguish. She gently lowered each hand from his chest one by one, careful not to rouse him. They were large hands—warm and heavy. He kept sleeping, oblivious to it all.

When Waichirou had left, the serene life returned. Nobuko felt homesick.

In the evening, a burnt-smelling mist hung low over the village. She stood on the veranda and gazed across the vast farmland at scattered streetlights beginning to twinkle in the town at the mountain's foot. When she imagined Tokyo's streets enveloped in bustling crowds, jostling bodies, and vehicles clamorously scurrying every which way, she sensed within that chaos a warm human breath and life's vibrant thrum—Nobuko felt she might summon a rickshaw that very instant. She remained tormented by this unsettled state until night fully descended with the closing of rain shutters. The ten-candlepower lamp glinted on the parlor's black-lacquered sliding doors as the drowsy, drawn-out country evening settled her nerves. Grandmother, Otoyo-san, and the maid continued winding thread and scrubbing rust from needles behind their shadows. Above them came the steady tick-tock, tick-tock...

The fulfilling solitude within life’s flow often stirred Nobuko. Her husband—what might he be doing alone at his desk on a night like this? It seemed to her this same stillness might dwell where he was. After weathering countless reactions both great and small, Nobuko had gradually come to believe Tsukuda possessed his own rightful place in the world—a space where he could simply exist as himself. The world teemed with innumerable men of no particular distinction. Were he merely one among them, what harm could there be? Even if I failed to obtain what I’d expected from him—wasn’t that my own failing? Nobuko pondered these things beneath her solitary lamp. If he himself found contentment in his present life, by what right could she obstruct it? That he endured no anguish over his lack of originality, that he served as a mere conduit for gathering Persian research materials in Japan—perhaps this existence wasn’t entirely devoid of purpose. Left undisturbed by Nobuko’s prodding, he would likely remain content within his ambitions for advancement, his daily rituals, and that stoic virtue of endurance.

When she thought of Tsukuda, assailed by Takeyo’s fervor and her own violently shaking passion in the Ugusuyama house, Nobuko felt an odd sensation. He must have been utterly overwhelmed. Like a timid dog suddenly thrust into an unfamiliar pack and barked at from all sides. But from now on, how was Nobuko to manage herself and keep living? The kind of happiness he sought was not where Nobuko belonged. If her husband found satisfaction, should she watch him consume that happiness from the sidelines—abstaining herself, forcing a smile? Nobuko was someone who hungered. Someone who felt a gnawing emptiness. Someone who could not help but partake. She came to realize she was a woman compelled to discover or forge what she desired beside him—through her own means alone. If she asked, her husband would share his portion with her. Yet Nobuko could not stomach it. She craved something purer.

Nobuko wept as she thought of all the misunderstandings that had filled her heart until now—the childish fantasies, the trust that had been so young, so naive, so fervent it was hard to believe it dated from a mere two years ago. But even as she wept, Nobuko dimly sensed life’s unwavering truth and found new courage. Let what fades vanish away. What remains will naturally endure. No sentimentalism.—However, this meant parting from the image of her husband she had been straining to conjure until now.

She had come to wish to build a single, spacious, uncluttered sanctuary of the mind—one that wouldn’t feel cramped even with her husband there as a guest. If I truly possessed the power to live, how could I possibly declare that it couldn’t be built! And even as she wryly smiled at her own contradictions, Nobuko renewed her hope that through continuing this way, Tsukuda was no tree root—it wasn’t impossible he might gradually change over time. Nobuko couldn’t deny that both her resolve to become courageous and her belief in its purpose were ultimately being sustained entirely by that mustard-seed-sized hope arriving last.

Nobuko sent a letter to Tsukuda. She informed him she wanted to return and requested he leave the house accessible for her entry even when absent. Tsukuda replied that since he would be out that evening on her intended return day, she should come two days later instead. At the kitchen entrance, upon receiving and immediately reading these words, Nobuko tore the postcard with a force that surged from within her solitary being. She detested postponing her fixed return date by two days.

7 That summer, Nobuko wrote a short story after a long hiatus. The lengthy work she had planned since spring ultimately remained unfinished due to inherent flaws. Ever since her marriage, her inability to work had weighed heavily on her mind. But during her time in the countryside, her mindset shifted somewhat—through concentrated effort, she managed to write forty to fifty pages. For Nobuko, completing it mattered more than its quality; this alone felt like an auspicious sign. The fact that she could work—wasn't that proof she'd secured some semblance of spiritual grounding in herself and her surroundings? If she could maintain this foothold, then perhaps her resolve from the countryside—that new way of life born from emotions tangled with grief and courage—might not be entirely hopeless. To stand independently without relying on her husband, at least in spirit... Nobuko had poured onto those pages all the chaos and turmoil that brought her mind to this point. The work appeared in the supplement of a political magazine that cared little for literary merit.

It was the day they had sent over the published issue. Nobuko, while rereading her own work in print, sat absorbed in thought before her desk. Just then, the front lattice door opened. When Nobuko was alone during the daytime, the clattering sound of the lattice door being opened filled her with an anxiety that felt as if the surrounding air itself had been violently stirred. Those who came in such a manner were invariably pushy peddlers calling out in beggar-like voices or something of the sort. She had started to open the shoji but, upon noticing the figure standing in the doma,

“Oh! It’s you!”

With that, her voice shifting on the spot, Nobuko stood up cheerfully. "You're mean!" "I thought it was someone else!"

It was Waichirou.

“Good day.—I just tried acting like a proper guest for once.” “Please come in.” “...Thank you...” Nobuko wondered at his seemingly hesitant manner. “Why? Are you in a hurry? Or are you worried about the motorcycle?” “That’s all well and good, but I’ve come to fetch you today.” “Well... but that’s all right, isn’t it?” Waichirou stepped up but remained unsettled. He asked, “Are you busy? Can’t you come?”

“Well... I could go... but is there something you need?”

She did not like being summoned. Even if she had been in the mood to go out that day, being suddenly sent for and told to come immediately made her spirits balk. “Mother says she has something to discuss.” Since “I have something to discuss” was Takeyo’s habitual tactic, both Waichirou delivering the message and Nobuko receiving it could not help but laugh at the absurdity they felt. “Well, of course she has something to discuss.” “But today’s a bit different.”

“What is it?”

Waichirou said haltingly and awkwardly. “She read what you wrote this time and has some complaints.” “Hmm.”

Nobuko turned the matter over in her mind and landed on one particular passage that seemed likely. It was a brief section describing how the female protagonist’s mother harbored a certain resentment—something bordering on hostility—toward her husband. If Mother intended to raise any objections, they would almost certainly concern that part alone.

“Then let’s go.”

Nobuko stood up and prepared. She thought it essential that they make a clean break with each other before things became too complicated. It was unfortunate that Father and Waichirou, too, would not escape being affected in their feelings. Nobuko entrusted a short note and the key to her neighbor and left.

Takeyo, upon seeing Nobuko behaving casually and as usual, “Come here now.”

she greeted her in a tone laced with coiled resentment. “Good day.” Mother didn’t do it herself but summoned the maid to prepare tea. “There’s some Nagasaki castella here... Have some if you like.” Nobuko sensed her mother wasn’t nursing displeasure born of careful consideration, but rather stewing in emotional irritation—and putting on this solemn air to avoid releasing that pent-up vexation herself. “Is there something you wanted to discuss?”

“...You already know.” “Well... Waichirou mentioned something briefly, but I don’t know the details... I haven’t been told anything yet.” “Since it’s your own writing, you must understand what I’m talking about—but what on earth did you intend by writing this one?” Nobuko endured the awkwardness and politely explained her motive. However, Takeyo did not solemnly listen to it all the way through,

“Well, you can spin your logic however you like,” she said.

“It’s not logic—it’s my true feelings.” “The truth is—last night Mr.Sawatani came for dinner and asked if I’d read what you wrote this time. When I said I hadn’t known anything about it, he must have thought—‘Your mother’s written about in it.’ Though I assumed it couldn’t be anything decent, I had someone fetch it immediately and read it—but I don’t recall ever doing anything that should force me to endure such public humiliation through print!”

Nobuko grew irritated and lost all sympathy. She even thought it was only natural for her mother—who lacked the habit of observing her own heart as a third party—to find it all the more repulsive if true, even if the issue amounted to nothing more than a two-character adjective portraying her as having been written about in an unflattering state of mind. Therefore, even accounting for that unpleasantness, Nobuko had spoken at great length in the belief that if they understood the heartfelt circumstances under which she had written that work, some mutual understanding might be reached. However, because of her mother’s words, Nobuko began to feel desolate. Sawatani’s attitude, which was unlike that of an intellectual young man, was also unpleasant. The way Mother had been swayed by it was also repugnant. Nobuko fell silent and sipped her cold tea.

“...If you’re saying that just because I’m your parent, I should become your stepping stone so you can improve yourself—then fine, I’ll endure any humiliation. Even if trampled underfoot with muddy shoes, I’d welcome it. But I suppose that’s not the case—even as it is, with people watching us so closely no matter how things are, there’s no need to go writing things yourself that make them say, ‘See? Just as I thought!’” She added with feminine venom.

“Or what—is there something that would actually benefit you?” Nobuko, with an intensity that made one wonder what she might have said had the other person not been her mother,

“Stop it.” She interjected. “If you start speaking like that, there’s simply no reasoning with you anymore.”

Takeyo looked at Nobuko’s face and insisted somewhat weakly. “...But isn’t that how it is?” Then, dragged along by the undulations of her agitated heart, she launched into a prolonged attack—about how Nobuko ought to recognize the hardships she had caused through her relationship with Tsukuda, and how Nobuko’s art was clearly beginning to degenerate. Nobuko found nothing in those quarrelsome words that struck her as sincere, and returned home with conflicting emotions.

Six days later, another summons came from Dōzaka. It was a Saturday. The message insisted they absolutely wanted both her and Tsukuda to come that evening. When Nobuko had been summoned previously, Takeyo had mentioned they would eventually need to call Tsukuda for discussion. This was precisely that matter. Nobuko truly loathed involving Tsukuda in the turmoil her writing had stirred. She found it pitiful too - this violent trampling by others into what she considered her innermost sanctuary. Though Tsukuda must have undoubtedly read it, he had never uttered a word to her about it.

When they went to Dōzaka, the two were abruptly ushered upstairs. The red practice felt for painting lessons had all been cleared away, leaving only the small mother-of-pearl cabinet in the corner shimmering under the distant lamplight. Her mother came up and seated herself on the solitary cushion placed apart before the alcove. Nobuko found herself unable to suppress her resistance against this oppressive treatment closing in from all sides. After exchanging a few social niceties, Takeyo “The reason I specifically summoned even you here concerns nothing else.”

she began in this way.

“The other day ended in such confusion that I sent Nobuko home, but I’ve been thinking nonstop ever since—so much that I’ve barely slept at night. You must have heard from Nobuko already, but I wanted to hear your opinion directly.” “Though we were invited together, I believe this is something only Mother and I need to discuss. Tsukuda has no part in this.” “I disagree... Mr. Tsukuda, you’ve read it too... What are your thoughts?”

Unable to bear looking at her husband’s face as he answered, Nobuko gazed instead at the dark corridor’s reed door. “...As you are aware, I have granted absolute freedom to this person’s writings...” Though it was a defense advantageous to herself, Nobuko could detect no truth in this seemingly magnanimous reply—instead sensing something akin to her husband’s cunning. This slippery manner of response—seemingly comprehensible yet elusive—she felt it became the same evasive rhetoric he directed even at herself, and it seemed as though the very spot where she sat was sinking away. Whatever she writes is her freedom—that freedom I do recognize. Therefore, what she had written was ultimately nothing more than what she had written. No matter what suffering or tears might dwell there—it was something she had written, utterly disconnected from their own lives—ah, how this cold tolerance pierced to the heart! While Nobuko continued to harbor these thoughts, Takeyo pressed on with the conversation.

“That may be so... but I’ve been thinking these past few days—it seems there must be some reason behind Nobuko writing that piece this time—or if not quite that far, at least some influence behind it... Don’t you agree, speaking impartially?” Tsukuda asked back, looking puzzled.

“In what sense do you mean?”

Takeyo did not answer Tsukuda and began to address Nobuko. “Now, isn’t that right, Nobuko? Search your conscience and reflect on it properly—if you’re someone who presumes to put pen to paper, you should at least understand that much.” Nobuko already felt an indescribable disgust toward these back-and-forth arguments. Unpleasant words that somehow failed to reach the heart’s core—words that seemed almost unnecessary—were being piled up relentlessly. What were they trying to accomplish in the end?

“So what exactly do you mean?” Takeyo fixed Nobuko with an intense stare. “If you insist on hearing it, I’ll say it—though Mr. Tsukuda may find it disagreeable to hear.”

“What is it?” “To put it plainly—that piece, if not entirely, at least the parts about me—I can only think you were secretly instigated by Mr. Tsukuda to write them.” “…………” “Well?”

“…………”

Takeyo adjusted her posture.

“This isn’t merely my own opinion—everyone else has been saying it too…”

“――――”

On the wide night-stretched tatami, brightness and the stifled silence of restrained voices brimmed with piercing clarity. Nobuko’s inner realm mirrored this exactly. She felt neither sorrow nor anger. Having surpassed such mundane measures, her emotions lay honed to razor sharpness - wounds penetrating to the very marrow now crystallized into cold lucidity.

Takeyo, “You can’t expect me to understand if you keep silent,” she said. Nobuko froze rigid and found herself unable to speak. “...If I’ve misunderstood, I’ll apologize, but—” After a while, Nobuko cleared her throat in a hoarse voice and said to her husband, “...You, please go over there.” There was no reason for Mother to apologize to Tsukuda. Nobuko thought there was no reason for Tsukuda to endure such humiliation merely because he had become her husband.

“Stay where you are.”

Tsukuda, with his arms crossed, “Hmm.” He groaned. While he was being indecisive, Takeyo— “Before we’ve even settled matters, I can’t let you act so willfully,” she said. “But Mother, you’re the one who can’t back down, aren’t you?” “I don’t back down because there’s no reason to—there’s no one who refuses to admit their own faults like you!” Driven by passionate stubbornness, Takeyo pressed Nobuko to apologize, over and over. She pressed Nobuko to swear that from now on she would never write anything related to family matters. That was impossible for Nobuko. Even if I were to offer a token apology or make a vow now, it would inevitably be broken someday. Moreover, Nobuko could not consider herself to be bad in the sense her mother emphasized. Pitiable matters and wrongdoing naturally seemed distinct. Moreover, Nobuko could not find it within herself to yield to the barrage of harsh words that Takeyo had unleashed, simply because they came from her mother.

“So you absolutely refuse to yield on what you’ve said, is that it?” “To say something perfunctory would be pointless…” “Then there’s no helping it—you and I are fundamentally incompatible.” “If that’s how it is—” Takeyo declared anew and decisively. “From now on, I must ask you to refrain from visiting. “That would be better for both of us, and I’m sure it would suit Mr.Tsukuda as well...”

She finally managed to say the last part, then turned her face away, her jaw and lips trembling. As she looked at that defeated profile, Nobuko began to feel pity for her mother. To Nobuko, her mother having gone so far as to say such things could never be perceived as stemming from any enduring conviction—though the woman herself might believe it to be the product of careful deliberation—but rather seemed born solely from a volatile temperament that thrived on intense emotional provocation. Had her mother, driven by that relentless natural momentum—over and over again—perhaps unexpectedly blurted out such definitive statements? Did Mother truly understand the meaning of her own words? Nobuko found it more unbearable to witness her mother—unable to control her own vehemence—than to face the fact that she was effectively being disowned (though for some reason, this reality had never truly struck her with any visceral force). She even came to think of her as an unfortunate person. Nobuko gently said,

“Well, you don’t have to decide everything in one fell swoop.” she said.

Takeyo seemed to take it as an affront, tears streaming down her face. "You think I can't possibly do such a thing—but I have my resolve." "I won't have you underestimate me that way." "Once I've said it... even if you were dying to see me, I won't tell you to come begging."

A hollow silence spread. Then, abruptly, Tsukuda ceremoniously placed his hands on the tatami and bowed to her mother. “Since there’s no other choice… Please take care of your health…”

To Nobuko, everything seemed unbelievable, contrived, and unnatural—a restlessness as if they were making some grand, tragic performance out of trivial matters simply because circumstances had led them there. At the same time came an indescribable hollowness, a feeling as if the fire had gone out. Nobuko remained seated, sinking into this peculiar mood.

For her part, Mother sat clutching her chest with both arms, staring fixedly ahead without moving.—

Tsukuda began to stand up and urged Nobuko onward. “Well then… we should take our leave… the night has grown quite late—” Nobuko found Tsukuda’s deliberately lowered voice grating—the way his gaze claimed her as unquestionably his possession. Though formally being pushed away, she instead felt an incongruous resonance with her mother’s emotions—a contradictory sensation taking root.

As she tried to go downstairs, Nobuko stumbled at the staircase entrance. Tsukuda grabbed her arm painfully and supported her.

VIII

When she woke up, Tsukuda was up and on the veranda. It was an autumn-like morning, with dry phoenix tree leaves rustling high in the sky. Nobuko felt utterly drained throughout her body—the will to lift herself from the futon had deserted her. She lay gazing at the autumn sky over the elevated ground. It was perfectly clear. Had she ever seen such a sky before? Through the room where she slept, a refreshingly vigorous September wind blew in from that azure sky. With an unfeeling—and therefore all the more soul-piercing—sorrow, Nobuko involuntarily closed her eyes.

From last night around one o’clock when they returned until this morning, Nobuko had hardly spoken a word. As he changed into his nightclothes, Tsukuda said while getting ready for bed, “Ahh—well, it can’t be helped. A person cannot serve two gods.” “...You aren’t my god either.”

Even after getting into bed, she couldn’t fall asleep, enveloped in an uncanny solitude. Had Mother understood the feelings Nobuko harbored toward her husband Tsukuda and their shared life, she could never have uttered those words. Though Nobuko had volunteered no confessions, she held nothing that might provoke her mother’s jealousy or indignation... Even upon waking, that desolate mood from the previous night—when she’d drifted into sleep nursing such thoughts—lingered unrelieved. The moment sunlight pierced through her eyelids, that loneliness seemed to seep deeper still into her heart’s core.

“Are you awake?”

Tsukuda came and touched Nobuko’s forehead as she lay sleeping. “Are you feeling unwell?” “I’m fine.” “Shall I call a doctor?” “It’s really fine… Just a bit worn out, that’s all.” Nobuko remained lying down all day. As two or three days passed, she recovered. In spirit, she had regained her strength with a new layer added to her heart—a constant loneliness that now accompanied her newfound clarity and lightness of being, earnestly connected to that persistent desire she had carried ever since returning from the countryside to stand firmly on her own. Nobuko began her next modest project. She felt these outwardly unfortunate circumstances—which helped temper her spirit—were something to be grateful for, and found herself filled with quiet resolve. They had not uttered a single word about Dōzaka since that night.

It was a day soon after the month had changed.

Nobuko unexpectedly caught the sound of Waichirou’s voice at the entrance. When Nobuko saw his lively face, she involuntarily, like a boy,

“Oh!” she exclaimed joyfully. “What’s up?” “What about you, sis?” “This is how it is.”

Waichirou looked around at Nobuko’s face and the cluttered state of the area from her studies, “Well, that’s fine then.”

Waichirou finally sat down.

