best I could of the old days, mostly of my friendship with Yoshihidé. He nodded and gravely answered “I see” each time I spoke.
The door opened. I thought Yoshihidé was back; but I soon knew, from the voice in the hall and the youthfulness of the footsteps, that it was someone else. At the door to the sitting room a loud voice announced that its owner was home. He roughly threw down a bundle, then saw that there was company. It was Yoshihidé’s youngest brother, ten years younger than he. There could be no doubt about the identity of the still growing boy, perhaps a middle-school student in his third or fourth year.
“Hello. It’s been a long time.”
I smiled at him. He stared for a moment, and seemed on the point of saying, “Oh, it’s you, is it.”
Instead he said: “It has been a long time,” and bowed.
X, who was sitting stiffly before me, returned the bow ceremoniously.
“It was extremely good of you to come.”
The brother was already out of the room. X remained quietly in control of himself, but my own confusion was mounting. He spoke, again with great dignity.
“I’m very sorry, but might I know your name?”
“Iké Takeichirō, a classmate of Yoshihidé’s. I called occasionally when you were living in Koishikawa.”
“I see. A classmate of Yoshihidé’s.” It seemed to me that a touch of liveliness came over his face. He put on his spectacles and had no trouble finding our high-school register in the heap by the wall. Assiduously he ran his finger through the I’s.
“Iké—Takeichirō. Here it is, here it is. Well, well. 15C, C-1, Nishikata-machi, Hongō.”
“I lived with my father in Nishikata-machi until a couple of years ago.”
His voice had suggested that reminiscences of Nishikata-machi were coming. Instead he flicked over the pages.
