times?’
‘Shouldn’t I have been?’ Kikuji walked on over the stepping stones. ‘Suppose we go in from here. You could just as well have waited inside, you know.’ He sat on the veranda. ‘I’d come back from a trip and I was lying here, and in marched Kurimoto. It was at night.’
The maid called Kikuji into the house, probably to confirm the dinner instructions he had telephoned from the office. While he was inside he changed to a white linen kimono.
Fumiko seemed to have repowdered her face. She waited for him to sit down again.
‘What exactly did Miss Kurimoto say?’
‘Just that you were married.’
‘Did you believe it?’
‘Well, it was the sort of lie I could hardly believe anyone would tell.’
‘You didn’t even doubt it?’ The near-black eyes were moist. ‘Could I get married now, possibly? Do you think I could? Mother and I suffered together, and with the suffering still here …’ It was as if the mother were still alive. ‘Mother and I both presume a great deal on people, but we expect them to understand us. Is that impossible? Are we seeing our reflections in our own hearts?’ Her voice wavered on the edge of tears.
Kikuji was silent for a time. ‘Not long ago I said the same thing. I asked if you thought I could possibly marry. The day of the storm, was it?’
‘The day of the thunder?’
‘And now you say it to me.’
‘But it’s different.’
‘You said several times that I would be getting married.’
‘But your case is so different.’ She gazed at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘You’re different from me.’
‘How?’
‘Your position, your place.’
‘My position?’
‘Your position is different. Shouldn’t I say position? I’ll say the degree of darkness, then.’
‘In a word, the guilt? But mine is deeper.’
‘No.’ She shook her head violently, and a tear spilled over, drawing a strange line from the corner of her left eye to her ear. ‘The guilt was Mother’s and she died – if we have to talk about guilt. But I don’t think it was guilt. Only sorrow.’
Kikuji sat with bowed head.
‘If it was guilt,’ she continued, ‘it may never go away. But sorrow will.’
‘When you talk about darkness, aren’t you making your mother’s death darker than you need to?’
‘I should have said the degree of sorrow.’
‘The degree of sorrow.’
‘Is the degree of love,’ he wanted to add; but he stopped himself.
‘And there is the question of you and Yukiko. That makes you different from me.’ She spoke as if she meant to bring the conversation back to reality. ‘Miss Kurimoto thought Mother was trying to interfere, and she thought I stood in the way too. And so she said I was married. I can’t think of any other explanation.’
‘But she said that the Inamura girl was married too.’
For a moment her face seemed to collapse. Again she shook her head violently. ‘A lie, a lie. That’s a lie too. When?’
‘When did she get married? Very recently, I suppose.’
‘It’s sure to be a lie.’
‘When I heard that the two of you were married, I thought it might be true about you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But the other may really be true.’
‘It’s a lie. No one gets married in this heat. In a summer kimono, sweat pouring off – can you imagine it?’
‘There’s no such thing as a summer wedding?’
‘Only now and then. People put weddings off to fall, or …’ For some reason, tears came to her eyes again, and fell to her knee. She gazed at the wet spot. ‘But why should Miss Kurimoto tell such lies?’
‘She cleverly took me in, did she?’ Kikuji deliberated for a time.
But what had brought the tears?
It was certain that at least the report about Fumiko was a lie.
Had Chikako said that Fumiko was married to drive her off, the Inamura girl in fact being married? He weighed the possibility.
There was something in it he could not accept, however. He, too, began to feel that she had lied.
‘Well, as long as
‘Shouldn’t I have been?’ Kikuji walked on over the stepping stones. ‘Suppose we go in from here. You could just as well have waited inside, you know.’ He sat on the veranda. ‘I’d come back from a trip and I was lying here, and in marched Kurimoto. It was at night.’
The maid called Kikuji into the house, probably to confirm the dinner instructions he had telephoned from the office. While he was inside he changed to a white linen kimono.
Fumiko seemed to have repowdered her face. She waited for him to sit down again.
‘What exactly did Miss Kurimoto say?’
‘Just that you were married.’
‘Did you believe it?’
‘Well, it was the sort of lie I could hardly believe anyone would tell.’
‘You didn’t even doubt it?’ The near-black eyes were moist. ‘Could I get married now, possibly? Do you think I could? Mother and I suffered together, and with the suffering still here …’ It was as if the mother were still alive. ‘Mother and I both presume a great deal on people, but we expect them to understand us. Is that impossible? Are we seeing our reflections in our own hearts?’ Her voice wavered on the edge of tears.
Kikuji was silent for a time. ‘Not long ago I said the same thing. I asked if you thought I could possibly marry. The day of the storm, was it?’
‘The day of the thunder?’
‘And now you say it to me.’
‘But it’s different.’
‘You said several times that I would be getting married.’
‘But your case is so different.’ She gazed at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘You’re different from me.’
‘How?’
‘Your position, your place.’
‘My position?’
‘Your position is different. Shouldn’t I say position? I’ll say the degree of darkness, then.’
‘In a word, the guilt? But mine is deeper.’
‘No.’ She shook her head violently, and a tear spilled over, drawing a strange line from the corner of her left eye to her ear. ‘The guilt was Mother’s and she died – if we have to talk about guilt. But I don’t think it was guilt. Only sorrow.’
Kikuji sat with bowed head.
‘If it was guilt,’ she continued, ‘it may never go away. But sorrow will.’
‘When you talk about darkness, aren’t you making your mother’s death darker than you need to?’
‘I should have said the degree of sorrow.’
‘The degree of sorrow.’
‘Is the degree of love,’ he wanted to add; but he stopped himself.
‘And there is the question of you and Yukiko. That makes you different from me.’ She spoke as if she meant to bring the conversation back to reality. ‘Miss Kurimoto thought Mother was trying to interfere, and she thought I stood in the way too. And so she said I was married. I can’t think of any other explanation.’
‘But she said that the Inamura girl was married too.’
For a moment her face seemed to collapse. Again she shook her head violently. ‘A lie, a lie. That’s a lie too. When?’
‘When did she get married? Very recently, I suppose.’
‘It’s sure to be a lie.’
‘When I heard that the two of you were married, I thought it might be true about you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But the other may really be true.’
‘It’s a lie. No one gets married in this heat. In a summer kimono, sweat pouring off – can you imagine it?’
‘There’s no such thing as a summer wedding?’
‘Only now and then. People put weddings off to fall, or …’ For some reason, tears came to her eyes again, and fell to her knee. She gazed at the wet spot. ‘But why should Miss Kurimoto tell such lies?’
‘She cleverly took me in, did she?’ Kikuji deliberated for a time.
But what had brought the tears?
It was certain that at least the report about Fumiko was a lie.
Had Chikako said that Fumiko was married to drive her off, the Inamura girl in fact being married? He weighed the possibility.
There was something in it he could not accept, however. He, too, began to feel that she had lied.
‘Well, as long as
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