十七

That day, the patient seemed unusually worse. When I left my seat to go to the lavatory, my brother, whom I met in the hallway, challenged me in a sentry-like tone, asking, "Where are you going?"

"His condition seems a bit strange, so you must stay by his side as much as possible," he warned.

I thought so too. Leaving the letter in my pocket, I returned to the sickroom. Father opened his eyes and asked Mother the names of the people gathered there. As Mother explained each one—"This is so-and-so, that is so-and-so"—Father nodded each time. When he did not nod, Mother would raise her voice and emphasize, "It is Mr. So-and-so, do you understand?"

"I am much obliged for all your kind care."

Father said this, and then lapsed back into a coma. Those surrounding his pillow silently watched the patient's condition for a while. Presently, one of them stood and went into the next room. Then another stood. I, the third, finally left my seat and came to my own room. I had the purpose of opening the mail I had put in my pocket earlier. It was certainly something I could have easily done by the patient's pillow. But the writing was far too long to read through in one breath there. I stole a special moment to devote to it.

I tore open the strong wrapping paper as if scratching it apart. What came out was a manuscript-like thing, neatly written within vertically and horizontally ruled lines. It was folded in four for convenient sealing. I turned the creased Western paper back the other way and flattened it for easier reading.

My heart was astonished at what this mass of paper and ink would tell me. At the same time, I was concerned about the sickroom. I had a premonition that before I finished reading this writing, Father would surely take a turn—at the very least, I would be called by my brother, or Mother, or if not, by my uncle. I could not settle down to read what the teacher had written. Restlessly, I only read the first page. That page was written as follows:

"When you questioned me about the past, I, a coward without the courage to answer, now believe I have gained the freedom to tell it clearly before you. But that freedom is only a worldly freedom that will be lost again while waiting for your arrival in Tokyo. Therefore, if I do not make use of it when I can, I will permanently miss the chance to teach you my past as indirect experience in your mind. Then, the promise I made so firmly then will become a complete lie. Unable to help it, I have decided to say in writing what I should have said by word of mouth."

Having read thus far, I finally clearly understood the reason this long piece was written. From the start, I had believed the teacher would not trouble himself to send a letter about matters like my food and clothing. But why would the teacher, who disliked taking up a pen, write so long about that incident and show it to me? Why could the teacher not wait until I came to Tokyo?

"Freedom has come, so I speak. But that freedom must again be lost forever."

Repeating this in my heart, I struggled to grasp its meaning. Suddenly I was seized by unease. I tried to read on. Just then, from the direction of the sickroom, I heard my brother's loud voice calling me. Startled again, I stood up. Running through the hallway, I went toward where everyone was. I braced myself, thinking the final moment had at last come upon Father.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”