五十一
On the way back from K's funeral, one of his friends asked me why K had killed himself. Ever since the incident, I had already been tormented by this question countless times. His wife, his daughter, K's parents who had come up from the country, the acquaintances I had notified, even newspaper reporters with no connection to him at all—every one of them without fail put the same question to me. Each time, my conscience ached as if pricked by a needle. And behind this question, I heard a voice saying: Confess quickly that you murdered him.
My answer was the same to everyone. I merely repeated the letter K had left addressed to me, and added not another word. The friend who asked the same question on the way back from the funeral and received the same answer took a newspaper from his pocket and showed it to me. As we walked, I read the part he pointed out. It said that as a result of being disowned by his parents, K had become pessimistic and taken his own life. Without a word, I folded the newspaper and returned it to my friend's hand. The friend also told me that there were other papers which wrote that K had gone mad and committed suicide. I had been so busy I scarcely had time to read the papers, and was almost entirely lacking in such knowledge, but inwardly I had been constantly worried about it. Above all, I feared that articles would appear which might bring trouble to my household. Especially, even if only by name, I thought it would be unbearable if the young lady were drawn into it. I asked my friend whether anything else had been written. He answered that the only ones he had noticed were just those two kinds.
It was not long after this that I moved to the house where I now live. Both the wife and the daughter disliked remaining at the former place, and for my part it was painful to relive that night's memory every evening, so after consultation we decided to move.
About two months after moving, I graduated from the university without incident. Within half a year of graduating, I finally married the young lady. Viewed from the outside, since everything had proceeded as expected, one would have to call it auspicious. The wife and the daughter both seemed truly happy. I too was happy. But a dark shadow trailed my happiness. I wondered whether this happiness might not be the fuse that would in the end lead me to a sorrowful fate.
When we married, the young lady—she is no longer the young lady, so I shall call her my wife—my wife, for some reason recalling something, suggested that the two of us go visit K's grave. I started, for no reason, with a jolt. I asked why she had suddenly thought of such a thing. My wife said that if the two of us went together to pay our respects, K would surely be pleased. I gazed fixedly at my wife's face, which knew nothing of the matter, but when she asked why I made such a face, I came to myself.
As my wife wished, the two of us went together to Zoshigaya. I poured water over K's new grave and washed it. My wife set incense and flowers before it. The two of us bowed our heads and joined our palms. My wife must have meant to tell K the whole story of how she and I came to be together, and gladden him. Within myself, I only repeated that I was to blame.
Then my wife stroked K's grave and remarked that it was splendid. The grave was nothing remarkable, but since I had myself gone to the stonecutter and chosen it, my wife probably especially wanted to say so. Comparing that new grave, my new wife, and the new white bones of K buried beneath the ground, I could not help but feel the cold mockery of fate. After that, I resolved never again to visit K's grave together with my wife.
“Stories of the world, in your language.”