So things like this always existed in the world; how can I have forgotten until now?
Unfortunately this moment of nostalgia did not arise and fade in isolation. An image of the woman he was on his way to meet promptly traced itself in his mind. Nearly a year had passed since they had separated, and in all that time he was not aware of having forgotten her for even a minute. And what was he doing now, swaying down a night road in this carriage, if not single-mindedly pursuing her shadow? The coachman, lamentably, as if he were afraid of running late, had been lashing the horse’s skinny rump with his intemperate whip for some time. How was he himself, Tsuda wondered, pursuing his memory of the woman he had lost, any different from this bony nag? And if this miserable animal snorting through his nose was himself, then who was applying a harsh whip? Madam Yoshikawa? No, that was too black and white. Was it himself, then? Preferring to avoid a precise conclusion, Tsuda tossed the question aside but was unable to avoid moving beyond it in his thoughts.
Why am I going to meet her? To remember her forever? But haven’t I remembered her until now without a meeting? To forget her, then? Maybe that’s it. But will I be able to forget her once we meet? Maybe, maybe not. Just now the color of the pines and the sound of the water put me in mind of mountains and valleys I had completely forgotten. How will I be affected by this woman I absolutely haven’t forgotten, the woman who dances in my imagination, the woman I’ve followed here from Tokyo?
In the chill mountain air, Tsuda felt his existence being swallowed up by the same color of night that was blurring the mountains mysteriously, and he was afraid. He felt horrified.
With his hand still on the horse’s bridle, the coachman made his way carefully across the bridge that spanned the rapids, dashing white foam against the rocks as they roared below. As they cleared the bridge, Tsuda made out a number of lights and assumed they had arrived. He even considered the possibility that one of those lights might even now be shining on Kiyoko.
Those lights are beacons. I have no choice but to follow them to my destiny.
Tsuda was hardly a poet; these words wouldn’t have come to him normally. But there was no other way of describing what he felt. He leaned forward toward the youth.
“It seems we’ve arrived. Which place is yours?”
“It’s just ahead.”
The road through the hot-springs village was so narrow the carriage could barely pass. Moreover, it wound and twisted through the village in an irregular way that seemed intentional and prevented the coachman, back on his seat, from using his whip. Even so, it took only five or six minutes to reach the inn. There wasn’t much to the village, not against the vastness of the mountains and valleys.
As the hostler had predicted, the inn was hushed. It wasn’t the lateness of the hour or the size of the building; this was a quietness that could be explained only by a virtual absence of guests, and when Tsuda had been shown to his own room he felt glad of the happy coincidence that had brought him here at just the right season. By natural inclination he would have chosen to be among people, but he had an agenda.
“Is it this way during the day?” he inquired of the maid facing him across his supper tray.
“Yes.”
“The place feels empty.”
The maid, referring to the “new wing,” “the annex,” and “the main building,” explained the silence.
“It’s that big? It seems you’d lose your way without a map.”
Tsuda had to ascertain Kiyoko’s whereabouts. But he was no more able to put a direct question to the maid than to be straightfor ward with the hostler.
“I suppose there aren’t many people who come alone? To a place like this.”
“Some do.”
“Men, I suppose. I can’t imagine a woman staying here by herself.”
“We have someone now.”
“You don’t say. Is she sick, I wonder?”
“She might be.”
“What’s her name?”
Because it wasn’t one of her rooms, the maid didn’t know.
“Is she young?”
“Oh, yes, and beautiful.”
“Is that so? I’d like to see for myself.”
“She passes by here on her way to the baths. You can see her anytime.”
“Excellent.”
When he had learned which direction the woman’s room was in, Tsuda had the maid take the tray away.
[173]
THINKING TO have a quick soak before he went to bed, he asked the maid to show him the way to the baths and realized only then that the size of the place was as she had described it. Turning down unexpected hallways and descending sudden flights of stairs, when he finally reached the tubs he wondered if he would be able to return to his room by himself.
The baths were partitioned by boards and glass doors into several areas; there were six small tubs, three on the left facing three on the right, and a large tub a little apart that was more than twice the size of a normal public bath.
“This here is the largest and the best,” the maid said, rattling open the door inset with frosted glass. There was no one inside. Possibly to prevent steam from accumulating, the transom was fitted with a glass shutter; the draft of night air entering through the half-opened space beneath the ceiling struck Tsuda’s body as he was removing his padded jacket and reminded him that he was in a mountain village.
“That’s cold.”
Tsuda jumped into the tub with a splash.
“Please take your time.”
About to close the door to the bath on her way out, the maid came back in.
“There’s another tub downstairs; you can also use that one if you like.”
Having descended one or two flights of steps on his way here, Tsuda had trouble imagining there could still be a downstairs.
“How many floors is this place?”
Smiling, the maid didn’t answer. But she didn’t hesitate to inform him what she thought he needed to know.
“Being this one is new, it’s nicer, but they say the springs downstairs is better for your health. Most of our guests who are really here for treatment go downstairs. And downstairs you can massage your shoulders and back under the falls.”
Submerged in the tub to his neck, Tsuda replied.
“Thanks. That’s where I’ll go from now on, so please take me there next time.”
“I will — is something ailing you?”
“A bit, yes.”
For some time after the maid had left, Tsuda was unable to forget what she had said, “our guests who are really here for treatment.”
Does that include me?
He wanted to think of himself that way, and then again he preferred not to. In his heart he was aware of his purpose in being here. But having come all this way through the rain, he perceived there was still bargaining room. There was hesitation. A certain latitude remained. It told him something.
This can still go either way. If you want to be a guest who’s serious about treatment, you can be. At this point, old boy, you’re still free to decide. And you’ll never tire of freedom. On the other hand, with freedom nothing ever gets resolved, which keeps you unsatisfied. Will you toss your freedom away, then? But when you’ve lost it, what will you be able to take firm hold of? Do you know? Your future has yet to reveal itself. What if it holds many times more wonder than the single skein of mystery in your past? You want to dispel that mystery in the past in order to secure the future that you want, and to achieve that you contemplate throwing away your freedom in the present — does that make you clever or a fool?