LITMIR.BIZ

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debt? Would Seigo clean it up as he had before? Had his brother in fact been anticipating as much when he refused? Or was he confident that he, Daisuke, would never try such a thing and therefore had not lent him the money?

      Judging from Daisuke’s current tendencies, anyone would think it most unlikely for him to affix his seal for another person. Daisuke himself thought so. But if Seigo had seen through this and in refusing to lend his younger brother the money was gambling on Daisuke’s acting in character, then Daisuke was not immune to the temptation of doing the unexpected and seeing how his brother would react. Having gotten this far, Daisuke himself found his thoughts rather ill-natured and mentally gave himself a sarcastic smile.

      But one thing was certain: sooner or later, Hiraoka would come, loan note in hand, seeking Daisuke’s seal.

      With these thoughts, Daisuke got out of bed. Kadono had been sitting cross-legged, reading the newspaper, but as soon as he saw Daisuke coming from the bath with wet hair, he sat up and folded the papers away beside the cushion. “It’s really something, isn’t it, what’s happening in Smoke,” he said loudly.

      “Have you been reading it?” “Yes. Every morning.”

      “Is it interesting?”

      “Yes. It seems interesting, somehow.” “In what way?”

      “In what way? I can’t answer when you ask like that, Sensei, so formal and all. Well, you know, doesn’t it seem like it really shows that modern anxiety?”

      “And doesn’t it smell of the flesh?” “Yes, it does. A good deal.” Daisuke fell silent.

      Teacup in hand, he went into the study and sat down. As he gazed vacantly at the garden, he noticed that young shoots were springing in profusion from the knobby, dead branches and roots of the pomegranate; their color was like a mixture of dark green and dark red. They flashed for an instant in his eyes, then immediately lost their effectiveness as a stimulus.

      There was nothing concrete in Daisuke’s head at the moment. It was just quietly at work, almost like the weather outside. But an infinite number of undefinable particles were pushing against each other in the back of his mind. No matter how much the particles of mold in a piece of cheese move about, the motion goes undetected so long as the cheese remains stationary. Similarly, Daisuke himself barely noticed the seismographic movements taking place in his head. It was just that each time they provoked a physiological response, he was forced to shift in his seat.

      Daisuke seldom used such words as modern or anxiety, which were very much in fashion. This was because, first of all, he thought it went without saying that he was modern; secondly, he clung steadfastly to the belief that modernity did not necessarily cause anxiety.

      Daisuke explained the anxiety depicted in Russian literature by the climate and the oppressive political system; he saw the anxiety in French literature as a product of the prevalence of adultery. The anxiety in Italian literature, as represented by D’Annunzio, he judged to be a sense of self-loss resulting from uninhibited decadence. Thus, when Japanese writers chose to depict society exclusively from the angle of anxiety, Daisuke regarded it as an importation.

      In his school days, Daisuke had indeed had some experience with the kind of anxiety that follows upon intellectual doubt. But after developing to a certain point, this anxiety had come to an abrupt halt and then had begun to reverse itself. It was as if he had thrown a rock at heaven; he wished he hadn’t done it in the first place. That “doubt of all things visible,” so dear to the heart of Zen priests, belonged to a land in which he had yet to set foot. Daisuke was far too cleverly made to doubt everything with such sincere impetuosity.

      Daisuke, too, had been reading the newspaper serial Smoke which Kadono had praised. Today, he put the newspaper beside his teacup; he did not even feel like opening it. All of D’Annunzio’s heroes were men without money worries, so it was not unreasonable that their excesses should lead to folly; when it came to the hero of Smoke, there was no such leeway. That he should push so far, this notwithstanding, must mean that he was under the power of love; it would be impossible otherwise. Yet, neither this character, named Yōkichi, nor the woman, Tomoko, gave any indication of being forced outside society because of true love. When he tried to identify the inner force that was driving the two, Daisuke grew skeptical. The hero, who could act so resolutely in such circumstances, was probably not subject to anxiety. It would be much more reasonable to suppose that the seeds of anxiety resided in Daisuke, who would hesitate in such a situation. Daisuke had always regarded himself as an original. But he was forced to recognize that Yōkichi was far ahead of him in this respect. He had started reading Smoke out of curiosity, but lately, since he had begun to feel too great a distance between himself and Yōkichi, he had let many days go without even scanning the day’s installment.

      From time to time, Daisuke stirred in his chair. He thought that he was completely relaxed. He finished his tea and began to read as usual. For about two hours he read steadily, but when he came to the middle of a certain page, he stopped and rested his chin on his hands. He picked up the newspaper and read the day’s installment of Smoke. As before, he was out of tune with it. Then he read various articles here and there. Count Ōkuma was vigorously supporting the dissident students in the Tokyo Higher Commercial School dispute. This was written up in fairly strong language. Whenever he read something like this, Daisuke was apt to interpret it as a maneuver by Count Ōkuma to draw students to his own Waseda University. Daisuke tossed the paper aside.

      Past noon, he finally began to realize that he was not at ease. He felt as if a thousand tiny wrinkles were constantly moving and changing position and shape in his stomach. Daisuke was occasionally dominated by such sensations, but up to now, he had always treated this kind of experience as a purely physiological phenomenon. He somewhat regretted having eaten eel with his brother the day before. He thought he might take a walk and drop in on Hiraoka, but he could not tell whether his real goal was to take a walk or to see Hiraoka. He had the old woman get out a change of clothing and was just about to dress when his nephew Seitarō arrived. Cap in hand, he bowed his well-shaped round head before Daisuke and sat down.

      “Is school out already? It’s too early.”

      “It’s not early at all,” said Seitarō, laughing and watching Daisuke’s face.

      Daisuke clapped his hands to call the old woman and asked, “Seitarō, would you like some hot chocolate?”

      “Yes.”

      Daisuke ordered two hot chocolates and began to tease Seitarō. “Seitarō, your hands have gotten awfully big these days from playing baseball all the time. They’re bigger than your head!”

      Seitarō grinned and rubbed his round head with his right hand. He really did have large hands.

      “I hear Daddy treated you yesterday, Uncle.”

      “That’s right, I had quite a feast. Thanks to him, my stomach isn’t feeling well today.”

      “It’s nerves again.”

      “It’s not nerves, it’s real. It’s all his fault.” “That’s what Daddy said.’’

      “What did he say?”

      ‘“Go to Daisuke’s after school and get him to treat you to something.’”

      “Oh—in return for yesterday?”

      “That’s right—I treated him today, so it’s his turn tomorrow, he said.”

      “You came all the way just for that?” “Yes.”

      “You’re my brother’s son all right, good and shrewd. That’s why I’m giving you the hot chocolate. That’ll do, won’t it?” “Hot chocolate?”

      “You won’t drink it?”

      “Oh, I’ll drink it all right, but . . .”

      It turned out that what Seitarō wanted was to be taken to the Ekōin when the sumō tournament opened and to watch the matches from the best seats in the center section. Daisuke agreed readily.

      Then

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