think that Chiba had looked at his pet dog’s neck, thinking of hers! Her
cheeks reddened.
Takako knew that her neck was slimmer and more shapely than those of
most Japanese women— her friends had pointed this out to her since the
time she was in grade school. Her neck had remained beautiful even after
her marriage, never growing fleshy or unpleasant to look at. Hirata was also
aware of the beauty of her neck. He sometimes pushed her jaw upward with
his forehead and kissed it. Takako was so used to this that it no longer even
tickled her.
Yet whenever young Fujiki brushed her neck with his lips, Takako felt so
ticklish that she leapt up and leaned away, shrieking.
This difference surprised Takako, even frightened her. It was hard for her
to believe that she responded to Fujiki the way she did solely as a result of
his shyness, the softness with which he touched his lips to her neck.
“Ricky, come here.”
Takako called the dog again. But he kept standing there, his head and
neck poking through the bamboo fence.
The fence was very old—it had been built before Takako’s arrival at the
house. Thick pieces of bamboo had been split in half and lined up with
their insides facing the Hiratas’ side, a fact that suggested it was someone
from the Chibas’ house who had built it. The akebi vine that had climbed
the bamboo on the Chibas’ side sometimes dropped its shriveled berries
into the Hiratas’ garden.
Chiba had still been single when Takako arrived as Hirata’s bride. He
was living with his mother and his younger sister, and there had been a
pretty maid. The sister married and moved out soon after Takako arrived.
Two years later Chiba’s mother died.
