As usual, Chiyoko was outspoken. No matter what subject came up, she had something to say about it. I took this as evidence that she had nothing on her mind. She said that since going to Kamakura, she had begun to teach herself how to swim and that she was now enjoying going out over her head. She had been amused by Momoyoko, who was quite cautious and who had tried to stop her by calling out in a loud voice, almost apologizing, "It's not safe!"
Listening to Chiyoko, my mother looked half-anxious, half-amazed. "What a rash thing for a woman to do! For my sake I beg you never to do such a dangerous prank again. Be a good girl," she implored.
Laughing, Chiyoko said only, "You can trust me," and then she casually turned toward me as I sat on my chair in the open hallway. "And I suppose you too, Ichi-san, don't like such tomboys?" she asked.
All I said was "Not very much" and looked outside at the moonlight flowing over everything. If I had forgotten to pay respect to my character, I would certainly have added, "But Takagi-san does." That I hadn't dragged myself that low was at least fortunate for appearance's sake.
Anyway, that was how outspoken Chiyoko was. But even late into the night when my mother finally suggested we all ought to go to bed, Chiyoko had not brought into the conversation a word about Takagi. I saw a great deal of deliberateness in that. I felt as if a dark blob of ink had dropped on a white sheet of paper. Until I had gone to Kamakura, I had believed Chiyoko to be one of the purest women in the world, but in the short two days I had spent there, a suspicion of her "art" had been raised. And that suspicion was now taking root in me.
"Why wouldn't she talk about Takagi?"
This question tormented me as I was lying in bed. At the same time I was quite aware of the ridiculousness of having my sleep disturbed by such a question and was all the more irritated for the foolishness of being that tormented by it. As usual I was in bed alone upstairs. My mother and Chiyoko had their beds laid side by side inside a mosquito net in a downstairs room. Imagining her calmly asleep just below me, I couldn't help thinking that it was I, sleepless and wriggling, who was after all the defeated one. I even hated turning over in bed. It seemed a disgrace to have the weakness of my still being awake heard downstairs like some kind of intelligence report of her victory.
While I was thinking over this same problem from different angles, its various phases became apparent. Her silence in not even mentioning Takagi's name was nothing more than her kindness to me. She had deliberately kept away from this topic out of sheer consideration not to offend me. When interpreted this way, it made me feel I had behaved in such an irrationally ill-humored way during my Kamakura stay that it had robbed Chiyoko, who was so simple and pure, of the courage to say even Takagi's name before me. If so, then I was a disagreeable animal that showed itself in public only to offend. And so it would be better to stay at home, to keep myself from associating with others. But if it was "art" without that "kindness" preceding it and this was what she really was. .
I broke up the word "art" into minute parts and pondered its meanings. Was her real intention to lure me by making Takagi a decoy? And in so luring me, was her intention without any ultimate purpose except to enjoy herself by giving a momentary stimulation to my affection for her? Or was it to tell me to become like Takagi in a certain way? And when I did, was she going to tell me she might as well love me? Or was it to say that she would enjoy seeing Takagi and me fight over her? Or was it to tell me to give her up by bringing him before me and letting me realize that she had already found her man? I went on and on theorizing like this. And I thought that if it's art, it would mean battle, and if it's battle, it must inevitably end in either victory or defeat.
I remained vexed at myself, defeated and sleepless. As I had turned off the electric light after the mosquito net had been hung, the darkness pervading the room oppressed me so much I felt suffocated. It grew unbearably painful keeping my eyes open, looking at what they could not see, and having only my mind working. I had patiently resisted even turning in bed, but I suddenly got up to switch on the light. I went out to the hallway to open the shutter a little. There was not even a breeze under the declining moon. I felt on my skin and throat only a relative coolness.
I awoke the next morning about an hour and a half earlier than I had when I had been alone at home. I immediately went downstairs and found Saku sifting ashes in the oblong brazier in the sitting room, her ginkgo-leaf hairdo covered with a white towel. Seeing me, she said, "Oh, you're up so early!" and she went to arrange the things I needed to wash up with. On returning from the bathroom, I walked on tiptoe through the dust-filled sitting room and went out to the entrance. On my way I peered toward the room where my mother and Chiyoko were lying inside the mosquito net. My mother, who was apt to be awakened by the slightest sound, was still in a quiet sleep, perhaps fatigued from her train journey the previous day. Chiyoko was of course sound asleep, as though buried at the bottom of a dream, her neck against her pillow.
I went out to the front of the house with no particular aim in mind. I had long forgotten what a morning walk was like. The colors of the street, though little different from usual, were yet untouched by heat and throngs of people and so seemed as peaceful as a Sabbath. The streetcar tracks, stretching straight ahead along the ground and giving off a burnished light, enhanced the calm. But I had not exactly come out to walk. Since I had gotten up too early and was merely walking to fill up a superfluous fragment of life with some kind of physical movement, I could not find much interest in heaven or earth, nor on the streets either.
About an hour later I got back looking rather tired, only to be greeted by the questioning faces of both my mother and Chiyoko.
"Where have you been?" my mother asked. "Your color isn't good. Is anything the matter?"
"You didn't sleep well last night, did you?" Chiyoko added.
I didn't know in the least how to answer the latter question. I wanted to retort elatedly, "I slept quite well!" Unfortunately, I wasn't that much of an artist. But then I was too proud to confess I had slept poorly. The result was that I failed to reply.
The three of us had breakfast at the same table, and as soon as we were finished, the hairdresser arrived, my mother having asked her the day before to come in the morning when it was cool. With her newly washed white apron covering the front of her figure, the woman put her hands on the floor beyond the threshold and made a friendly greeting regarding my mother's safe return. The woman had that facile way of speech common in her trade, and she gave full play to her skill. Each sentence she uttered gave my shy mother the opportunity to talk proudly about her summer trip. My mother looked sufficiently pleased, but couldn't talk that glibly about it. Soon the hairdresser chose the youthful Chiyoko as someone she could have more of an effect on. With invariable ease Chiyoko was quite naturally able to deal with anyone she happened to be with, so whenever she was addressed as "young lady," she could enliven the conversation by responding at considerable length. When the subject of Chiyoko's swimming came up, the hairdresser said, "That's quite fine. And very active. All the young ladies nowadays are learning to swim," which sounded to everyone like the concocted flattery it was.