“Yeah. I sent it from prison,” he replied, splashing water noisily.
“That’s a little rash, don’t you think? Do you intend to bury your whole life in the Kusakado greenhouse?”
Kōji remained silent in the unpleasantly hot, dark bathwater. He gazed at a strand of Yūko’s long, shedded hair as it formed a ring on the surface of the water. He pushed himself out toward it, scooping it up with his wet chest.
And then came the picnic at the great waterfall. It had been the cause of indecision for the past three weeks. Kōji had no idea why it had been an issue. It certainly didn’t seem as if Ippei had anything to do with it. Kōji knew that Yūko wished for the three of them to go together, and so he made a point of not going to the waterfall during his leisure-time strolls. Then on one particular clear and cool morning, it was suddenly decided that they should set off on a picnic. There were no suitable flowers in the greenhouse to offer to the waterfall shrine. So Yūko had Kōji pick an especially large, single-flowered mountain lily from the cliff behind, and then she wrapped aluminum foil around the base of its stem.
Yūko was wearing a Java calico blouse and yellow slacks and, because of the rocky mountain paths ahead, had on a pair of flat-heeled Moroccan leather walking shoes. Ippei was in a state of disarray. He was attired in a white open-collared shirt and knickerbockers, checkered socks and slip-ons and a large straw hat. At his side he carried a stout stick. Naturally Kōji, who wore jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, carried the camera and the basket containing their lunch boxes and tea flasks. At normal walking speed, it ought to have taken them about thirty minutes to the waterfall, but going at Ippei’s pace, Kōji estimated it would take at least an hour. In the end, it took some two hours.
Yūko accompanied Ippei out of the gate and down the hill. From here, there was a good view of the port. There was only one boat lying at anchor. The green hills on the far side of the bay were reflected on the surface of the tranquil body of water, projecting a shape like a draftsman’s curve dissolving into the sea. There were a number of pearl divers’ rafts; toward the back of one small inlet, the blue hull of a scrapped vessel lay half-submerged—listing as it had done when Yūko had first come to these parts. And silver oil tanks. A chorus of cicadas sang out; a small village crouched below them, and in the distance, a cloud of dust kicked up by a bus as it traveled along the prefectural highway quickly enveloped a whole block of shops—the barber’s, the general store, the haberdashery, the drugstore, the confectioner’s, and the geta store. The lighthouse at the bay entrance, the ice-crushing tower, and the village lookout tower, being the three tallest buildings, lorded it over the even rows of houses. To the east all they could see were the gently sloping mountains that they would soon climb. The trees and the grass had begun to dry out from the morning dew and the previous day’s rain. The rising water vapor and sunlight appeared to completely cover the surface of the mountains and forests in trembling silver leaf. It was extremely quiet, so much so that it seemed as if the mountains and forests were lightly enveloped in some sort of glittering shroud of death.
From far in the distance they could hear the sound of a quarry compressor.
“That’s the route we’re taking. You can see it, can’t you? The path follows the river winding its way up through the mountains.”
Yūko indicated the way with the single-flowered lily she was carrying. The lily extended its glossy white petals as if they were coated in oil and gave out a melancholy fragrance under the strong summer sun. It was messily dyed with brick-colored pollen right up to the edges of its white petals. The inside—all the way deep down—was buff-colored with brilliant dark red spots. The stem that supported this heavy flower was strong and gave it a neat and dignified appearance.
As if by magic, the landscape took on the elegant shape of the lily. The mountains and the clear sky and the glistening clouds above them now came under the control of this single flower. Each and every color appeared to be diffused, having been condensed into the color of the lily. It was as if the green of the forest was the color of the lily’s stem and leaves; the earth, the color of its pollen; the trunks of the ancient trees, the color of its dark red spots; the glistening clouds, the color of its white petals…
Kōji’s heart was inexplicably filled with joy. This was the happy recompense of repentance, the kind of happiness that comes after a period of abandonment. After two years of anguish, each of them had, perhaps, finally found happiness—Yūko had Ippei exactly as she wanted him, Kōji had his freedom, and, as for Ippei, he had something very peculiar.
Suddenly a kite cried out high above them.
“Teijirō told me he can tell how the weather will change by listening to the birds,” said Kōji. “He can read the weather signs—like from a red sky in the morning or from a halo around the moon or the sun. I know that’s pretty common, but he can also tell the weather from the birds singing and even from the light of the stars.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like that before,” said Yūko. “Where is Teijirō, anyway?”
“He was in the greenhouse earlier,” replied Kōji.
“I see. Hmm… is that right?” said Ippei.
But it was too much trouble to turn back simply to inquire about the weather, and instead they began to descend the slope. As they walked along, Kōji was again overcome with thoughts of happiness. They came upon him from behind and persistently hung about him, the way a child clings to its parent’s neck. How could we possibly have had such a happy and peaceful moment as this before the incident? he continually thought. Certainly when Yūko came to meet me at the harbor, and even during our conversation at the grassy knoll at the rear of the bay, she had seemed no different at all than before. But that was probably the result of her hiding her feelings of happiness out of consideration for me after my release from prison. Maybe it was this that she really wanted to show me. Perhaps that was the real reason why she went out of her way to invite me to Iro in the first place. If that is the case, thought Kōji in sudden realization, then this happiness has undoubtedly been brought about by that single attack with the wrench.
At length the slope leveled out, and below them they could see the back garden of Taisenji temple and part of the priest’s living quarters. In the temple garden, a large number of droning honeybees hovered around a pomegranate tree that was festooned with scarlet flowers and a camellia with shiny leaves. One of the bees, having separated from the swarm, flew loftily toward them and landed on Ippei’s straw hat. Kōji borrowed Ippei’s walking stick and deftly knocked the bee to the ground. This was the second time he had raised his hand to Ippei’s head. The three of them smiled at this little triumph, and that, more than anything, provided comforting proof that no one associated Kōji’s actions with past events.
The smitten bee lay dust-covered on the road, buzzing quietly.
“The priest will be angry with you,” said Yūko.
The priest, Kakujin, kept the wild honeybees. He had set up a hive beneath the floor and, from time to time, collected the honey to spread on his toast at breakfast. As if he had heard their conversation, the priest, who had been sitting at the back of his quarters, slipped on his geta and came down and stood in the back garden. Kakujin was shaven-headed with a healthy complexion and round face; he was in every detail exactly as one would imagine a chief priest. His face was a moderate mix of the secular and the transcendent with no trace of coldness whatsoever. He was, so to speak, a small, living portrait of the archetypal chief priest of a parish temple in a fishing village.