The hallway came abruptly to an end; up two or three steps at an angle were more sinks. Into four glittering metal basins in a row, water that was piped either from the mountain or directly from the hot spring was running in an uninterrupted stream from nickel-plated faucets; not only were the basins full, but a thin film of overflow like colorful crystal was constantly running down the sides. The surface of the water in the basins, subtly agitated by the incoming stream, trembled minutely.
Tsuda was accustomed to using tap water, and his eyes quickly tricked him into forgetting where he was. His only thought was that water was being wasted. He was on the verge of turning the faucets off when he became aware of his own misapprehension. At the same time he felt strangely stirred by the irregular eddying on the surface of the water in the white enamel basins.
How quiet it was! Just as the maid had said as she served him his supper. More precisely, the reality itself affirmed her words, though in fact it was far quieter than he had imagined at the time. It wasn’t simply a matter of thinking it odd that no guests were in evidence; one had to wonder if the place were deserted. In the silence the electric lights illuminated every corner. But this was merely light; there was neither sound nor movement. Only the water in the basins moved. It circled like an eddy, rippling across the surface and folding in on itself as he watched, as if it were breathing.
He looked away from the water and encountered abruptly the figure of another person. Startled, he narrowed his gaze and peered. But it was only an image of himself, reflected in a mirror hanging alongside the sinks. It wasn’t full length, but it was large, at least as long as the mirrors in a barber shop. It was also, like a barber’s mirror, due to the space it occupied, perpendicular: not only his head but his shoulders and trunk and hips as well were reflected back at him in the same plane as he was standing. Even after he had recognized that he was facing an image of himself, he was unable to avert his eyes. Though he was fresh from the hot bath, he looked pale. He couldn’t understand how that could be. His hair, badly in need of a haircut and disheveled, covered his head like a mop. Having just been soaked in the tub, it glistened like lacquer. For some reason it put him in mind of a garden in the aftermath of a violent storm.
He was handsome, with regular features. The skin of his face had a silky abundance that was wasted on a man. He was inveterately confi-dent about his looks. He couldn’t remember ever glancing in a mirror and failing to confirm his confidence. He was therefore a little surprised to observe something in this refection that struck him as less than satisfying. Before he had determined that the image was himself, he was assailed by the feeling that he was looking at his own ghost. Horrified, he resisted. He widened his eyes and studied the reflection even more closely. Stepping closer, he picked up the comb in front of the mirror. He combed his hair carefully, composing himself.
When he finished with the comb and threw it down, the spell was broken; he was looking for his room as before. Glancing up the stairs facing the sinks, he perceived something distinctively different about them. The steps were a third wider than usual. And they were built so sturdily it seemed they wouldn’t creak even if an elephant ascended them. Moreover, unlike ordinary stairs, they were thickly varnished as if they belonged in an imitation Western building.
No matter how inattentive he may have been, Tsuda was certain he had not come down these stairs on his way to the baths. Realizing that ascending them was not the way back and resolved to retrace his steps once again, he turned away from the mirror.
[176]
JUST THEN he heard a shoji door being slid open and closed again on the second floor. Judging from the imposing stairway, the rooms upstairs in this large building seemed likely to number more than two or three, yet the sound had reached Tsuda with a distinct immediacy that allowed him to gauge the distance of the room from where he stood. Immediately at the top of the stairs there appeared to be the sort of sizable room with a wood floor commonly seen in restaurants and other similar establishments. He couldn’t determine its width from below, but judging by the wall at the back it appeared easily deep enough to accommodate the long side of a tatami mat, about six feet. Without ascending the stairs, there was no telling whether the hall twisted in three directions or simply moved down either side of the room, but it seemed certain that the sound of the shoji must have issued from the room immediately behind the wall and accordingly closest to the stairs.
Hearing this sound suddenly in the silence that had resumed, Tsuda understood for the first time that there were also guests upstairs. More precisely, he became aware finally of the existence of another human being. Until this moment his attention had been intently focused elsewhere, in a different direction, and he was surprised. It was of course mild surprise. But in its nature it was akin to surprise at seeing someone thought dead coming suddenly back to life. Tsuda wanted to flee. The impulse had partly to do with his reluctance to reveal the witless-ness that had kept him wandering the halls in search of his own room; moreover, truth be told, he was ashamed to expose the ugliness he sensed in himself for allowing his surprise to unseat him even a little.
But the natural course of the event didn’t allow for simple flight. As he turned on his heel a thought occurred.
It could very well be the maid.
This newly considered possibility restored his courage at once. Having transcended his surprise, he found that he was no longer concerned in the least if it was a guest or otherwise.
I don’t care who it is, when she comes down I’ll ask the way to my room.
Resolved, he peered up the stairway from where he stood alongside the mirror. As he did so, he heard soft footsteps coming from just behind the wall as he had imagined. The steps were quiet, so quiet he wouldn’t have detected them but for the slapping of the slipper against the heel. At that moment something in his heart lurched.
This is a woman. But she’s not a maid. For all I know…
Even as the thought passed, the very person he had supposed it might be appeared above him ineluctably; in the grip of surprise ten times more powerful than a minute ago he stopped, rooted to the spot. Not even his eyes moved.
A similar emotion seemed to have assaulted Kiyoko with even more virulence. As she reached the wooden floor and halted there, she became for Tsuda a kind of painting. The impression he received would remain engraved on his heart.
Lowering her gaze innocently enough from the top of the stairs and recognizing Tsuda appeared to occur at once and yet were not truly simultaneous. Not at least as Tsuda perceived them. Between oblivion and discovery, time elapsed. There was a progression of feelings from surprise past amazement to disbelief before she finally stiffened. Brought up short in her tracks, she stood there so rigidly it appeared that a single finger thrust at her shoulder from the side might topple her as if she were a clay figurine.
Apparently intending like most guests staying here for treatment to warm herself with a quick bath before going to bed, she was carrying a small towel. Like Tsuda, she also had with her a nickel soap holder with no cover. Later, revisiting the moment, Tsuda would remember wondering why, standing there so rigidly, she hadn’t dropped it to the floor.
Kiyoko wasn’t dressed as carelessly as the woman he had encountered at the bath a while ago. She had, however, availed herself of the freedom guests at a place like this tacitly agree to allow one another. She wasn’t wearing a proper obi. Instead, she had wrapped around her waist a brightly colored sash of pretty red and yellow stripes. She had stepped into a pair of thin wool slippers, and the long undergarment she was wearing beneath her night dress brushed the tops of her naked feet.