We talked for a few more minutes about local politics, and then I said, “On another topic, when I decided to abandon my drowning novel, Asa told me you were happy about my decision because of your deep loyalty to my mother. She also said that since the red leather trunk is out of the picture and won’t be causing any problems in the future, you were hoping to renew our acquaintance. I gather that’s why we’re having the pleasure of seeing you around again on a regular basis, after all these years.
“In any event, it so happens that you’re the person I want most to talk to right now. As you know, I’ve been thinking a lot about my father lately. You’ve suggested in passing that he had a stronger interest in the realms of literature and folklore than in politics as such, and what you’ve told me about the way his reading preferences also tended to skew in those directions strikes me as a very strong clue. After I went through the contents of the red leather trunk and found those three volumes of Frazer’s The Golden Bough—in the original English, no less! — I lugged those books back to Tokyo and started to read my way through them, a few pages at a time. However, because of some, uh, family issues, I put the project on hold.
“Since arriving here I’ve gotten back into the mood to read all three volumes in their entirety, but first I wanted to ask you a question. Do you have any idea why my father would have given those books — and those books alone — such preferential treatment, even going to the trouble of packing them in the trunk when he set out on his getaway run?”
Daio stared at me with such intensity that after a second I had to look away. I focused instead on the garden behind him, where the trees had just begun to put forth the fresh new foliage of spring: the reddish shoots of the pomegranate, the yellow-green leaflings of the Konara oak. I remembered that during my previous reunion with Daio, back when Goro and I were both attending high school in Matsuyama, Daio had sometimes had this same coruscating light in his eyes. Finally he spoke, and his manner threw those old memories into even sharper relief for me.
“You’re wondering about those books,” he said. “I don’t read English, but I do have some ideas about why your father might have been so interested in them. I’d like very much to talk to you about that but first I need to gather my thoughts, and I’m not quite there yet. Would you mind waiting a bit longer?”
3
With both Unaiko and Asa away in Tokyo, Ricchan was working even harder than usual. In the beginning I didn’t have a clear sense of how the members of the Caveman Group were managing to get by financially, although I was aware that the younger members always seemed to be juggling a variety of part-time jobs. When it came to the weekly expenses for Akari and me, Asa mentioned up front that I needed to contribute such-and-such a sum, so I was regularly depositing the prescribed amount, along with a bit extra, in an empty biscuit tin that was a permanent fixture on the dining-room table. However, when I lifted the lid at the beginning of every week to replenish the cash, I always found an assortment of receipts along with leftover funds in the form of coins and paper currency.
Since Ricchan was helping us in many different ways I asked whether I could at least pay her something comparable to the hourly wages Daio had agreed to accept, but she refused even to discuss the matter, saying simply, “Let’s wait till Asa gets back.”
I felt uneasy about the existing arrangement because Ricchan didn’t merely keep up with household chores and prepare all our meals; she also looked after Akari on a daily basis. On top of that, while Unaiko was away doing her guest-artist stint at a big theater in Tokyo, Ricchan was attending to a variety of managerial duties, both for the Caveman Group and for Unaiko’s next big dramatic project. (Ricchan tended to be somewhat closemouthed, but I did manage to learn Unaiko had been cast as a last-minute replacement for a well-known actress, which had delayed her return to Shikoku.) No doubt about it: Ricchan was an exceptionally diligent worker and a woman of many talents. As for Daio, he cheerfully lent a hand around the house and also took care of any outdoor-maintenance tasks Ricchan suggested.
No matter how busy she was with her other obligations, Ricchan was always remarkably conscientious about Akari’s rehabilitation program, and every day — unless it happened to be raining — she would drive him to the Saya and assist him in his quest to strengthen the muscles surrounding the injured thoracic vertebra, while being careful not to inflict further damage. During these workout sessions Akari was free to play his chosen music, cranked up as loud as he pleased, and he must have found those freewheeling interludes a welcome release from the oppressive tension of sharing a house with me in our current state of estrangement.
Ricchan’s days were filled to overflowing, but she was so adept at multitasking that she somehow found time to go out in the field on a regular basis and collect oral histories from some of the people who lived along the riverside and on the slope below the Saya. Although Ricchan didn’t talk much about this, I gathered from Daio that this research was part of the groundwork for the next dog-tossing project: a major theatrical presentation that Unaiko, Asa, and Ricchan would be collaborating on in the near future.
Evidently Ricchan was trying to interview people who had been involved in the filming of Asa’s ill-starred movie about our local heroine, Meisuke’s mother. (No one ever used her given name, nor had I ever heard a single mention of Meisuke’s father.) Daio seemed certain that Unaiko and Ricchan’s next project was going to be an attempt to dramatize a famous guerrilla insurrection that took place after the Meiji Restoration, using Unaiko’s distinctive method of interactive theater. And, he added excitedly, they were hoping to use the screenplay I’d written for Asa’s film, Meisuke’s Mother Marches Off to War (which was based on actual history mixed in with some well-known local lore), as a source of guidance and inspiration — if they could ever get their hands on a copy of it.
When Ricchan learned that Daio had already spilled the beans about this nascent plan, she decided to tell me why it had been kept under wraps. There were two reasons for the cloak of secrecy, and she explained them fully, albeit with her usual verbal economy. Reason number one: Asa was all in favor of having her brother (i.e., me) take a helpful role in the new project, and she had promised to nudge me gently in that direction. However, given the distressing complexity of my current situation (quite aside from the lingering repercussions from the Big Vertigo, I was having to cope with my wife’s serious illness as well as with some monumental difficulties in my relationship with my son) Asa had suggested that it might be more considerate to wait awhile before depositing anything new on my plate, so to speak.
Ricchan went on to say that Unaiko had her heart set on putting together a play shaped by some mysterious theme derived from her personal history — a motif that apparently echoed the story of the insurrection on some level. Ricchan, by way of preliminary preparations, had been visiting the Honmachi library to look for archival materials pertaining to the uprising, while also gathering anecdotal evidence by talking to local women who had actually participated in the filming of the movie.
After that disclosure there was no further need to keep me in the dark, and Ricchan’s fieldwork became a frequent topic of conversation around the dining-room table at the Forest House. One evening Akari, who had clearly been pondering something throughout the meal, left the table and trudged up the stairs to his room with an air of determination. A few moments later, he came back down clutching what appeared to be a large, custom-bound portfolio covered in blue cloth. (Back in Tokyo, Maki had sorted through her brother’s effects and had mailed him a number of things, apparently including this portfolio.)