The two of them spent about three hours chatting aimlessly and pleasantly. Waichirou talked about having finally decided to enter a certain vocational school next spring. “I don’t think anyone would be so pleased just because they graduated middle school that they’d immediately go taking exams for higher schools.” “First of all, most people don’t even know what work they’d truly enjoy, and their feelings aren’t exactly genuine either——” As he was about to leave, facing away while putting on his shoes, Waichirou said casually.

“Last night, Mother said to me, ‘You haven’t been coming to your sister’s place at all lately, have you?’”

In the middle of the month, Nobuko unexpectedly received a visit from Ms. Otoyo. Her grandmother had finally come to her retreat, so she had accompanied her to Tokyo. “Her Ladyship also said she very much wanted to come, but since she’s still tired today, we decided against it for now—” Ms. Otoyo was speaking while staring intently at Nobuko, when suddenly—

“When I see you keeping up your spirits like that, it only makes me feel all the more sorry for you.” Her kind-hearted, finely wrinkled face flushed suddenly, and she began to cry behind her sleeve. “They’re such understanding people—truly—so why...? When I heard what happened, I was overcome with such indescribable feelings.” Nobuko felt both apologetic and profoundly awkward in the face of Ms.Otoyo’s single-minded lament. She said, even forcing a smile as if to comfort Ms.Otoyo.

“It’s alright. If even you go shedding tears like that, I’ll be at a loss. Things will work out eventually, so please don’t worry.” “Please—how could such a thing happen between parent and child?” Ms. Otoyo said with heartfelt sincerity. “From Her Ladyship’s perspective, Mr.Tsukuda may indeed have his shortcomings, but to involve you as well... Though given her resolute temperament, perhaps it couldn’t be helped...”

Mother seemed to have explained the cause of the conflict to Ms. Otoyo and others in a way that differed from what had actually occurred. Nobuko said, “Even though Tsukuda had nothing to do with it, he got dragged into the mess.”

she explained. “What I wrote offended you.”

A day later, Tsuya-ko came to play with the student lodger. Tamotsu brought flowers from the flowerbed. The younger siblings had begun visiting much more frequently than before. Nobuko sensed her mother’s intentions lurking behind this. When they returned home, she would surely interrogate them like this: “Well? Did you see your sister? Was it amusing?” Tamotsu would answer in his earnest, Tamotsu-like way, and Tsuya-ko with girlish vivacity. Then Mother would inevitably press further.

“What was your sister doing?”

Finally, as if by chance yet with particular interest,

“Was Mr. Tsukuda there?” “Or, “What were they doing?” Wouldn’t she be asking things like that? Since they were innocent, she couldn’t press for details, and no matter how much she questioned them, she probably felt her inquiries weren’t getting through. After her younger brother and sister left, Nobuko would often imagine such scenes. Tsukuda seemed annoyed by Tsuya-ko and Tamotsu’s visits. Tsuya-ko clung to his neck, “Hey, let’s play together! It’s no fun with just you and Big Sis, please?”

When she acted sweetly like that, he would stiffen his body and reject her. “I’m busy right now, so no.”

When he returned from work, they were there. It was only natural he had grown weary of people, but Nobuko couldn’t bear seeing the children shrink from him with terrified looks, so she told her husband: “Of course all this irritates you, but the children don’t know any better—they still think everything’s just as it was before.” “You should’ve spoken up properly back then instead of taking it out on the little one.”

Then Tsukuda, as if shocked by the false accusation leveled against him, “Did I ever do such a thing?” he retorted. “Look, I understand it can’t be helped that you declared you wouldn’t let the Mukōzaka crowd into the house. But since you’re allowing it—” Tsukuda would not even openly assert his legitimate feelings as himself; for instance, if someone were to say “You must have been angry,” he would simply reply “No.” Nobuko dissected the situation for his benefit, forcing her husband to confront his own emotions directly. Tsukuda neither agreed nor denied, letting Nobuko speak herself out before finally saying resentfully,

“That’s all just what you think,” he said. “Since it differs from my true feelings, I have to make that clear.” “Then what are your feelings?” she pressed. “How exactly are they different?” “You know I’m not good with words...” His voice trailed off before resuming with strained conviction, “I keep believing you’ll understand someday. Someone who truly loves me should understand without explanations.”

At times like these, Nobuko would involuntarily press her hands to her forehead and rub it vigorously. "Oh, you poor thing! Don't go giving yourself more wrinkles!" At such times, she felt like whistling. But no sound came.

Nine

When November arrived, Nobuko began occasionally losing her peace of mind due to various causes. The situation with Mukōzaka remained unchanged since then, limited to visits from her younger brother and sister, and occasionally her grandmother. Only two full months had passed since September, so this was only natural, but what Nobuko found painful was the anticipation of December's approach. By Japanese family custom, as everywhere else, December 31st was the liveliest day of the year at Nobuko's parents' house too. From a time she could no longer remember when it started, Nobuko had played hostess on this festive day. While everyone worked busily around her, she decorated the table with flowers, candlelight, gifts and such. The door of the room they kept tightly shut,

“Come on! Please come in.” How thrilled she was when she opened it! The childlike vibrancy always sent her into raptures. The whole household had rejoiced with her. This year, that simple joy could not be shared by anyone in the house. New Year’s Eve would surely become a dreary occasion. Nobuko thought it would be better if her parents and siblings weren’t in Tokyo at all—or better yet, if she and her husband weren’t there either.

One such day, Nobuko was tending to a single chrysanthemum plant in a corner of the garden. Though it was a chrysanthemum in a clay pot from a night market stall, its pure white flowers emitted a fragrance characteristic of November. As she trimmed the withered flowers with scissors, the sound of a rickshaw bell came from the alley. Nobuko opened the wooden gate to look. Grandmother alighted from the rickshaw.

Nobuko,

“Grandmother, over here, over here!” she beckoned. Then she told the rickshaw driver,

“We’ll arrange your return trip from here, so you may go.” Grandmother looked around curiously, “Oh! There really is a gate here!” Surveying her surroundings as she spoke, she stepped into the garden in her sandals. “I thought I might do some shopping today—but ah! What do I know about such things? Gave up and came to get tea instead.”

Nobuko laughed. When Grandmother had the rickshaw ordered, she must not have said she wanted to come to Nobuko’s place, but probably claimed something about going to Hongo-dori to look at silk fabrics instead. That unnecessary excuse—she went so far as to come to Nobuko’s place to make it. “I can give you all the tea you’d like.—Why don’t we pretend we’re having a chrysanthemum viewing today?”

Nobuko had someone put out zabuton cushions and tea on the veranda.

Then, having seated Grandmother, she herself sat nearby and pretended to be gazing upon a vast flower bed. “Well now, what a splendid view! As far as the eye can see—a thousand white chrysanthemums at their peak!”

Grandmother deeply inhaled her tobacco with apparent relish, then flicked the ash from her cigarette and chuckled teasingly. “What’s happened to my eyes? I can only see one chrysanthemum here.” “Oh, come now, Grandmother! There are supposed to be more! There are supposed to be more!” Beside them, Kiyo rattled her large white Seto-ware dentures and gave an obsequious laugh. “Madam says such amusing things, ohohoho.”

Every time she was addressed as "Madam" at every turn, Nobuko felt an uncomfortable sensation, as if someone were ceremoniously plucking at some part of her body with their fingertips. Grandmother remained cheerfully animated and gossiped about the chrysanthemum dolls at Kokugikan. Eventually declaring that her toes were growing cold, she retreated into the house.

“In my youth, I didn’t lose to any woman, but now I might as well drop dead—threading the needle’s eye takes me as long as sewing the whole damn thing.”

Everyone kept saying they wanted to hold her eightieth birthday celebration early next year, but she insisted it would be a wasteful expense. "It’s perfectly fine for you to receive such a small gesture—everyone would be delighted. Please do go ahead with it. I’d like to do something to celebrate too." "It’s a kind thought, but…" Grandmother, not wanting Kiyo—who had walked over there—to hear, looked around anxiously and lowered her voice to a flustered whisper. "If you all keep fussing over pointless things like this, I’ll get no satisfaction from any of it." "You mustn’t come."

Nobuko was troubled. She let out an ambiguous moan.

“Hmm...” “I don’t know how it came to this, but there’s just no use in any of it anymore.” Kiyo, who normally had no one to talk to, would chatter away keeping Grandmother company whenever she visited. She had no sons—only daughters—and therefore— “They’re of no use at all—after all, I’m the one who gave them away.” and such. Grandmother responded by recounting how she’d had three sons but only Nobuko’s father remained, and how many grandchildren there were when counting those from her other daughters too. She,

"I have many grandchildren," she said with tobacco-stained breath rattling through aged lungs, "but you—maybe because we’ve been thick as thieves since you were knee-high—you’re my special girl." Her rheumy eyes crinkled as they settled on Nobuko.

“While thinking I’d die any day now, I might yet live to see my great-grandchildren...”

Grandmother was happily eating dry sweets while pondering something, then adopted a serious expression and murmured. “You look all worn out—maybe you’re not as strong as you think…” “Why? I’m perfectly healthy.” “Then why haven’t you had a child?” With an old-fashioned lack of reserve, Grandmother continued.

“Young people these days have children right after getting married, don’t they?”

“Oh please, I couldn’t care less about that.” “Maybe you ain’t strong enough… Come to think of it, Mr. Tsukuda’s lookin’ peaky all the time. Maybe Mr. Tsukuda’s the one who’s shootin’ blanks?” Nobuko grew earnest, “Stop it! I won’t hear another word about this!”

She cut in. She found it repulsive, and tears threatened to spill. She hated any talk of children, no matter when it came up or who brought it up. To be spoken of like livestock by her own grandmother was more than she could bear. As Nobuko hurried to change the subject, Kiyo—sitting beside her—leaned her neck far toward Grandmother and said in a loud voice, as if speaking to someone hard of hearing, all while wearing a peculiar smile.

“Madam, you needn’t worry yourself—an auspicious occasion will be upon us soon, I assure you.” Then she cast a sidelong glance toward Nobuko—a smile oozing presumptuous understanding. What a vile old hag! Even though she knew how much I detested it. The implication behind Kiyo’s prophetically murmured words became clear to Nobuko. She had hinted that through feminine intuition, she knew Nobuko’s monthly cycle was two weeks late. Grandmother merely replied absently,

"Is that so…" Grandmother answered.

Nobuko was unable to free herself from her unpleasant feelings even after Grandmother had put on her hood and ridden home in a rickshaw. Even without Kiyo having to say it, Nobuko had already become sufficiently sensitive to the subtle changes in her own body. For several days now, she had been intermittently seized by an anxiety akin to what an animal might feel. Nobuko found the very act of becoming a mother terrifying already—and at this time when her life was full of doubts, what would happen if she were to have a child who might possess the right to bind her to this life?

Leaning against the pillar as the deepening gloom thickened around her, Nobuko thought about many things and sank into despondency. When she probed the depths of her heart, she even came to wonder whether that one promise she had pressed upon Tsukuda when they married—that she absolutely did not want to become a mother—might have been driven by some subtle feminine intuition. The reason Nobuko had rationally assigned was her own work. But this disgust and anxiety unsettling her heart now were not such cerebral matters. It was more instinctual. Something instinctual was screaming in alarm. Even if I respected Tsukuda as my husband, would I feel such a dark and oppressive terror? In the very moment she took Tsukuda as her husband, the woman within her innermost self may have seen through him as someone she could not accept as a father and rejected him. And could it be that she had erected such defenses? I detest having that person’s child. But with my husband, I do. ...

Driven by complex emotions, Nobuko quietly asked her husband when they were alone that night.

“Don’t you even want a child?”

Tsukuda scraped his fingers through his hair like a comb, combed through it with a smooth swish while gazing at the fallen strands, then answered loudly. “Children are such a bother—utterly unbearable.”

And then,

“It’s falling out quite a bit.”

He scratched his head with both hands and let the dandruff fall onto his lap.

Five

One

It was an eventful late March in Ueno, with an exhibition being held and the British Crown Prince visiting.

A soft light enveloping both body and mind filled the veranda and spilled into the room.

Tsukuda's elderly father, who would soon be seventy, squinted at the sunlight as he remarked, "Even within Japan itself, how different things can be... When I left there in the evening, it was a blizzard—yet here in Tokyo, spring has already arrived in full."

Squinting at the dazzling sunlight, he said. “Today is special, isn’t it…” Nobuko lowered her face, which was bathed in direct sunlight, and glanced at the old man beside her. “My, how your beard glistens!” The old man looked down at his chest of his own accord, spread his fingers, and stroked his white beard from underneath. His long white beard glistened purely in the spring light, like strands of Chinese vermicelli. “What do you use to wash it?” “I was told to wash it with egg whites—when freshly applied, it’s quite remarkable, so I kept at it diligently—but for someone like me who can’t stay put... The beard gets sunburned and soon fades back to a dull color again.……”

……It was serene…… Nobuko felt as though she were sunning herself with her own grandfather—a pleasant sensation indeed. Tsukuda slid open the fusuma and entered. "I'll go make a quick phone call." "Hmm." "Do you need anything?"

“Well... I suppose I’ll have to go out somewhere later myself, so...” Nobuko laughed at Tsukuda’s thick black mantle, which he had layered on heavily, and his woolen scarf. “It must be sweltering outside in that.” “Not at all. “Well then, I’ll be off for a bit.” Coming from the sunlit room, in the dim four-and-a-half-mat space where her eyes took a moment to adjust, Nobuko was putting away the laundry when Tsukuda returned from his errand.

The old man was reading the newspaper alone in the eight-tatami room. Without heading that way, he, “I’m back.” As he said this, he stood behind Nobuko. “You were late coming back from the post office, weren’t you?” “It’s the same as always, but that youngster was dawdling over the calculations.” “Wasn’t it just the phone call?...” Nobuko turned around and looked at her husband. His face seemed to vaguely show some emotion. “Why? You should have announced your return properly.”

Tsukuda turned his head round and round, unwinding his scarf, “I called the company,” he said. It referred to Nobuko’s father’s company. “Was there some business you had?” “I inquired whether it would be convenient for us to visit with my father starting Friday evening.” Nobuko made a strange face, as if she had been blindsided. “What did they say?” “They probably think it’s acceptable, but since they’ll give a definite answer tomorrow, he told me to call again and check.”

“――――”

Due to her father’s disposition, Nobuko perceived he could only respond that way. Even so, why hadn’t he discussed it with her before making the call? Tsukuda’s wish to keep his father—who was staying with them for the first time since they’d established their own household—from learning about the unpleasant exchanges with Sasa since last autumn was something Nobuko understood well. It was natural he’d want her parents to meet his father properly before their return. Yet Tsukuda had severed all contact last year and continued thus without reconciliation. Moved by her grandmother’s illogical yet earnest concern, Nobuko alone had begun occasional visits since spring. Their relationship remained warped. In this unreconciled state, Tsukuda’s approach—suddenly phoning with nothing but a peremptory notice before bringing his father along—felt lacking in some essential quality.

At the far end of the L-shaped veranda, the old man was warming his back in the sun, listening absently to their voices. Nobuko could hardly bring herself to say even half of what she wanted to. “It would have been better if you had told me first…… That alone isn’t enough.”

He silently exchanged glances with Nobuko, but soon, “Well, fine,” he said resignedly. “We’ll know once I call again tomorrow.”

And he left for the eight-tatami room. The voices of the father and son were heard.

“Shall we go out to Ueno today?” “He must be an important man, but whenever you try to go, there’s hardly ever a time when it’s not crowded—” The old man gave a dry cough. “...Has Nobuko-san already arrived?” “Not yet… She probably doesn’t like it much.” “She should come along. Especially with this fine weather we’re having…” Nobuko went out with them to see the exhibition. Dandelions bloomed on the embankment of Aoyama Imperial Palace, and the cherry blossoms along the moat were eight-tenths in full bloom. On the train, country visitors wearing matching floral hairpins and hand towels had boarded.

At the venue, the old man seemed to feel deep interest in the timber and agricultural products gathered from various prefectures.

“Though they still call it agriculture, everything nowadays is completely different from when I was young. “The varieties of rice have increased so much these days, but what everyone’s really after is harvesting quickly and abundantly. The faster and more plentiful a variety yields, the blander it tastes, I must say…” Strolling slowly between the timber displays and examining samples like bottled wheat grains adorned with red ribbons alongside the white-bearded old man in his old-fashioned fur hat and double-layered coat gave Nobuko a rare sense of delight. However, Tsukuda, feeling hurried, walked ahead of his elderly father and Nobuko, and at times moved away from them. Trying not to get separated, the two of them naturally began to hurry. Tsukuda,

“Are we looking here too? —It’s just like the others over there.”

As he said this and started to stop, Tsukuda's elderly father hesitantly remarked, "Let's call it a day. No matter how much we look, it's all much of a muchness anyway." With that, he too passed by without stopping.

“Since I want to see the second venue today as well, if we can.” Nobuko found it unbearably pitiful to watch the old man straining himself to quicken his pace or forcing himself to pass by things he might have wanted to examine, dismissing them as unworthy of attention. She wanted to allow him to take his time and see everything thoroughly, so he might have proper stories to bring home.

She adjusted her grip on the Western-style parasol she was using as a cane and said to the old man trying to push through the crowd after Tsukuda.

“Let’s take our time. It’s all right even if we get separated…… Rushing will only tire you out.”

At Ike-no-hata, they entered the Bazaar of Nations. The stage had been set with a seaside backdrop of palm trees, before which appeared two women wearing nothing but grass waist aprons over their naked bodies. Their wild-looking black curly hair bore floral wreaths, with matching flower decorations dangling from their chests. A black male musician seated nearby stomped the floor with one white-trousered leg as he played South Seas-style sensual music on a banjo and ukulele. Keeping time with this, the women lined up to clap hands, stamp feet, and swing arms while making their entire bodies quiver and undulate. The body of the plumper woman who looked over thirty moved with nearly inhuman agility; even from afar, her loose belly protruding beneath the grass apron could be seen writhing up and down, left and right in time with the music. At the stage's edge hung a sign reading "Egyptian Muscle Tremor Dance".

“What a strange dance, isn’t it...”

Nobuko laughed. Though vulgar, the dancer’s proud display—strangely contorting her belly with a childlike air—struck Nobuko as comical.

Tsukuda had been watching in silence but eventually muttered bitterly. "Vulgar." The naked women on stage appeared as carefree and wild as if they were on their hometown beach, even while facing hundreds of spectators. They would sing a few lines and joke with each other, then suddenly writhe their bellies and hips earnestly, as if remembering their profession. They returned home exhausted around seven o'clock.

II

Merely changing into her haori jacket, Nobuko began working in the kitchen. As she was washing the dishes, the gate opened, and she sensed someone approaching beneath the kitchen’s side window. “Good evening—” Nobuko opened the frosted glass shoji and peered outside. In the dim light, she could see the woman’s profile.

“Good evening.” “Um, this is the Yamashita residence across the way—earlier there was a call from Mr. Sasa. As you were out, I informed him so, and he requested that you call back immediately upon your return.”

The girl was indeed the maid from Yamashita. "Oh! So that's how it was! Thank you ever so much—it's truly kind of you to trouble yourself coming here again while busy."

This message seemed sudden yet was not unexpected to Nobuko. She had anticipated this ever since Tsukuda told her that morning about calling the company. Father would surely send word from Dōzaka soon. If not today, then certainly tomorrow. With heavy emotions weighing on her heart, she kept thinking these thoughts even as she walked through the exhibition grounds.

Nobuko,

“There was a call from Dōzaka.” As she said this, she went to check the eight-mat room. Between the elderly father and her husband, a map of Tokyo lay spread out. Tsukuda, who had apparently been leaning over to explain some suburban area, kept a finger pressed on one spot as he raised his face.

