“What did she say?” Peter said as we began to walk back to the car.
Kunichika smiled and said, “I’m not certain. Something beyond translation.”
I caught his eye as we climbed back into the car. He smiled and said, “I did tell you I was a jack-of-all-trades.”
We set off with renewed vigour, it seemed. Kunichika turned to Honey and said, “We should not stay on this road for too long.”
I fell into a thin sleep with my head resting on Johnny’s shoulder. In my sleep I felt the rolling and swaying of the car. I did not dream; my head was filled instead with the voices of the people around me, yet, curiously, I remained asleep. I did not wake until we reached the grounds of the rest house.
THIS REST HOUSE is exceedingly comfortable, and I am reluctant to leave it — yet we must if we are to catch our boat this evening. I have often glimpsed these rest houses, and have always wanted to stay in one, to be a foreign traveller, stopping en route at these simple inns that punctuate the journey to the far North. When we arrived late yesterday afternoon, I went immediately to my room to enjoy the view. The house is situated on a hill, nestled among ancient shade-giving trees. Beyond the flame of the forest outside my window the land falls away and then undulates gently towards the coast. The Hainanese couple who run this place say that on a clear day the sea is easily visible; sometimes it appears so near that some guests have attempted to walk to it. But there has been so much cloud in the sky that I have not glimpsed the ocean; rain seems close at hand.
Let me describe this room and why it appeals to me so much. It is large, with a smooth concrete floor painted the colour of clay. The furnishings are sparse — a bed, a dressing table, and a small writing desk. The windows are so large that wherever I am in the room I am able to take in the view. After Johnny went down for breakfast this morning, I pulled the mosquito net aside and lay in bed gazing outside. The air was cool and the light soft. That was when it struck me: this is the first time I have been on a trip on my own — that is to say, unaccompanied by my parents. Even the most timid of my excursions have always been chaperoned. I do not know why I have not realised the significance of this trip before, or why I have been allowed to venture forth in this manner. Perhaps they believe — justifiably — that marriage makes a woman so undesirable that she will be safe from the murky dangers of men.
“You seem in high spirits today,” Kunichika said when I ran into him on the landing.
“Do I?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I had dressed hastily, eager to go outside, and the sleeves of my blouse had gathered uncomfortably at my shoulders. I pulled at them inelegantly.
“Would you care for a stroll?” he asked.
The others were nowhere to be seen; the breakfast room seemed empty. I nodded.
It was the most glorious morning I could recall. Everything was perfectly still, the air touched with the faint crispness of dawn. The light appeared to my eyes like syrup. I had never noticed such a thing before. I wanted to swim in it.
“The light is remarkable,” Kunichika said. “It illuminates everything.” It was as if he had read my mind.
“One can see everything with utter clarity,” I said. “There are no shadows, nothing is hidden.”
“Is it too sentimental a thing to say,” he said, and then paused.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He smiled, blushing a little.
I stopped walking and turned to him. His hesitant smile induced me to smile too. “What were you going to say?”
“No, please — I am embarrassed to say it. I am embarrassed even to think it.” He walked a few paces ahead of me and paused under the boughs of a giant fig tree. On the perfectly clipped lawn, he looked like an ornamental statue.
I went to him and said, “Now, Professor, you must tell me.”
He hesitated and frowned. “Only if you call me by my name.”
I laughed and cleared my throat theatrically. “Please tell me what you were going to say — Mamoru.”
He turned away and gazed at the valley before us. I could not see his face, but he seemed lost in contemplation. In a quiet voice, he said, “On such mornings one feels as if life is — that life begins again. You feel — one feels — that whatever else one has previously done in one’s life ceases to matter. All you have done wrong can be put right, all you have lost can be regained. Your slate is wiped clean. It’s as if someone says to you,‘Here is a new beginning.’ ” He turned around and caught my eye. He shrugged and looked at his feet, laughing awkwardly. “I’m sorry — it’s silly sentimentalism, I know. Please, ignore what I said. Academics are prone to such emotional lapses!”
