with what they call ‘double petals.’ I still remember that camellia
sometimes, even now—and I think what a wonderfully gentle person
whoever planted it must have been.’’
It was clear that Kozumi appeared as a character in one of the scenes in
the woman’s recollections of Yumiura. Images of that camellia and that
bow shaped harbor rose up in Kozumi’s mind as well now, seemingly
called up by what the woman said. But it irritated him that he could not
cross over into that country in the world of recollection where the woman
lived. The two of them were as isolated from one another as the living and
the dead of that country. Kozumi’s memory was weaker than that of most
people his age. He sometimes talked at length with people whose faces he
knew, yet could not remember their names—in fact it happened all the
time. The unease he felt at such times was mixed with fear. And as he tried
unsuccessfully to call up his own memories of the woman, his head began
to ache.
“When I think about the person who planted that camellia, it seems to me
that I ought to have made my room there in Yumiura a little nicer. But I
hadn’t and so you only came that once, and then thirty years passed without
us ever meeting. Though to tell the truth I’d decorated my room a little
even then, to make it look more like a young woman’s.”
Kozumi could remember nothing at all of her room. Perhaps wrinkles
formed on his forehead, perhaps his expression became slightly severe, for
the woman’s next words showed that she was preparing to leave.
“I must apologize for having come so suddenly, that was rude. . . . But
I’ve wanted to see you for such a long time, and coming here has really
been such a pleasure for me—nothing would have made me happier. I
wonder—would you mind very much if I came again sometime?—if I
could—there are some things I’d like to discuss.”
“That would be fine.”
