Light and dark

[37]

THE WAITRESS, who had been observing them, approached abruptly and began to clear the table pointedly. As if on that signal, the man in the Inverness glided out of his seat. Engrossed in their conversation, Tsuda and Kobayashi had stopped drinking a while ago and could hardly carry on as though oblivious. Tsuda took the opportunity to stand at once. Before leaving his seat, Kobayashi helped himself to a gold-tipped Manilla from the box that had been left on the table between them and lit it. It was as if he had decided he deserved a modest bonus on the side, Tsuda thought, piqued by the irony as he retrieved the cigarette box and put it in his sleeve.

Though the hour wasn’t that late, the crowd on this autumn night had dwindled surprisingly. The distinctive rumbling of a streetcar that would have been inaudible by day reached them from a distance. They walked along together, each in the grip of his own mood, their paired shadows wavering down the river bank.

“When will you be leaving?”

“It depends, maybe while you’re in the hospital.”

“That soon?”

“Not necessarily. I won’t know for certain until Sensei has another meeting with the head writer on the paper.”

“When you’re leaving, or if you’re going at all?”

“Something like that—”

Kobayashi’s reply was vague. As Tsuda moved quickly ahead without bothering to probe, he amplified.

“The truth is, I don’t really want to go.”

“Is Uncle saying you absolutely must?”

“Not at all — it’s not like that.”

“Then why not call it off?”

Tsuda’s words, with the force of logic that would have been plain as day to anyone hearing the remark, had the effect of cruelly squelching what appeared to be his companion’s expectation of sympathy. A few steps further, Kobayashi turned to Tsuda abruptly.

“Tsuda-kun!* I’m horribly lonely!”

Tsuda made no reply.

They walked together in silence. The trickle of water in the very center of the shallow riverbed vanished darkly beneath the indistinct stanchions of a bridge with a faint gurgling audible between the rumbling of a trolley.

“I guess I’ll go after all. I just think I better go.”

“Then do.”

“Right — I’ll go. Going to Korea or Taiwan is a much better deal than staying in a place like this and being made a fool of by everyone around.”

Kobayashi’s voice had tightened to shrillness. Tsuda sensed the importance of keeping his own voice calm.

“It’s foolish to be so pessimistic. As long as you’re young and in good health, why shouldn’t you succeed splendidly wherever you go? Let’s throw you a farewell party — to cheer you up.”

This time Kobayashi said nothing. Even so, Tsuda tried to remain sympathetic.

“How is O-Kin going to feel if you’re away when she gets married?”

Kobayashi appeared startled, as if he had just realized he had forgotten all about his younger sister.

“I feel sorry for her, but what can I do? It was her misfortune to end up with a hoodlum like me for a brother; she’ll have to resign herself.”

“Auntie and Uncle will look after things even if you’re away.”

“I guess that’s how it will have to be. Otherwise she can break off this engagement and stay on at Sensei’s house working like a maid. The way I figure it, she’d be a maid either way — I feel even sorrier about Sensei. If I do go, I’ll have to borrow travel money from him.”

“They won’t pay for the trip?”

“It doesn’t seem so.”

“You’ll have to squeeze it out of them.”

“Right—”

When Kobayashi spoke again, breaking another minute of silence, he might have been talking to himself.

“I borrow travel money from Sensei, I bum an overcoat from you, I leave my only sister in the lurch — I’m hopeless.”

These were the last lines Kobayashi uttered that night. Shortly after, they went their separate ways. Tsuda hurried homeward without looking back.

* A suffix less formal than san, kun is roughly equivalent to second-person familiar, as in tu or du. It is used only by men, friends, or a superior to a subordinate.