of art. I don’t write about myself, and I don’t think I could write about
myself even if I tried, but if I were silent and if I could write like that ... I
don’t know whether I’d feel a sort of joy, as though I had finally realized
the truth—if I’d think, is this who I am?—or if I’d find the whole thing
pathetic and give up. But either way, I’m sure it would be interesting”
Tomiko returned with sake and snacks.
“Can I offer you a drink?”
“Thank you. I hope you’ll forgive me for drinking in front of you, Mr.
Omiya, but—well, thank you.”
“Sick people like him don’t make very good conversation, I’m afraid.”
“I was continuing our discussion from before, actually.”
“Were you? As a matter of fact, I was thinking as I was heating up the
sake that it might be interesting if I was to write in my father’s place about
all the affairs he had in the years after my mother died. He told me
everything about them in great detail, and there are even some things that
my father has forgotten and I still remember. . . . I’m sure you’re aware, Mr.
Mita, that there were two women who rushed over here when my father
collapsed.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know whether it’s because my father has been in this condition
for so long, or whether it’s because I’m here, but the two women have
stopped coming. I know all about them, though—my father told me all
about them.”
“But your father doesn’t see things in the same way you do.” This was
obvious, but even so Tomiko seemed irritated.
“It’s impossible for me to believe that my father has told me any lies, and
it seems that over time I’ve come to understand his feelings. . . .” She stood
