4.
“Mrs. Hirata! Takako!” Ichiko shouted down in a hearty, pleasant voice
from the window of the Chibas’ second-floor bedroom. She had slid the
glass window open with a fair amount of force before calling out, and she
assumed that Takako would have heard the noise it had made next door.
Ichiko very rarely called Takako from upstairs. On most occasions she
walked to the old bamboo fence and called her from there—though this,
too, was something only Ichiko did. Takako herself never shouted at Ichiko
like this. If she had something to discuss, she would go around to the gate
of Ichiko’s house and then walk to the front door.
“Takako! Takako!”
Ichiko called again, brushing her hair.
Takako opened the paper-paneled door, darkened by the shadow of the
holly, and looked up at Ichiko.
“What are you doing?” Ichiko asked.
“Nothing much. ’
“Were you reading the newspaper? ’
“Yes,” said Takako, squinting.
“Good guess, don’t you think? ’
Ichiko shrugged and laughed. Her laugh echoed brightly.
Takako’s pale face was bathed in sunlight—it looked soft to Ichiko, who
was nearsighted. She felt as though Takako were gazing up at her, here on
the second floor, in pure admiration. What a lovely, innocent person she
was.
“Takako, would you like to come and talk a bit? If you’re free?”
