Kusamakura

She gives a quick laugh. “Don’t you understand?â€

“But you must have read quite a lot when you were young,†I say, abandoning my single line of attack and attempting a rearguard action.

“I like to believe I’m stil young, you know. Real y, you are pathetic.†My arrow has gone wide again. There’s no relaxing in this game.

Final y pul ing myself together, I manage to retort, “It shows you’re already past your youth, to be able to say that in front of a man.â€

“Wel , you’re far from young yourself, to be able to make that remark. Is it stil so fascinating, for a man of your age, al this talk of being head over heels and heels over head, and having pimples, and such adolescent stuff?â€

“It is, yes, and it always wil be.â€

“My, my! So that’s how you come to be an artist, then.â€

“Absolutely. It’s because I’m an artist that I don’t need to read a novel from cover to cover. On the other hand, wherever I choose to dip in is interesting for me. Talking to you is interesting too. In fact, it’s so interesting that I’d like to talk to you every day while I’m staying here. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind fal ing in love with you. That would make it even more interesting. But we wouldn’t need to marry, no matter how in love with you I was. A world where fal ing in love requires marrying is a world where novels require reading from beginning to end.â€

“That means that an artist is someone who fal s in love unemotional y.â€

“No, it’s not un-emotional. My way of fal ing in love is non-emotional. The way I read novels is nonemotional too, which is why the story doesn’t matter. I find it interesting just to open up the book at random, like this, like pul ing one of those paper oracles out of the box at a shrine, see, and read whatever meets my eye.â€

“Yes, that does look like an interesting thing to do. Wel then, tel me a little about the place you’re reading now. I’d like to know what intriguing things emerge.â€

“It’s not something one should talk about. Same with a painting—the worth of the thing disappears completely if you talk about it, doesn’t it?â€

She laughs. “Wel then, read it to me.â€

“In English?â€

“No, in Japanese.â€

“It’s tough to have to read English in Japanese.â€

“What’s the problem? It’s a fine nonemotional thing to do, after al .â€

This could be fun, I decide, and proceed to do as she asks, falteringly translating aloud the words on the page. If there were ever a “nonemotional†way of reading, this is it, and she too, of course, wil be hearing it with a “nonemotional†ear.

“‘The woman emanated tenderness. It flowed from her voice, her eyes, her skin. Did she accept this man’s help to lead her to the boat’s stern in order that she might view Venice in the dusk, or was it to send this electricity coursing through his veins?’ This is just a rough translation, you understand, because I’m reading nonemotional y. I may skip a bit here and there.â€1

“That’s perfectly al right. I won’t even mind if you add something wherever you feel inclined.â€

“‘The woman leaned beside the man at the railing of the boat. The space between the two was narrower than that of a ribbon fluttering in the breeze. Together they bade farewel to Venice. The palace of the Doges glowed a soft red, like a second sunset, and faded from view.’â€

“What’s a Doge?â€

“It doesn’t matter what it is. It’s the name of the people who used to rule Venice long ago. They ruled for generations; I’m not sure how many. Their palace stil stands there.â€

“So who are this man and woman?â€

“I’ve no more idea than you do. That’s why it’s interesting. It doesn’t matter what relationship they’ve had til now. The interest lies in the scene before us at this moment, their being here together—just like you and me.â€

“You think so? They seem to be in a boat, don’t they?â€

“In a boat, on a hil , what does it matter? You just take it as it’s written. Once you start asking why, it al turns into detective work.â€

She gives a laugh. “Al right then, I won’t ask.â€

“The usual novels are al invented by detectives. There’s nothing nonemotional about them—they’re utterly boring.â€

“Wel then, let’s hear the next bit of your nonemotional story. What happens now?â€

“‘Venice continued to sink from sight, until it became nothing more than a faint smudge of line against the sky. The line broke now into a series of points. Here and there, round pil ars stood out against the opal sky. At last, the topmost bel tower sank from sight. It is gone, said the woman. The heart of this woman bidding farewel to Venice was free as the wind. Yet the now hidden city stil held her heart in a painful grip, and she knew she must return there. The man and the woman fixed their gaze on the dark bay. The stars multiplied above them. The gently rocking sea was flecked with foam. The man took the woman’s hand, and it felt to him as if he held a singing bowstring.’â€

“This doesn’t sound very nonemotional.â€

“Oh no, you can hear it as nonemotional if you care to. But if you don’t like it, we can skip a bit.â€

“No, I’m quite happy.â€

“I’m even happier than you are. Now where was I? Er . . . this part is somewhat trickier. I’m not sure I can . . . no, this is too difficult.â€

“Leave it out if it’s hard to read.â€

“Yes, I won’t bother too much. ‘This one night, the woman said. One night? he cried. Heartless to speak of a single night. There must be many.’â€

“Does the woman say this, or the man?â€

“The man does. She doesn’t want to go back to Venice, see, so he’s comforting her. ‘The man lay there on the midnight deck, his head pil owed on a coil of rigging rope; that moment in his memory, the instant like a single drop of hot blood when he had grasped her hand, now swayed in him like a vast wave. Gazing up into the black sky, he determined that come what may he must save her from the abyss of a forced marriage. With this decision, he closed his eyes.’â€

“What about the woman?â€

“‘The woman seemed as one lost and oblivious to where she strayed. Like one stolen and borne up into thin air, only a strange infinity . .

.’ The rest is a bit difficult. I can’t make sense of the phrasing. ‘A strange infinity’ . . . surely there’s a verb here somewhere?â€

“Why should you need a verb? That’s enough on its own, isn’t it?â€

“Eh?â€

There is a sudden deep rumble, and al the trees on the nearby mountain moan and rustle. Our eyes turn to each other instinctively, and at this moment the camel ia in the little vase on the desk trembles. “An earthquake!†she cries softly, shifting from her knees and leaning forward against the desk where I sit. Our bodies brush each other as they shake. With a high-pitched clatter of wings, a pheasant bursts out of the thicket close by.

“Wasn’t that a pheasant?†I say, looking out of the window.

“Where?†she inquires, leaning her pliant body against mine. Our faces are almost close enough to touch. The soft breath that emerges from her delicate nostrils brushes my mustache.