writes, “I’m on the verge of death. I hope my name doesn’t get dragged
around in the mud too much, since I’ll be unable to answer.” Not that it was
at all like that with Akifusa and Tomiko. They were by no means strangers
— indeed, there may have occurred between them a mysterious or perhaps
a perverted emotional interchange, something beyond what most fathers
and daughters experience.
I was struck by the strange thought that Tomiko might write about her
father as if she had become her father.
Whether it became an empty game or a moving work of art, it seemed
that either way it might provide some comfort for both of them. Akifusa
might be saved from his absolute silence, from verbal starvation. Verbal
starvation is surely something intolerable.
“Your father would be able to understand what you wrote, and he’d be
able to evaluate it—you wouldn’t be reading a blank sheet of paper, and if
you really wrote about your father, if you had him listen to you read ... “
“Do you think it would be my father’s work? If even a little of it ... “
“There’s no question that some of it would, at least. Anything more—it’s
up to the gods, and it also depends on how close the two of you are. I have
no way of knowing”
But it did seem that a book written in such a way would have more life
than a book of memories written after Akifusa was dead. If it went well,
even the sort of life he was living now could be preciously literary.
“Even if your father goes on being silent, he could still help you, and he
could still fix your mistakes.”
“It wouldn’t have any meaning if it ended up being my own work. I’ll
have to talk it over very carefully with my father.” Tomiko’s voice was
lively.
