Since he had come this far he decided to see it through. He walked in the direction the policeman had indicated, carrying the box of cakes. It was a quiet residential neighborhood. A few of the houses had thatched roofs. A small hill rose abruptly to one side; on the other, over the top of some garden shrubbery, he caught a glimpse of the sea.
9 Landscape with Figures
The house stood at the bottom of a slight slope, some distance from the station. Most of the houses in the neighborhood were of wood, the walls a combination of bamboo and cedar. The Yasuda home had only one story and was quite small. It was shaded by a few tall cedars and a hedge enclosed the tiny garden. It was the kind of place a person would choose to recuperate in.
Mihara pressed the bell. He could hear it ringing in the house. He took a deep breath; the task before him was not a pleasant one.
The door was opened by an elderly woman.
"My name is Mihara; I'm from Tokyo. I'm a friend of Mr. Yasuda's. I happened to be in the neighborhood and have called to inquire about Mrs. Yasuda."
The servant listened politely, then disappeared indoors. She presently returned. "Please come in," she said.
She showed him into a Japanese-style room, about eight mats in size. The sunlight, slanting through the sliding glass doors that faced the garden, reached to the middle of the room where a bed was spread on the tatami.
Mrs. Yasuda was sitting up in the bed, waiting to receive her guest. The servant slipped a haori over her shoulders while she acknowledged Mihara's greeting. The dark silk jacket had a brilliant red pattern that formed a pool of color in the center of the room. She was a woman in her early thirties; her hair was tied loosely at the back and on her thin, extremely pale face Mihara noticed a trace of make-up, as if she had put it on hastily to receive him.
"Please forgive me for dropping in unannounced," Mihara said. "My name is Mihara; I'm a friend of Mr. Yasuda's. I was in the neighborhood and felt I should call." He could not very well hand her his official business card.
"It is very kind of you. I am Mr. Yasuda's wife."
She was very beautiful. Her eyes were large, the nose rather thin and pointed. The line from cheek to chin was angular and sharp but there was no noticeable sign of illness. A broad forehead, very slightly creased, gave her an air of intelligence.
"I hope you're feeling better," Mihara said. He felt guilty for deceiving her.
"Thank you. It will be a long convalescence, I'm afraid; I have given up hope of a quick recovery." A polite smile played about her lips.
"That is unfortunate. But perhaps now that it's getting warmer you'll get better more quickly. It has been a particularly cold winter."
Mrs. Yasuda looked out at the garden, her eyes blinking in the bright light. "This part of Kamakura does have a mild climate. There's usually a difference of four or five degrees be-. tween here and Tokyo. Even so, it has been very cold. I'm glad the warm weather has set in."
She looked up at Mihara. She had clear, beautiful eyes, and her gestures were graceful but studied, as if she calculated the effect of her glances. "Forgive me for asking, but are you a business friend of my husband?"
"In a way," Mihara replied vaguely. He was feeling uncomfortable. He would have to explain later to Yasuda.
"I'm sure my husband must be greatly indebted to you."
"On the contrary, it is I who's obligated to him." Perspiration appeared on Mihara's forehead. He quickly changed the subject. "Is Mr. Yasuda able to come here often?"
The invalid answered with a slow smile. "He's a busy man. But he makes a point of coming once a week." This confirmed what Yasuda had told him.
"How difficult for you both! But I'm glad to hear that your husband is so very busy."
He glanced casually around the room. Time must be heavy on her hands, he thought, as he noted the stacks of books in a corner of the alcove. He was surprised to see a literary monthly on top of one pile; atop another, a foreign novel in translation. Under the latter he noticed a paper pamphlet, the size and thickness of a small magazine. It looked familiar but the cover was hidden.
The servant entered with cups of tea. Mihara felt he should leave.
"Forgive me again for coming by unannounced. Do please take good care of your health."
Mrs. Yasuda looked up at him. In that light her eyes were almost blue and very bright. "Thank you for coming," she said quietly.
When Mihara presented the box of cakes she bowed formally to him from her bed. He noticed for the first time that her shoulders were pitifully thin.
The servant accompanied him to the door and while he was putting on his shoes he casually asked, "Who is Mrs. Yasuda's doctor?"
"Dr. Hasegawa. He lives near Daibutsu-mae." It was said without a moment's hesitation. There was even a note of friendliness in her voice as if she were grateful for his interest.
Mihara took the Enoshima Line to Daibutsu-mae. Once again the train was full of school children on a day's excursion.
He had no trouble finding Dr. Hasegawa's private clinic. At the entrance he presented his official card.
Dr. Hasegawa was a stout, ruddy-faced man with white hair, neatly combed. He put aside the business card, which he had been studying, and offered Mihara the chair beside his desk. He waited for Mihara to speak.
"I'm calling on you to get some information concerning a patient of yours, a Mrs. Yasuda."
At this remark, Dr. Hasegawa looked again at Mihara's card. "Is this an official inquiry?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Does it concern the patient's private life?"
"No, neither personal nor private. I merely want to know her state of health. Information of a general nature will be enough."
The doctor nodded. He asked the nurse to bring Mrs. Yasuda's card.
"She has tuberculosis. The treatment generally takes a long time. She's been ill now for three years. To be frank, in her case I see very little hope of recovery. I've told Mr. Yasuda. For the time being, her strength is being sustained by the injections I'm giving her."
"Is she confined to her bed?"
"No, she's able to get up from time to time, but she seldom goes out."
"She doesn't go out at all?"
"She can take short walks. And once in a great while she visits a relative living in Yugawara. She stays there a day or two. That much she can do."
"Do you visit her every day, Doctor?"
"No, not every day; her condition is not that critical. I make a point of going on Tuesdays and Fridays. And sometimes on Sunday afternoon."
The doctor smiled at Mihara's puzzled expression. "Mrs. Yasuda has literary tastes," he explained. "Patients who have a long convalescence often turn to literature. In her case, she's not only an avid reader of novels but sometimes she herself writes short stories and essays."
Mihara recalled the magazines and the foreign novels he had seen in her room.
"I, too, am interested in literature," the doctor continued. "I'm a friend of Masao Kume, the novelist. There are many writers living here in Kamakura but Kume is the only one I know. At my age one is a bit shy about calling on such people. But we have a group here, elderly people for the most part, who like to write-short pieces and poems- and we put out a little monthly magazine. It's our hobby; we turn to it as others do to bonsai, for example. Since we have this interest in common, sometimes I call on Mrs. Yasuda on Sunday afternoons and we talk about literature. We both enjoy it. About six months ago she gave me a copy of a short essay she had written. May I show it to you?"
It was in a little magazine of about thirty pages called Nanrin. Mihara turned to the index. He quickly found the essay, Landscape with Figures. Under the title was the name Ryōko Yasuda. This was her full name, he learned for the first time. He began to read the article with the curious title.