“……?” “Earlier… He said we should call back right away once we returned.” He answered with affected nonchalance. “Then just call them back.” “In that case,”

When Nobuko heard that voice, she was overcome by an oddly unpleasant feeling.

The elderly father removed his glasses and looked between the two of them. "What could it be, at this hour?" "Well…" Nobuko, slipping on her geta, listened as Tsukuda gave a brief, seemingly reluctant explanation before immediately returning to the map. Takeyo answered the phone. It was exactly the matter Nobuko had anticipated.

“Since Father has just returned home and I’ve now heard the full story, there’s something I must discuss. Won’t you come over now?” Nobuko stood perplexed at the telephone. “It’s already late, and I’m exhausted from accompanying them to the exhibition today—couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?” From the other end came her mother’s voice repeating Nobuko’s words, her father evidently standing beside the phone. “That would be acceptable, but tomorrow I must attend a condolence visit which complicates matters. As for Friday—that’s correct, isn’t it?—there’s practically no time left. Unless we have this necessary discussion beforehand, I imagine it would cause you trouble as well…”

“Then I’ll come over… though it will be a bit late.” Nobuko returned to her house through the desolate dark back alley in a single stride. As soon as she slid open the fusuma door, the elderly father asked earnestly with concern etched on his face. “What was it? “Is someone ill?”

Nobuko, unable to form an immediate response, "No, it wasn't that... I'm home." She lightly placed her hands before the elderly man and bowed her head. Then, between the two of them, she said without addressing either, "...I have to go to Dōzaka now, but..." Tsukuda, with the unnatural aloofness of someone fully apprised of the situation, "I see." he said. "Then, make sure you don't catch cold."

“What a bother you’re going through, at this hour...” Nobuko sensed that the elderly man was deeply wondering inwardly what this could be about. He was merely refraining from voicing it out of consideration.

Nobuko found it painful to leave while pretending not to know about it. “……Since I’ll surely be returning late, please go ahead and have your dinner without me.”

Nobuko came to their room and slipped her arms back into the haori coat she had left hanging on the clothes rack. She took out a woolen coat from the cupboard. Until she finished putting on her gloves, Nobuko deliberately took her time, waiting in hopeful anticipation for her husband. The act of deceiving the elderly man, so to speak, having to go alone by train again despite her exhaustion, and the errand that awaited her beyond—all of it disheartened her. She had been expecting that Tsukuda would surely come to this room before she left and offer her some words of encouragement or at least a reassuring glance. Having only to put on her scarf, Nobuko stood motionless in the middle of the room. Perhaps out of caution to avoid appearing as though he were having a private conversation with his elderly father, no matter how long she waited, he showed no sign of coming. Nobuko,

“Hey,”

She called out loudly to her husband. “Where are the train tickets?” Contrary to what she had hoped—though phrased as “as she had wished” in literal translation—her husband did not come to her but answered from where he remained in the eight-mat room.

“They should be in the coat’s usual pocket.” The coat hung on the hook in the entrance. Nobuko reluctantly went out to the entryway.

“Then I’ll take my leave.” “When do you expect to return?” “Given how late I’m departing… But you must come back, no matter the hour.”

3

Nobuko left the house in Dōzaka at twelve o'clock. She had a rickshaw summoned. As it slowly trotted along the midnight tramway—where closed shops and rows of houses on either side abruptly seemed to drop away—she occasionally exchanged words with the puller.

From Dōzaka to Akasaka, it was a long journey by rickshaw. As she was jostled along, the fatigue from the day caught up with her, and she wanted to close her eyes. When she next opened her eyes, the rickshaw seemed to have reached Ushigome Mitsuke—pines—pines—endless thick pine trunks passing by as they traveled. Lanterns flickered. The rubber tires went puff! Puff! faintly scattering small gravel.… Jolting and swaying with the motion of the rickshaw, Nobuko found herself recalling various things her parents had said and other matters.

Sasa’s parents’ argument was reasonable. While it was natural for Tsukuda to try not to disappoint his father, who didn’t have much longer to live, what were they to do about everything that had accumulated until now? Since they had already moved forward, they ought to somehow bring matters to a conclusion. They maintained it was misguided to think things could be settled with a single phone call based on his own convenience. On this point, Nobuko agreed. Had Tsukuda not concealed it and refrained from making that call altogether, she might have been able to steer him toward actions that preserved at least some dignity. Even now, Nobuko couldn’t comprehend why her husband had done such a thing without consulting her, leaving her profoundly unsettled.

“Not just this time—Mr. Tsukuda never acts honorably. It may sound old-fashioned to bring this up now, but even when you moved, why must he always make you shoulder the burden? We were quite displeased back then too.” “Mr. Tsukuda never involves himself directly, yet whenever necessary he always puts you out front to exploit us—how could we possibly express displeasure when we see you being sent all this way tonight, just as naively trusting as ever?”

This was what they had meant by "the time of the move." In that house in Katamachi—where the western sun reached clear to the walls—they had lived until February, when one day through the Yorozu Guide they found a reasonably priced rental house in a convenient Akasaka location. Since it was also near Tsukuda’s workplace, Nobuko and the others went to inspect it immediately. Though barely a hundred meters from the train line, it stood on a quiet backstreet with vines crawling over its fence—an old house. Quite dilapidated. Yet maples and roses grew in its narrow vacant lot, lending it an air of quiet charm that made them decide to take it. Suddenly they urgently needed moving help and carpenters. That night,

“What should we do?” Nobuko consulted her husband. “We’ll need a truck, won’t we?” “Well… If we go to some unfamiliar place, they’ll just overcharge us anyway—but we have our regulars in Dōzaka, don’t we?” “There are.”

“How about having them check that over the phone?” “Tonight?” “It’s better to act quickly.”

Tsukuda took Nobuko to the nearby public telephone booth. Tsukuda waited outside the telephone box. Nobuko, “Oh, Mother? “A good house suddenly became available today.” In that manner, she requested movers and other arrangements. In Dōzaka, everyone agreed to Nobuko’s requests regardless. When she hung up and came out, Tsukuda, “How did it go?”

he said as he approached. “They said it’s fine.” Tsukuda looked satisfied, “It’s better that you made the call, so…” he said. That was what he had said. But Nobuko could clearly recall her own satisfied feelings when she had answered “They said it’s fine” back then, so she couldn’t bring herself to think Tsukuda alone was at fault. If Nobuko had been more resolute, she would have said, “Let’s not go asking Dōzaka for help.” Even though that alone might have preserved Tsukuda’s credibility, Nobuko, being equally careless and complacent, had gone ahead with it despite thinking it somewhat awkward. When her mother had pointed this out, Nobuko had felt both ashamed and angry with herself, yet...

“I was also at fault, that…” she said. “I should have been the one to say it was wrong.” “That’s true,” Nobuko replied. “But you and Mr. Tsukuda are fifteen years apart in age—and he’s a grown man. You can’t possibly take responsibility for every single thing that man does out there—that’s why I’m saying this.” The rickshaw climbed the dark slope beside the Imperial Palace with slow deliberation, its pace mirroring the leaden weight of Nobuko’s self-reproach. Striving for an idealized composure she couldn’t truly embody, Nobuko saw with painful clarity how irresolute she became when faced with practical matters—how her resolve crumbled into muddled hesitation. Tsukuda was shiftless, and so was she. A couple cut from the same slack cloth. The thought filled her with indignant disgust as she dwelled on it.

*Clunk.*

Suddenly the crossbar lowered, and Nobuko came back to her senses. She gave the rickshaw puller a tip and unlocked the gate. Only the gate lamp and the light beyond the lattice were lit, while the entire house and neighboring areas lay steeped in a stillness that pervaded the midnight darkness. Nobuko stepped up into the entryway without making a sound and took off her coat in the faint light from outside. Suddenly, a streak of light shone through the gap in the sliding door on the right. Tsukuda had apparently awoken. Nobuko stealthily closed the sliding door with her hands behind her back, moved around the edge of the bedding, and sat down beside her husband’s pillow. In a whisper, she

“I’m back.” Tsukuda lay on the pillow, his cheeks flushed warm from having dozed off into a deep slumber. “Welcome back… How did it go?” “—Are you busy tomorrow?” “Why do you ask?” “Dōzaka—it’s exactly as I expected. “They say just that phone call felt too pushy—since they’re going to the trouble of inviting Father, they wanted to meet you once beforehand to clear things up—could you come tomorrow?” "—with me?"

Tsukuda said in a low, wounded voice, “Are you asking me to apologize?”

he said, lifting his eyelids to look up at Nobuko. Trying not to wake the old man, Nobuko spoke in a hushed voice, her face lowered so low it seemed painful—she shook her head vehemently and furrowed her brows. “No, I’m not saying you should apologize—just meet them and talk things through together—well, to clear the air, that’s all.” “That’s more natural, really.” “Even though we parted ways after what felt like a fight and haven’t seen each other for over half a year—if we suddenly meet face-to-face like this, even you wouldn’t be able to speak naturally, would you?”

Nobuko pressed her lips to her husband’s ear and whispered. “They do understand your feelings.” Tsukuda lay on his back atop the white pillow, silently staring at the ceiling, but eventually spoke without moving his lips, still facing upward. “If you say that doing so will make you happy, then I’ll go. I’ll do anything.”

Nobuko made a look as if something were stuck in her throat and looked down at her husband’s upturned face. A tormenting confusion overwhelmed her. What strange habits or ways of thinking Tsukuda had. Two summers ago, when they were in Dōzaka, there had been a terrible dispute over whether to adopt him or not. At that time as well, Tsukuda’s reply—to both Nobuko and her parents—had been that same single-minded insistence: “I’ll do anything—anything that would make Nobuko happy.” Nobuko had suffered so terribly over that.

“That attitude of yours isn’t fixing anything at all. My happiness lies in your brave refusal.” To this he responded, “Ah, please don’t cry like that—I love you so much, Nobuko! Nobuko!” He spent the whole night vowing his love, caressing Nobuko, yet never gave her parents a definite answer by morning. Over this, Nobuko had suffered to the point of hysteria. The adoption issue eventually faded into obscurity. Now revived was the anguish from that time’s confused heartache, leaving Nobuko terrified that the same cycle was beginning anew. She—

"My happiness—how strange, somehow."

She let out a sigh tinged with heartache and irony. “Even setting that aside, isn’t this only natural? I mean, since you went charging ahead with things, this is simply about properly retracing our steps.” “...”

Tsukuda remained facing upward with a displeased expression.

“If you don’t want to come, then don’t—of course I’m perfectly fine with that.”

Nobuko whispered eagerly. “There’s absolutely no need for you to apologize. “Because Dōzaka was the one who spouted nonsense in the first place. “If we’ve already told Father everything, then let’s just call it off. Right? “In fact, that might be more admirable—not going at all...”

Tsukuda remained silent, still looking at the ceiling. “Hey, instead of just staring over there… why are you staying silent?” “So—I’m saying I’ll go if that’s what you want.” “That’s not what I want.” “Why?” “But—did you really think things would just go smoothly after making that phone call and leaving it at that?” “So you thought they’d just say ‘yes’ and accept it? Be honest.”

“…………” With a heart doubly resentful of both—the self-reproach she had been dwelling on during the rickshaw ride home, and Tsukuda’s peculiar way of handling his feelings, which always tormented Nobuko—she spoke. “To tell the truth, that’s not really how it is, is it?” “If that’s the case, isn’t it something you’ll have to do eventually anyway?” “It’s not for my sake that you’re doing this—you’re doing it because it’s actually necessary given how things stand.” “And then it’s fine again—don’t go acting all magnanimous about it.”

“—Because you tell me to go, I’m simply obeying.” “I never said you should go! If bending to this galls you so much, then stop going to Dōzaka altogether—that’s what I’m telling you.” "If you want to put on a respectable show for Father and ease his mind, then fine—go." "It must be one or the other." “Which do you actually want for yourself? Honestly!” “...” “—You’re truly strange.”

Nobuko’s tears oozed like bitter fluid. “Can’t you be a little more honest? I’d rather that than any clumsy blunder.” “I’ll go, then.” “Go or don’t—I couldn’t care less! It’s that manner of speaking that infuriates me. Someone who can’t rest unless they’re doing everything for others—how rare you are!”

The next morning, when saying "Good morning" to the old man, Nobuko felt excruciatingly awkward; maintaining her composure required conscious effort. Thanks to the old man’s wisdom, her elderly father remained as composed as usual. Yet there was no doubt that the sharp-eared elder had been roused by the commotion and heard Nobuko’s varied utterances and weeping from the room just on the other side of the storage closet.

That day, Nobuko said nothing more about whether they would go to Dōzaka.

When one o'clock had passed, Tsukuda said, “—It turns out I must go to Dōzaka for a bit today, so would you mind going to Meiji Shrine alone?”

Tsukuda proposed. “Hoh—so someone was at fault after all?”

“Mother just—it’s nothing serious.” “Well, that’s fine then.—Benkei Bridge must be near now… I know that area well from my youthful wanderings. I’ll go look around there myself, so don’t fret and take your time.” “Well then.”

Tsukuda urged Nobuko. “Is your hair alright like that now?”

They stayed in Dōzaka until evening. Sasa too had returned and joined them. For Nobuko, it was an excruciating gathering. With the round table at the center—Sasa in a large armchair facing Mother, Tsukuda seated between them—their conversation proceeded in fits and starts; yet Nobuko, listening from the sidelines, could only feel how completely their three hearts refused to harmonize. Sasa by nature abhorred contentious debates. Since they were bound by family ties after all, he meant to settle matters amicably. Thus he let slip only temperate, reasonable words. Takeyo knew full well she must ultimately yield—yet her husband’s tepid attitude chafed, Tsukuda’s irresolute disposition vexed, and her own restless impatience at being unable to commit wholeheartedly smoldered within her, until petty clashes with Tsukuda threatened to flare anew.

“Takeyo says she wants to use this opportunity to ensure we get along harmoniously going forward, and I too wish to do the same.”

“I would be most grateful if Mother could reconsider.” “I haven’t reconsidered anything because I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong at all.” Takeyo spoke irritably. “Because you said you wanted to be with Father, I thought it appropriate to have a proper discussion, which is why I came here.” Sasa interjected with words meant to mediate between both parties. “Well, now that we’ve become family, we must live as peacefully as possible without misunderstandings—there’s no end to arguing.”

It was a poignancy akin to watching a moving picture through an out-of-focus lens. The three hearts drew closer and closer, seeming on the verge of merging into a single image—but then their outlines would begin to quiver, scattering once more into a triple-layered haze. The discussion had not ended through amicable agreement but was terminated out of weariness with the circular exchange of words. Tsukuda’s elderly father was invited to Friday dinner as initially planned.

On the way there, Nobuko was not cheerful, but on the way back, her spirits grew even heavier. A sense that nothing was clear pressed deeply on Nobuko’s heart. Why was it that in all their dealings—Tsukuda, herself, and Sasa’s parents—it felt like nothing would ever improve, whether they clashed or reconciled? There was not a single clean break. Both good and evil, failing to take root, were shrouded in an ambiguity that Nobuko could not parse.

The old father had not yet returned. Tsukuda changed into his everyday clothes and threw himself into the chair before his desk with apparent relief. Stretching his whole body, he said to Nobuko behind him, “Well now, that’s finally done.—When I brought up my deceased mother, your father was crying, you know? Your mother didn’t cry… but your father definitely shed tears.”

He slowly recalled it and spoke as if savoring the lingering aftertaste himself. That peculiar tone first caught Nobuko’s attention, then roused terror within her. “――――” Nobuko tried to speak—started to open her mouth—but instead fell silent and drew in a sharp breath. Had he truly carried that out with such cold composure, calmly observing the effects like some detached experiment? Tsukuda—who had lost his birth mother at five—had once seemed so earnest in trying to fill that endless loneliness through loving Nobuko’s parents and craving their affection in return; who had himself choked back tears while lamenting how regrettable it was that things hadn’t gone smoothly. —So this was the truth of it. ……Nobuko wanted to laugh—a loud, derisive laugh that would shatter the room. Simultaneously, she yearned to hurl herself at Tsukuda and beat him senseless. A violent, self-abandoning fury swept through her. Both Sasa and she had been deftly manipulated by his pitiful reminiscences. Even Takeyo’s tone had softened afterward, the discussion meandering until it settled on that feeble “Well then...”

IV

Nobuko went out sightseeing nearly every day with the old man and her husband. They also went to Sengakuji Temple. There were large glass-paneled cases like those in a museum, displaying aged clothing and calligraphy of the loyal retainers. While gazing at the fan once used by Ōishi Kuranosuke among other artifacts, Nobuko was struck by a piercing doubt—Is it right to go on like this?—and felt an anguish so intense it threatened to overwhelm her. Tsukuda seemed entirely unaware of how fatally his words spoken after returning from Sasa’s place had struck Nobuko’s heart. Nobuko had since continued feeling the rift between Tsukuda and herself grow ever more distinct, her anxiety persisting unrelentingly. The doubt welling from deep within—Is it right to go on like this?—seized her heart time and again like a voice whispering through the air, catching her in unexpected moments. When she felt it, Nobuko would be seized by an inner tension—for two or three breaths—that robbed her of all awareness of where she was or what she was doing.

When she was alone, the doubt shouted even louder. It demanded an immediate answer and assailed Nobuko. Nobuko's rationality had produced an answer to that. However, there was a completely opposing force that sought to prevent her from declaring it even to herself. Yet Nobuko renewed her terror of living as Tsukuda’s wife. Even the thought that this state would continue her whole life was terrifying.

It was an afternoon typical of late spring, with a dusty wind blowing. Under the eaves of the neighboring house where storm shutters were drawn tight, a small red cloth hung drying. Each time the warm, parched wind gusted, both the slender bamboo pole and its crimson burden swayed. Only that small garden and eave remained shaded and hushed. With her cheek propped on her hand as she watched this scene, Nobuko sank deeper into anguished indecision. Tsukuda and the old man had each departed on their errands, leaving her utterly alone in the house.

“Excuse me—are you home?”

Yokota came unexpectedly.

“Oh, what a rare visitor—please come in.” Yokota was a somewhat peculiar man. His sister had married a young man employed at Nobuko’s father’s company. Once, that couple had brought along Yokota—the brother—and introduced him. This dated back to their time living in Komagome, after which he would occasionally stop by for a few hours of conversation before departing. By his own account, his proficiency in multiple languages had trapped him in circumstances where he found himself translating rather than creating original works. As he removed his Inverness coat in the entryway corner—bending his neck due to partial deafness and hunching his rounded back—he inquired of Nobuko.

“Are you alone? And Mr. Tsukuda?” “He went out briefly today, but he should return soon.” “He’s still on leave, isn’t he?” “Yes. They’re making arrangements for His Highness’s upcoming visit to the school.” “Ah.” Yokota nodded deeply,

“I see.” He nodded several more times in agreement with himself—a habitual gesture—while repeatedly glancing toward Nobuko’s desk. “Have you been writing anything lately?” “Nothing at all—and you? Are you busy?” “Always getting chased around by trivial matters, I’m afraid.” “Translation—are you working on anything interesting?” “Well… nothing particularly noteworthy. Reading it’s entertaining enough, but having to translate? That doesn’t exactly thrill me.”

Compared to his sturdy build, he emitted a laugh that seemed oddly frail. “What are you working on now?”

“It’s *The Improvisatore*... I have the original first edition... but it’s such a hassle... I’m comparing it with the German translation...” “His autobiography—it must be interesting. Have you read it?” “Ah—there was something called... what was it?”

