I thought about him often. I remembered the clear look in his eyes when he was not talking. In them were reflected the images of far away mountains, of clouds floating across distant skies, of infinitely remote stars and sometimes of the dark, raging ocean. Yes, he was a wanderer and I felt that like the wanderers of old he had within him a song that comforted him in his weariness and that constantly spurred him on to discover new places and new ideas. Compared to him, the members of our group, rooted here in our dreary suburb, seemed to me men exhausted by the monotony of work, men in whom all spirit of adventure had atrophied. At least, that is what I thought until the following incident.
I had spent all day painting a huge advertisement for women’s dresses on a tin bill-board. In the evening when I had finished, I decided to pass by Chō’s shop. It was a close, sultry evening and although the summer was almost over, the sun was extremely hot. There was not the slightest breeze. When I arrived, Chō was standing in a shirt and a pair of khaki trousers working on a shiny tin bucket.
“Have you ever been to the girls’ circus at Asakusa?” he said when he saw me.
“No, never. I’ve been to the opera once—that’s all.”
“I’d like to go to the amusement park at Asakusa,” said Chō, wiping the perspiration off his face.
“Asakusa,” I said. “That shouldn’t be too difficult. It doesn’t take all that long to get there.”
“It’s all right if you’ve got money. Then you can go to the mountains for the summer. But when am I going to have time to go to Asakusa? I suppose that’s what they mean by no leisure for the poor.” His face was wreathed in smiles; he looked as if he was imagining the gay, bustling pleasure grounds of Asakusa.
Presently Kichikō, the engineer’s mate, joined us. He had on a short workman’s coat.
“Well, hot enough for you?” he said in his gruff voice. “What’s happening? Anything interesting?”
