awareness other own superiority to Takako. She was extremely sensitive in
matters relating to men.
Though Ichiko was often seen riding about on her bicycle in a pair of her
husband’s old pants, in certain ways she was not what she appeared to be:
after several years of marriage, she still grew weak when her husband
kissed her, and had trouble standing. Chiba would reach hurriedly to
support her—it seemed that he was happy with her.
“You and I are neighbors, but somehow we almost never have a chance
to sit and talk,” said Ichiko.
“It’s true, isn’t it . . . .” said Takako, lowering her eyes. Then, “Does Mr.
Chiba drink?”
“You mean this?” Ichiko placed her hand on the wine bottle. “It’s pretty,
isn’t it?”
“I’ve been looking at it, thinking how beautiful it is. The color is like an
emerald’s.”
“It’s Czechoslovakian cut glass. I’ve been told that it’s absolutely
impossible to produce this color in Japan. My husband keeps it as a
memento of his father, who died when he was eleven. Apparently he loved
this bottle—it was very important to him. Whenever he was in a bad mood
he would take it out and look at it, and this would make him feel better.”
“Yes, it really does make you feel good, looking at it.”
“Apparently if the kids even went near their father when he had this out
he would yell at them—it was so bad Chiba used to think his father liked
the cut glass better than he liked his own kids. His father didn’t even want
to use it—he said he was going to put good sake in it and drink from it
when he got old. He was looking forward to that, but in the end he died
without ever having used it. ’ “Really?”