He noticed a book on the side desk, still wrapped in Maruzen’s packaging. “What’s that?” Nobuko laughed. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?” After some small talk, he, “How about it—when you have a house, it must be quite difficult to do your work, no?” Yokota ventured. “What about men?” “Well, I’m not sure... I have no experience myself, so I can’t say for certain, but—while the added responsibilities are certainly a drawback, men generally seem to find more stability in it.”

And then, Yokota, as was his habit, nodded several times to himself.

“That’s because their wives take better care of them than when they were single, right? It gives them mental breathing room—no matter how you put it, women’s positions are the opposite.” “Is it really so bad?” “I suppose…” Nobuko felt an odd sense of responsibility for her own words.

“I can’t make definitive claims—I wouldn’t say it’s absolutely impossible. “But—how should I put it—even when a man becomes a husband, he can remain true to himself through and through, can’t he? “Wives seem required to have something beyond their innate qualities—like attributes inherent to wifehood itself. “This wife-business—forcing women to develop adaptability to extremes—isn’t that dangerous? And since you can get by without any real ‘self’... isn’t that terrifying?”

Even as she spoke jokingly, Nobuko felt the vast loneliness of womanhood within her heart. “It’s truly difficult,” Yokota said. “Everyone knows it’s difficult in theory,” Nobuko replied, “but when it comes to practice, it grows ever more complex. One might say staying single is better—but to abandon life itself for work... that stiffness I cannot bear. Whether man or woman, how few truly live a natural, free existence suited to themselves? It requires courage.”

“Yes… That’s right. It’s stifling, especially in Japan… Absolutely right.”

While they were discussing such matters, Tsukuda returned home. Nobuko went to the entrance. “Mr. Yokota is here!” “Ah, right.” Tsukuda went straight into the room where Yokota was. “Welcome.” “Oh—you came up while I was out. “How are things? “You seem quite busy.”

Tsukuda settled deeply into the chair, twisted his upper body, rested one elbow on the armrest, and assumed a posture as if hugging the backrest. "Oh, not at all—I'm still scrawny from being busy and poor as ever—while you've managed to become quite well-fed, I see."

To Nobuko, who had entered with fresh tea, those words somehow felt jagged, as if they were meant to wound the other person. “So I guess you and I are just blessed with fortunate dispositions then…”

Yokota, without making a sound, opened his mouth with a soft gasp, looked upward, and made a laugh-like face. An uneasy silence fell. It seemed that unless someone broached a matter of business, there would be no settling the situation. Yokota frowned, searched his pocket, and took out folded manuscript paper.

“If you have a moment, I thought I might ask you about this...” “What is this—Greek?” “I have a rough idea of what it’s about, but it’s still rather ambiguous.” “It seems poetic—is it quoted from something?” Yokota glanced at Nobuko, “Western scholars are such a nuisance—they drag out Latin and Greek at the drop of a hat.” he laughed. “Is it urgent?”

“No, it’s not urgent.”

“Then I’ll hold onto it for now.”

The conversation lapsed again, and the atmosphere grew uncomfortable. Yokota—

“Please do take care of it.” Yokota left shortly thereafter.

After seeing him off, she returned to the room. Tsukuda took the scrap of paper Yokota had left behind in his hand and stood looking at it, but with a snort-like expression, placed it on a nearby bookshelf. Nobuko felt an inexplicable sense of discomfort. “Are you sure? Leaving it there like that?” “It’s fine.”

Tsukuda seemed displeased even by Nobuko’s show of concern and spoke. “When did he arrive?” “Why?”

An artificial retort almost automatically slipped out of Nobuko’s lips. “Why? Because I thought I interrupted you again—there’s nothing but trivial matters to discuss anyway.”

Nobuko made a sarcastic face and shrugged her shoulders. She was overcome with spitefulness. Tsukuda had virtually never once become a pleasant companion, even when her friends came over. When he appeared in the room, visitors would start preparing to leave. With women too, it was the same. Even now, he was clearly unsettled—and yet, for some mysterious reason that was no fault of Nobuko’s, he once again refrained from expressing it directly, resorting instead to that disingenuous pretense of kindness. She abruptly moved as if to push something away,

“You weren’t a bother at all; it was actually quite entertaining,” she retorted spitefully. Tsukuda expressed his resentment through silence and went to change his clothes. Nobuko—not out of love but irritation, disgust, spite—found herself unable to pull away from him and ended up following. In truth, her feelings toward Yokota were far more complex. She disliked how he kept fussing over the desk and his strangely inquisitive manner. Even so, her husband’s way of speaking robbed her of composure. Knowing full well she was there yet acting oblivious, Tsukuda removed his Western-style clothes. As she watched the stubborn bone behind his thick ear while he hung them in the wardrobe, she felt a blind impulse rising within her. Ah, this composed demeanor of his! If I could torment him until he breaks and confesses—how relieved I’d feel. I want to see him unguarded! Him without this evasiveness—that’s who I want! I want that him! Tenaciously—even beaten down—I won’t retreat! With fierce passion, Nobuko’s mind darkened. Within herself raged two violent forces threatening to split her apart. Somewhere within, earnest counsel urged: Stop now—come away. She ignored it, shaking it off—fervently, fervently—the other self craving conflict, yearning to lash out. A ferocity so intense she wanted to shatter them both and scream Serves you right!—Tsukuda finished changing and left the closet without a word or glance. Nobuko suddenly felt indescribable emptiness. Grief for them both overwhelmed her. She stood there sobbing.

Before long, Tsukuda’s elderly father returned home.

Nobuko entered the kitchen and began boiling the fish. The sweltering, cramped kitchen air, thick with heat from the stove, wrapped around Nobuko’s anguished heart, tightening its grip until she could scarcely breathe.

Nobuko now carried a different sorrow within her. Had this been one of their quarrels from a year prior, would she have shut herself away so stubbornly like this, her heart brimming with revulsion and gloom? Even if solely due to her own inability to accept Tsukuda's words with an open heart, she would have inevitably apologized to him. She would steal over to her husband's side, "Forgive me, forgive me," and offered a bright, apologetic wave. Afterward, they could at least feel lighter than before their fight.

Even now, Nobuko was fully aware of her own brazen audacity. She understood that she had been severely provoked by her pent-up anguish beyond any direct cause. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't bring herself to speak of Tsukuda's feelings as she once had, nor could she muster the will to apologize. If she were to go to him and speak of this matter, Tsukuda would listen to her confession as though it were only natural that she engage in self-reflection and regret—as though he had anticipated it all along. And without applying the lash of self-reproach to his own heart, he would surely bestow his blessings upon her like an unstained lamb.

At the thought of that, Nobuko seethed. Tsukuda’s hypocritical mental posturing seemed to suffocate Nobuko.

Nobuko had been staring at the gas flame flickering beneath the pot and sinking into thought when she began to tremble at the terror of their life together as man and wife. What could this path that was gradually widening before her be? Wasn’t this the path where a woman would cease to be human? Even if she were to act out in any outwardly selfish way—even if she were to degrade herself into a shameless,vile woman—all due to such pain,lamentation,and frustration in their shared life,Tsukuda would still persist in playing his role as faultless,magnanimous,enduring husband.

Nobuko shed tears of despair and terror. They were long, quiet, and unbearably sad tears—the kind that made her want to burrow into the earth.

V

The visit of the British Crown Prince had stirred general goodwill. A large welcome gate had been erected before the parade ground. At night under the arc lamps' glow, both the shuffling crowds and the pine branches along the moat appeared transformed from their usual selves. After taking in the lively spectacle, Tsukuda's elderly father returned to his hometown bearing practical souvenirs suited for country living.

When the windows were left open, along with the night air, the scent of spring soil and the fragrance of young leaves flowed into the bright room.

After the old man left, the evening felt interminably long. On such nights, Tsukuda would sit cross-legged in the middle of the room, opening packages of books that had arrived from abroad. Nobuko was nearby, tidying up the discarded strings and wrapping paper. Because the neighborhood was quiet, only the rustling sound of her folding the thick wrapping paper stood out to her ears. “There’s a shipping invoice on that desk over there, so please bring it here.”

Nobuko went to fetch it. Once he had piled the books on the table, he began cross-checking each volume one by one against the shipping invoice. Nobuko was intently watching his actions, but

“Listen,”

Nobuko called out. She had made this appeal with extraordinary intent, but Tsukuda, absorbed in his work at hand, answered in a distracted tone.

“What is it?” “There’s something I need to discuss with you.” “What?” “Tell me…is this truly the only shape a married life can take?” “Well…I don’t know what you mean exactly, but I suppose so.” “Can we not have more freedom?”

Tsukuda picked up a book while looking at Nobuko warily. “Why?—Do you need some different form?” “I—I’ve been thinking lately that perhaps we should try living separately for a while.” “I don’t think such a thing is necessary at all.” His tone was cuttingly dismissive. “That’s precisely why I wanted us to discuss this properly after Father returns.”

For some time now, she had often thought that perhaps it might be better for them to try living separately. Lately, she had come to feel that trying that was the only way a new life could begin. Nobuko had come to know through experience that abstract criticism or arguments about their differing approaches to married life would not alter their actual circumstances by even a fraction. Tsukuda was not the sort of person who could be a partner in life. With his distinct passivity, he was a strong survivor.

Trying not to have her state of mind affected while living together was an impossible proposition. As she had previously thought in the countryside, even the notion that he had his own place to live in this world could not maintain its peaceful lukewarmness if they lived together. As an individual human being, Nobuko found it unbearable to become a co-conspirator even in actions she herself felt ashamed and humiliated by, merely because he was her husband. Striving not to be drawn into his way of thinking and living, Nobuko inevitably became critical. The moment she became critical, she saw with cruel starkness a single man trying to live in a direction diametrically opposed to her own.

That man was her husband. Between him and herself existed an exchange of passion. Yet even with beautiful romantic feelings and their mutual struggle to live well—precisely because they possessed these—there remained no prospect of their hopes being fulfilled. Nobuko found she could not continue this way. Now that she had lost faith even in Tsukuda's sincerity, what authority could their vow to be husband and wife possibly hold? If they—as husband and wife—lived without forcibly maintaining a unified facade, allowing each to thrive in their own way of being, might they not naturally become their true selves? Nobuko had broached the discussion prepared for her husband's opposition.

“Of course, that would be irregular. "But if we were to fall ill, wouldn’t we relocate for recuperation or even enter the hospital?" “Married life itself is the sickness—in our case.” Tsukuda deeply furrowed the two horizontal wrinkles that habitually appeared on his forehead whenever disagreeable topics arose.

“I don’t understand—as I’ve said many times from the beginning, you are free. Since you’re utterly free, you can do as you like—but I can’t do such a thing.”

Nobuko explained her thoughts. She explained that even if they were to live separately, she had no intention of returning to Dōzaka, nor did she plan to burden Tsukuda financially. “If we each seriously begin living true to our hearts, I believe even just a part of this strangely deceitful way of life would clear up.” “Don’t you think so?” “We’re living a truly terrible deceitful life.”

Tsukuda stared at Nobuko with eyes as if he’d been slapped across the cheekbones. “What crime have we committed?” “At the very least, I love you and live with you in a pure state of mind—one that could face God’s summons at any moment.” “But… when I say our life is full of lies, it’s about things like this.” “To give one example, we…”

As if frightened by what she meant to say, Nobuko involuntarily faltered. But she immediately resumed speaking rapidly. "We—we've been clashing within ourselves for so long now, and of course you know that." "But you've been pretending complete ignorance until I broached it like this, haven't you?" "Why?" "As for me—that you're like this—it's... loathsome." "Feeling this way, yet lately I myself have somehow become unable to speak such truths to you—it's all twisted up inside." "To keep staggering through this pretense—putting on proper faces and playing at being master and mistress of the house—I find it utterly mortifying!"

Tsukuda no longer paid any heed to the book. Crossing his arms, his lips quivering faintly, he spoke in a voice that bore down. “It’s truly pitiful that you suffer despite my loving you with such sincerity—but I absolutely cannot do something like living separately.”

Nobuko listened with awkward suspicion as words like "sincerity" and "love" flowed effortlessly from her husband’s lips. She,

“Why can’t you do it at all?” she said. “A husband and wife are still husband and wife—we’d just be changing our lifestyle to that of two students and starting over.” “I cannot! Just think—how could someone who stands at the lectern teaching possibly show his face to others over such a matter? Especially when people consider our marriage ideal.”

“That’s absurd.”

Nobuko earnestly denied her husband’s words.

“I don’t think so. First of all, we don’t live for how others want to perceive us. In fact, if you can’t face people over this, then staying together like this would only degrade us further. If there’s even a speck of something ideal in our bond, shouldn’t that very thing let us focus on life’s substance rather than clinging to mere form? Look—we’re not living just to coil up together like other couples.”

After a long silence, Tsukuda—with a calmness that Nobuko found unexpected—retorted in a manner that seemed rather to weary her. “Then do you have the conviction that if we lived separately even for a while, things between us would surely improve?” “…………” That there was such a conviction—Nobuko couldn’t answer. In Tsukuda’s terms, things might improve—or they might worsen. But if that were to return each of us to our innate selves, wouldn’t that ultimately be for the best? A grand cleansing of marital customs, or obscurantism, or whatever this messy tangle was. Just the thought of never being free from this bond—the very position that stirred antipathy toward Tsukuda and made her feel hatred—was unbearable for them both.

Tsukuda’s opinion was completely the opposite. The more discord there was, the more disagreeable aspects there were, the more they had to live together. He declared that only by remaining near one another—constantly correcting and rectifying each other day and night—could they fulfill what it meant to be husband and wife.

When she heard her husband say this, Nobuko felt her chest grow hot. Her face changed color, and she looked at him with eyes that seemed ready to seize him.

“Then have you ever once given me a frank, manly response to what I’ve asked?” “Have you ever once—even just inwardly—honestly admitted your own mistakes?”

Nobuko stared at him, tears spilling from her unblinking eyes. "That’s precisely what makes our life hell." "You act cold or sly until I get angry and end up saying or doing something rude." "Afterwards, when I apologize for it, you act as though everything’s settled on your end—as if I’ve retracted even my legitimate reasons." "Yours is nothing but words—nothing but empty words." "And you think we can live a genuine life like that?"

Nobuko wiped her face with her sleeve. “...Because I’m a fool, I kept thinking, ‘This time for sure, this time for sure,’ but no more—I can’t take it!”

Tsukuda furrowed his brows and shook his head as if pained. “Please believe my sincerity.” “I can’t… I’ve stopped believing it altogether now.” “Ah—yes. If not for that…” After minutes that felt like hours, Tsukuda circled back to the original issue.

“Then—do you truly insist on living separately?” Sensing something flicker in his voice, Nobuko instinctively stiffened. She looked up at her husband with tearful eyes. With a pale, exhausted expression, he turned his face away, waiting for Nobuko’s reply. Nobuko clearly felt that her own words were trying to draw out some fateful echo from within her husband. “Wouldn’t that be better?” With a heaviness as if trudging through mud, Nobuko said. When he heard this, Tsukuda shifted slightly in his chair as if to say, “That settles it.”

“Then there’s no way around it—if we can’t live together… let’s part.”

“…………” With her cheek resting on the armrest of the rattan chair, Nobuko sat in stubborn silence—this time, Tsukuda leaned in to peer at her face as he continued speaking.

“Well then, let’s do it—there’s no other way. I’ll abandon everything and withdraw to the countryside. Truly—truly regrettable, but unavoidable.”

Nobuko felt herself being pulled by an irresistible force and felt her heart take a step forward. "That’s a separate issue."

“Why? “Why is that a separate issue?” “To me, it’s everything.—That’s why I’m saying someone like you wouldn’t understand.” “If you’re going to bring up such things, why, why—”

Tsukuda abruptly grabbed Nobuko’s hand, bundled his own together with hers, and while wildly tousling his hair, began to sob violently. “We were never just friends from the very beginning.”

Six

Her husband’s face, distorted and deathly pale, soaked with tears; his hair plastered to his forehead like a drowned man’s. His voice.

When she recalled that scene—even two or three days later—Nobuko shuddered involuntarily. She felt restless and unsettled. It seemed she had glimpsed some terrible truth, been shown a performance that wasn’t truly a performance—and this doubt was Tsukuda’s doing. Nobuko had always believed that men only shed tears when moved by genuine sincerity. Yet he had once moved her deeply with those very tears—the ones he’d wept during that sentimental performance for her parents in Dōzaka.

The next morning, the out-of-season primrose that Tsukuda had placed in the cup on the desk while Nobuko still lay asleep—from those flowers too, she received a similar impression. Those primroses bloomed with modest pale-pink flowers from roots left behind by previous residents under the bamboo fence in the back. Nobuko gazed for a long time at the delicate flowers that seemed to express something toward her, caught between wanting to look away yet being unable to simply remove them.

At any rate, Nobuko felt Tsukuda’s grip—like golden shackles binding her—through every fiber of her being. At its core, whatever the root cause might be, he did not want to release her from his possession or relinquish his hold. Nobuko was not oblivious to his aching feelings either. Since their marriage began—far from him being the only one who had it good—by conventional standards, she had been quite a willful wife. She had left him behind on trips. She had overslept through mornings. For Nobuko, there lingered an inexpressible melancholy in how even such trivial freedoms were bestowed upon her as a wife—as if they were grand privileges bearing stamped approvals—and in the desolate loneliness of her husband’s soul, which neglected all else under the delusion that providing these petty concessions should silence any complaint. Even setting this aside from their financial ledgers, there were many criticisms about their marriage that he found unbearable from those around them. It was said Tsukuda had deceived Nobuko without love from the start to elevate his social position. For him now—to separate from Nobuko and expose their domestic collapse to society, thereby confirming with facts every criticism ever leveled against him—would be utterly excruciating. She wanted to make their married life succeed at least in outward form—to overturn those icy judgments with a *See?*—and force them all to recognize later that genuine love had existed after all.

Sadly, what Nobuko perceived was his secondary desire—the urge to make others realize that genuine love existed. Rather than love itself—elusive as sunlight yet ever-bright and warm through all hours, nurturing hearts that respond—what she felt was this middle-aged man’s practical fixation, like a golden crowbar prying at their shared life structure to keep it from buckling under its own weight. The only true sentiment she could discern in him without doubt was this very compulsion.

At every opportunity, Nobuko would revive conversations that had ended ambiguously. …from various angles.

“—Perhaps we’ve been misunderstanding ourselves.” “You say you live only for me, but are we both really such fragile creatures when it comes to living?” “As I’ve said from the start, I love life itself.—If you were truly as weak-willed and deficient in vitality as you claim, you couldn’t have struggled so hard from such a young age to forge your own path.” “You’re fundamentally someone who survives by fiercely protecting yourself.” “That you keep repeating ‘for my sake’ so unnaturally and excessively—isn’t that precisely what’s causing the problem?” “Let’s simply become what we were born to be.” “Look—if we do that, everything will feel refreshingly clear.” “Our relationship too will feel unburdened.” “You should openly assert your full right to live as yourself.”

Tsukuda’s reply was always the same.

“Think whatever you please.” “This is the extent of my true nature—my resolve was fixed when we married.” “I’ll simply act on that resolve when I see fit.”

The so-called resolve meant things like dying or abandoning everything and retreating to the countryside. Even with such words, Nobuko could not discern how seriously she should take them and could only fall silent. The thought that it might be true terrified her. Would this psychological stalemate continue until one of them died?—But when she thought she was being threatened, Nobuko smiled brightly, stepped back with one foot, and bowed, “Oh, I see. Then by all means.”

