Hirata stepped outside, and a moment later he and Chiba were tossing
words back and forth between the second floor of Chiba’s house and the
first floor of the Hiratas’, saying—My wife doesn’t know how to cook
pheasant—Shall we see if they’ll fix it up for us at the poultry store?—And
of course you’ll have to join us, Mr. Chiba—Shall we have it in broth,
family style?
The Chibas’ house had two stories, the Hiratas’ house only one. As the
second son, Hirata had been obliged to leave his parents’ house and move
into a house of his own when he married. For this reason, the Chiba house
was generally more impressive. “Will Mr. Chiba be joining us?”
Takako had been listening inside and knew the answer to this question,
but she asked it anyway.
“Yeah, I thought I’d ask him over. His mother and sister helped out a lot
when my mother was here. Before you came. ’
All this had been before Ricky’s arrival at the Chiba house.
Ricky had come to the Chibas’ as a fully grown adult. Surely—surely
Chiba couldn’t have seen him somewhere and asked to have him because
his long neck reminded him of her? No—that would be going too far.
Ricky kept standing with his head and neck— that neck, so slim for a
mutt’s—poking through the hole in the bottom of the bamboo fence. He
still made no attempt to step through it.
“Has Ichiko gone out, too? Are you watching the house, Ricky?”
Ricky was staring at her.
Takako didn’t have to ask Ricky to know that Ichiko, Chiba’s wife, was
out. The ceaseless stream of voluble chatter that Ichiko addressed to her
three-year-old daughter, Yoko, and to their maid, had stopped, and the
radio, which Ichiko left playing from morning to night, was silent.
