Thirst for Love Read Free Page A

overpowered her when she was extremely tired. At such times, Yakichi had found, it was not wise to make advances.
    She kicked off her tabi . They were flecked with mud; the soles were soiled a dark gray. Yakichi fumbled for something to say.
    Finally he came out with: “They’re dirty, aren’t they?”
    “Yes, the road was very poor.”
    “It was a hard rain. Did it come down in Osaka too?”
    “Yes, while I was shopping in the Hankyu.” Etsuko recalled the sound of the rain assaulting her ears. All the world seemed to have changed to rain under that sky tight with storm.
    She said nothing more. This room was all she had. She began to change her kimono, heedless of Yakichi’s eyes. The electric power was weak, and the bulb was dim. Between the silent Yakichi and the wordlessly moving Etsuko, the only sound was the shriek of silken sash being unwound, like the scream of a living thing.
    Yakichi found it impossible to remain silent for long. He was conscious of Etsuko’s unspoken reproach. He said that he would like to eat and made his way to his eight-mat room across the hall.
    Etsuko started tying her everyday Nagoya sash and wandered over to the desk. Holding the sash behind her back with one hand, she riffled the pages of the diary with the other. A small, bitter smile passed over her lips.
    Father doesn’t know this is my false diary. Nobody knows that it is a false diary. Nobody even imagines how well one can lie about the state of one’s own heart.
    She opened to yesterday’s page. She looked down at the page filled with characters and read:
    September 21 (Wednesday)
    Nothing happened today, all day. The heat wasn’t too bad. The garden was full of the noise of insects. In the morning I went to the village distribution center to get our ration of miso . The child of the people who run the distribution center has pneumonia but was brought around by penicillin and seems to be mending. It was none of my business, but I was relieved.
    When one lives in the country, one has to have a simple soul. Somehow, I have sought this and matured. I’m not bored. Not a bit bored. I’m never bored. I now understand the gentle feeling of breathing easily that comes to a farmer when he doesn’t have to be out in the fields. I am wrapped in Father’s generous love. I feel as if I am fifteen or sixteen again.
    In this world the simple soul, the artless spirit—this alone—is enough. Nothing else is necessary, I believe. In this world only people who can work and stir themselves are necessary. In the swamp of city life, the flood of connivances to which the heart is subject destroys it.
    There are calluses on my hands. Father praises me for them. They are the hands of a true person. I don’t get angry anymore; I don’t get depressed. That terrible memory, the memory of my husband’s death, doesn’t bother me so much anymore. Mellowed by the soft burgeoning sun of autumn, my heart has developed magnanimity; I give thanks to everything I see.
    I think of S. She is in the same situation as I. She has become the companion of my heart. She, too, lost her husband. When I think of her misfortune, I am consoled. She is a widow of truly beautiful, clean, simple soul, and so she will certainly have opportunities to remarry. I would like to have a long talk with her before that happens, but since Tokyo is a long way from here the opportunity is certainly to be denied me. It would be nice if she sent me at least one letter, but . . .
    The initial is the same, but since I’ve changed him to a woman, nobody will know. The name S comes up too much, but I don’t have to worry about that. After all, there’s no proof. To me this is a false diary, though no human being can be so honest as to become completely false.
    She attempted to analyze what she really had in mind when she first set down these hypocrisies; then she rewrote them in her mind.
    Even though I might rewrite them, there is no reason to believe the result says what I