“Chiba’s mother sold all sorts of things to put him through college, but
this she wouldn’t sell, it’s the only thing she kept as a memento. After his
mother died, Chiba started using it. I’m sure it reminds him of his parents. I
handle it as gently as I can myself, and I try to touch it as little as possible.
But since it’s so fragile it’ll probably break eventually.”
Takako had been staring at the bottle all the time Ichiko spoke. The
clearness and the luster of the bright emerald green had the beauty of a
jewel. Something clean filled her chest, and she felt relaxed. The bottle was
rectangular, shaped like a hentsubo, and the neck was a rectangle, too,
stopped with a large cork. The glass was dotted with round depressions,
like a pattern of water drops. In each of these round depressions the objects
on the far side of the bottle could be seen—tiny, tiny reflections. The same
objects were visible in the depressions on the opposite face of the bottle, so
it seemed that infinite numbers of tiny objects were standing there, all lined
up in rows. The deep brown chinaware cigarette box, the white cigarettes
within the box, the color pictures in the architecture magazines—all this
hovered miniaturized and multiplied within the emerald light. If she
lowered her head slightly and looked at the bottle, she could see Ichiko’s
lilac sweater, her breasts, miniaturized and multiplied.
“Chiba only puts good wines in it. It looks like there’s a little left at the
bottom, doesn’t it?” said Ichiko, moving her face closer to the bottle. Then
she noticed that Takako’s eyes were filled with tears. She sat back up in
surprise and looked down at her face.
“Are you crying, Takako?”
She had startled Takako.
“It’s so beautiful I cry,” Takako said, blushing faintly. When she lifted
her face Ichiko was struck by the beauty of her long, thin neck.
“You’re so sensitive, Takako,” said Ichiko with genuine goodwill, feeling
that she would like her husband to see Takako as she was right now, with
