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Morning Mist
by Nagai Tatsuo“I shall see you later, then.”
“Yes.”
Having carefully tied his shoes, the solidly built old man stood up, deliberately turned around, and, as always, took a large watch from his pocket.
“This evening, I think I shall be home at about—five-seventeen.”
“Yes.”
In contrast to the elaborate formality of X’s speech, this second quick ‘yes’ from the old wife, who saw him to the door, was dry and terse as only long years of married life could have made it.
X’s black briefcase was always puffed like a small pig. The question of what it contained will come up for discussion later; for the present, let us say that I imagined it to be stuffed with textbooks, reference works, examination papers, and the like.
He picked it up, put his hand to the glass door, and started out. There was a certain hesitation in his step, however. He laid the briefcase down again.
“I believe I said five-seventeen.”
“Yes.”
