— IV —
The third day.
On New Year’s Day, the second son had come to my house on the outskirts of the city and denounced modern Japanese novels one after another, working himself into quite a state of excitement until, at about sunset, he’d muttered, “Uh-oh. I think I’m running a temperature,” and hurried home. Sure enough, he developed a mild fever that night. The next day he’d spent in and out of bed, and today, having still not fully recovered, he lay gloomily in his futon, resting his heavy head. That’s what happens when you criticize other people’s work—you’re likely to make yourself ill.
“How are you feeling?” the mother said as she entered her sick child’s room. She sat beside his pillow, put her hand to his forehead, and began to scold him at some length.
“Still a bit of a fever. You’ve got to be more careful. Yesterday you were up and down all day, neglecting your health, eating rice cake and drinking spiced saké... You mustn’t overextend yourself like that. The best thing for a fever is to lie quietly in bed. It won’t do for a person with such a weak constitution to be so strong-headed.”
The second son was in low spirits. He offered no retort but merely listened to his mother’s complaints with a lopsided smile on his face. Of all the brothers and sisters he was the most objective realist, and the owner of a bitingly caustic tongue, yet toward his mother he was, for some reason, as pliant and submissive as a creeping vine. He was incapable of being high-handed in her presence. It may be that deep in his heart he felt guilty about constantly falling ill and being such a burden to her.
“I want you to stay in bed the entire day today. You mustn’t be getting up and wandering all about. You can eat your meals here. I’ve prepared some rice gruel, and Sato [the maid] is bringing some up for you.”
“Mother, I have a favor to ask.” He spoke in a weak, defensive tone. “It’s my turn today. Is
it all right if I write my part?
“What?” His mother looked at him blankly. “What ever are you talking about?”
“You know. The chain story. We’ve started another one. I was bored yesterday, so I talked Hatsué [the elder sister] into showing me the manuscript. I thought about it all night last night, about how to continue. It’s going to be kind of difficult this time.”
“Absolutely not. I won’t hear of it,” the mother said, smiling. “Besides, not even great writers can come up with good ideas when they’re suffering from a cold. Why don’t you let your big brother handle it?”
“Forget that. He won’t do at all. He doesn’t have any talent. Everything he writes ends up sounding like a speech.”
“What a thing to say! Your elder brother always writes the most splendid, manly prose. I, for one, like his pieces best.”
“You don’t understand these things, Mother. You just don’t understand. I have to write the next part, no matter what. I’m the only one who can do it. Please? You’ll let me write it, won’t you?”
“I’m sorry. You’ve got to stay in bed all day today. Ask your brother to take your turn. You can write your part tomorrow or the next day, when you’ve got your strength back.”
“No I can’t. You don’t understand. You think it’s just some silly little game.” He gave an exaggerated sigh of despair and pulled the quilt up over his head.
His mother smiled. “I see. I’ve hurt your feelings, haven’t I? Well, then, why don’t we do this: You lie there in bed and dictate to me at your leisure. I’ll write it all down just as you tell me. All right? Let’s do it that way. Last spring, when you were in bed with a fever, didn’t I write out that difficult report of yours for school, just as you dictated it? I did a surprisingly good job that time, didn’t I?”
The patient simply lay there with the quilt pulled up over his head and made no reply, leaving the mother somewhat nonplussed. It was at this juncture that the maid, Sato, entered the room carrying a breakfast tray. Sato, who was from a fishing village in the countryside, had worked for the Irie family since she was twelve, and, having lived in the house for four years now, had thoroughly assimilated the family’s romantic spirit. She borrowed ladies’ magazines from the daughters and read them in her free time, being a particular fan of the old “vendetta tales” they often featured. She was also thoroughly taken with the maxim “Chastity at all costs,” and was quietly, fiercely determined to put her life on the line to protect her virtue, should it ever come to that. Hidden in her wicker trunk was a silver paper knife the elder daughter had given her. She thought of it as a dagger, to be used on herself if worst came to worst. She had a darkish complexion but nicely drawn, dainty features, and her clothing was always immaculate. She was slightly lame in her left leg, which tended to drag somewhat when she walked, but in a way this limp of hers was actually rather becoming. She revered the members of the Irie family almost as if they were gods. To her, the grandfather’s silver-coin medal seemed an honor of such magnitude that it made her dizzy just to think of it. She firmly believed the elder daughter to be the greatest scholar on earth and the younger daughter the most beautiful woman. But the second son she loved more than life itself. What a thrill it would be to set out with such a handsome young master on a journey to seek revenge! How drab the world was now that people never carried out vendettas, as they had in the past! Such were the idiotic thoughts that often occurred to her.
Sato deferentially set the tray next to the second son’s pillow, casting a forlorn glance at the quilt, which was still pulled up over his head. The mother merely looked on, smiling quietly. Sato sat there waiting in silence for some time, but when nothing happened, she turned to the mother and timidly, fearfully asked: “Is it very serious?”
“Well, it’s hard to say.” The mother was still smiling.
Suddenly the second son threw back his quilt, rolled onto his stomach, pulled the tray over, grabbed the chopsticks, and began to devour the food. Sato was startled but quickly regained her composure and waited on him, relieved to see him exhibiting such vitality. The second son didn’t say a word, but it was clear that his appetite was healthy enough: he slurped up his rice gruel at a furious pace and ferociously stuffed his cheeks with pickled plums. Then, as he chipped the shell from a softboiled egg, he spoke.
“Sato, what do you think? If, for example, you and I were to get married, how do you think you would feel?”
This was truly a bolt from the blue. If Sato was shocked by the question, the mother was ten times more so.
“My! What an absurd... If that’s your idea of a joke, young man... Sato, he’s just teasing you, you know. Of all the outrageous... It’s not the least bit... Good heavens!”
“For example, I mean.” The second son was coolly indifferent. All he’d been thinking about since he’d burrowed under his quilt was the plot to the story. A recklessly self-indulgent young man, he had no idea how painfully his “example” had pierced Sato’s slender breast.
“How would it make you feel? I need to know. It’ll help me write. The story’s taken a really difficult turn.”
“But it’s such a ridiculous thing to ask!” the mother protested, though she was already inwardly relieved. “Sato can’t answer a question like that. Can you, Sato? Takeshi [the second son] is just babbling nonsense, isn’t he?”
“I...” Sato was willing to venture a reply to any question whatsoever if it might be of service to the young master. Ignoring the discomfited gaze the mother was now directing toward her, she steeled her resolve, clenched her fists tightly, and said: “I’d take my own life.”
“Oh, great.” The second son slumped dejectedly. “That’s no good at all. I can’t kill Rapunzel off. If she dies, that’s the end of the story. Forget it. Damn. This is really difficult. What to do?” He was thoroughly intent on the story, and nothing else. Sato’s heroic reply hadn’t been of any service after all.