Light and dark

[44]

TSUDA DIDN’T take it.

“You didn’t say no to Okamoto?”

Looking more disappointed than suspicious, he turned away, and as he shifted his weight on the mattress the floorboards creaked as if in accordance with his mood.

“I did. I declined.”

“And they insisted you come along even so?”

Tsuda looked at his wife for the first time. But no hint of what he was searching for appeared in her face. On the contrary, she smiled.

“I went ahead and declined, and they said I should come along by all means.”

“But that’s—”

Tsuda faltered. Because there were things he still wanted to say, his mind refused to function as rapidly as he wished.

“—how could they press you after you’d turned them down?”

“They just did — Uncle Okamoto is a mule.”

Tsuda went silent. He wasn’t sure how he ought to proceed with his inquiry.

“You won’t take me at my word? I hate it when you doubt me this way.”

O-Nobu’s bunching eyebrows signaled emphatically her displeasure.

“I’m not doubting you — there’s just something odd about it.”

“Really! Then you tell me what you think is odd and I’ll explain until you’re satisfied.”

Unfortunately, Tsuda couldn’t say with any preciseness what was odd.

“So you are doubting me!”

Tsuda had the feeling that a failure to declare the absence of any particle of doubt would reflect on his character as a husband. At the same time, to be seen as a pushover by a woman would be painfully distasteful. Despite the battle for supremacy inside him between these two aspects of his ego, he appeared cool and collected on the surface.

“Aah—” With a faint sigh, O-Nobu quietly stood. Sliding back the shoji, which she had carefully closed, she stepped out on the engawa that opened to the south and, placing her hands on the railing, gazed vacantly up at the clear, high, autumn sky. In back of the laundry next door, white shirts and sheets, hung on poles to dry with no spaces between them, were swaying in the crisp breeze as before.

“What a beautiful day!”

O-Nobu spoke the words quietly as though to herself. Tsuda had the sudden feeling that he had been given to hear an appeal from a small bird in a cage. He felt vaguely sorry about tethering a weak woman to his side. He wanted to speak to O-Nobu, but he couldn’t think of an avenue back to the conversation. O-Nobu was still leaning against the railing, in no hurry to come inside.

At that moment the nurse reappeared from downstairs with their food.

“Here we are.”

Tsuda’s tray held only two eggs, a small cup of soup, and some bread. The portion of bread, ordained at some point by the doctor, was one-half of half a small loaf.

Lying on his stomach on the mattress, Tsuda wolfed his food and, when the moment came, spoke up.

“Which is it? Going or not going?”

O-Nobu lowered her fork at once.

“That depends on you. I’ll go if you say I may; otherwise I’ll stay.”

“You’re so obedient.”

“I am, always. Even Okamoto said I should ask you and he’d take me if you agreed. He told me to ask if you weren’t too sick.”

“But you phoned them.”

“I did, I promised to — I said no once, but there was always the possibility that I could go after all, depending on how you seemed, so he asked me to get in touch once more by noon to let him know how you were doing.”

“That’s what Okamoto wrote back to you?”

“Yes.”

But O-Nobu hadn’t shown Tsuda the letter.

“And how do you really feel about it? Do you want to go or not?”

“Of course I’d like to.”

“So the truth is out. Off you go, then.”

With this conversation, they finished their lunch.