him.”
“I would not. But I’d be laughed at for folding up even my dirty clothes. I can’t help it. That’s the way I am.”
“They say you can tell everything about a woman by looking inside her dresser drawers.”
“What a beautiful day.” They were having breakfast, and the morning sun flooded the room. “I should have gone home early to practice the samisen. The sound is different on a day like this.” She looked up at the crystal-clear sky.
The snow on the distant mountains was soft and creamy, as if veiled in a faint smoke.
Shimamura, remembering what the masseuse had said, suggested that she practice here instead. Immediately she telephoned her house to ask for music and a change of clothes.
So the house he had seen the day before had a telephone, thought Shimamura. The eyes of the other girl, Yoko, floated into his mind.
“That girl will bring your music?”
“She might.”
“You’re engaged to the son, are you?”
“Well! When did you hear that?”
“Yesterday.”
“Aren’t you strange? If you heard it yesterday, why didn’t you tell me?” But her tone showed none of the sharpness of the day before. Today there was only a clean smile on her face.
“That sort of thing would be easier to talk about if I had less respect for you.”
“What are you really thinking, I wonder? That’s why I don’t like Tokyo people.”
“You’re trying to change the subject. You haven’t answered my question, you know.”
“I’m not trying to change the subject. You really believed it?”
“I did.”
“You’re lying again. You didn’t really.”
“I couldn’t quite believe all of it, as a matter of fact. But they said you went to work as a geisha to help pay doctors’ bills.”
“It sounds like something out of a cheap magazine. But it’s not true. I was never engaged to him. People seem to think I was, though. It wasn’t to help anyone in particular that I became a geisha. But I owe a great deal to his mother, and I had to do what I could.”
“You’re talking in riddles.”
“I’ll tell you everything. Very clearly. There does seem to have been a time when his mother thought it would be a good idea for us to get married. But she only thought it. She never said a word. Both of us knew in a vague sort of way what was on her mind, but it went no farther. And that’s all there is to tell.”
“Childhood friends.”
“That’s right. But we’ve lived most of our lives apart. When they sent me to Tokyo to be a geisha, he was the only one who saw me off. I have that written down on the very first page of my very oldest diary.”
“If the two of you had stayed together, you’d probably be married by now.”
“I doubt it.”
“You would be, though.”
“You needn’t worry about him. He’ll be dead before long.”
“But is it right for you to be spending your nights away from home?”
“It’s not right for you to ask. How can a dying man keep me from doing as I like?”
Shimamura could think of no answer.
Why was it that Komako said not a word about the girl Yoko?
And Yoko, who had taken care of the sick man on the train, quite as his mother must have when he was very young—how would she feel coming to an inn with a change of kimono for Komako, who was something, Shimamura could not know what, to the man Yoko had come home with?
Shimamura found himself off in his usual distant fantasies.
“Komako, Komako.” Yoko’s beautiful voice was low but clear.
“Thank you very much.” Komako went out to the dressing-room. “You brought it yourself, did you? It must have been heavy.”
Yoko left immediately.
The top string snapped as Komako plucked tentatively at the samisen. Shimamura could tell even while she was changing the string and tuning the instrument that she had a firm, confident touch. She took up a bulky bundle and undid it on the kotatsu . Inside were an ordinary book of lyrics and some twenty scores. Shimamura glanced curiously at the
“I would not. But I’d be laughed at for folding up even my dirty clothes. I can’t help it. That’s the way I am.”
“They say you can tell everything about a woman by looking inside her dresser drawers.”
“What a beautiful day.” They were having breakfast, and the morning sun flooded the room. “I should have gone home early to practice the samisen. The sound is different on a day like this.” She looked up at the crystal-clear sky.
The snow on the distant mountains was soft and creamy, as if veiled in a faint smoke.
Shimamura, remembering what the masseuse had said, suggested that she practice here instead. Immediately she telephoned her house to ask for music and a change of clothes.
So the house he had seen the day before had a telephone, thought Shimamura. The eyes of the other girl, Yoko, floated into his mind.
“That girl will bring your music?”
“She might.”
“You’re engaged to the son, are you?”
“Well! When did you hear that?”
“Yesterday.”
“Aren’t you strange? If you heard it yesterday, why didn’t you tell me?” But her tone showed none of the sharpness of the day before. Today there was only a clean smile on her face.
“That sort of thing would be easier to talk about if I had less respect for you.”
“What are you really thinking, I wonder? That’s why I don’t like Tokyo people.”
“You’re trying to change the subject. You haven’t answered my question, you know.”
“I’m not trying to change the subject. You really believed it?”
“I did.”
“You’re lying again. You didn’t really.”
“I couldn’t quite believe all of it, as a matter of fact. But they said you went to work as a geisha to help pay doctors’ bills.”
“It sounds like something out of a cheap magazine. But it’s not true. I was never engaged to him. People seem to think I was, though. It wasn’t to help anyone in particular that I became a geisha. But I owe a great deal to his mother, and I had to do what I could.”
“You’re talking in riddles.”
“I’ll tell you everything. Very clearly. There does seem to have been a time when his mother thought it would be a good idea for us to get married. But she only thought it. She never said a word. Both of us knew in a vague sort of way what was on her mind, but it went no farther. And that’s all there is to tell.”
“Childhood friends.”
“That’s right. But we’ve lived most of our lives apart. When they sent me to Tokyo to be a geisha, he was the only one who saw me off. I have that written down on the very first page of my very oldest diary.”
“If the two of you had stayed together, you’d probably be married by now.”
“I doubt it.”
“You would be, though.”
“You needn’t worry about him. He’ll be dead before long.”
“But is it right for you to be spending your nights away from home?”
“It’s not right for you to ask. How can a dying man keep me from doing as I like?”
Shimamura could think of no answer.
Why was it that Komako said not a word about the girl Yoko?
And Yoko, who had taken care of the sick man on the train, quite as his mother must have when he was very young—how would she feel coming to an inn with a change of kimono for Komako, who was something, Shimamura could not know what, to the man Yoko had come home with?
Shimamura found himself off in his usual distant fantasies.
“Komako, Komako.” Yoko’s beautiful voice was low but clear.
“Thank you very much.” Komako went out to the dressing-room. “You brought it yourself, did you? It must have been heavy.”
Yoko left immediately.
The top string snapped as Komako plucked tentatively at the samisen. Shimamura could tell even while she was changing the string and tuning the instrument that she had a firm, confident touch. She took up a bulky bundle and undid it on the kotatsu . Inside were an ordinary book of lyrics and some twenty scores. Shimamura glanced curiously at the
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