“The truth is, I’ll be going into exile in this suit. I’m running away to Korea.”
Tsuda regarded his companion with surprise on his face for the first time. When he had taken the opportunity to point out something that had been bothering him, that Kobayashi’s necktie was twisted to one side, and had bid him straighten it, he resumed listening to his story.
Having worked for a long time at Uncle Fujii’s magazine as an editor and proofreader, writing articles of his own when he could find the time, and making the rounds to places that seemed likely to pay for them, Kobayashi, who had always appeared to be a busy man, had finally found himself unable to endure being in Tokyo any longer and had resolved to cross the water to Korea, where arrangements for his employment at a certain newspaper were nearly concluded.
“When things get this painful, it makes no sense to keep hanging on in Tokyo. I can’t stand living in a place where there’s no future for me.”
Kobayashi spoke as if a future had been prepared and would be awaiting his arrival in Korea, and in the next breath he contradicted his seeming certainty.
“The long and short of it is I may be someone who was always destined to spend my life wandering aimlessly. I can’t settle down. The cruel part is, I want to settle down and the world won’t let me. So what choice do I have but to become a fugitive?”
“You’re not the only one who can’t settle down. I’m not in the least settled down myself.”
“Stop indulging yourself. If you can’t settle down it’s because you’re extravagant. I’m in pain because I’ll have to scramble for a slice of bread until my dying day.”
“But feeling unsettled is a defining predicament of modern man in general. You’re not the only one in pain.”
Kobayashi betrayed no sign of feeling in the least consoled by Tsuda’s words.
[37]
THE WAITRESS, who had been observing them, approached abruptly and began to clear the table pointedly. As if on that signal, the man in the Inverness glided out of his seat. Engrossed in their conversation, Tsuda and Kobayashi had stopped drinking a while ago and could hardly carry on as though oblivious. Tsuda took the opportunity to stand at once. Before leaving his seat, Kobayashi helped himself to a gold-tipped Manilla from the box that had been left on the table between them and lit it. It was as if he had decided he deserved a modest bonus on the side, Tsuda thought, piqued by the irony as he retrieved the cigarette box and put it in his sleeve.
Though the hour wasn’t that late, the crowd on this autumn night had dwindled surprisingly. The distinctive rumbling of a streetcar that would have been inaudible by day reached them from a distance. They walked along together, each in the grip of his own mood, their paired shadows wavering down the river bank.
“When will you be leaving?”
“It depends, maybe while you’re in the hospital.”
“That soon?”
“Not necessarily. I won’t know for certain until Sensei has another meeting with the head writer on the paper.”
“When you’re leaving, or if you’re going at all?”
“Something like that—”
Kobayashi’s reply was vague. As Tsuda moved quickly ahead without bothering to probe, he amplified.
“The truth is, I don’t really want to go.”
“Is Uncle saying you absolutely must?”
“Not at all — it’s not like that.”
“Then why not call it off?”
Tsuda’s words, with the force of logic that would have been plain as day to anyone hearing the remark, had the effect of cruelly squelching what appeared to be his companion’s expectation of sympathy. A few steps further, Kobayashi turned to Tsuda abruptly.
“Tsuda-kun!* I’m horribly lonely!”
Tsuda made no reply.
They walked together in silence. The trickle of water in the very center of the shallow riverbed vanished darkly beneath the indistinct stanchions of a bridge with a faint gurgling audible between the rumbling of a trolley.
“I guess I’ll go after all. I just think I better go.”
“Then do.”
“Right — I’ll go. Going to Korea or Taiwan is a much better deal than staying in a place like this and being made a fool of by everyone around.”
Kobayashi’s voice had tightened to shrillness. Tsuda sensed the importance of keeping his own voice calm.
“It’s foolish to be so pessimistic. As long as you’re young and in good health, why shouldn’t you succeed splendidly wherever you go? Let’s throw you a farewell party — to cheer you up.”
This time Kobayashi said nothing. Even so, Tsuda tried to remain sympathetic.
“How is O-Kin going to feel if you’re away when she gets married?”
Kobayashi appeared startled, as if he had just realized he had forgotten all about his younger sister.
“I feel sorry for her, but what can I do? It was her misfortune to end up with a hoodlum like me for a brother; she’ll have to resign herself.”
“Auntie and Uncle will look after things even if you’re away.”
“I guess that’s how it will have to be. Otherwise she can break off this engagement and stay on at Sensei’s house working like a maid. The way I figure it, she’d be a maid either way — I feel even sorrier about Sensei. If I do go, I’ll have to borrow travel money from him.”
“They won’t pay for the trip?”
“It doesn’t seem so.”
“You’ll have to squeeze it out of them.”
“Right—”
When Kobayashi spoke again, breaking another minute of silence, he might have been talking to himself.
“I borrow travel money from Sensei, I bum an overcoat from you, I leave my only sister in the lurch — I’m hopeless.”
These were the last lines Kobayashi uttered that night. Shortly after, they went their separate ways. Tsuda hurried homeward without looking back.
* A suffix less formal than san, kun is roughly equivalent to second-person familiar, as in tu or du. It is used only by men, friends, or a superior to a subordinate.
[38]
HIS FRONT gate was closed as usual. He reached for the half door in the gate; tonight it wouldn’t open. Thinking it must be stuck, he tried again several times and finally yanked at it forcefully and only then, hearing on the inside the leaden rasp of the latch resisting, resigned himself.
Inclining his head to one side at this unexpected development, he stood a moment where he was. Not once since becoming a new householder had he spent a night away from home, and even on the rare occasion when he returned late at night he had never until now encountered this.
Today he had been wanting to come home since dusk. He had dined perfunctorily at his uncle’s house because he had been given no choice. The small quantity of sake he had reluctantly consumed had been a concession to Kobayashi. Since evening had fallen he had spent the time away from home with O-Nobu on his mind. As he returned through the chilly night, it was very much as if he had been guided by his longing for the warm lamplight of his house. It wasn’t simply that his body had halted as a horse halts before a wall; his anticipation had been abruptly extinguished in front of his gate. Whether this stanching was O-Nobu’s fault or simply accidental was a matter of no small concern to him.
Lifting his hand, he rapped twice smartly on the locked door. The sound that rang into the darkness of the deepening night in the street was less a command to “Open up!” than a demand to know “Why is this locked?”
“Coming!” a reply immediately sounded from within. It reached his ear as swiftly as an echo, and it was O-Nobu’s voice, not the maid’s. Going suddenly still, he listened in silence outside the gate. He heard the sound of the switch at the entrance, an outdoor light used only when needed. The lattice at the gate immediately rattled open; clearly the front door hadn’t yet been closed.