It seemed she wanted to say—

July arrived. Tsukuda was required to make a business trip to Kansai through his workplace. The necessities for this short journey remained completely unprepared. Though an unstable atmosphere lingered between them—a subterranean rumbling of tensions—this very unease made the prospect of sending him off on such an embarrassing trip feel increasingly untenable. One day, Nobuko took what little money they had and went to Mitsukoshi with Tamotsu, who happened to be visiting. The heat persisted, but Mitsukoshi's crimson flag fluttered cheerfully in the blue sky, stirred by a crisp breeze.

Their shopping was done in about an hour. “What should we do? Shall we head back to Dōzaka now?”

“I don’t care either way.”

“If we go back to Akasaka now, it’ll get too late—so why don’t we take a stroll around Ginza for a bit?” Tamotsu nodded in agreement with an extremely pleased look, his face breaking into a broad smile.

They drank ice cream sodas at Shiseido. Nobuko took two straws and handed them to Tamotsu, then inserted the same number of straws into her own glass. “Go on, try it—the way everyone’s doing it these days. Blow into one straw to make lots of bubbles while drinking from the other.”

Tamotsu, without any particular thought, “Hmm,” tried to bring both straws to his lips at once, but

“Hey! This is fishy! Fishy!” He released his hands.

“Sorry, but I don’t get it at all—sis, you try it first and show me how.”

“It’s nothing, look.”

Nobuko made the soda foam until it nearly overflowed from the glass.

“Really?”

Tamotsu peered with boyish earnestness, but when he discovered that during the foaming, the yellow liquid wasn’t rising through the other straw, he shook his body as if having achieved his purpose and burst out laughing. “See! That’s why I thought it was weird—trying to split your breath between two things—”

Nobuko also burst out laughing.

“But did you think it was strange right away?” “I really did try it, you know.”

“When?” “A long time ago—I was carried on an old Western gentleman’s shoulders.” After seeing Tamotsu off onto the Ueno-bound train, Nobuko boarded a streetcar from before the Lion statue. It was early afternoon, and the car stood nearly empty. She placed her parcels on her lap and gazed through the open window at scenery along the moat’s edge. A summer-clear western sky stretched above. The heavy stone embankments with their textured surfaces and hues—the lawns—the ancient pines thick with deep green foliage—all reflected vividly in water that curved through broad bends, creating a scene brimming with quintessentially Japanese beauty. To Nobuko’s sunken mood—its surface still faintly brightened by lingering traces of earlier cheer—this view brought comfort.

On the opposite side sat a woman. She was a refined lady in her late thirties dressed in tasteful dark clothing; from her soft-looking hair down to the tips of her wooden clogs, she exuded an air of calm sincerity. The Western-style parasol resting beside her knees was also black. Her modest attire allowed both her neat grooming and innate generosity to shine through at a glance. The lady—who had been sitting upright facing forward while gazing out the window—seemed to notice Nobuko's glance and quite naturally turned her eyes toward her. Their gazes met by chance. It was an indescribably bright and warm look. Even the faint brown hue of her sparkling eyes caught Nobuko's gaze with nostalgic familiarity.

As she occasionally gazed at the lady, Nobuko began to feel a peculiar sensation welling up within her. The lady’s serene state of mind lapped against Nobuko’s awareness like gentle waves. And strangely, she felt compelled to draw near—to press her own hand against that ample one and whisper, “Listen, I...” Were she to murmur even that much, it seemed all her recent anguish would flow directly into this stranger. Miraculously, she sensed her own dead-end circumstances might unfurl like a scroll before understanding eyes...

Because Nobuko kept gazing at her, the lady too began paying her a bit of special attention. Her brown-tinged eyes, maintaining their unshaken cheerfulness, occasionally grazed Nobuko's forehead and cheeks. Nobuko felt the literal sensation of being stroked by that gaze. Should she rise from her seat now? Should she stand this instant? Her chest constricted painfully. Though Nobuko knew full well she likely couldn't do such a thing, she found herself unable to wrench her attention away from the lady.

In Russian novels, there are often scenes where a man suddenly seizes the person next to him on a train and begins recounting his personal troubles. She had read them with a mix of belief and doubt. That man’s pitiable, heartfelt state—this was exactly how she felt, Nobuko thought.

When she reached her stop, Nobuko felt relieved. Even after stepping onto the sidewalk, the turbulence of her feelings still lingered. With a state of mind as though looking back at her own astonishment, she looked up at the window of the stopped train. The lady was obscured by the khaki-colored back of a military uniform.

“Will you send me letters? To Mukōzaka?” “Well… whether I’ll have time… My letters would be uninteresting anyway.” Two days later, Tsukuda departed on his trip. Nobuko went to Mukōzaka.

7 Though he had said that and left, Tsukuda occasionally sent letters to Nobuko. Many were postcards of scenery he had sketched himself. They simply contained brief notes about whether the weather had been good or bad that day. He seemed to expect that Nobuko’s emotions would shift during his travels. In reality, Nobuko too found herself with more mental space than when living cramped together with Tsukuda in a daily state of conflict. The Mukōzaka house was empty due to the summer vacation. Takeyo was summering in the countryside, taking the children along. The only ones remaining were Father and Nobuko. This too gave Nobuko respite.

One morning at the breezy tatami corridor, Nobuko was packing yukata fabric, tins of nori, and other items into a large basket. The student would be departing for the countryside on the midday train. These were things to send along with him. Postcards from Tsukuda lay scattered nearby. The morning's arrival had come from Nara. Deer with comically oversized eyes and a torii gate were sketched there. "Yesterday I stole a moment to tour Nara by rickshaw. "The forest of Kasuga Shrine felt cool as another world. "Several deer with gentle faces came close. "Such tender creatures probably never suffer sore feet."

Nobuko gave a bitter smile after reading those words.

The day she went to Mitsukoshi with Tamotsu, when she returned home, a sandal strap chafe had formed on her left foot. What had started as amateur treatment had worsened, and Nobuko had been going to the hospital every day lately. Imagining deer with their slender legs bandaged at the tips like hers, shuffling along in that lumbering way, struck her as slightly comical. But when she reread it during a break from packing, Nobuko somehow couldn’t simply find it amusing. With such gentle animals and all that. There must be a part of him that thought Nobuko wasn’t gentle. That was just like him, Nobuko thought. To him, did even something like kindness seem to exist as a solid entity that wouldn’t deplete, just like love?

Nobuko changed into a kimono and prepared to go to the hospital. As she was about to get into the rickshaw, hurried footsteps echoed—the maid came running down the corridor.

“Oh, wait!” “There’s a telephone call.” “Who is it?” “The caller said it was Mr. Yuki.”

Nobuko hurried back to the telephone. The person referred to as Mr.Yuki was undoubtedly the elderly scholar who was something of a teacher to Nobuko. She had sent a long letter the very day before coming to Mukōzaka. In it, she had poured out her heart's anguish—the physical strain she could no longer endure these past days, the near-delirious words threatening to spill out, her longing for a life of freedom. The caller was his wife. "Hello? Is this Nobuko-san? I'm calling on my husband's behalf—we wanted you to know we've received and read your letter."

Nobuko felt a certain awkwardness toward Mrs.Yuki. She clumsily expressed her thanks. “Well, we were about to offer a prompt reply, but as we had gone to Okitsu, we must apologize for our tardiness.—Will you still be there tomorrow?” “Yes, I’ll be here for the time being...”

The message was that if Nobuko was at home, Dr.Yuki himself intended to come to her place for a meeting as he wanted to discuss matters in person. Nobuko felt deeply obliged. She explained that while her foot's current condition made it impossible, she intended to visit on her own before long, then ended the call.

“But since he apparently has business in Koishikawa and will be coming out this way anyway…” “Well then, please do,” Nobuko said, hanging up the phone.

The hospital was especially crowded because it was Monday. The waiting room felt too stuffy to endure. At the corridor’s end stood a window. From there, she could look down on the backyard’s boiler room and its surrounding vacant lot. Below, a young deliveryman carrying stacked tiered lunchboxes would pass by, while an energetic nurse with her upper arms exposed occasionally appeared. The nurse—still wearing indoor sandals—nimbly hopped over coal cinders and vanished into the annex entrance diagonally across. The sight of red slipper tips peeking beneath wide white hems held a certain sterile beauty peculiar to hospitals. Nobuko watched these scenes for a long time. Finally, from the waiting room’s throng emerged her regular nurse clutching a ledger in her left hand.

“Thank you for waiting. Please come in.” The doctor Nobuko disliked—a man with sparse whiskers who always treated patients in a sluggish manner—was on duty that day. To Nobuko’s greeting, he answered with a nasal “Hmph,” slightly twitching his index finger—a signal to remove the bandage. He pressed a few spots on the affected area with his fingertips. “Same as yesterday.” The nurse slathered ointment across Nobuko’s entire foot with her palm, as if making a plaster cast. While she worked, a man whose face was entirely bandaged—holes cut out for eyes, nose, and mouth—was ushered into the neighboring compartment partitioned by a white curtain.

Nobuko watched with a gloomy expression as her foot had become like troublesome baggage. Within her lingered an entangled emotion that stubbornly clung even through this moment. Tomorrow Dr.Yuki would come—would come—and yet from the instant she'd hung up earlier, Nobuko had fixated on how she could summon nothing but oppressive gratitude for his kindness, no other feeling arising within her. In her letter to Dr.Yuki, Nobuko had written unreservedly of dissatisfactions and doubts—the first confession of such feelings to another since marrying Tsukuda. She surmised the momentum accumulated over years must have moved him considerably. Dr.Yuki surely meant to come tomorrow as her concrete advisor, recognizing she stood at life's critical juncture and intending to help navigate this crisis appropriately. How do I appear now? Nobuko felt shocked at her own mental stagnation. When hearing that call, far from gaining courage to boldly execute plans using this lifeline, she'd instead recoiled cowardly—anxiety that his visit might upend everything warring with reluctance for definitive change. Even should outcomes prove identical eventually, her nature would later agonize over having followed his counsel rather than deciding autonomously. Logically this begged why she'd written at all to one bearing no responsibility—yet while penning it, weeping as she poured out anguish and longing hadn't been self-deception either. Her heart had blazed unbearably until commanding action. Now this irresolute hesitation—knowing full well nothing remained yet fearing loss of something vital—equally reflected truth. These formed the immovable poles of her authentic self.

The next morning, when Dr.Yuki arrived at the appointed time, Nobuko felt increasingly self-conscious. I wish I could just fall ill. Nobuko—with one foot thickly bandaged and looking listless in her wilted state—must have appeared pitiful, for Dr.Yuki inquired kindly about her health in a voice that retained its vigor despite his aged hoarseness. “It’s a pesky thing—my own wife struggled for years with something similar. “Now… I’ve read your letter thoroughly… But… what exactly…? Is Mr.Tsukuda… away on some trip?”

Nobuko awkwardly gave the necessary answer. “Ah, I see…”

Dr.Yuki settled back into the depths of the armchair and, while thinking, lightly stroked his already white beard with his right hand. “To be honest, I was quite taken aback by what you wrote in your letter. Your mother has been deeply concerned from the start—we’ve had many discussions—but given that you are a woman of your standing, I had stated it would only be reasonable for you to become a homemaker at least once… Have you already spoken to your parents?” “...Not yet.”

The moment she finished speaking, Nobuko was overcome with an indescribable sense of awkwardness. She had intuitively realized, in the very moment of her reply, that her answer had been unexpectedly trivial to Dr.Yuki—and simultaneously, that this matter had entirely lost its initial gravity within his mind. Nobuko thought that if Dr.Yuki were to feel his own kindness had been mocked due to her idle attitude, that would be truly inexcusable.

She said as if apologizing. "I was fully aware this was truly an inappropriate matter—not something I should be troubling you with—and yet..." "No, there’s absolutely no need for such reserve," he replied, his tone now carrying a faint ease absent at their first meeting. "I will assist you in any way within my power." Then, with that subtly altered demeanor: "To clarify—you haven’t actually made any concrete plans yet, have you?"

Nobuko, while being painfully aware of her own spinelessness to the point where she could hardly bear to remain seated, had no choice but to answer truthfully.

“I’ve been thinking of doing as I wrote in the letter. Because I simply can’t continue living this way any longer.” “But this doesn’t mean you’ll be parting ways permanently?” “...What will become of it?” Dr.Yuki, “No,”

he said, straightening his back that had been hunched toward Nobuko. "Hearing your explanation has put my mind at ease. From the tone of your letter, it seemed you were in considerable distress—and given that you're an intelligent woman of standing—I couldn't help worrying out of an old man's meddlesome concern that something might happen... But if you still have room for such considerations, then you'll be fine."

For Nobuko, these words only served to increase her anguish. Brooding over things yet ultimately unable to act, she could only feel that her indecisiveness had been astutely laid bare, leaving her utterly disheartened. Yet Dr.Yuki, as if entirely unaware of Nobuko's inner state, gradually began speaking more cheerfully.

"...Your resolution is quite admirable, but you're still young, and the truth is it's no easy feat for a woman of your standing to attempt living independently. Even if the person in question is steadfast, the world can be so meddlesome... It is essential that you give this careful consideration. Fortunately, with your esteemed parents both present, I can rest assured." She didn’t want to hear from Dr.Yuki what any worldly person would say. Nobuko felt a voice rising violently within herself—a voice declaring that she did not want to hear such worldly advice from Dr.Yuki. Then what did she want to be told? Did she want someone to tell her to throw away a guy like Tsukuda right this instant? Or did she want to be scolded into living as an obedient, blind wife for life—something utterly preposterous? In the end, knowing full well that it was her own heart compelling Dr.Yuki to speak in such terms, Nobuko thirsted for some revelatory word—a thunderous phrase that would upheave her entire state of mind.

"Such matters are complex and lifelong issues, so there’s absolutely no harm in giving them careful thought. These things aren’t decided overnight... And again—if there’s anything at all I can do to assist you, please don’t hesitate to say so. Though my abilities are limited, I will do what I can to assist you." Dr.Yuki flipped up his silk gauze haori with vigor and boarded the rickshaw—his movements precise, "Please give my regards to your esteemed mother as well."

When she bowed politely in response to this farewell, Nobuko suddenly felt unbearably sad. She felt that both Dr.Yuki’s goodwill and her own fervent desire to attain a better life had been dragged down into a sloppy mess through her own vacillating indecision, leaving everything irreparably ruined. Nobuko sensed she would never trouble Dr.Yuki with this matter again.

Eight

In late July, a notice arrived from Tsukuda regarding his return to Tokyo. This summer, since Nobuko had been staying at Motion Hill, Sasa had spent each evening—with his wife and children away—relatively free from tedium. When he saw Tsukuda’s postcard stating he would return on the 26th, he said: “...Well then, I think I will go to K for about ten days.” “You will have to return to Akasaka soon as well.” Nobuko, seated on a low footstool at her father’s feet while wafting mosquito-repelling smoke with a fan, answered absently.

“Well... I suppose I have to go back, don’t I?” “Do you still have to go to the hospital every day?” “That’s already much better; I’m mostly recovered.” “That’s better now? So, is there something wrong anywhere else? If it’s poverty sickness, I can cure you.” “That’s not it.” Father and daughter laughed in unison. Suddenly, Nobuko muttered with a lonely air. “I wonder if I should just go with you, Father.” “To K? But as for me, even with this settled, it’s still quite uncertain when I’ll be able to go.”

Nobuko was reluctant to return to Akasaka. When she thought of the state of each room and the daily life that would repeat itself within them, she felt a suffocating pressure. It even felt like being forced back into the grip of an iron machine that wouldn’t release her. Since the morning of Tsukuda’s arrival was the day she had to go to the hospital, Nobuko decided not to return to Akasaka. Tsukuda was scheduled to arrive at Ueno Station past ten o'clock after traveling through the Shinshu region. “Alright then. “Since Suzuki is free anyway, we can have him go meet at the station and then come here.” “After we all have dinner together, the rest can be left to you two.”

When she returned from the hospital at the usual hour, a pair of black leather shoes were neatly aligned on the stone step at the entrance. To Nobuko, these glossy black shoes strangely seemed to possess a personality. Nobuko emotionally took off her own sandals beside them.

“Welcome back, my lady. —Mr.Tsukuda is here.”

She went straight to the parlor. Tsukuda was not there; he was sitting in the dining room’s bay window. Having removed his jacket and taken off his collar, he sat in his shirt, vigorously basking in the electric fan’s breeze. When he saw Nobuko, he lowered the leg he had been crossing, like someone who had just parted ways and returned, “I’m back.” he said. “How are your legs?” His neck noticeably sunburned, he wore a solemn, probing expression on his face. Nobuko, with the same serious demeanor, silently extended a hand to her husband.

“Was it hot there?” “Over there?” “Ah, Osaka was quite hot.” “The inn was good though.”

Nobuko sat down beside him. Tsukuda tilted his head back slightly and, while gazing intently at Nobuko, asked in a low tone. “How are you feeling?” Nobuko instantly understood he meant the state of her heart. She felt affection surging up within her clashing violently with repulsion toward him. Perplexed, Nobuko tilted her head and twisted her lips into an expression that could be taken either way. “Let’s go home together tonight.”

Because Nobuko did not respond promptly, Tsukuda leaned in close as if to envelop her and repeated his question. “You’ll come back, right?” Unable to give an immediate answer, Nobuko took his hand with feigned energy and led him away. “Anyway, why don’t you go ahead and take a bath—you haven’t freshened up yet, have you?” She took out a yukata and sent Tsukuda to the bath. In the meantime, Nobuko changed her clothes and faced him—now thoroughly groomed down to his brushed hair—in the parlor adorned with lavish cornflower arrangements, where they drank something cold. Nobuko briefly recounted what had happened during his absence. Yet throughout this time, she was assailed by the awareness that she had become a changed person toward Tsukuda. In the past, how joyfully had I welcomed him when he returned from a full twenty-day trip? She would chatter endlessly then, clinging to him with such annoying persistence. From where she couldn’t be seen, her voice alone would have revealed Nobuko’s heart—so simple and untainted in its elation. That she was no longer like this—Nobuko herself understood it all too well, painfully so. Her heart felt fractured and disjointed; whenever she saw her husband’s face—both familiar yet strangely alien—she was gripped by awkward indecision, uncertain whether to cherish or despise him. Nobuko realized Tsukuda too felt similarly adrift from his true self. Strangely, conversation flowed smoothly when she avoided looking at his face—gazing instead at the verdant leaves beyond the window. But when their eyes suddenly met, they both acutely sensed two hearts brimming with doubt—flashing like lightning as they wrestled for dominance. In such moments, words felt hollow and shameful. The pair naturally lapsed into silence. Tsukuda muttered with a sigh.

“I’d been hoping that if we took a trip together, your feelings might change in that time… but it’s come to nothing.” “Oh…”

On the verge of tears, Nobuko said. “I hate this too—I really do! ...But there’s no helping it.—Do you understand yourself? You have no idea how dear and hateful—how hateful you are!”

“I hate you—so much!” Nobuko said with such force that her voice quavered as if forming a melody, tears falling.

Around three o'clock, her grandmother, who had gone to stay with relatives overnight, returned. Before long, Father also returned. They were finally released. Father shook the ice cream bottle and showed it to Nobuko.

“Look! Isn’t this nice?” “To show our welcome for Mr. Tsukuda, you know?” He rose from his chair and, turning to Tsukuda who had greeted him, continued amiably. “I thought about having dinner at a hotel or something, but upon reflection, I figured you’ve been subjected to a steady diet of Western food.” “Well, tonight might actually be better spent relaxing informally.” At the dinner table, Father and Tsukuda talked about various cities in the Kansai region. Surrounded by her son and her grandchild and their spouse, Grandmother looked utterly content. She suddenly,

“Did you go to Mikage?” Grandmother asked Tsukuda things like that.

