cloak. She kept the cloak on, even though the railway carriage was warmly heated, for fear the lining might be seen. Before long the conversation drifted from the subject of haiku.
The men in their conversation laid an entirely excessive emphasis on accuracy and minuteness of memory. Their conversation somehow reminded Kazu, listening without saying a word, of young men trying to outdo one another in boasting of their knowledge of women. These old men were at great pains to impart credibility to their remarks by insisting on a quite unnecessary precision, and by referring to meaningless details. For example, where a younger man would have been satisfied with a, “Let me see, it happened in 1936 or 37,” these old gentlemen would relentlessly pursue the date. “Let me see, it happened in 1937, the seventh of June. Yes, I’m sure it was the seventh. A Saturday, I believe. I can remember getting off early from work.”
The livelier the conversation became the more desperately they were obliged to struggle with natural decline, and these efforts on the surface at least resembled vigor. But in this respect too Noguchi was an exception. Kazu did not understand what could possibly interest him so in these men that he could enjoy their company; he alone maintained his youth by his dignity. As usual, he contributed an absolute minimum to the conversation, and if he became bored with a subject he would carefully count the segments in a tangerine he had peeled, and silently share the fruit with Kazu, giving her precisely half the segments. Even though Noguchi apportioned her the same number of segments, their size varied, and Kazu’s share was actually less than half the tangerine. Kazu, suppressing her amusement, stared at the wrinkled bits of thin peel, the color of the harvest moon, still sticking to the fleshy fruit.
As soon as the train arrived in Osaka at half-past six that evening, the party boarded a car sent to meet them, and drove directly to the Nara Hotel. They had no time to rest before they all went to the dining room. Nara was unusually warm for this time of the year. Kazu had long since been schooled on the bitterness of the cold at the Omizutori ceremony, and was therefore no less delighted than the old men at the warmth of this evening.
The rites at the Nigatsu Hall begin each year on the first of March, but they do not reach their climax until the night of the twelfth with the burning of the crate-like torches, followed by the dipping of the sacred water and the secret Tartar rituals performed early on the morning of the thirteenth. The ceremonies on the night of the twelfth attract the largest crowds.
The party hurried after dinner to the Nigatsu Hall, and was surprised to see how many people had already gathered below the hall. The crowd seemed less like participants in a religious ceremony than spectators at an extraordinary event.
The moment for the lighting of the huge pine-torches was at hand, and the party, guided by a priest, made its way in the darkness through the milling crowd under the platform of the Nigatsu Hall. Noguchi, taking Kazu’s hand, marched ahead, oblivious of the precarious footing underneath. He bore no resemblance to the Noguchi who had hesitated to cross the road at Ueno; he feared cars but apparently not human beings. His bearing as he pushed through the rustic-looking people revealed his ingrained authority.
The distinguished guests were guided directly up to the bamboo grill erected to prevent the crowd from surging into the temple. Directly before them, just over the railing, a flight of stone steps led up to the platform where the ceremony would take place. The aged journalist, exhausted by the walk, clung to the railing to catch his breath. The newspaper executive, constantly worried about his old friend, had provided a small folding chair for him.
The climb had ruined Kazu’s zori. The party stood now on sloping ground sparsely covered with dead grass, a sea of thawed
The men in their conversation laid an entirely excessive emphasis on accuracy and minuteness of memory. Their conversation somehow reminded Kazu, listening without saying a word, of young men trying to outdo one another in boasting of their knowledge of women. These old men were at great pains to impart credibility to their remarks by insisting on a quite unnecessary precision, and by referring to meaningless details. For example, where a younger man would have been satisfied with a, “Let me see, it happened in 1936 or 37,” these old gentlemen would relentlessly pursue the date. “Let me see, it happened in 1937, the seventh of June. Yes, I’m sure it was the seventh. A Saturday, I believe. I can remember getting off early from work.”
The livelier the conversation became the more desperately they were obliged to struggle with natural decline, and these efforts on the surface at least resembled vigor. But in this respect too Noguchi was an exception. Kazu did not understand what could possibly interest him so in these men that he could enjoy their company; he alone maintained his youth by his dignity. As usual, he contributed an absolute minimum to the conversation, and if he became bored with a subject he would carefully count the segments in a tangerine he had peeled, and silently share the fruit with Kazu, giving her precisely half the segments. Even though Noguchi apportioned her the same number of segments, their size varied, and Kazu’s share was actually less than half the tangerine. Kazu, suppressing her amusement, stared at the wrinkled bits of thin peel, the color of the harvest moon, still sticking to the fleshy fruit.
As soon as the train arrived in Osaka at half-past six that evening, the party boarded a car sent to meet them, and drove directly to the Nara Hotel. They had no time to rest before they all went to the dining room. Nara was unusually warm for this time of the year. Kazu had long since been schooled on the bitterness of the cold at the Omizutori ceremony, and was therefore no less delighted than the old men at the warmth of this evening.
The rites at the Nigatsu Hall begin each year on the first of March, but they do not reach their climax until the night of the twelfth with the burning of the crate-like torches, followed by the dipping of the sacred water and the secret Tartar rituals performed early on the morning of the thirteenth. The ceremonies on the night of the twelfth attract the largest crowds.
The party hurried after dinner to the Nigatsu Hall, and was surprised to see how many people had already gathered below the hall. The crowd seemed less like participants in a religious ceremony than spectators at an extraordinary event.
The moment for the lighting of the huge pine-torches was at hand, and the party, guided by a priest, made its way in the darkness through the milling crowd under the platform of the Nigatsu Hall. Noguchi, taking Kazu’s hand, marched ahead, oblivious of the precarious footing underneath. He bore no resemblance to the Noguchi who had hesitated to cross the road at Ueno; he feared cars but apparently not human beings. His bearing as he pushed through the rustic-looking people revealed his ingrained authority.
The distinguished guests were guided directly up to the bamboo grill erected to prevent the crowd from surging into the temple. Directly before them, just over the railing, a flight of stone steps led up to the platform where the ceremony would take place. The aged journalist, exhausted by the walk, clung to the railing to catch his breath. The newspaper executive, constantly worried about his old friend, had provided a small folding chair for him.
The climb had ruined Kazu’s zori. The party stood now on sloping ground sparsely covered with dead grass, a sea of thawed
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