and think whatever they like—that they decide for themselves whether the
person who died was happy or not?”
“You do have an unpleasantly logical way of thinking, don’t you? You
know, near the end of winter, when spring was just beginning, my daughter
used to wake up in the morning and say—Ah, this is so much fun!—and
then she’d stroke her arms. During the course of a single night her skin
would turn silky smooth. That’s the age she died at.”
Returning home on the day of the next drawing class, Kiriko suggested
that they not go straight to Shinbashi station—she invited Junji to go with
her to a department store. She bought him a readymade suit; she seemed to
think that they would stand out even more if Junji wore his school uniform.
The things Kiriko said to him didn’t sound very affectionate, either—
even when they were in the room where they went to be alone. ‘‘I’m sorry,”
she said. “It’s just that you’re the perfect age to marry my daughter” Still,
in her pleasure Junji came to know the pleasure of being a man. It was an
awakening that overflowed with strength. After a time, in a flirtatious voice
that disguised her shame, Kiriko said, “I was thinking this before, when we
were buying the clothes, but—you’re tall, aren’t you? Put your legs
together for a second. . . .” She felt around for Junji’s heels with her own,
then pressed her face into his chest. “Look, I only come up to here.”
She lay still, as though savoring the moment.
Kiriko didn’t show up at the next week’s class in Western drawing. Junji
telephoned her house and asked to speak with her.
“Why didn’t you come to class today?”
“The second we met everyone would know—the way you’d act would
give us away. There’s no way you’d be able to hide it.”
They arranged to meet somewhere else for their third date, but Kiriko
didn’t show up at the appointed time. Junji called again.
