CHAPTER 21

That winter I was obliged to return home. A letter arrived from my mother, explaining that my father’s illness had taken a turn for the worse. Although there was no immediate cause for concern, she wrote, considering his age she felt I should arrange to come back if possible.

My father had long suffered from a kidney ailment, and as is often the case with men of middle age and older, his illness was chronic. But he and the rest of the family believed that his condition would remain stable as long as he was careful—indeed, he boasted to visitors that it was entirely due to his rigorous care of his health that he had managed to live so long.

My mother told me, however, that when he was out in the garden, he had suddenly felt dizzy and fainted. The family at first mistook it for a slight stroke and treated him accordingly. Only later had the doctor concluded that the problem was related to his kidney disease.

The winter vacation would soon begin, and feeling that I could safely wait out the term, I let the matter slide from one day to the next. But as the days passed, images of my bedridden father and my anxious mother kept rising before my eyes, provoking such an ache in my heart that finally I decided I must go home. To avoid having to wait while the money was sent from home, I went to visit Sensei to borrow the amount for my fare. Besides, I wanted to bid him farewell.

Sensei was suffering from a slight cold. He did not feel inclined to come to the living room, so he asked me into his study. Soft sunlight, of a kind rarely seen in winter, was shining through the study’s glass door onto the cloth draped over his desk. In this sunny room Sensei had set a metal basin containing water over the coals of a brazier, so that by inhaling the steam, he could soothe his lungs.

“Serious illness doesn’t bother me, but I do hate these petty colds,” he remarked with a wry smile.

Sensei had never had a real illness of any sort, so I found this amusing. “I can put up with a cold,” I said, “but I wouldn’t want anything worse. Surely you’d be the same, Sensei. Just try getting really ill, and you’ll soon see.”

“You think so? If I were to actually get sick, I’d prefer it to be fatal.”

I paid this remark no particular attention but instead proceeded to tell him about my mother’s letter and asked for a loan.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “I have enough on hand to cover the amount, I think, so you must take it here and now.” He called his wife and asked her to bring the money.

She produced it from the drawer of some cupboard in the far room and presented it to me, placed formally on a sheet of white paper. “This must be very worrying for you,” she said.

“Has it happened before?” Sensei inquired.

“The letter didn’t say. Is it likely to continue?”

“Yes.”

This was how I first learned that his wife’s mother had died of the same illness.

“It’s not an easy illness,” I ventured.

“Indeed not. I wish I could offer myself in his place. Does he feel any nausea?”

“I don’t know. The letter didn’t mention it, so I guess that’s not a real problem.”

“If he’s not nauseous, then things are still all right,” said Sensei’s wife.

That evening I left Tokyo by train.