“That place is really lovely, isn’t it? I had an acquaintance there who put me up for fifty days. And just nearby—what was it called now?—there was a hot spring with a proper hairdresser’s shop right inside… Shōzō, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?” “Speaking of hot springs… Father, might you know of any good ones nearby?”

As the meal was coming to an end, Tsukuda inquired. "The usual spots would be Hakone or Izu, but..." Sasa listed a few hot springs in the Ou region.

“Are you planning to go?”

Tsukuda answered ambiguously.

“Yes… I’ve given it some thought… If there’s a place that suits a poor student’s budget, I think I might take a little trip.” Nobuko, who had been listening under the impression it was casual conversation, found herself involuntarily focusing her attention and looking at Tsukuda. Tsukuda kept his face turned solely toward her father and spoke as if addressing only him. “Since we’re already traveling anyway, I thought if we could go for about ten days, I’d like to do that.”

“Oh ho! That’s an excellent plan. It would be good for your health too—you really must go. Hot springs are excellent.” With his characteristic breadth of self-taught knowledge, Father expounded on the value of natural therapy through hot springs.

Nobuko felt surprise and wondered why Tsukuda hadn’t told her directly, but gradually she forgot those feelings and grew happy. By nature, Nobuko had always loved traveling. Before marriage, she had often gone on trips with Otoyo-san, though their destinations were limited in scope. She even knew one or two hot springs. Since beginning life with Tsukuda—owing to his profession and temperament—they had not taken even three- or four-day excursions. Their sole journey had been that summer visit to Tsukuda’s family home. Such trips merely meant joining a large household and repeating their Tokyo routine amidst different surroundings.

If they were truly going to a hot spring, this would be Nobuko’s first proper trip. The idea of staying at an inn with just the two of them lit up her imagination. Not that she would phrase it like Father did, but if some miracle occurred—where the mountains, hot spring air, and invigorating morning awakenings could make their grievances disappear after a simple quarrel—how wonderful that would be. What bliss that would be! Nobuko surmised with both alarm and delight that Tsukuda must share this thought. In an open-hearted voice, she said to her husband as he ate ice cream.

“—Is it true? That plan?”

“Shall we go?” “Yes, let’s go!” “Then let’s send a telegram to inquire right away.” Tsukuda responded in a businesslike tone. “But—is it all right if we go ahead? Whether we should cancel the hospital visit or not.”

Nobuko cut him off with the urgency of someone fearing that their plans might be canceled. “Of course it’s perfectly fine. But just to be safe, I’ll go and check properly tomorrow.—It’s obviously fine, so let’s go, okay? Don’t you back out now.”

Nine

Before them, piercing through crystalline air, the volcano stood towering in deep azuki-red hues. Smoke rose unwavering from its peak. Tobacco fields gave way to dwarf-tree groves only to yield again to tobacco fields. As the slope steepened, Aokigahara's bracing horizon expanded dozens of miles across both sides. Their car climbed relentlessly, engine roaring with contained power. Though morning sun bathed the five o'clock dewiness through which they raced, Nobuko's cheeks and lips stiffened with icy numbness.

They crossed one bridge. When they reached the top of the V-shaped steep slope hemmed in by cliffs, an old-fashioned hot spring town came into view ahead. Along both sides of the slope, inns and souvenir shops lined the street. In the middle of the road was a ditch emitting white steam, and the heavy scent of hot water hung in the air. The car passed close under the eaves; at every inn, not a single guest remained asleep, all bustling with activity. Yukata hung drying on wide-open handrails, morning sunlight streaming abundantly into rooms. Newly arrived guests held Western-style umbrellas under their chins, watching their car depart. Crudely painted red and green wooden carvings lined the souvenir shop fronts. This too formed a rustic, cheerful morning scene of the hot spring town. Nobuko felt exhilarated, hardly troubled by their lack of proper lodging. That summer had seen unprecedented crowds—even upon their arrival, Yoshidaya’s entrance overflowed with some twenty newcomers. They spent one night at Yoshidaya’s manager’s house. A souvenir shop diagonally across from Yoshidaya conducted business downstairs while using its second floor for summer overflow guests. A young Yoshidaya employee carrying pails was seen transporting vermilion-lacquered trays. With no space even there, they were settled in a room directly behind the shop. In the storage room’s dimness glimmered a pink heko obi sash. At night when they turned off their light, shadows of carved eggplants cast by the shop’s illumination appeared on shoji screens.

The room they had finally secured was originally part of the Kobayashi Ward government office.

“But it’s fine—in fact, it’s quiet and nice here in this mountain dwelling…” There were an eight-tatami room and a six-tatami room. The eight-tatami room became their quarters. While the six-tatami room had a view, it was right above a road below the embankment, leaving its interior constantly exposed to the eyes of passing guests. The eight-tatami room faced the main government building across a narrow vacant lot, while to the left was a cliff thick with dwarf bamboo. There, in keeping with the rural hot spring town, a bamboo pipe for the hot water ran. Amidst the dwarf bamboo, gentian flowers bloomed, dampened by the mountain mist.—

The rustling of plateau-like green trees, crisp air. Even the roads they traveled by car had given Nobuko a taste of almost sensual liberation. In nature, there seemed to be an especially abundant supply of elements that invigorated humans. Nobuko intensely felt the desire to become spontaneously lively. She seemed to be carefully gauging, as if measuring the increasing degree of her own vivacity. Gradually, gradually—if this vitality overflowed, perhaps the accumulated debris lying between her husband and herself might be washed away... Just a little more... Just a little more...

As she said to Tsukuda, “Hey, don’t make such a sullen face—let’s do this instead, okay?”

when she took out the playing cards, or, “Hey! There’s such a flower here!” When she called out like this, Nobuko was usually already anticipating, deep down, the imminent decline of her vivacity gauge.

However, even after coming to the hot spring resort, Tsukuda remained just as unresponsive to Nobuko’s invitations as he had been at home. While trimming his nails, he gave a response different from what Nobuko had said, “In the end… I didn’t manage to do anything this summer.” He muttered such things.

“Did you have any plans?” “Since my only free time is during summer vacation, naturally there were many things I wanted to do.” When they strolled to the observation deck during their walk, they found young people clustered before the shooting range, laughing boisterously. On a natural stone veranda, a couple watched cheerfully as children played tag in the plaza below. Streams of people passed before and behind Nobuko’s group, following the grassy path toward the distant amusement park. Everyone appeared lighthearted, comfortably savoring nature’s expanses mingled with human bustle. Walking among them, Nobuko felt her heart leap with a simple urge—rejoice, rejoice. And indeed, she even achieved such guiltless ease while firing pellets at the shooting range—though this too remained fleeting.

When she returned to the room and faced her husband, a sense of heaviness pressed upon her. It was easier to endure being among a crowd. Even amidst the brightness outdoors, the moment they felt united in good spirits, they would suddenly sense themselves drifting apart and share a lonely, aching sorrow. An indescribable restlessness tormented Nobuko at such times. She would sometimes act playfully and other times make spiteful remarks to Tsukuda.

One morning, when she came out from the bath, Tsukuda was on the veranda talking to the maid standing in the garden. “So it’s doable as a day trip then?”

“Yes, it’s quite manageable if you leave a bit earlier.” “How does one go from here? Would we go up from beside Sesshoseki?” “That’s correct. There’s a slightly steep part there, but you’ll soon reach the main path—with so many visitors coming through, once you get there, you’ll naturally find your way to the summit.” “Where exactly?” “Since you’ve come all this way, you must be eager to climb Nasu.”

While eating breakfast, Tsukuda said to Nobuko. “You probably can’t make it anyway—will you wait here for me?” “Well… I could wait, but…” When she thought about spending the entire day alone, she didn’t feel up to it. “How many ri is it—if I can make it, I’d like to go too.” “They say it’s about three ri up and down, but since it’s a continuous climb all the way—I wonder…”

“I’ll go then. I’d rather go than stay here all alone.” Tsukuda looked troubled, but Nobuko asked the maid who had come to clear the meal tray for sandals and a cord to fasten them. When they had first woken up, there had been mist, but after eight o'clock, the weather turned splendid. The hiking trail that emerged from the mountain path among the trees onto the main path was now completely open. It wasn’t only spa guests accompanied by women and children carefreely threading their way through the bear bamboo. Along one side of the road—about four and a half meters wide—a trolley track had been laid.

“My, they go all the way up, don’t they? I wonder what passes through here.” A man with a gap between his middle teeth, leading a boy of about fifteen, was walking alongside Nobuko and the others when he overheard this and remarked: “Well, they’ve really cleared this out nicely.” “They use these trolleys to send the sulfur down to the factory at the foot—seems like they’re producing quite a substantial amount.” As they climbed, the tall trees gradually thinned out. The sunlight grew fiercer, prompting Nobuko to open her parasol. Under the glittering azure summer sky, against mountainsides thick with bamboo grass, how vividly beautiful must that single red spot of her parasol have appeared. Nobuko felt childlike excitement rising within her. The scenery here far surpassed in majesty anything she had seen from the car en route to Yumoto. Range upon range of gently curving sasa-covered hills surged like waves across the unobstructed view. Far below in August’s swelter, the horizon lay blurred in a pearlescent blue-tinged haze. The path’s winding course hid those ahead from sight, leaving only occasional voices audible. Those very voices made palpable the profound stillness within the mountain trail’s sunlit quiet.

They ate lunch at a hot spring called Daimaru at the foot of the mountain. Amidst the rocks of the open-air hot spring where a river rushed continuously through its course, many men and women were bathing naked. It was a scene straight from a painting. From there, the surrounding scenery transformed completely into a volcanic path. Here and there among the sasa bamboo, bleached-white skeletons of dead trees stood mercilessly snapped at their middles, their jagged forms jutting upward. Along the narrow flat areas by the roadside stood makeshift huts of sulfur-gathering laborers, creating an unmistakably industrial mountain atmosphere. When leaving Daimaru, Nobuko planted the cane she had received from a kind gentleman accompanied by his daughter and labored up the path. They finally caught sight of the summit. Before it lay one more steep climb. Nobuko stopped before this final ascent, drenched in sweat.

“Let me rest a bit!” Tsukuda had taken off his jacket even before reaching Daimaru. Yet sweat drenched him completely. “It’s unbearable without shade! Ah—a cool breeze!” As Nobuko stood enjoying the refreshing wind, she gradually became aware of the crater’s rumble. The sulfur trolleys near the summit now descended the mountainside’s far slope, leaving no human figures visible anywhere on the trail above or below. Ahead stretched a desolate path—a single narrow track winding through scorched earth toward the Santō hut. The distant mountain ranges below lay motionless under the two o’clock sun’s relentless glare. In this soundless realm where not even pebbles stirred, only the crater’s roar reached them like some colossal bellows. The unvarying drone persisted until—as they plodded forward—it abruptly ceased, terrifying Nobuko with visions of an imminent eruption.

“Why don’t we just go?” “Hmm.” The steepness of the path, the oppressive force of nature. The two remained silent and crossed the slope in one breath. “We’ve finally made it! You really endured well. I’d prepared myself for having to turn back halfway.” “Once you start climbing, you’ll find a way up.” The crater lay in a sort of side cavity near the summit. Molten sulfur streamed out as blazing lava. Around those flaming hues, cooled portions had solidified into an otherworldly yellow like stalactites. The boundless azure of midsummer sky against the sulfur’s color created a violent contrast. Dozens of sulfur-gathering men appeared on the desolate mountainside, working earnestly as if muted by some unease.

In less than half the time it had taken them to ascend, they returned to the pass's resting teahouse. "Oh, they've closed up shop. And I wanted to rest here."

“It must be because the weather’s turned bad. Well, let’s just head all the way back.”

The fog thickened densely, and even when they looked back at the mountain peak they had just descended, it was no longer visible. "Is it raining below?" "Well... I think it should be fine since there's wind." Descending with momentum, keeping pace as they clattered down, a solitary drop struck their faces. "...It's starting to rain."

“It must be an evening shower.” Plink, plink—the raindrops gradually multiplied. Nobuko unfurled her crimson umbrella.

The rain covering the high mountain differed drastically in rainfall between the upper and lower areas over a distance of just about 100 meters. When they had descended about halfway, the area was already in heavy rain. The ochre-colored dirt path had become a muddy mess. Thunder roared, and lightning flashed broadly across the white dead trees standing ghostlike among the sasa bamboo. Nobuko shuddered. “This way we can walk faster.” Tsukuda had Nobuko put her arm through his. “Since it’ll let up soon, let’s take shelter from the rain at Daimaru and then go, okay?”

Nobuko’s red parasol proved utterly useless. Her silk gauze kimono was soaked through to the skin. The waterlogged geta grew heavy and sodden, squelch, squelch, kicking up mud beneath Nobuko’s feet. “It’s not letting up—this rain—the clouds aren’t breaking anywhere at all. Really, let’s just stop by Daimaru for a bit.”

“……”

Tsukuda quickened his pace. Nobuko broke into a half-run to match his pace and said again. “The thunder—I’m at my wit’s end, really. Hey—isn’t it? It’s coming.”

“It’s all right—the thunder is far off.” “But… I really do want to rest a bit—I feel unwell.”

They emerged beside the woods curving toward Daimaru. Nobuko pulled Tsukuda’s arm and halted. “You really refuse?” “Let’s just go straight, okay? Resting now would be meaningless.” “Because it’s crowded?” Tsukuda gave an ambiguous snort. “Anyway—come on, let’s walk.”

Even though she was drenched to the skin, why couldn't they just take shelter from the rain at Daimaru? Nobuko couldn't fathom her husband's state of mind. Being subjected to this without any explanation only deepened her resentment. It wasn't that they lacked money on hand...... When they passed Daimaru, what lay ahead was a downpour so dense and white with rain that visibility vanished. The storm lashed sideways through the mountain's sasa bamboo in torrents, making her umbrella billow like a parachute in the wind until it threatened to lift Nobuko bodily off the ground. At a bend where her toe unexpectedly caught on a stone, Nobuko found herself thrown forward by momentum, landing on both knees before she could react. Tsukuda, who had been holding her arm, was yanked off balance. Attempting to recover, he planted one foot on Nobuko's back and vaulted over her, narrowly avoiding dropping to his knees himself.

Nobuko descended the six-kilometer mountain path, drenched to the skin.

In the mountains, autumn arrived early, and torrential rains typical of summer’s end began to occur frequently from that day onward. “Whoa! This is brutal!” Wearing a raincoat, the clerk came rushing in. “This is a storm unlike any in recent years—truly a headache for us clerks.” The river below swelled in volume and flowed with a terrifying roar. From around noon, voices bustled about in chaos as people braved the rain. Peering through a gap in the veranda’s storm shutters, she saw laborers in straw raincoats working frantically to avoid stones being swept down by the torrent’s force.

Being shut in by the dark deluge held an unusual charm for Nobuko. Behind the single-layered storm shutters, against the cliff face, came the sound of rain lashing at kumazasa bamboo. The swollen hot spring water choked and gurgled through its bamboo conduit. Through the rain, the sulfurous scent of the springs hung heavier than usual. She remembered how as a child she would stand on a footstool during summer storms, peering eagerly through the casement window - these memories now returning with nostalgic clarity. Tsukuda spent such days in lethargy - taking out his wallet to count coins at the desk, napping through afternoons. Nobuko,

“Let’s do something fun,” she urged her husband. “Since we’ve come all this way to enjoy ourselves, we should at least try to make it as pleasant as possible.” Then Tsukuda gazed at Nobuko with a reproachful look and countered, “Did you come here solely for enjoyment?” Their eyes locked involuntarily. Nobuko felt a dull pang of fear in her chest. “Why? Isn’t that why?” “I came because I thought it would benefit your leg.”

Nobuko felt a lonely ache, as though the candle flame that had been flickering precariously between them had been abruptly snuffed out. “So, even the other day, stopping by Daimaru wasn’t allowed?” Tsukuda, however, fell silent and did not answer.

That emotional discord between them never faded until their return home. After seven days, they parted ways almost like quarreling lovers—Tsukuda departing for Tokyo, Nobuko for K. The train pulled away, Tsukuda’s black-uniformed shoulder visible through the window. Her own train began moving too, heading in opposite directions.—Nobuko felt as though she were setting off toward a place from which there would be no return.

Six

One

Inside the spacious mosquito net, Nobuko lay talking with her mother, her words coming in scattered fragments. Around them lay the cool darkness of a summer night in the countryside. "So you see, marriage is such a complicated thing..."

Takeyo’s slow voice resounded as if from the high ceiling. “If your natures are too different, that’s no good either, and of course if you’re both strong-willed, things won’t go smoothly. —You, though—from what I’ve observed, you have a tendency to pick someone weaker than yourself, someone with a servile streak.”

Nobuko lay on her back on the pillow, her eyes open, her clasped hands placed beneath her head. “Hmm… I wonder—I think *I’m* the weak one here. Take my situation with Tsukuda—if I could steel myself more resolutely and control him properly, things might change. But he… he has this unyielding core—something I just can’t handle, no matter what.” “Well, those of us who observe the world… know exactly how to handle someone like you.”

"I can't keep exchanging polite formalities on the surface with things I already see through completely—all while steadily pressing my own advantage behind the scenes. Relationships that aren't face-to-face honest—I just can't maintain them." "If that's how it is, you'd think I could make a clean break—but I can't even do that... This isn't about being strong-willed anymore." "People are different, I suppose."

Takeyo suddenly raised her voice with force. "If it were me, I'd cut ties completely in one go. Just imagining being dragged along by someone who doesn't truly love me—it's unbearable."

Nobuko couldn't believe that Tsukuda held not even a speck of love for her. His interest—at least the feelings a man harbors toward the woman who was his wife—had been directed at her too. Yet understanding this, being unable to find comfort in that human affection, she felt sorrow and torment.

“But—what about my own feelings? If the other person truly doesn’t love me, does that mean my love should suddenly vanish completely? Because things don’t resolve themselves so conveniently—that’s why you end up heartbroken, isn’t it? In other words, it’s not that people suffer from the other person’s love—they more often suffer from the love within their own hearts.” “So you—do you still love Tsukuda?”

A loneliness like a draft seeping through cracks passed through Nobuko’s heart. In her mother’s simple question lay the source of sorrow that every daughter in the world—once married, her union broken, and returned to her parents’ home—would experience without exception.

Nobuko spoke after some time had passed.

“I just don’t think that just because I can’t manage an ordinary married life means I have to crush whatever goodwill or love still remains. There’s no need to imitate how married couples have been until now just because that’s how they were—whether in building a relationship or unraveling one, each of us can have our own way of doing things.” “Tsukuda would never understand such things—your aims were different from the start, I tell you.”

“Then let it be so—if living with me brought him any good at all, I’d be satisfied. So as long as he doesn’t start talking about giving up or acting desperate if we separate… —I detest self-abandonment more than anything. The very thought that I’d be creating such a monstrous person in this world makes me shudder and lose all courage.” “…………” Faintly, there was a sign of Takeyo sitting up in the darkness. Nobuko turned her head toward her mother.

“What is it?” “Oh, nothing. It’s gotten a bit too cool, so I thought I might put on the feather quilt—what about you? Is that all right with you?” Nobuko, wearing a linen night robe, patted her chest. “I’m fine.”

Takeyo, “The countryside really is so different, huh.” Muttering like an old woman, she seemed to have fallen back asleep, but suddenly cried out loudly as if remembering something.

