Quicksand by Junichirô Tanizaki

wrists with both hands.
    â€œOh, Mitsu! How could you ever die from something like this?”
    But in spite of my encouragement, she stared blankly up, seemingly barely able to make me out. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you, Sister? I’d be happy if I could just die here beside you. . . .”
    It sounded a little as if she was putting on an act, but her hands did seem to be getting colder as they gripped me.
    â€œShall I call a doctor?” I asked.
    But she refused. “You mustn’t. That would only make trouble for you. If I’m going to die, let me die the way I am.”
    No matter what, I couldn’t simply leave her there, so I had Kiyo help me carry her upstairs to the bedroom. Anyway, it was all so sudden that I had no time to spread a futon out for her, and then too, although I had qualms about taking her up to our bedroom, all the doors and windows were open downstairs in the early-summer heat and people could see in, so that wouldn’t do. After I put her to bed I meant to telephone my husband and Ume. But she clutched my sleeve hard and wouldn’t let go.
    â€œSister, you mustn’t leave me!”
    Still, she was a little calmer, she didn’t seem to be suffering so much, and I felt a wave of relief. Well, at this rate I won’t need to call the doctor, I thought.
    The way things were, I couldn’t leave her side, so I sent the maid back down and told her to clean out the bathroom right away. Then I thought of giving Mitsuko some medicine, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
    â€œNo, no!” she said. “Just loosen my sash, Sister.”
    I undid her sash for her, took off her bloodstained white tabi socks, and brought in alcohol and cotton and wiped her hands and feet. Meanwhile she had started having convulsions again.
    â€œOoh, it hurts! Water, water! . . .”
    She was tearing fiercely at the sheets and pillows and everything within reach, and writhing on the bed, curling her body up like a shrimp. I brought her a glass of water, but she thrashed around violently and wouldn’t drink it, so I held her down by force and gave it to her mouth-to-mouth. She seemed to like that and swallowed greedily. Then she cried out again: “It hurts, it hurts! Sister, for heaven’s sake get on my back and press hard!” Mitsuko kept telling me where she wanted to be massaged, where she wanted to be stroked, and I kneaded and rubbed away just as she asked. Yet the moment I thought she was feeling better she would utter an agonizing groan—it seemed she might never recover. And when she had even a brief respite she would weep bitterly and say, as if to herself: “Ah, I’m being punished for what I did to you, Sister. . . . I wonder if you’ll forgive me after I’m dead.”
    Soon she seemed to be writhing in worse pain than ever, and she insisted that a clot of blood must have come out. Over and over she cried: “It’s coming out, it’s out!” But each time I looked, there was nothing of the kind.
    â€œIt’s just your nerves—I can’t see a thing.”
    â€œIf it doesn’t come I’ll die! I think you don’t care whether you let me die or not.”
    â€œHow can you say that!”
    â€œThen why won’t you help me, instead of letting me suffer like this? . . . I’m sure you know what to do, better than any doctor. . . .”
    That was because I had once told her: “There’s nothing to it, if you just have a little instrument.” But as soon as she began making all the fuss about it “coming out,” I realized that everything she was doing today was only an act. . . . To tell the truth, that had begun to dawn on me gradually, but I had played along, and Mitsuko herself saw I was pretending to be deceived and kept up her own playacting all the more boldly. After that both of us were simply trying to maintain