When my father read this passage, he mistook 淼淼(a duplicated-kanji compound meaning “an endless expanse of water,” entirely composed of 水, the character for water) for a similar-looking compound: 森森, which consists of repetitions of 木, the character for “tree,” and is used to describe tall trees growing densely in a forest.
One day while my father was hard at work at our family business, inspecting the bundles of dried, bleached-out paperbush bark for any untidy scraps that might have adhered to them (he did this by turning the large bundles with a specially designed cargo hook), he started talking to my mother about the Origuchi book he had been reading. She was sitting next to him, busy with her own tasks.
“‘A dense forest of ocean waves’ is a rather intriguing turn of phrase,” he remarked. “Around here they say when someone passes away, that person’s spirit rises through the air and returns to the forest, isn’t that right? To the people who descend into the depths of the forest from the heights of the sky, the leaves of the trees might appear to resemble waves in the sea. So there really could be a thick forest of waves, figuratively speaking.”
My father was referring to the local belief that when people from our area die their souls return to the upper tier of the forest above the valley. In our family, the belief was fostered not by my father (who originally came from another part of the country) but by my grandmother and my mother, both of whom used to volunteer at the local shrine. My father tended to be quite taciturn and it was unusual for him to start a conversation in such a way, so it must have made my mother very happy.
I happened to be standing nearby, and their exchange made me prick up my ears. Because of my obsessive penchant for perusing the index of the kanji dictionary I was familiar with both of the characters in question, and when I ran to check the Origuchi book my hunch that my father had misread the compound was confirmed.
“The kanji in the quotation is written with the character for water, arranged in a sort of pyramid,” I announced triumphantly when I returned. “The one you mistook for it is constructed in the same way, only with the character for tree. The first one is used to talk about floods and so on, and also to describe a scene where a body of water stretches as far as the eye can see.”
My father put on the silver-framed reading glasses he always kept nearby and then, wearing an expression so serious that it almost made him look like a different person, he went into his small study in the interior of the house, presumably to double-check what I had said. Later, he apparently shared his pride and amusement over the incident with my mother and also, as I was learning just now, with Daio.
While I listened to Daio on that morning in early spring, an image floated across my mind: my father, not out on some vast ocean but rather spinning around on the river bottom during the big flood, on the verge of being inexorably drawn into the whirlpool. My father, who at that moment must have been experiencing the sensations of venturing deep into the forest and, simultaneously, being sucked into a watery vortex. My father, who (for all I knew) might even have believed in some paradisiacal world beyond — a realm that could somehow, magically, be reached by drowning.
“Choko Sensei was studying the ways in which society and the nation as a whole were moving forward,” Daio was saying. “He used to tell us about some of the things he learned from his correspondence with supposedly illustrious people, but when we asked whether those people were recognized experts in the field of politics or economics it always emerged that, in fact, they were not. But you yourself gravitated toward the study of literature, and we’ve all heard the story of how you became interested in the subject because of the books your mother brought home for you when you were a child, during the war.”
While Daio and I were enjoying a desultory chat, Unaiko (who had driven down from Matsuyama) was busy in the kitchen fixing breakfast for us. When she came into the great room bearing coffee, she was dressed more or less as usual in Chinese-style trousers and a loose shirt that was almost like a jacket. However, I also got a clear sense of something Asa had spoken of in one of her letters: Unaiko did, indeed, project a kind of heightened aura, as if the major success of her theater-in-the-round play had somehow peeled away part of a protective carapace while also giving her self-confidence a visible boost.
Unaiko needed to consult with me about some practical matters, such as what time Akari should be awakened and when was the latest he could take his morning medicine — Maki had provided a list of all the meds and their dosages — but she conducted even that quotidian exchange in a lively, energized way. Evidently she had already had some preliminary discussions about division of labor with Daio.
“I’ll go upstairs and get Akari out of bed myself,” I said. “I don’t foresee any particular problems during the morning hours, at least.”
At this point Unaiko produced a fax from Maki that gave detailed instructions about Akari’s breakfast menus, complete with illustrations in the margins, and began to study it carefully.
The night before I had checked to make sure Akari was asleep and breathing normally before going to bed myself, but I hadn’t waited until he made his nightly midsleep trip to the bathroom. Before my disastrous outburst in the clinic’s waiting room, I had made a ritual of getting up whenever I heard Akari making his way to the toilet; I would go into his room and tidy the sheets and quilts, then wait for him to return so I could tuck him in again. Since that dark day, though, I hadn’t once performed my familiar middle-of-the-night task — which I had always thought of as something I would be doing forever.
Now, as I opened the door and entered the room (which was still dark because of the drawn curtains, and redolent of Akari’s body odor), I felt reluctant to turn on the light. After a moment I got a sense that something was stirring in the bed and then, finally, I flipped the switch. Akari was lying stretched out on the bed, wrapped in a cotton quilt and staring at the ceiling.
“You and I are going to be staying here at the Forest House for a little while,” I said, by way of orientation. “Mama and Maki aren’t here, so can you get dressed by yourself? A friend of Auntie Asa’s named Unaiko is making breakfast for us. If you’ve already used the toilet, let’s go downstairs. You can brush your teeth in the guest washroom there, all right?”
“I understand,” came the uninflected reply.
As Akari began to climb out of bed, I noticed that his movements were slower and clumsier than usual, and there seemed to be a hitch in his basic locomotion. I started to offer to help him to his feet, but then I lost my nerve. Instead, I walked over to the window next to the bed and pulled open the drapes. The trees hadn’t yet begun to bud, and the front garden looked barren and deserted. The river shoreline beyond the wooded valley was shrouded in clouds, and the slope above it had a bleak, desolate aspect. I was standing with my back to Akari, but I got the feeling that he was dressing himself with unusual alacrity.
My son and I descended the staircase in single file, keeping several steps between us. Unaiko was waiting at the bottom, and she led Akari to the washroom. When he didn’t take any notice of the visitor in the great room, Daio withheld his own greeting as well, but I could see him studying the hesitation in Akari’s gait.