CHAPTER 100
I walked through Sarugaku-chō, out onto the main street of Shinbōchō, and turned toward Ogawamachi. This was the route I usually took when I wanted to browse among the secondhand bookshops, but today I could not summon any interest in tattered old volumes. As I strode along, it was the house I had left that filled my thoughts. I thought of what Okusan had said that morning, and I imagined what would follow once Ojōsan arrived back. My legs seemed propelled forward by these two thoughts. From time to time, I found myself halting in the middle of the road at the thought that Okusan would at this moment be talking to Ojōsan. Then my feet would pause again when it struck me that by now the conversation would probably be over.
At length I crossed the Mansei Bridge, climbed the hill to Kanda Myōjin Shrine, then from Hongō Hill made my way down Kikusaka to the foot of the road leading up to Koishikawa. Throughout this long walk, in essence a kind of elliptical course through three city wards,1 I had scarcely thought once of K. Looking back now, I ask myself why, but there are no answers. I can only marvel that it was so. I could simply say that my heart was so intensely focused on the scene at home that it drove him from my mind, but it astonishes me to think that my conscience could let that happen.
My conscience sprang to life again the moment I opened the lattice door at the entrance and stepped into the house, to follow my usual course through K’s room into mine. He was, as always, seated at his desk reading. As always, he raised his eyes from the book and looked at me. But he did not say the habitual words, “Just back, are you?” Instead he said, “Are you better now? Have you been to the doctor?”
In that instant I had the urge to kneel before him and ask his pardon. Nor was this some mere feeble impulse. I believe that if K and I had been standing in the wilderness together just then, I would have followed the dictates of my conscience and begged his forgiveness. But there were others in the house. My natural instinct was quickly curbed. And to my sorrow, it never returned.
We saw each other again over the evening meal. Innocent of what had happened, K was merely subdued. He cast no suspicious glance my way. Okusan, of course, understood nothing of how things stood and was markedly cheerful. Only I knew everything. The food was lead in my mouth.
Ojōsan did not join us at the table as she usually did. “I won’t be long,” she called from the next room when Okusan urged her to join us.
K looked surprised and finally asked Okusan what was wrong.
“She’s probably feeling shy,” replied Okusan, sending a glance in my direction.
“Why should she?” K persisted, increasingly puzzled.
Okusan looked at me again, with a little smile.
As soon as I came to the table, I had been able to guess from Okusan’s face more or less what had transpired. But the thought of sitting there while everything was explained to K was intolerable. Okusan was the kind of person who could all too easily do this without a second thought, and I was cold with trepidation. Luckily, however, K sank back into silence, and Okusan, though more jovial than usual, did not after all move the conversation in the direction I dreaded. With a sigh of relief, I returned to my room.
But I was haunted with worry over how to deal with K. I prepared an arsenal of justifications for my defense, but none would hold up when I was face-to-face with him. Coward that I was, I had no stomach for the explanation I would have to give.