wife’s face. Part of him had needed to come home, if only for a short time.
Takako was sure of this.
So Chiba might love Mizuta, but there was no question that he and
Ichiko were man and wife.
Ichiko’s umbrella bobbed out onto a larger street and was hidden behind
a row of trees with yellow leaves. Suddenly Takako felt as though she was
going to cry, and went inside.
“Takako!—Takako!” Hirata called, in a voice made nasal by his cold.
“Yes. I’m just going to wash some dishes.”
Takako had a feeling she might break the china so she washed it with
care, taking her time. She still hadn’t finished when Hirata came in, still in
his pajamas.
“What’s wrong? You shouldn’t be out here dressed like that.”
Hirata put a hand on Takako’s shoulder, playfully, then strengthened his
grasp and embraced her from behind.
“Please—my hands are wet,” Takako said, gasping. Hirata seized her wet
hands in his fleshy palms and forced them roughly down against her skirt.
She resisted lightly, trying to slip her shoulders out from between his arms.
“Are you and Chiba having an affair?” Hirata asked suddenly.
“What? Mr. Chiba? . . . Mr. Chiba and—why, there isn’t—there isn’t
anything like that. There’s nothing at all between us.”
Everything grew dark as Takako spoke. Her knees buckled.
“You’re lying. That’s a lie.”
He hit her in the face again and again. She fell to the floor.
“You think I don’t notice that sort of stuff? You think I don’t see the way
your body changes?” Panting, Hirata put his hands around Takako’s neck
