At last the landlady came to ask Keitaro if he had received a letter from Morimoto. Keitaro replied that he himself had been thinking of going down to ask her the same thing. She left the room with an anxious look flickering in her round, owl-like eyes. Another week elapsed without bringing Morimoto back. Keitaro began having suspicions too. Passing the boardinghouse office, he deliberately stopped to inquire about Morimoto. But after that, he thought it better to start searching for a job again, so he was too occupied to inquire further. The truth was that he had, as Morimoto had predicted, given up the right to be an adventurer in order to seek a livelihood.
One night, the landlord went up to Keitaro's room and asked if he could come in. After he had opened the shoji and entered, he brought out from between his sash and kimono an oldish pipe case and a tobacco pouch, pulling open the case with a loud popping sound. He filled the silver bowl of his pipe with tobacco and deftly blew two thick columns of smoke through his nostrils. Keitaro was wondering why the landlord was taking his time about informing him of the purpose behind this visit until the man at last spoke up plainly.
"I've come to ask a favor," he began. Then lowering his voice, he added abruptly, "Would you please tell me where Morimoto-san is? I promise you won't get into any trouble by telling me."
The question was one that Keitaro least expected, and for a while he did not know what to say. "What on earth's wrong?" was all he could finally come out with as he looked into the landlord's face. He tried to read in it the man's intention. The landlord, his pipe apparently blocked, was using a metal charcoal stick from Keitaro's brazier to pick at tar in the bowl of the pipe. This task done, he puffed several times at the mouthpiece to see if the bamboo stem drew well. It was only after he had done these things that he set about to explain.
According to the landlord, Morimoto's rent was about six months in arrears. Because he had been a lodger in the house for nearly three years and had not idled about, the landlord had not pestered him for payment, relying on his word that he would find some means to clear everything up by the end of the year. And now he had gone on a trip. Everyone in the house believed, as Morimoto had told each of them, that he was away on business, but since he had not returned even some days after the appointed time and had not written a letter of any sort, they had begun to have doubts. So they had examined his room, and at the same time the landlord inquired at Shimbashi Station as to where he had been sent. All his things were in the room as before, but the information received at the station was surprising: Supposedly on a business trip, Morimoto had actually been dismissed at the end of the previous month.
"Such being the case," the landlord said, "I thought you might let me know where he is, since you were so friendly with him. That's why I've come. I don't intend to ask you to do anything about his rent. Could you please just let me have his address?"
Keitaro was rather annoyed by the landlord's treating him as if he were a crony of the missing man and had something to do with his dishonorable conduct. True, Keitaro had recently been approaching Morimoto with a kind of secret admiration, but to be regarded as his confidant in such a vulgar affair was, he felt, a disgrace to a youth on the threshold of life.
The honest Keitaro was angry with the landlord for the mistaken accusation. But even before anger, he had received an impression of something uncanny, as if his hand had grasped unawares the cold body of a snake. The misunderstanding by this fellow who, with a peculiar sort of composure, filled his pipe with tobacco scooped from an old-fashioned pouch, gave Keitaro as much uneasiness as if the misconjecture had been correct. The landlord handled his pipe as deftly as if it were a part of the art of negotiating. Keitaro observed this behavior for some time; at the same time he felt regret at finding no means to dispel suspicion save by emphasizing his own ignorance. As he expected, the landlord did not soon stow away his smoking equipment, but put his pipe in and out of the case, inevitably repeating that popping sound each time until Keitaro began to feel he had to silence it by any means.
"I am, as you know, a poor student fresh from school with no definite position yet, but I think I'm a man of some education. It's an insult to my pride to be lumped together with a vagabond like Morimoto, still more to be suspected of having a connection with him in some underhanded scheme. It's impertinent of you to be so insistent in your suspicions when I've said I know nothing of his whereabouts. If that's your way of treating a lodger who's lived here for two years, so be it. I have my own thoughts on the matter. During the two years that I've lived here, have I ever been in arrears for even a month?"
The landlord affirmed repeatedly that he had no doubts whatsoever about Keitaro's integrity and, asking once more not to forget to let him know Morimoto's address if Keitaro should receive a letter from him, said he would apologize as much as Keitaro wished if what he had said had given offense.
Keitaro replied simply, "Good," desiring only to have that pouch put rapidly away, and at last the tools of negotiation were stowed behind the sash. When the man left the room, there was no indication of his doubting Keitaro, so he thought he had done well to show his annoyance.
Some days later, a new lodger was occupying Morimoto's room. Keitaro was curious to know what had been done with Morimoto's possessions, but ever since the landlord had brought in those smoking utensils for that parley, Keitaro was determined not to ask again about Morimoto's affairs, so at least outwardly he behaved as if he were quite indifferent. He continued indefatigably but with less impatience to hunt for a position even though he remained dubious of success, thinking it his immediate obligation to make the effort.
One evening his search took him to Uchisaiwaicho, but he found that the man he was calling on was away from home. Returning by streetcar, he was attracted to a woman seated just opposite him. On her back under a short coat of yellowish silk she carried a baby. She was a rather smart-looking woman of the geisha type, her eyebrows dark and slender, her neck graceful, and by no means looking like someone who should be carrying on her back an infant under a short coat, though Keitaro thought it had to be her own child. He was even more puzzled when he further observed that she wore under her short apron a rich checkered kimono of silk crepe. It had been a rainy day, and each of the five or six passengers held a closed umbrella in one hand like a cane. Hers was a black janome, which she propped beside her seat, apparently averse to touching the cold and wet lacquered ribs. Near the top of the closed umbrella, Keitaro noticed three Chinese characters, Ka-ru-ta, written in red lacquer.
The woman, whose background was difficult to ascertain, whether as a professional geisha or an ordinary housewife; the baby whose legitimacy seemed dubious; the white complexion and downcast eyes under slightly slanted dark eyebrows; the kimono of silk crepe and the distinct characters on the janome denoting the woman's geisha-like name — these alternately came to excite Keitaro's imagination and to remind him suddenly of the woman Morimoto had spoken of — the woman who had once been married to him and who had borne their child. Bit by bit Keitaro recalled Morimoto's own words: "You'll laugh at my lingering attachment to her after this length of time, but she was rather good-looking with those dark eyebrows of hers that often slanted when she spoke." Keitaro gave renewed attention to the owner of the umbrella with the name written on it. Presently the woman got off the streetcar and disappeared in the rain, leaving him recalling Morimoto's face and bearing and thinking of the destiny that had taken him to he knew not where. When Keitaro returned to his boardinghouse, he found on his desk a letter, the sender's name missing from the envelope.