“No, but I don’t see how that matters — once we’ve decided to do it.”
Short of an emergency, Tsuda would have preferred not to allow his wife to have anything to do with such disreputable behavior. O-Nobu defended her own suggestion.
“Toki knows all about it. When she was living with us at the Okamotos, she was always going to the pawnshop on errands with a parcel wrapped in a furoshiki.* These days she tells me all she has to do is send a postcard and they come to the house to pick up whatever she has.”
It pleased Tsuda to think that his wife was willing to sacrifice her precious kimono and obi for his sake. But allowing her to make the sacrifice could only be described as painful. More than feeling sorry for her, it was the wound to his pride as a husband that gave him pause.
“Let’s give it some thought.”
Without arriving at any financial solution, he returned to his study on the second floor.
* A furoshiki is a large, silk cloth used to wrap parcels for carrying.
[9]
THE NEXT day he went to work as usual. Mid-morning he ran into Yoshikawa on the stairs. But since he was starting down as his employer was on his way up, he merely bowed politely and said nothing. Shortly before it was time for lunch, he knocked softly at Yoshikawa’s door and peeked into the room hesitantly. Yoshikawa, smoking a cigarette, was conversing with a visitor. The visitor was of course unknown to Tsuda. As he opened the door halfway their conversation, which seemed to be in full swing, abruptly ceased, and both host and visitor turned in his direction.
“What is it?”
Addressed before he had a chance to speak, Tsuda halted in the doorway.
“Just a word—”
“Personal?”
Tsuda wasn’t someone who came in and out of this office in the course of normal business. The awkwardness he was feeling showed in his face as he replied.
“Just briefly—”
“I’m in the middle of something. This isn’t the time.”
“Of course — please forgive the interruption.”
Closing the door as quietly as he could, Tsuda went back to his desk. In the afternoon he returned twice to stand in front of the same door. There was no sign of Yoshikawa either time.
“Has he gone out?”
The question was addressed to the office boy he encountered at the bottom of the stairs on his way out. The youth had perfect eyes and mouth; he was attempting to summon a brown, long-haired dog from where it reclined beneath a stone step by whistling at it as though magically, extending his arm in the animal’s direction.
“He left a while ago with a visitor — he might not be back today.”
Since all day long his sole concern was attending to the comings and goings of the people in the office, the boy’s predictions were apt to be more reliable than Tsuda’s. Leaving behind the brown dog, whose owner was undetermined, and the office boy at pains to make friends with the animal, Tsuda returned yet again to his desk, where he continued working as usual until the end of the day.
When it was time to leave he lagged slightly behind the others as they exited the large building. On the way to his usual trolley stop, as though abruptly recalling something, he took his watch from his vest pocket and glanced at it. It was less the precise time he wanted than a determination of which direction to take. It was very much as if he were conferring meaningfully with the watch whether to stop at Yoshikawa’s house on the way home or abandon the idea.
In the end, he jumped aboard a streetcar that ran in the opposite direction to his own house. He well knew that Yoshikawa was often not at home and didn’t expect that dropping in would guarantee a meeting. He also understood that even if his employer chanced to be there, he might be turned away if his timing happened to be inconvenient. Nevertheless, he felt it was necessary from time to time to pass through Yoshikawa’s gate. This was out of courtesy. It was also an obligation. It was furthermore in his best interest. Finally, it was simple vanity.
Tsuda’s acquaintance with Yoshikawa is privileged.
There were times when he felt like bearing this truth on his back. When he wished to shoulder his burden in plain view of everyone. But without in the least compromising his habitual self-respect. The psychology that had brought him to the entrance to Yoshikawa’s house was akin to that of a man who, even as he secludes things as deeply inside himself as possible, wants to reveal his hiding place to others. His interpretation to himself was that he had come all this way on an errand and for no other reason.
[10]
THE IMPOSING door at the entrance was closed as always. Tsuda glanced carelessly through the thick lattice bars set into the upper half of the door as though carved there. Just inside, a large granite platform waited quietly for shoes. Beyond, a cast-iron lamp shade was suspended from the center of the ceiling. Tsuda, who until now had never once set foot inside this entrance hall, circled to the side of the house and announced himself at the inner entrance immediately adjacent to the student room.*
“He hasn’t returned as yet.”
The houseboy in student hakama who kneeled in front of him answered simply. His attitude, which seemed to suggest an expectation that the visitor would now take his leave, was a little disconcerting. Finally Tsuda followed his first inquiry with a second.
“Is the lady of the house at home?”
“Yes. Mrs. Yoshikawa is here.”
To tell the truth, it was his wife more than Yoshikawa himself with whom Tsuda was on intimate terms. On the way to the house he had been largely animated by a desire for a meeting with her.
“Please let her know I’m here.”
To this new houseboy, seeing him for the first time, he addressed an amended request. The youth withdrew again into the house with what appeared to be equanimity. When he reappeared he said, in a slightly formal tone, “Mrs. Yoshikawa says she will see you if you’ll please follow me,” and led Tsuda to the Western-style drawing room. No sooner had he taken a seat, before tea and a cigarette tray had been brought in, than Yoshikawa’s wife appeared.
“You’re on your way home?”
Tsuda had taken a seat and had to stand again.
“How is your wife doing?” Settling herself into a chair, having responded to his greeting with a mere nod of her head, Madam Yoshikawa asked her second question at once.
Tsuda’s smile was strained. He didn’t know how to reply.
“Now that you’re a married man, we rarely have the pleasure of your company.”
There was no hint of reserve in her voice. She regarded steadily the younger man before her. Younger and, now as before, beneath her in social standing.
“I imagine you’re still happy.”
Tsuda held perfectly still, as though enduring the fine sand kicked up by a wind.
“Although it’s certainly been a while.”
“I suppose — half a year and a little.”
“How time flies! It seems like yesterday — and how is it going these days?”
“How’s what going?”
“How are you getting along with your bride?”
“No complaints in particular—”
“So the honeymoon is already over? I don’t believe it.”
“There never was a honeymoon.”
“Then it’s coming. If you weren’t happy in the beginning then happiness is on the way.”
“Thanks — I’ll be sure to look forward to that.”
“By the way, how old are you?”
“Am I on trial?”
“Of course not. I asked because I want to know. Please give me a straight answer.”