Not lift a finger? Kunieda cried out within himself, feeling his flesh tingle with icy shock. It would be the best thing to let 110 million Japanese die? Was that it? What sort of men were these scholars anyway?
“I see,” said old Watari. He bent his trunk slightly, his hands on his lap, as he looked down at the envelopes upon the table. “So that opinion, too, has come forth, has it?”
“That it should has its source, perhaps, in the Japanese people’s differing decisively from other peoples.” His eyes now half opened, the priest whispered as though talking to no one but himself.
“When you three gentlemen formulated this opinion, could it be that your years affected your thinking?” The old man’s eyes peered keenly as he put the question to them.
“True, sir,” murmured Fukuhara, once more looking out at the garden.
“Hanae . . . come here,” said the old man, gesturing to the young woman, who was sitting in a corner of the room. “Take a good look at this girl, gentlemen. She’s twenty-three. She hasn’t known any man yet. She’s a fresh young girl with her life in front of her. Girls such as she . . . and children, too . . . were they in your thoughts?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Fukuhara.
“In any case, that opinion represents a departure,” said the monk, his eyes closed again. “Moreover, had we not gone so far, we would have been remiss.”
“Our fundamental thought throughout has been that the Japanese people are to make no demands, are to claim nothing as their right from other nations,” said Fukuhara, his voice low and hoarse. “For there is simply no way that we can do so. Human society is not ready to recognize the right of the people of any nation to live upon land that lies outside their borders. We must acknowledge as a fundamental truth that this situation will persist for a very long time to come. Thus, the Japanese people, dispossessed of their homeland, will have to ask the nations of the world for corners in which to live. But if we ask this as our right, we’ll not get it, so making demands is out of the question.”
“Even if our race lives on, then, our descendants, it seems, will have bitter times ahead of them,” whispered Watari as he nodded slowly. “From now on, whether it’s a matter of going on being Japanese or ceasing to be Japanese, whatever the case —we have to leave Japan out of our consideration. The problems to come will be those dictated by outside elements. Once this Japan of ours is gone forever, once it is taken from the Japanese, then our identity is simply that of human beings, it would seem, but in truth the problem cannot be reduced to terms so simple. For we have our karma—in our culture, our language, our history. And that karma will be resolved when this nation called Japan and its culture and its history—when all alike are swept away with the land itself. But the people of Japan will still be a young people, a people uniquely gifted. And this other karma, a living karma, is one that will go on.”
“Begging your pardon ...” A dry voice came from the corner of the room. The secretary, silent till now, was speaking. “If you would be kind enough, sir, it would be desirable, I believe, to allow these gentlemen some rest. For, having been without sleep or rest, as you see ...”
“Kunieda, the envelopes,” said the old man, signaling the young woman with a wink. “Thank you, gentlemen, for giving so much of yourselves. Please take a good rest.”
The three men remained as they were while Kunieda and the girl helped the old man to his feet and into the wheelchair.
“Are you going to leave for Tokyo soon, sir?” Kunieda asked as he pushed the wheelchair. “If possible, these gentlemen might go with you, perhaps. There are cars enough. For, as you know, it seems to be gradually growing more dangerous here.”
“Hanae,” said the old man, turning his head and speaking in a surprisingly strong voice, “call the doctor right away. See that the three of them in there get examinations.”
The old man decided to use one of the three cars for an immediate return to Tokyo with the plans, Kunieda going with him. The preparations made, Kunieda pushed the wheelchair out to the car as snowflakes were beginning to flutter down from a chill sky. Just as he was about to push the chair up the ramp of the specially equipped Mercedes-Benz 600, an echoing roar like that of a cannon seemed to make the gray sky tremble. When Kunieda turned, he saw a cloud of white smoke rising from the slope of Fuji at a point near the crest.
“The Hoei crater has finally erupted, it seems,” said the old man tranquilly. “But if it’s no more than that, it will be all right for the present, I would think.”
At that moment there was the sound of frantically hurrying footsteps, and the girl named Hanae came running up to them, a distraught expression on her face.
“Master ...” said the girl, stopping beside the wheelchair. “Professor Fukuhara . . . he . . .”
“What is it?”
Turning abruptly back toward the house, Kunieda saw the monk walking slowly toward them, a Buddhist rosary at his wrist and his palms pressed together.
“All right,” said the old man to Kunieda, indicating he was to push the wheelchair into the car. “Hanae—inform the Professor’s family immediately. Mr. Tatsuno, I beg you to take care of everything.”
The monk bowed slowly, his hands still pressed together. Yet another boom echoed from the direction of Mount Fuji. Ashes fell with a light rustling sound, blending with the snow which was beginning to cover the top of the Mercedes.