二十八

K was a man who rarely went traveling. For me too, it was my first time in Bōshū. Knowing nothing at all, the two of us went ashore at the first place the boat reached. I believe it was called Hota. I do not know how changed it may be now, but back then it was a wretched fishing village. First of all, everywhere reeked of fish. Then when we went into the sea, the waves would knock us down and we would immediately scrape our hands and feet. Fist-sized stones, tossed about by the surging waves, kept rolling and rumbling constantly.

I soon grew sick of it. But K said neither that it was good nor that it was bad. At least, his expression remained unfazed. And yet, every single time he went into the sea, he would invariably injure himself somewhere. At last I persuaded him, and we went from there to Tomiura. From Tomiura we moved again to Nago. Since all along this coast was even then mainly a gathering place for students, everywhere was just the right kind of bathing beach for us. K and I would often sit on the rocks by the shore, gazing at the color of the distant sea and the bottom of the near waters. The water seen from atop the rocks was especially beautiful. Small fish of colors not normally seen in the market—red, indigo—swam here and there through the translucent waves, vividly pointed out by the clear water.

I would sit there and often open a book. K, for the most part, did nothing and stayed silent. Whether he was lost in thought, entranced by the scenery, or painting his favorite imaginings, I could not at all tell. I would sometimes look up and ask K what he was doing. K would only answer in a single phrase that he was doing nothing. I often thought that if the one sitting quietly beside me like this were not K but the young lady, how pleasant it would be. That alone would have been fine, but at times I would suddenly suspect that perhaps K too, harboring the same sort of hope as me, was sitting on the rocks. Then, opening my book and sitting there at ease would suddenly become distasteful to me. I would abruptly stand up. And then, in a loud and unreserved voice, I would shout. I could not do such lax things as pleasantly reciting assembled poems or songs. I would just bawl like a barbarian. Once, I suddenly grabbed him by the nape from behind. I asked K what he would do if I threw him into the sea like this. K did not move. Still facing away, he answered, “Just fine, go ahead.” I immediately released the hand gripping his neck.

K’s nervous exhaustion seemed by then to have considerably improved. In inverse proportion, I was becoming increasingly sensitive. Seeing K more composed than myself, I grew envious. And resentful. For he showed no sign whatsoever of humoring me. To me, this appeared as a kind of self-confidence. But even if I acknowledged that confidence in him, I could never be satisfied. My suspicion stepped further forward, wanting to clarify its nature. Had he, regarding his studies or his career, recovered in his heart the light of the path he should henceforth advance upon? If that were all, there would be no reason for any conflict of interest between K and me. I would rather have been glad to have someone worth caring for. But if his peace of mind were directed at the young lady, then I could never forgive him. Strangely, he seemed entirely unaware of my fondness for the young lady. Of course, I too did not behave in any affected way so as to catch K’s eye. K was by nature a dull man in such matters. From the start I had been reassured that with K it would be safe, which was why I had specially brought him to the house.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”