“Oh, worrying about that is pointless anyway.” “About what?” “What he said.” “In what sense?” “You know perfectly well.” “He’s not the type to die like that.” “He’s no starry-eyed simpleton.” “I can’t brush it off so easily.” “Then watch and see!” Takeyo’s voice rang out with combative cheer. “If he truly were that sort of man, I’d respect him.” “I’d humble myself to apologize for my misjudgment.”

Nobuko fell silent, her heart sinking into an unpleasant state. She became disgusted with her own thoughtlessness for having earnestly spoken about so many things. It is terrifying to discuss a single person’s life and death in this manner. Nobuko pulled her night robe up to her chin and turned over in bed. Takeyo, seemingly thinking that Nobuko had grown sleepy, “Shall we turn in for the night?”

she muttered sleepily.

“It seems the good air here is the reason—since coming to this place, I’ve completely forgotten about my insomnia.”

“…………” “Good night.” “Good night.”

Within less than ten minutes, her mother’s steady, untroubled breathing began to be heard. Takeyo appeared completely satisfied that Nobuko had been living with her for several days after a long time apart. No matter what state of mind Nobuko had come with.

Nobuko lay with her eyes open, intently listening to the single faint sound of breathing. Drawn by that sound, the surrounding darkness like a flood and her lingering bitter feelings seemed to ebb and flow in regular rhythm. She stealthily slipped out of bed. The hem of the mosquito net fell onto the cool rattan mat with a heavy thud.

As she walked down the corridor, moonlight like phosphorescence shone upon the row of closed shoji screens. Nobuko pressed her face against the glass window set into the storm shutters and looked outside. The moonlight was shining throughout the garden. If one were to walk through it, they would be enveloped in waves of light so glistening that a liquid might cling to their hair, while the rounded azaleas and hiba leaves, accompanied by stark black shadows, lay perfectly still. The trees and lawn seemed dreamlike, as though alive. In this moonlit night, even human souls seemed likely to travel far with ease. In a place hundreds of miles away, the wife and her mother had such a conversation. If that conversation were to resonate within Tsukuda’s soul on this night, what kind of emotion would he be struck by?

Nobuko, frantic, rubbed the glass surface overflowing with moonlight two or three times with all her strength. As if trying to hastily scramble and block the soul's undulations that slipped through the storm shutters and spilled into the night air steeped in moonlight.

II

When October came, Nobuko returned to Tokyo. Compared to when she and Tsukuda had taken the same line north to Nasu about a month earlier, the scenery had changed completely. Autumn lay over everything.

As the train entered Ueno Station, Nobuko had already opened the window to call a redcap and was watching the platform. On the opposite side, a departing train was entering, and amidst the hustle and bustle of farewells and cargo loading there, several greeters stood watching each carriage of this now-stopping train. Within that crowd, Nobuko thought she recognized an unexpected profile. A man who looked exactly like Tsukuda—wearing an overcoat and a high-crowned hat—stood waiting expectantly. The time of her arrival had been communicated by letter. Nobuko was so emotionally stirred that her entire body flushed hot. Had he come to meet her? Was that him? She never expected him to come meet her! Nobuko leaned out the window even further. She waved her hand toward the profile that resembled Tsukuda, intending it as a signal. But Nobuko’s attempt to catch the attention of the person she was aiming for went unnoticed, and the redcap came running up beneath the window of the train, which was still sliding forward under its own momentum.

“How many pieces? Just these?” Nobuko, distracted as she tried not to lose sight of the figure standing beyond the reach of her voice, handed over the trunk. “What number?” “Twenty-eight.”

With quick steps, Nobuko advanced to the pillar where the person stood. When she finally thought it might be her husband, her heart pounded so violently she could not keep her mouth tightly closed. Impatiently holding back words of thanks, she came straight to within about three shaku of him, but when she looked up at his face again, a strange wrinkle resembling a tearful smile flickered around her mouth before she abruptly turned aside. It was not Tsukuda.— Walking slowly this time across the concrete toward the ticket gate, Nobuko thought deeply about how blissful must be those welcomed home so warmly. Upon reflection, she realized her fantasy that her husband might come to meet her had been misguided from the start. He had never once come to the station when she left or returned to Tokyo. Nor had she ever expected him to greet her gladly. Last early summer, she had returned from the same countryside in identical fashion. Her present emotions differed entirely from then—this she understood clearly. This time, her return stemmed not from wanting to mend their marital relationship, but rather from being compelled by thoughts of how most rationally to alter it. A profound fear regarding their mutual fate existed too—particularly toward Tsukuda’s side. However irredeemable matters had become, Nobuko still cherished the bond with her husband. She absolutely could not countenance leaving its resolution to others. If rupture was inevitable, she wanted it broken through their own wills and by necessity that left no future regrets. Such was her state of mind. Though knowing better, when the rickshaw’s handle was lifted she searched once more through the sparse crowd—people dodging luggage carts on the sunless tawara floor where water had been splashed—but the man bearing Tsukuda’s exact profile was nowhere to be seen.

Shortly after Nobuko returned, there was a two-day break.

Nobuko had brought a floor cushion out to the veranda.

It was a clear autumn day. Beside the stone water basin, roses left by the previous residents bore two small salmon-pink blooms. Behind the rose bushes was an old bamboo fence, and beyond it rose the even more weathered siding of the neighboring house. The siding was black but weathered by years of wind and rain, its darkness blurred into a pale ink wash where greenish, fine mold had seeped in like scattered moth wing scales. Against the background’s base color, the two yellowish roses appeared vividly beautiful. The glossy, deep crimson lines of slender branches; the color of leaves beginning to be eroded by the night mist. It seemed that for the ruined black siding, there was no better ornament than this, and for the autumn roses too, no surroundings surpassed such harmony.

Nobuko savored the poetic atmosphere of the secluded corner with delight. Why don’t the beautiful people of the world think to wear such border patterns? Is not what we call splendid garments something that incorporates nature’s perfected beauty—the kind that leaves an indelible impression without conscious effort?

At that moment, Tsukuda—who had been sweeping under a pine tree with his back turned—glanced in Nobuko’s direction.

“How about it? Interesting?” “This.” Nobuko took her eyes off the roses and held up the book she had been holding in one hand all along. “It’s an adventure story… The opening reminds me of Shunrō.” “But the author is from an older time, isn’t he…” “Old things really do seem old, don’t they—” Nobuko turned to the preface. “It says around the fourth century.” “Hmm…”

Tsukuda put that matter aside and stood at the center of the garden's rock arrangement—about ten tsubo in size—looking around. He noticed something and went to the stone water basin with a displeased expression. "What a nuisance—you've left footprints here again." He stomped repeatedly on one spot with a foot clad in an old slipper. "To-yo! To-yo!"

From the gate, To-yo stretched her neck and, “Did you call for me?”

“Did you step here with your geta this morning?” Tsukuda demanded. “Well...” To-yo cast a furtive glance toward Nobuko on the veranda before lowering her eyes to the spot he indicated. “Stop trampling everywhere! Am I the only one breaking my back to keep this place clean?” “Yes.” “Bring me the pruning shears.”

Even as he took the shears, Tsukuda meticulously reiterated the matter of the footprints. Nobuko, who was nearby, felt an acute sense of awkwardness. It seemed to her that their maid was being spattered by the unresolved dregs of their marital circumstances. With the pruning shears, Tsukuda first trimmed a broken pine branch that had been hanging withered, then moved beneath the roses. Ducking under the fatsia plant and approaching from the side, he began clipping buds that had wilted without blooming. Nobuko watched in silence. Gradually working the shears deeper, Tsukuda made to trim even the two half-open blooms that Nobuko had been gazing at with captivated attention.

“Oh, please don’t. They look so beautiful.” “They’ll just wither if we leave them like this. It would be better to cut and arrange them.” “But cutting them would ruin how everything looks together—can’t we just leave them as they are? Even if we do...”

Tsukuda, without releasing the branch he had seized, said. "I’m only thinking of cutting them because leaving the flowers on too long will harm the trunk."

Nobuko felt that putting it into words would sound affected, and thus she could not explain how those two yellow-tinged salmon-pink roses, precisely because of their background, were so rich in poetic charm.

“If only they could truly stay blooming like that!”

“Fine—I’ll stop—do as you please.”

He muttered with a sullen look, ducking under the fatsia again and emerging. “Such flowers! Back when they were far more beautiful, no one even bothered to look.” Back when this tree had been covered in roses—some thirty days prior—she had stayed in the countryside, spending each evening listening to the loud chorus of insects and watching the lawn turn yellow. The feelings from that time and their current state of mind—the two of them now entangled in whether to cut or spare the roses under clear autumn sunlight. The hearts that should have loved each other passionately had lost all connection, bound only by a passive force preventing complete separation—this mutual tugging weighed painfully upon Nobuko. Years later, on some clear autumn day, if this trivial scene were to surface from memory’s depths—herself sitting on the veranda, Tsukuda in the garden, those two beautiful roses—what would they tell her?

The next morning at dawn, Nobuko peered into the garden through the glass door. The roses, wet with dew and drooping their heads, bloomed as vividly as ever, unchanged from the day before. Their innocent vividness and purity wounded Nobuko's heart with uncanny force. She passed by as though deliberately averting her eyes.

III

Eight in the evening.

Smirnov was reading aloud Hafez’s poems. Following along, Tsukuda read each passage with careful attention to intonation—the two men’s guttural, monotonous voices made the surrounding air feel heavy. In response to Smirnov murmuring something in a low voice, Tsukuda hurriedly repeated: “Yes. Yes.” His answering voice could be heard too—all of it was distressing. Nobuko began moving restlessly about the room.

Though she had only just returned, Nobuko had been sinking into a kind of passionless self-disgust for days now.

Upon returning this time, Nobuko realized her husband could no longer treat her as an ordinary woman. Overwhelmed and unable to grasp the crux—whether she ought to fear him or pity him—she ultimately resolved to let sleeping dogs lie, as the saying went; it felt as though she had settled on that course.

Regarding their time in the countryside, Tsukuda did not inquire about Nobuko’s experiences, nor did he speak at all about his own life during that period. “As long as you come back, it’s always welcome home. Baby.” However, she was not innocent like a true infant. Nobuko was a woman and his wife. In their case, even their relationship as husband and wife had lost its natural quality. There was no familialistic hope, nor was there the pure force born from the blazing up of primitive desires. For Nobuko, sensing Tsukuda’s somehow condescending demeanor—even at times when he engaged in such acts as if to imply they were for her sake—was painful and humiliating. She found even her own youthful, vibrant desire to be caressed—which welled up spontaneously within her—hateful, frustrating, and sorrowful at such times. She cried, resenting her husband who made her feel unreasonable shame even in her youth that would never return. Their relationship was bad—it had gone fundamentally wrong. To Nobuko, there was no other way to see it. When viewed individually, people who were neither particularly bad nor cruel could become entirely different beings when placed within a certain relationship.—She knew all too well that it was precisely this that needed to be corrected.

When she resolved to return from the countryside, Nobuko had thought she was considering Tsukuda. She had thought she was returning with good motives—to obtain the best solution, to avoid needlessly disrupting their life. Yet when she reflected on herself erasing each day through indecision that seemed more than mere self-restraint, Nobuko found herself compelled to pace about like this.

It was clear that Tsukuda, with his signature blend of patience and guile, was superficially trying to consign yesterday’s matters to yesterday. If things were to continue this way, then so be it—that was the thought. She began to suspect she might be unconsciously exploiting that very stance herself. Even as she criticized him, wasn’t she ultimately entrusting her own cowardice to him? Nobuko had finally altered her circumstances, as people often do, by finding a new lover elsewhere—yet she doubted this lifestyle of merely moving from one husband to another, which in remaining another man’s wife amounted to nothing but repeating the past. She wasn’t rejecting married life because she compared Tsukuda to someone else. She had uncovered countless points of dissatisfaction—both the frictions born of their clashing temperaments and what might be termed the conventions of matrimony: the accepted notions about marital existence and its sustenance that prevailed between men and women generally. Tsukuda was Nobuko’s first husband. And he would likely remain her last. Nobuko herself would need to be reborn as an entirely different woman, or else the common sexual mores would have to shift in some fundamental way to allow easier compliance. In short, for Nobuko, the impossibility of continuing marital life with Tsukuda stemmed not merely from him being Tsukuda. To elaborate: she had recognized her utter inability to harmonize with this man—his middle-class mentality and emotional torpor she could no longer abide, his flimsy hypocrisies, his work ethic that seemed to take its only pleasure in pension certificates—all ushered into their shared existence through their union.

Therefore, Nobuko felt an unmixed sense of pity toward Tsukuda. Because it was not that she was uncritical—he alone in this world desired such a life. She could apologize for the reckless passion that had bound her to him, believing that what she desired also existed within him. However, as an individual, Nobuko felt no guilt and had a foundation in her heart to act on her convictions.

Then why couldn't I stop wavering? Was it love? Was it merely the habit of having lived as husband and wife for these few years? Or were humans such pitiful creatures that as long as even a straw's breadth of goodwill remained between them, they couldn't—foolish beings—at least divide it as a keepsake and live apart? Unless psychological violence intervened—unless some man appeared to tear me forcibly from Tsukuda—would I remain incapable of resolving this myself?

If one were to split open the very depths, Nobuko could not believe there was not a trace of faltering toward a future where she would live by her own efforts. It was impossible to think that Tsukuda didn’t notice this subtle weakness. In his heart, he foresaw that no matter how much Nobuko raged—she would ultimately stay—all while indulging her with “Baby” in their life. Nobuko hunched her shoulders as if shielding herself from something unbearable. Suddenly came a violent clatter—a spoon striking a teacup. In the room across, the recitation had ceased. Footsteps approached bearing drinks. —Had it ended? Nobuko could no longer endure remaining in this room. To speak with her husband pained her. She wanted to burrow into some dark deserted corner. To sleep until the world transformed itself... The sliding door groaned open. Footsteps echoed across wooden flooring. Nobuko instinctively glanced toward the damp veranda. “I want to hide!” Her heart thundered bestially at this impulse. Yet even Nobuko found this urge utterly inexplicable. Why? Before she could stir—the door slid wide. Nobuko turned her own startled visage—unchanged—toward Tsukuda entering.

Tsukuda looked at Nobuko, who stood rigidly gripping the back of the chair, with a puzzled look. He held a shallow box in his hand. Nobuko said in a dry-throated voice,

“Do you need something?” she asked of her own accord. “—Mr. Smirnov gave me this…” Tsukuda looked Nobuko up and down as if he had caught a whiff of something unusual. “Won’t you come… over here?” “over here?” Nobuko, still gripping the back, sat down sideways on the chair.

“I’m not myself tonight. “I’ll take my leave now.” “Take care.”

He placed the box on Nobuko’s lap and left. It was a box of Persian jujubes preserved in sugar.

4

It was a certain evening in December.

Nobuko sat in the maid’s room.

About three feet away, Toyo—ruddy-cheeked and full-bosomed in a Renoir-esque country girl’s guise—diligently wound her yarn. On the wall was pasted a beauty illustration from a newspaper supplement, and a red collar, washed with benzine, hung over the window. Nobuko was moving her hands pleasantly. When I was small, I would sit in front of my mother and help her wind thread. Nobuko recalled the box of Komachi threads—neatly wound without sagging and filled with a vibrant mix of colors. That had been kept in the camphor utility chest. When she opened the drawer, the scent of camphor wafted out. How old had Mother been then? She even felt somewhat at peace.

“Toyo, how did you usually manage? Could you do it alone?”

“With regular thread, even if you pull it tight and wind it firmly, it’s fine—I can manage alone.” Toyo misunderstood that Nobuko had grown bored and suddenly quickened her hands. “It’s all right—take your time.” “I’m enjoying this too—just ask me again if you need help.” “Thank you…” Toyo’s expression shifted faintly. Nobuko sensed this and said with a forced laugh: “Though of course—you can’t rely on someone like me who’s never home.”

When the fourth ounce of yarn had formed five or six slender coils around Nobuko’s wrist, Tsukuda’s voice called out from the room. Toyo, flusteredly bowing her head and scooting closer, removed the yarn.

Tsukuda was at his desk.

“What do you need?” “Just a moment...” “What is it?”

Nobuko stood by the desk and looked at her husband. Tsukuda, his legs wrapped in a blanket and body arched back against the chair, stared fixedly at Nobuko. Knitting his brows, creasing his forehead, he kept gazing at her with anguished eyes while taking her dangling hand. Nobuko found this expression of his somehow oppressive. "What is it you need?"

“I have something serious I need to discuss tonight.” Nobuko pulled back the hand Tsukuda was holding.

“Then please wait a moment, okay?” Nobuko went to the adjacent room to get a chair. As she went, she felt a peculiar blend of anticipation and unfathomable unease. What was he going to say? “Move it a bit more that way—yes, thank you.”

Nobuko placed the chair diagonally facing him. Tsukuda remained silent for some time with his arms crossed, then finally took out a piece of folded writing paper from beside him. He handed it to Nobuko. “You may find this unpleasant—but look. This came out last night.” Nobuko unfolded it and looked. A chill ran through her. She closed it, then looked again. Between the sheets of paper clung a bloodstain like a pressed morning glory—a dusky pink bloom with torn petals, large as a dinner plate.

“When was it? Last night?” “After getting out of the bath—when I came here, I started choking strangely. When I tried to clear my throat, that’s when it came out.” “And today?” “There’s nothing wrong.”

Nobuko returned the paper to the desk.

“That’s odd—you need to rest no matter what—why did you stay silent about it? Salt water helps—you should drink it right when it happens…”

Tsukuda took Nobuko’s hand again. “I’ve pushed my body too hard for so long that I was certain it wouldn’t last.” “When I returned to Japan, I thought things would surely change—yet I’ve managed to hold out until today.” “I know you’ve suffered greatly too, but I wanted us to live together at least while I’m alive—which won’t be long—so I said all those things… but I’ve lost any right to stop you now. Please—be free.” “I will never try to stop you again.”

Nobuko had been somewhat moved by what she saw. Yet Tsukuda's words struck her as overly sentimental. As she considered this, he drew her closer by the hand and pleaded. "There's truly no need for restraint." "Even had you never broached the subject yourself under these circumstances, I wouldn't dream of keeping you bound to me... you see." Nobuko maintained her silence. Tsukuda stared at her intently for a prolonged moment before finally,

“Ah…” He let out a sigh and leaned back against the chair. He shook his head as if unable to contain his emotions. “So it’s finally come…” To Nobuko, Tsukuda’s words didn’t quite land. The notion that his illness was a separate matter had become painfully clear—that she could leave now that he was ill—yet Nobuko felt his proposal carried a contradictory urgency, a desperate haste steeped in tragic resolve. “But—there’s no need to rush into thinking like that.” “First of all, we don’t even know what this illness really is yet—”

Nobuko, with a composed demeanor that seemed intent on calming him down, even managed a smile.

"What would you do if it turned out you were wrong and made a scene over nothing?" "That could never happen—I know this absolutely." "Just consider it." Before she realized it, Nobuko had pinned Tsukuda's arm through his kimono sleeve. "Even a maid couldn't abandon her sick master.—You shouldn't say things you can't follow through on." "It's not impossible."

“Why?” “Do you truly believe I would gladly do as you say?” “Anyway, this isn’t the time for making such grandiose declarations—let’s call Dr. Tsuyama tomorrow.”

This was a peculiar emotion. Into Tsukuda—who at times wanted to kill her—and into Nobuko—who longed to escape this relationship, who thought how joyous it would be if she could break free—a sort of bittersweet delight gradually began to well up. She said quietly, “I can’t tell what might bring happiness anymore… Lately, we’ve become terribly poor—in spirit—so perhaps anything could be made useful if we try.”

