“I’ll show you around the greenhouses first. I’ve done it all myself. The research, the planning. I’ve built the place up and I run it. It’s developed into quite a business. For old acquaintance’s sake, Tokyo Horticulture provides good trade with me. You wouldn’t have imagined me capable of this in the past, would you? A woman, you see, has after all a considerable number of hidden talents. I’m quite impressed with it, if I do say so myself.”
It wasn’t clear how much of this rapid conversation Ippei was able to follow, although there was certainly a sense that part of what Yūko was saying to Kōji was for Ippei’s benefit. That had been the case particularly since they passed through the rose-festooned archway. In fact, it had been that way even when Ippei was not close by—for example, even while they were on their way up from the harbor earlier—and, thinking about it, that was even the way it had been two years ago, before the incident.
A water pipe stood at the entrance to the greenhouse. Kōji abruptly turned on the tap and cocked his head obliquely to one side, drinking deeply of the gushing liquid. The force of the water as it spurted onto his cheek was pleasant. His face was exposed for a moment to this glistening collision and his pallid Adam’s apple, which hadn’t seen the sun for some time, moved feverishly as he drank.
“He certainly looks like he’s enjoying that water.”
“Wa… ter,” said Ippei, echoing Yūko. Pleased that he had been able to say it so well, he repeated it. “Wa… ter.”
Kōji looked up. In the entrance to the greenhouse stood a muscular old man wearing shorts and a running shirt. It was Teijirō, the gardener. He used to be a fisherman, and as Yūko had explained, he had a daughter who worked at the Imperial Instruments factory in Hamamatsu. Kōji was momentarily uneasy—maybe Teijirō knew where he had come from. But his anxiety was dispelled by Teijirō’s firm, sun-weathered features—which resembled an ancient suit of armor—that looked out at him from under a closely cropped head of salt-white hair.
His face is not at any rate that of a person who tries to delve into others’ affairs. Rather, it’s like a closed window that he sometimes opens, just wide enough to allow the sunlight to filter through. He had known an old and sincere inmate with a similar face.
The four of them entered the first of five greenhouses. It contained mainly gloxinia and lady palm and so the three-quarter-span glass roof, which was built on a slope, was liberally screened with reed blinds. The violet, crimson, and white gloxinia compensated for the dull interior.
Kōji had learned to think about the beauty of flowers while in prison. But it had never transcended a mere sentimental appreciation from being continually near to them, so wasn’t the sort of knowledge that would stand him in good stead in the future. Kōji was surprised by Yūko’s loquacious explanation. This was clearly knowledge she had acquired in order to earn a living and, as such, far surpassed the fantasies of the likes of Kōji and his former fellow inmates.
Just then, they noticed a large black shadow fall suddenly across the sunlight that shone down on the flowers and leaves from the reed blinds above. Yūko had been boasting about the large blooms of her white gloxinia, and since the flower heads had darkened, everyone peered up toward the roof. With youthful agility, Teijirō ran along the narrow passageway between the flowers and foliage (Kōji quietly acknowledging Teijirō’s ability to delicately pick his way through the undergrowth without so much as brushing the hard leaf tips of the lady palm that spread out all around), and rushed out in the direction of the entrance. They heard Teijirō yelling from outside, and then, like something that had suddenly exploded having been suppressed in the quiet sunlight, the shrieks and laughter of a group of mischievous youngsters erupted all at once and then subsided.
“This happens a lot. I wonder what they threw this time?”
Yūko looked up at the shadow, visible between the gaps in the reed blind; Kōji and Ippei followed her gaze. Strands of glittering sunlight were finely woven in the fabric of the blind, and Kōji vividly felt its origin all the more—the sun’s penetrating rays. The shadow appeared large and ominous, but in fact the object that had been thrown was not so big at all. On the end of something that seemed to be covered in wet black hair was a long and thin hanging tail. It had to be a rat. The children must have found its remains and hurled them onto the roof. For some reason Kōji looked at Ippei’s face. The face of the man whom Yūko had described on their way over here as a person who was unable to communicate freely his desires but whose spirit was immutable. That simple smiling face—a burial marker indicating the place where Ippei’s spirit lived on, albeit incarcerated in a grave.
The shadow of the reed blind fell on his face and on Yūko’s lips, and like a dark birthmark the shape of the dead rat appeared imprinted on Ippei’s forehead. Then, suddenly, Teijirō’s bamboo pole extended over the blinds, the rat was caught by the tip of the pole, and its shadow jumped skyward. It was hoisted higher and higher, ever closer to the sun, until in an instant it had become parched in its rays.
Soon the rainy season came. On the whole, it was unusually dry. In between the wet days, there were several of brilliant sunshine. On one such day, Yūko, Ippei, and Kōji went on a picnic to the great waterfall on the far side of the mountain.
Since Kōji’s arrival some three weeks earlier, it appeared as if everything was going smoothly and their lives were settling into a new pattern. He had been provided with an airy six-tatami-mat room on the second floor, and, his daily schedule having been decided quickly, he became friendly with Teijirō. Kōji was given the important tasks of irrigation and the twice-daily spraying of plants—in the morning and evening. He worked hard, was well behaved, and exhibited a keen desire to learn, and before long he became popular with the local villagers who came to and fro.
Kōji laughed at the thought of how high-strung he had been when he had first arrived. He had repented, he was a different person from his former self, and he no longer had any concerns. He slept well at night, his appetite had improved, he was tanned, and before long, he was able to boast a healthy physique that compared favorably with the young men of the village. His daily independence was a pure delight, and he enjoyed the boundless freedom of strolling alone after work. Even on rainy days, he would set out on a walk, umbrella in hand, and soon he felt well acquainted with every corner of Iro Village. Yūko introduced Kōji to the chief priest of Taisenji temple, from whom he learned the topography and history of the surrounding area. At the close of the sixteenth century, the village formed part of the territory belonging to the local magistrate of Mishima but had, by the end of the Tokugawa Shogunate, come under the authority of the fiefdom of Mondo Manabe. Then, during the Meiji Restoration, it fell under the jurisdiction of Nirayama Prefecture together with many other scenic villages along the Izu Peninsula.
Yūko had taken up residence here via the good graces of the head of Tokyo Horticulture, and having bought a house from one of the well-to-do villagers, she refurbished it and then erected five greenhouses on the grounds.
Yūko’s ability, evidenced both in the administration of her disabled husband’s estate and in her swift lifestyle transformation, was a source of wonder to those who had known her in the past.
And while Kōji wasn’t so surprised to hear about her success, he was nevertheless increasingly astonished by Ippei’s eccentric behavior. Ippei continued his habit of reading the morning newspaper, despite not understanding anything of what he read. He simply sat in silence, with the paper fully open so that the morning sun filtered through its pages. He would just move his head lightly up and down while maintaining this posture for quite some time.