“Death. I want to die.”
As they followed the way home, they saw Yūko coming toward them on the path that went between the green rice paddies. Concerned that they were taking so long to return, she had sent the postmaster’s wife on ahead and come back to meet them. With Yūko’s back to the sun, which had almost gone down, her shadow soon reached their feet as she slowly drew near. The closer she came, the more attractive her heavy lipstick was against her face—the paleness of which was accentuated by the dark blue material of her cotton robe.
“You’re taking your time, aren’t you?”
“We’ve been chatting about all sorts of things,” said Kōji.
“Chatting, you say!”
With the evening sun just then cast obliquely across her face, Yūko suddenly pulled the corners of her mouth back so that even the fine creases on her thin lips were visible and her lipstick shone in the light, and spoke contemptuously, with a note of deliberate surprise in her voice.
“It’s nice and cool in the evening. It sounds like there are a lot of cicadas out lately. Anyhow, since we’re here, do you fancy walking a little farther, toward the harbor? Are you tired?”
Ippei understood Yūko’s question without any real difficulty. His customary smile surfaced below the straw hat as it slowly bobbed from side to side.
“Well, then, let’s take our time. Thanks for your help. It’s my turn now.”
She moved between them and, with Ippei on her right side and Kōji on her left, set off walking. Before long, the path that ran due west cut across the prefectural highway and went straight to the harbor.
“To the family members of the crew of the Tatsumi Maru, please come now and collect your five days’ supply of rice.”
The sound of the fishing cooperative’s loudspeaker echoed around the hillside; accustomed to such announcements, people usually heard but didn’t listen to them. And yet, when one thought how both the end of the fishing season holiday and the departure of the fishing boats were near at hand, it sounded unusually new.
Matsukichi’s boat had already set sail toward Hokkaido. A yellow cloud rose in the distance on the prefectural highway, followed by a dull rumbling noise. Half-enveloped in the dust, the body of a passing bus was barely visible. The glowing sky gradually lost its color, and the sun having already vanished behind the promontory in the distance, the headland stared blackly back at them.
While guiding Ippei, from time to time Yūko’s left hand came into contact with Kōji’s right. Sometimes the contact was soft, and sometimes it was hard and painful. In the end, Yūko’s fingers, groping in the dark, lightly squeezed and then let go of his hand.
Kōji glanced at Yūko’s face, but her head was facing directly to the front, and in profile, her face had a hard edge to it, as if she were curbing her desires. For a moment, there was a tired convulsive strength in Yūko’s fingers as she squeezed and then released her grip.
Kōji started to speak. “You know, I’m always thinking that maybe my life is being lived just for his sake.”
“His? You mean Ippei, right?”
Seeking to evade the issue, Yūko returned the question, but of course Kōji was referring to Ippei.
“Yeah, that’s right,” he continued, in a heavy, faltering voice. He let his head droop, and gazed at their feet slowly extending alternately forward as they fell in line with Ippei’s pace—like some kind of ceremonial procession—on top of the white path that was just starting to go dark. “A lot of things have happened. But, in the end, I feel like I’ve behaved and lived exactly the way he wanted me to. And that will probably carry on this way from now on as well.”
Kōji did his best to sound nonchalant, but Yūko’s intuitive power surprised him.
Her shoulders shuddered slightly. Swiftly turning her keen gaze in his direction, she traced with her eyes the outline of his tense jaw. Without doubt, she immediately saw through the dark, heavy quality given off by his moderate turn of phrase. Kōji recognized in Yūko’s powers of intuition a sign of her love for him, and he felt overjoyed. If that were not the case, then why had they been brought together in an instant by this delicate spider’s thread that was barely visible in the failing light?
Yūko seemed to waver ever so slightly in the face of Kōji’s words, which revealed a quality like a darkly glittering mineral.
However, there must have been a tacit understanding between them for quite some time even before Kōji spoke.
They continued to walk at Ippei’s pace, while Yūko closed her eyes with a sweep of her long eyelashes. When she opened them again, the distant embers of the sunset burned like fire in her eyes. Kōji realized then that she had changed, and she was no longer the desultory and insincere woman she had been. She had been transformed into a vibrant woman brimming with immeasurable energy.
Then she spoke. “Yes, I agree with you. In which case, you’d better come along, Kōji. And so had I. There’s no going back now after all of this.”
When they arrived at the harbor, Ippei, of course, was exhausted, as were they all. The light was failing, and only the crests of the waves in the bay caught the dying light.
The lighthouse shone brightly, and while it was difficult to tell the extent of the fan-shaped band of light that swept across the harbor and promontory opposite, every two seconds the flash of light clearly illuminated both the vessels that lay at anchor and also the oil tanks on the shore opposite.
Leaning against an oil drum, Ippei slid down and collapsed into a sitting position. Yūko squatted next to him, while Kōji stood alone to one side. Fanned by the cool evening breeze, the three gazed without seeing at the scenery on the dark shore in the distance.
“We haven’t been over to the other side yet, have we? Let’s get Teijirō to row us over one of these days in the sculling boat. We should take lots of pictures. The middle of the day would be best, though it may be hot,” said Yūko.
Epilogue
I have always been interested in the traditional performing arts of celebration—so much so, in fact, that, having been encouraged in this direction at university by Professor Matsuyama, I decided on the “Study of Celebration and Reciters” as the title of my thesis.
After graduating, I took a job teaching in a high school, and during my vacation I visited my alma mater and sought the advice of Professor Matsuyama in connection with my research aims. For me, going on a research field trip was the greatest pleasure. It is fair to say that for a scholar of ethnology, the real delight is not in carrying out one’s studies in the research office, but rather, in having opportunities to spend time in the field.
I spent one summer in the 1960s traveling the length and breadth of the Izu Peninsula on just this sort of fact-finding trip.
By its very nature, a peninsula is a repository for all manner of folklore material, into which flow a great many customs. These customs take root and are handed down orally with the result that unexpected folklore discoveries are made in some surprising places. Everywhere one goes in Izu, belief in the traveler’s guardian deity Dōsojin is widespread. Deities such as these, which are known as “Sai no Kami,” are protectors from harm and usually manifest themselves in the form of three-dimensional stone statues—designed to ward off incursions into the area by intruders from other regions. There is even a curious custom whereby, when the catch has been poor, the local children hurl the stone statue into the sea as a means of teasing and taking out their revenge on the gods.