My father was clearly afraid of his own illness. Yet he was not the sort to trouble the doctor with trivial questions each time he came, nor did the doctor, out of delicacy, say anything either.
My father seemed to be thinking about what would happen after his death. At the very least, he seemed to be imagining our home once he was no longer there.
"Having children study is a mixed blessing. You take the trouble to educate them, and then they never come back home. It's as if you educate them just to separate parent and child, helpless to prevent it."
Because of his learning, my elder brother was now in a distant province. And because she had been educated, my sister—or rather, because I had received an education—I had firmly resolved to live in Tokyo. My father's complaint at having raised such children was by no means unreasonable. His vision of my mother left all alone in the old country house they had lived in for so many years was surely a lonely one.
My father was convinced our home was something that could not be moved. And my mother, who lived in it, was likewise convinced that, so long as she lived, she too could not be moved. It was a profound unease to him that after his death this solitary mother would be left alone in the empty shell of our house. And yet, contradictorily, he pressed me to seek a good position in Tokyo. I found the contradiction amusing, and at the same time was glad that thanks to it I could go to Tokyo again.
For the sake of my parents, I had to pretend that I was doing my utmost to seek such a position. I wrote to Sensei, explaining our family situation in detail. If there was anything I could do myself, I would do it, so please help me find something, I asked. I wrote this letter thinking Sensei would likely ignore my request. I also wrote it thinking that even if he meant to help, a man with such limited connections could do nothing. But I wrote it believing certainly a reply would come.
Before sealing and sending it, I turned to my mother and said,
"I've written to Sensei. Just as you said. Would you like to read it?"
As I had imagined, my mother did not read it.
"Is that so? Then send it quickly. You should do such things promptly yourself, without needing others to remind you."
My mother still thought of me as a child. And I, too, actually felt like one.
"But a letter won't be enough. Either way, nothing can be done until September at least, when I go to Tokyo."
"That may be so, but there's no telling—perhaps some good opening might turn up, so it's best to ask early."
"Yes. Anyway, a reply is sure to come, so we'll talk again then."
I trusted Sensei to be punctilious about such matters. I waited eagerly for his reply. But my expectation was ultimately disappointed. From Sensei, even after a week, came no word at all.
"He's probably off somewhere for a summer retreat."
I had to use words like an excuse to my mother. And those words were an excuse not only to her but to my own heart as well. I had to forcibly assume some circumstance and defend Sensei's silence, or I would be uneasy.
Sometimes I forgot my father's illness. I even thought, why not just go to Tokyo quickly? My father himself sometimes forgot his own illness too. While worrying about the future, he took no steps toward it at all. In the end, as Sensei had advised, I let slip the chance to raise the matter of dividing the estate with my father.
