The Setting Sun

Five years ago I was laid up with what was called lung trouble, although I was perfectly well aware that I had willed the sickness on myself. Mother’s recent illness, on the other hand, had really been nerve-racking and depressing. And yet, Mother’s only concern was for me.

“Ah,” I murmured.

“What’s the matter?” This time it was Mother’s turn to ask.

We exchanged glances and experienced something like a moment of absolute understanding. I giggled and Mother’s face lighted into a smile.

Whenever I am assailed by some painfully embarrassing thought, that strange faint cry comes from my lips. This time I had suddenly recalled, all too vividly, the events surrounding my divorce six years ago, and before I knew it, my little cry had come out. Why, I wondered, had Mother uttered it too? It couldn’t possibly be that she had recalled something embarrassing from her past as I had. No, and yet there was something.

“What was it you remembered just now, Mother?”

“I’ve forgotten.”

“About me?”

“No.”

“About Naoji?”

“Yes.” Then, checking her words, Mother leaned her head to one side and added, “Perhaps.”

My brother Naoji was called up while still at the University and was sent off to some island in the South Pacific. We have had no news of him, and he is still missing, even after the end of the war. Mother has resigned herself to never seeing Naoji again. At least that is what she says, but I have never once “resigned” myself. All I can think, is that we certainly will see him again.

“I thought I had given up all hope, but when I ate your delicious soup I thought of Naoji, and it was too much for me. I wish I had been better to him.”

Along about the time that Naoji first entered high school he became fanatically absorbed in literature, and started to lead a life almost like a delinquent, causing Heaven only knows how much grief to Mother. And in spite of his dreadful behavior, Mother thought of Naoji as she ate her soup and uttered that cry. I angrily pushed the food into my mouth and my eyes grew hot.

“He’s all right. Naoji’s all right. Scoundrels like Naoji simply don’t die. The ones who die are always the gentle, sweet, and beautiful people. Naoji wouldn’t die even if you clubbed him with a stick.”

Mother smiled. “Then I suppose that you’ll die an early death.” She was teasing me.

“Why should I? I’m bad and ugly both! I’m good for eighty years!”

“Really? In that case, your mother is good for ninety!”

“Yes,” I said, a little perplexed. Scoundrels live a long time. The beautiful die young. Mother is beautiful. But I want her to live a long time. I was at a loss what to say. “You are being difficult,” I protested. My lower lip began to tremble, and tears brimmed over.

I wonder if I should tell about the snake. One afternoon, four or five days ago, the children of the neighborhood found a dozen or so snake eggs concealed in the stakes of the garden fence. They insisted that they were viper eggs. It occurred to me that if we were to have a dozen vipers crawling about our bamboo thicket we would never be able to go into the garden without taking special precautions. I said to the children, “Let’s burn the eggs,” and the children followed me, dancing with joy.

I made a pile of leaves and brushwood near the thicket and set it afire, throwing the eggs into the flames one after another. They did not catch fire for the longest time. The children put more leaves and twigs on the flames and made them blaze more vigorously, but the eggs still did not look as if they would ever burn.

The girl from the farmhouse down the road called from the other side of the fence to ask what we were doing.

“We are burning viper eggs. I’m terrified that the vipers might get hatched.”

“About how big are the eggs?”

“About the size of a quail’s egg and pure white.”

“Then they’re just ordinary harmless snake’s eggs and not viper eggs. Raw eggs don’t burn very well, you know.”

The girl went off laughing as if it were all very funny.

The fire had been blazing for about half an hour, but the eggs simply would not burn. I had the children retrieve them from the flames and bury them under the plum tree. I gathered together some pebbles to serve as a grave-marker.

“Let’s pray, everybody.” I knelt down and joined my hands. The children obediently knelt behind me and joined their hands in prayer. This done, I left the children and slowly climbed the stone steps. Mother was standing at the top, in the shade of the wisteria trellis.

“You’ve done a very cruel thing,” she said.