So far as I knew, the teacher and his wife were a happily married couple. Having never lived as a member of a household myself, I was of course unaware of any deeper circumstances, but when he and I were sitting together in the drawing room, the teacher would now and then, on some pretext or other, call not for the maid but for his wife. (His wife's name was Shizu.) The teacher would turn toward the sliding door and call, "Hey, Shizu," always. To my ears that way of calling sounded gentle. And the manner in which his wife would answer and come out was also very meek. On the occasions when I was treated to something nice and his wife appeared at the gathering, this relationship seemed to be drawn out all the more clearly between the two of them.
The teacher would sometimes take his wife along to concerts or the theater. And, according to my memory, there were also two or three times or more when the couple went traveling together for trips of no more than a week. I still have the picture postcards I received from Hakone. When they went to Nikko, I also received a letter with a single maple leaf sealed inside.
Such was the relationship between the teacher and his wife as it appeared to my eyes at the time. Among all this, there was just one exception. One day, as usual, when I was about to ask at the entrance for someone to show me in, I heard the sound of voices from the direction of the drawing room. Listening closely, it was not ordinary conversation, but rather sounded like a quarrel. Since in the teacher's house the entrance opened directly onto the drawing room, I, standing before the lattice, could make out at least the tone of that quarrel. And from the man's voice, which rose now and then, I understood that one of them was the teacher. The other was lower in pitch than the teacher, so I could not tell clearly who it was, but it felt very much like his wife. She also seemed to be crying. Wondering what to do, I hesitated at the entrance, but soon made up my mind and went straight back to my lodgings.
A strangely uneasy feeling came over me. Even when I tried to read a book, I had lost the ability to take it in. After about an hour, the teacher came below my window and called my name. Startled, I opened the window. The teacher suggested we go for a walk, and invited me from below. Taking out the watch I had wrapped in my belt earlier, I saw it was already past eight. I had not changed out of my hakama since returning, and went out just as I was.
That evening I drank beer with the teacher. The teacher was by nature a poor drinker. He was the sort of person who, having drunk to a certain point and not becoming drunk, could not take the risk of drinking until he was drunk.
"No good today," the teacher said with a wry smile.
"Can't you cheer up?" I asked, feeling sorry for him.
All the while, what had happened earlier kept nagging at the back of my mind. Like a fish bone stuck in the throat, I suffered. Whether to come right out and ask, or to think better of it and hold my tongue—this wavering made my manner strangely restless.
"You're not quite yourself tonight," the teacher said first. "As a matter of fact, I'm a bit off too. Can you tell?"
I could give no answer.
"Actually, I had a bit of a quarrel with my wife earlier. It stirred up my worthless nerves," the teacher went on.
"Why..."
The word "quarrel" would not come out of my mouth.
"My wife misunderstands me. Even when I tell her it's a misunderstanding, she won't listen. I lost my temper."
"What sort of misunderstanding of you could she have?"
The teacher did not attempt to answer this question of mine.
"If I were the kind of person my wife thinks I am, I wouldn't be suffering like this."
How the teacher was suffering—this too was a matter beyond my imagination.
