Utako and Jiro had been in love seven or eight years earlier, but she had
married another man, and recently had gotten a divorce. Today she was
going to Hakone with Jiro. She had many things to think about.
“It said in the paper that there would be snow as far as the eighth station
on the path up the mountain—I wonder if that’s the eighth station . . . .”
Utako was still talking about Fụji’s first snow. She glanced at Jiro’s profile.
It seemed to Utako that for the first time since they’d met this morning
Jiro’s voice had bounded with its old liveliness again when he pointed out
the snow on Mount Fuji. So she continued to speak ofit.
His voice had sounded toneless and dull to Utako all the way from Tokyo
Station, every time he answered her. She couldn’t help wondering if he was
depressed.
He was still looking out the window at Fuji.
Utako had grown very thin, and he was tempted to look at that haggard
body of hers, to inspect it. This wasn’t necessarily a cruel feeling—as a
matter of fact it was love. Yet somehow the more he wanted to look at her,
the less he was able to.
“As for what we were talking about before. . . .” Utako said.
She drew the conversation back from Fuji to her life.
“Mr. Someya, you mean?”
“Yes.” For a moment Utako was silent. “I really think that for me, at this
point—no matter what happens, as much as possible, I want to give people
the beneG.t of the doubt.”
“Yeah.”
“If I keep resenting Someya, things will never get better for me.”
“I think you’re right.”
