Utako wondered when Jiro had gotten married— she still hadn’t asked.
She intended to say nothing at all about his wife.
Jiro continued his story. “The priest at the temple was also learning to
chant in the Noh style—the teacher must have been counting on that when
he came—and when I praised his chanting he said that he was awful at it,
that he always ended up using the voice he used to chant sutras . . . . I’d
hear him calling out yo and ho and so on, and the ponk of the higher drum
being hit—1 was always so startled my heart leapt. I broken-hearted, and
then on top of that I was malnourished, my body was weak. It struck me as
peculiar and also as pretty amazing that they would go on hitting drums and
playing flutes even as we were losing the war, you know? I mean—there
probably wasn’t anything else they could do, but still. . . . You and I didn’t
even have enough willpower left to think like that—to realize that there
was nothing left for us to do but play our flutes. When the country lost the
war you and I lost too.”
“I was still a child, I didn’t understand anything,” Utako repeated. “But I
think you’re right—you and I should have been playing our flutes together.
Things ended up like this because we weren’t.”
The maid came in again to suggest that they go along to the bath. It was
the second time she had come.
“I’ve just checked the water, so feel free. . . .” she said.
“Yes, thank you. But I’m afraid we haven’t brought wash cloths.”
“I’ll bring some to the bath.”
Utako spoke after the maid left.
“How embarrassing—not bringing wash cloths. They’ll wonder.” Her
face turned red.
They hadn’t intended to come to Hakone when they met.
