Once more I seemed to have said too much. Wasn’t what I was doing
like forcing a desperately wounded soldier to return to battle? Wasn’t it like
violating a sanctuary of silence? It wasn’t as though Akifusa was unable to
write—he could write letters or characters if he wanted to. Perhaps he had
chosen to remain silent, chosen to be wordless because of some deep
sorrow, some regret. Hadn’t my own experience taught me that no word
can say as much as silence?
But if Akifusa was to continue in silence—if his words were to come
from Tomiko—wouldn’t that be one of the powers of silence, too? If one
uses no words oneself, other people speak in one’s place. Everything
speaks.
“Shall I? My father says that I should give you some sake right away—
that at the very least.” Tomiko stood.
I looked instinctively at Akifusa, but there was nothing to suggest that
the old man had spoken.
The two of us were alone now that Tomiko had left, so Akifusa turned
his face in my direction. He looked gloomy—maybe there was something
he wanted to say? Or maybe it irked him to be put in a situation where he
felt as though he had to say something? I had no choice but to speak
myself.
“What are your thoughts regarding what Tomiko was saying just now?”
I addressed silence.
“I feel sure that you could produce an intriguing work, really quite
different from your ^What a Mother Can Read. I started to feel that way as
I was talking with Tomiko.”
“You never wrote an ‘I Novel’ or an autobiography—perhaps now that
you yourself are no longer able to write, using some other person’s hand to
produce a work of that sort might allow you to reveal one of the destinies