Tsukuda’s illness had altered the aims of their life, consequently bringing changes in both their states of mind, and Nobuko suddenly felt this might unexpectedly open a new phase in their shared existence. At the very least, a shared purpose of healing his illness was bestowed upon them.— Instead, with a feeling as though she’d been jolted back to life, Nobuko shifted her chair. “It’s certainly nothing serious, but you should lie down now.” Tsukuda was completely dejected and went to bed as Nobuko instructed.

“Come now, cheer up! That old-fashioned way of thinking is no good. If that’s the case, then you’d have to become Mr. Mizuno’s disciple.”

Mizuno was a professor at a Higher Technical School whom they had come to know in New York. While conducting dyeing research there, his lungs became affected, and he suffered severe hemoptysis. He immediately entered a sanatorium across the Hudson River, took an exemplary year-long rest, and made a full recovery. When he returned to the city in mid-October, Nobuko was introduced to him for the first time. At that time, with the pleasure of speaking Japanese after so long and the profound satisfaction of someone who had accomplished a great undertaking, he spent the entire night recounting his illness, the latest treatments he had received, and his progress.

Following the advice she had unconsciously retained from his account that night, Nobuko placed a hot-water bottle in Tsukuda’s futon and removed the brazier from the room. While doing these things, she recalled Mizuno’s— “In the garden, there was a raspberry thicket, you see. When snow piled up, the robins would come fluttering about.”

And she remembered the tone in which he had recounted the memory, as though he had truly found solace in that scene.

5

Nobuko returned to her desk and wrote a letter to Tsuyama. "He reports having coughed up blood-tinged phlegm the night before last and has been deeply concerned." "I earnestly request you to come for a consultation at your earliest convenience."

She called out, "Toy."

“Toy,” she called. “Take this, deliver it to the school by nine tomorrow morning, get a reply, and bring it back without fail.” Tsuyama was the school doctor at the same school as Tsukuda.

Thinking the next morning would come early, Nobuko went to bed early that night too. Tsukuda was sleeping so soundly he didn't notice her entering, faint snores escaping him. When she lay down, Nobuko realized that despite believing herself perfectly composed, she was deeply agitated underneath. Though she'd spoken as if uncertain about his illness to avoid discouraging him, she harbored little doubt it was consumption. She had heard he'd suffered an anal fistula in his twenties. There were always complaints about his bowels. His native prefecture ranked highest for such patients nationwide. But it didn't seem acute, and at forty now, there likely wouldn't be sudden deterioration. With fragmented knowledge, Nobuko pieced together this general conclusion.

And yet, why didn't I feel this as a sudden misfortune? Nobuko wondered. Lying in the darkness like this, listening to his breathing—no special shock worth alarming anyone about came to her, no sudden surge of grief. At the same time, she realized how completely their usual tenacious conflict seemed to have vanished tonight, if only for tonight. It was a state of neutralization. Was it because he needed my help simply as one healthy human being to another—even setting aside our marital ties?

Pity……pity akin to love…… Those words flickered like sparklers - flaring bright before vanishing. As Nobuko contemplated his state of mind throughout that day of concealed truths, a dense forest of emotions settled within her. She turned over. Tsukuda seemed to be sleeping facing her direction. In the chill night air, Nobuko felt his exhalations mingling with hers between their two futons. This sensation roused in her an unnaturally acute awareness. She involuntarily held her breath, startled, eyes widening in the dark. When she finally released the air trapped unconsciously in her lungs, she found herself unable to inhale naturally while still facing him. Nobuko shifted onto her back as quietly as possible beneath the bedding. Irony welled up within her - self-directed and bitter.

When morning came, Nobuko had a dream.

Because Tsukuda had bled, she was in the process of calling a doctor. Where was this telephone? Only the sensation of the receiver in her palm and the gleaming nickel of the mouthpiece were clearly visible. Beside her stood the maid from that place wearing a striped kimono. She disliked having the ignorant maid hear her say that Tsukuda had bled and so stretched up toward the mouthpiece desperately— “Tsukuda has emitted blood.” she said.

With that, she woke up. Even after waking, the sensation of her tongue carefully forming the word "blood" lingered with a strange vividness, leaving Nobuko with a sorrowful heart.

Tsuyama arrived a little before one o'clock. Tsukuda explained his condition in detail. They completely adopted the attitude of doctor and patient.

“That must be worrying for you. However, professions requiring prolonged voice use—like ours—frequently experience this. Even without tuberculosis. Moreover, if examined by X-ray, seven or eight out of ten people show traces of it. They contract it unconsciously and recover unconsciously too. Humans are remarkably well-designed in this regard.” With healthy-colored yet nervous-seeming hands, he took out his stethoscope.

“Well then—let me take a look.” Tsukuda, with a serious expression, took off his shirt and exposed his chest. His broad, thick chest with its wide ribcage showed no signs of illness anywhere. “You have a sturdy bone structure.”

The doctor said, touching Tsukuda's skin with his fingertips as a form of psychotherapy.

“Look, when you examine your skin this way, there’s ample fat, good circulation, and elasticity. If it were the real condition, it wouldn’t appear like this.” “Take a deep breath.” “Take a shallow breath.” “Another deep one.” Nobuko watched from beside them, and in that moment, her husband seemed genuinely pitiable. Following Tsuyama’s orders, he earnestly raised his eyebrows and drew a deep breath. “Breathe shallowly now.” She had never seen him so solemn and wholehearted in any circumstance before. He too wanted to live. That was true sincerity. The bridge of Nobuko’s nose grew sour and began to sting. When she returned with the prepared washbasin, Tsukuda was already fastening his kimono.

“How are you feeling?” With a small piece of alcohol-scented cotton, Tsuyama answered while discreetly wiping his stethoscope. “I don’t detect any particular abnormalities. There’s just a slight—a very slight—noise on the left side, but such things are common enough to occur temporarily in anyone.” Since morning, Tsukuda had been taking great care of himself, not even putting force into his voice. He felt encouraged just by Tsuyama’s diagnosis.

“Thank you. When some colored discharge came out, I was completely shocked.” “Well, laypeople do tend to react that way. But in fact, that’s actually more reassuring—it means you’ll take precautions sooner...”

Nobuko was about to mention the bathroom when an idea occurred to her. “I hope you don’t mind, but while you’re here, perhaps you could examine me as well?”

Nobuko had no abnormalities anywhere. Tsuyama said he would return tomorrow with a respiratory specialist from K Hospital and left. "Look!" "It's just as I said, wasn't it?"

Nobuko saw the doctor out and came back before saying.

“No—but we still don’t know for sure until a specialist examines me. Not until a specialist has seen me.” “Oh, come on!”

Nobuko laughed. "You hysterical young lady! Won't you be satisfied unless it's something serious?"

However, that night when Tsukuda tried to sleep and pulled up the bedding, he expelled a small amount of blood again. His mental agitation grew so intense that he turned deathly pale, his ice-cold limbs trembling violently.

VI

On Sunday, Nobuko went to Dōzaka.

At the gate, an automobile was parked. Nobuko asked at the entrance. "A guest?" "The young ladies of the Suda family are here." "Where is Father?" "He has a guest." "Oh, a different one." By the fireplace were the three Suda children, three of Nobuko's siblings, and her mother. When they saw Nobuko enter without warning, they all cried out at once in their respective voices,

“Whoa!”

they cheered.

“Hello! Perfect timing—we arrived about an hour ago.” “What luck! We were just saying we should telephone you.” “Right... It’s been ages.” Nobuko removed her gloves while greeting her cousins. “It has been a while. The last time was at Jun-chan’s wedding, wasn’t it?” “But Nob-chan, you never visit us anymore!” As she squeezed into a seat, Tsuya-ko emerged from behind the curtain partition wearing a deep golden-yellow woolen sweater.

“Sis, are you staying over tonight?”

“Well—” “Tsuya-chan, you’re looking so stylish today—what’s the occasion?” “That sweater.” “Suzu-chan knitted it for me.” “It’s a lovely color—such bright shades do suit children well.” “Tsuya-ko’s black hair makes it look even better on her. What will you give me in return, Tsuya-chan?” Tsuya-ko had been thinking, looking somewhat embarrassed, “I’ll knit something for you too!” she replied. Then Tamotsu turned around abruptly. “Huh?! “You’re going to knit?” “That bag Tsuya-ko knitted? I saw it—it’s utterly shabby.” “Red, tiny, and full of holes!”

Everyone burst out laughing.

From the high window, the frost-laden yuzurha treetops visible beyond lent a tranquility befitting a winter Sunday. After about thirty minutes, Nobuko asked her mother, "I came to ask Father something—is the guest staying long?" "Well..." Takeyo glanced at the clock.

“Oh my, it’s already been over two hours. They should be finishing up soon—it seems to be something related to the company.” “They could stay over today, I suppose.” “That’s right.” Nobuko said while eating steamed sushi, “Today is absolutely out of the question—he’s a patient.” “Huh?” Takeyo asked, sounding surprised. “Is it Mr.Tsukuda?” “He’s been in bed since the other day.” Takeyo muttered nonchalantly. “It’s that stomach trouble again, I suppose. Still as frail as ever.”

“It’s not his stomach this time—”

At that moment, her father entered. "Oh. You’re here." Nobuko and the others all stood up in unison.

“Good day.” “Good afternoon, Uncle.” “Hiya!” Father joked around, letting his glasses slide down to the tip of his nose. “This is a disaster! Our children have doubled! I can’t tell which is which anymore!”

After the commotion subsided, Nobuko asked her father. “Father, some time ago, you were looking at a good sleeper catalog—is that still available?” “Well—if we look for it, of course we’ll find it—but are you going to buy it?” “I think I’d like to get one.” He poked at the fireplace fire while, “One?” he asked back.

“If you’re going to buy one anyway, wouldn’t two be better? They’re healthy—we’d switch to sleepers too if that stubborn old woman would agree.”

Nobuko, wanting to settle the matter she had come for, continued without indulging in the humor.

“Tsukuda hasn’t been well, you see—when he’s lying on the tatami mats, I feel hesitant to walk around, so for now, I’d like to buy just one.” “—Where?” “In the desk?”

Following Nobuko, Father also came to the desk.

“It’s probably not there—it should be in that binder over there.” “Take a look at section B.” They found the catalog, passed by the group of children playing diamonds, and sat facing each other in front of the fireplace. Father looked concerned.

“What’s wrong exactly—has he been unwell all this time?” Nobuko answered lightly, just as she had prepared. “It seems he overexerted himself and injured his throat.” “The doctor said he should rest for about a semester.”

Nobuko felt her mother, from across the room, listening to what she was saying with a penetrating gaze.

"That won't do. Did you consult a reliable doctor?" "You know him, Father." "Mr. Serizawa from K."

Nobuko examined the catalog and called the store. It was agreed they would deliver it on Monday. At his third thorough examination, it was revealed—just as initially suspected—that Tsukuda had minor infiltrates in his left lung.

However, Nobuko had resolved not to tell her parents the full details of his condition unless absolutely necessary. As she was preparing to leave, the maid came to summon her. “Madam requests your presence at the kotatsu for a moment.” Nobuko instinctively grasped the summons’ purpose and felt repelled. Reluctantly sliding open the fusuma door, she found Takeyo still warming herself at the kotatsu, turning only her head toward the sound. “This cold drizzle has set in rather suddenly. “—With all that commotion over there, I thought we might speak privately here.”

Nobuko slid her knees into the kotatsu.

“About Tsukuda’s illness—is he really all right?” “What about?” “—It’s not just a simple throat problem, is it?” “Why?”

“When he came that time, I thought his complexion wasn’t right at all.” Nobuko felt a duty to reassure her mother,

“In any case, there’s nothing to worry about so terribly.—Isn’t the fact that I’m this lively proof enough that he’s fine? It’s just that we’re being cautious since it’s turning colder.” she said. “Your liveliness isn’t any guarantee—this is truly troubling—so tell me, will he really recover completely in just a semester?” “Probably.” Nobuko smiled darkly.

“Well, you can never tell with humans.” “But if Tsukuda has tuberculosis or something, keeping quiet and marrying him would be a sin, wouldn’t you say?”

“Even if that were true, it wasn’t there before, was it? That’s too cruel to even consider.” “You may be perfectly healthy now—but your body is your greatest asset in life. Have you told Father back home?” “There’s no need for that yet.” “But there are so many…” Nobuko deduced she meant money. “Is he really all right—”

Nobuko threw off the kotatsu quilt.

“Well then, I’ll take my leave today. Thank you for everything.” “Is that so?”

Takeyo rose reluctantly as if to stand. "You really must be careful," she said. "If even you get saddled with something unsavory, the family will disown you." As she left the room, Nobuko muttered sarcastically, "Well, this must be rather convenient for him." "Now that things have come to this, it's not like you could leave even if I told you to..."

Nobuko found her mother detestable, yet she couldn’t deny she’d struck upon the truth.

Seven Holding a tray bearing a heavy soup bowl, Nobuko quietly slid open the paper-paneled door. Since no charcoal fire burned there, the room's air remained pure and refreshing. Gentle sunlight streamed through the glass-paned door and glistened on the metal fittings of the bed.

“It feels nice here.—Like my head’s clearing right up.”

There was no reply.—Nobuko winced, realizing her blunder. Tsukuda appeared to be sleeping. Nobuko abruptly moved stealthily and approached the bedside. Without making a sound, she placed the tray on the small side table and peered over the pillow. He was not sleeping. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling. He tightened his lips and stared fixedly at a single point with a look that strained his upper eyelids. Wondering what had caught his attention, Nobuko too glanced up at the ceiling for a moment.

“What’s the matter?”

“……” “Were you asleep?”

Tsukuda slowly moved his eyes across Nobuko's face, then gazed at her—standing there full of vitality—with a look that seemed both anguished and pleading. "I wasn't sleeping or anything."

At his accusatory tone, Nobuko noticed for the first time that Tsukuda was holding a small Bible in the hand she couldn't see. When she saw this, she felt an inexplicable revulsion. Since her husband had taken to bed, she had already witnessed this scene several times. Each time, the same fresh, sharp discomfort surged through Nobuko's entire being. Even if he were suffering from chronic nephritis, would Tsukuda still clutch a Bible and wear such an expression? After returning to Japan, Tsukuda—who normally lived without so much as glancing at the Bible—now treated himself like one cast into direst misfortune since taking to bed, gloomily thumbing through its pages. To Nobuko, this spectacle stirred a mixture of wretchedness and shame that was unbearable. Nobuko restrained her emotions and sipped her soup as if she hadn't seen a thing.

“Here, have it while it’s hot. Once it gets cold, Cook’s just Cook—there’ll be no helping it then.”

Tsukuda sat up on the bed with a look that rebuffed Nobuko's forced cheer. He silently took the spoon. While sipping his soup like an obligation, he occasionally raised a nervous gaze—the whites of his eyes stark—to look at Nobuko beside him. Nobuko felt constrained, as though subjected to some inexplicable interrogation.

“What’s wrong?—Are you feeling unwell?” “No.” “Then eat to lift your spirits, okay? You’re already in the recovery phase, you know. There’s no need to feel so despondent.—It’s better to stay calm, really.” “Thank you… It was delicious.” Tsukuda returned the plate, wiped around his mouth with a napkin, and spoke. “It’s pitiable… You’re healthy, after all.”

“Why?” “This is why—I…” “About your illness?” Tsukuda let out a deep sigh instead of replying.

“Of course anyone would prefer health over illness, but since this is where we find ourselves, there’s nothing to do but do our best to get better.” “That may be so—but how do I say this…”

Nobuko said, careful not to let sarcasm creep into her voice.

“It’s about mindset—or rather, why don’t you treat this illness like any other internal disease? If it’s not life-threatening, you should steel yourself to believe it might even sharpen your mind.” “After all,” he said, “it’s not an illness that befalls happy people.” This time Nobuko looked down at him through a murky haze of dread, deliberately slow…… The revelation chilled her. She had always viewed his sickness as just that—a physical ailment. Tsukuda refused such simplicity. He meant it was her fault—her inability to adapt to their life that tormented him.—

Holding the dish, Nobuko stood motionless. She felt a composed resignation in her heart, as though realizing that even now there was no path of escape. The illness held no power to cease this soundless clash of heart against heart. Because her husband was now ill, she naturally cared for and helped him—but when pressed to the core, she still wasn't truly accepting him. In the same way, was Tsukuda too assailing her like this within his heart?

Nobuko went to the kitchen with a heavy heart and silently handed the empty soup bowl to the maid.

In those moments when she absentmindedly chattered while adjusting Tsukuda’s pillow, Nobuko would suddenly recall this. Her mind's eye snapped open, illuminating the terrifying darkness lurking beneath their casual exchanges.—Nobuko suddenly felt suffocated, her lips trembling involuntarily. Even her attempts to provide meticulous care for Tsukuda did not stem from love. She did not want to be cruel—it was for self-satisfaction. Even a voice whispered this to Nobuko. If she were a more straightforward person, she would have kicked away such saintly pretenses.

Even her simple acts, which she had performed quite naturally until then, now seemed strangely hypocritical, and with a heart bitter and aching, Nobuko hurried to finish what she had started. Tsukuda understood all too well that this could only be taken as Nobuko's capriciousness and aversion to effort. Nobuko was sad. If I were Tsukuda, I would probably feel hatred—this was a painful realization.

One evening, Nobuko had been in her room for some time. When she became aware of it, the entire house had fallen deathly silent. She pricked up her ears to listen. Only her room remained—the surroundings seemed to have vanished into utter stillness. Nobuko was overcome with anxiety. Shoving the chair aside with her body, she stood and slid open the adjacent paper door. The lamp was lit. The bedding on the sickbed swelled upward, molded to the form of the human body lying beneath. Nothing was amiss. Nobuko felt ridiculous for having been seized by such groundless apprehension. Casting an enormous shadow on the wall by the bed's footboard, she stepped into the room. But seeing her husband's condition, her words stuck in her throat.

He was reading the Bible—Nobuko understood she had no right to question his motives, whatever they might be. Whether he read it cheerfully or tried to stir up sentiment through his reading. Yet there exist in this world ways of doing things that grate on one's nerves. For instance, even when eating the same food, there exists a manner of consumption that infuriates merely to witness. What was Tsukuda trying to make me realize through this Bible?

Nobuko looked down at Tsukuda's face. He likely sensed both her condescension and the stomping intensity behind her gaze, yet never fluttered an eyelash. His obstinate stare remained anchored to the wall beneath his feet. Nobuko's endurance frayed beyond bearing. She spoke in a low, crushed voice. "Hand that over—please..."

As she said this, she reached out her hand.

“…………”

Tsukuda, his thumb bulging like a viper from the force, readjusted his grip on the Bible he had taken out from under the futon. Nobuko could no longer restrain her savage emotions.

“Give it to me—”

He tried not to relinquish it. "Give it." Oh, what am I trying to do? This isn't good for Tsukuda's health. Things might turn dreadful. Let things turn dreadful—in one decisive act! In one decisive act! Tsukuda, pale-faced and staring fixedly at Nobuko, raised and lowered his hand, trying not to relinquish it. Nobuko pursued it in earnest. As she kept pursuing him, Nobuko grew frightened of themselves and tears spilled in heavy drops.

“I’m telling you to give it to me! If you’d just hand it over, there wouldn’t be any problem!”

Nobuko slammed the Bible she had seized under the bed. They both cried.

Eight

By late February, Tsukuda's health had nearly returned to normal, requiring only that he refrain from attending school, stay in bed until late mornings, and avoid going out at night.