Snow Country (15 page)

“I didn’t.”

“See?” Laughing happily to herself, she came very near him. “Why didn’t you take me along? You leave me behind and you come back cold—I don’t like it at all.”

Suddenly a fire-alarm was ringing, with the special fury that told of an emergency.

They looked back.

“Fire, fire!”

“A fire!”

A column of sparks was rising in the village below.

Komako cried out two or three times, and clutched at Shimamura’s hand.

A tongue of flames shot up intermittently in the spiral of smoke, dipping down to lick at the roofs about it.

“Where is it? Fairly near the music teacher’s?”

“No.”

“Where, then?”

“Farther up toward the station.”

The tongue of flame sprang high over the roofs.

“It’s the cocoon-warehouse. The warehouse. Look, look! The cocoon-warehouse is on fire.” She
pressed her face to his shoulder. “The warehouse, the warehouse!”

The fire blazed higher. From the mountain, however, it was as quiet under the starry sky as a little make-believe fire. Still the terror of it came across to them. They could almost hear the roar of the flames. Shimamura put his arm around Komako’s shoulders.

“What is there to be afraid of?”

“No, no, no!” Komako shook her head and burst into tears. Her face seemed smaller than usual in Shimamura’s hand. The hard forehead was trembling.

She had burst out weeping at the sight of the fire, and Shimamura held her to him without thinking to wonder what had so upset her.

She stopped weeping as quickly as she had begun, and pulled away from him.

“There’s a movie in the warehouse. Tonight. The place will be full of people.… People will be hurt. People will burn to death.”

They hurried up toward the inn. There was shouting above them. Guests stood on the second- and third-floor verandas, flooded with light from the open doors. At the edge of the garden, withering chrysanthemums were silhouetted against the light from the inn—or the starlight. For an instant he almost thought it was the light from the fire.
Several figures stood beyond the chrysanthemums. The porter and two or three others came bounding down the steps.

“Is it the cocoon-warehouse?” Komako called after them.

“That’s right.”

“Is anyone hurt? Has anyone been hurt?”

“They’re getting everyone out. The film caught fire, and in no time the whole place was on fire. Heard it over the telephone. Look!” The porter raised one arm as he ran off. “Throwing children over one after another from the balcony, they say.”

“What shall we do?” Komako started off down the stairs after the porter. Several others overtook her, and she too broke into a run. Shimamura followed.

At the foot of the stairs, their uneasiness increased. Only the very tip of the flames showed over the roofs, and the fire-alarm was nearer and more urgent.

“Careful. It’s frozen, and you might slip.” She stopped as she turned to look back at him. “But it’s all right. You don’t need to go any farther. I ought to go on myself to see if anyone has been hurt.”

There was indeed no reason for him to go on. His excitement fell away. He looked down at his feet and saw that they had come to the crossing.

“The Milky Way. Beautiful, isn’t it,” Komako
murmured. She looked up at the sky as she ran off ahead of him.

The Milky Way. Shimamura too looked up, and he felt himself floating into the Milky Way. Its radiance was so near that it seemed to take him up into it. Was this the bright vastness the poet Bashō saw when he wrote of the Milky Way arched over a stormy sea? The Milky Way came down just over there, to wrap the night earth in its naked embrace. There was a terrible voluptuousness about it. Shimamura fancied that his own small shadow was being cast up against it from the earth. Each individual star stood apart from the rest, and even the particles of silver dust in the luminous clouds could be picked out, so clear was the night. The limitless depth of the Milky Way pulled his gaze up into it.

“Wait, wait,” Shimamura called.

“Come on.” Komako ran toward the dark mountain on which the Milky Way was falling.

She seemed to have her long skirts in her hands, and as her arms waved the skirts rose and fell a little. He could feel the red over the starlit snow.

He ran after her as fast as he could.

She slowed down and took his hand, and the long skirts fell to the ground. “You’re going too?”

“Yes.”

“Always looking for excitement.” She clutched
at her skirts, now trailing over the snow. “But people will laugh. Please go back.”

“Just a little farther.”

“But it’s wrong. People won’t like it if I take you to a fire.”

He nodded and stopped. Her hand still rested lightly on his sleeve, however, as she walked on.

“Wait for me somewhere. I’ll be right back. Where will you wait?”

“Wherever you say.”

“Let’s see. A little farther.” She peered into his face, and abruptly shook her head. “No. I don’t want you to.”

She threw herself against him. He reeled back a step or two. A row of onions was growing in the thin snow beside the road.

“I hated it.” That sudden torrent of words came at him again. “You said I was a good woman, didn’t you? You’re going away. Why did you have to say that to me?”

He could see her stabbing at the mat with that silver hair-ornament.

“I cried about it. I cried again after I got home. I’m afraid to leave you. But please go away. I won’t forget that you made me cry.”

A feeling of nagging, hopeless impotence came over Shimamura at the thought that a simple misunderstanding had worked its way so deep into
the woman’s being. But just then they heard shouts from the direction of the fire, and a new burst of flame sent up its column of sparks.

“Look. See how it’s flaming up again.”

They ran on, released.

Komako ran well. Her sandals skimmed the frozen snow, and her arms, close to her sides, seemed hardly to move. She was as one whose whole strength is concentrated in the breast—a strangely small figure, Shimamura thought. Too plump for running himself, he was exhausted the more quickly from watching her. But Komako too was soon out of breath. She fell against him.

“My eyes are watering,” she said. “That’s how cold it is.”

Shimamura’s eyes too were moist. His cheeks were flushed, and only his eyes were cold. He blinked, and the Milky Way came to fill them. He tried to keep the tears from spilling over.

“Is the Milky Way like this every night?”

“The Milky Way? Beautiful, isn’t it? But it’s not like this every night. It’s not usually so clear.”

The Milky Way flowed over them in the direction they were running, and seemed to bathe Komako’s head in its light.

The shape of her slightly aquiline nose was not clear, and the color was gone from her small lips. Was it so dim, then, the light that cut across the
sky and overflowed it? Shimamura found that hard to believe. The light was dimmer even than on the night of the new moon, and yet the Milky Way was brighter than the brightest full moon. In the faint light that left no shadows on the earth, Komako’s face floated up like an old mask. It was strange that even in the mask there should be the scent of the woman.

He looked up, and again the Milky Way came down to wrap itself around the earth.

And the Milky Way, like a great aurora, flowed through his body to stand at the edges of the earth. There was a quiet, chilly loneliness in it, and a sort of voluptuous astonishment.

“If you leave, I’ll lead an honest life,” Komako said, walking on again. She put her hand to her disordered hair. When she had gone five or six steps she turned to look back at him. “What’s the matter? You don’t have to stand there, do you?”

But Shimamura stood looking at her.

“Oh? You’ll wait, then? And afterwards you’ll take me to your room with you.”

She raised her left hand a little and ran off. Her retreating figure was drawn up into the mountain. The Milky Way spread its skirts to be broken by the waves of the mountain, and, fanning out again in all its brilliant vastness higher in the sky, it left the mountain in a deeper darkness.

Komako turned into the main street and disappeared. Shimamura started after her.

Several men were pulling a fire-pump down the street to a rhythmical chant. Floods of people poured after them. Shimamura joined the crowd from the side road he and Komako had taken.

Another pump came down the street. He let it pass, and fell in behind it.

It was an old wooden hand-pump, ridiculously small, with swarms of men at the long rope pulling it and other swarms to man it.

Komako too had stopped to let it pass. She spotted Shimamura and ran along beside him. All down the road people who had stood aside fell in again as if sucked up by the pump. The two of them were now no more than part of a mob running to a fire.

“So you came. Always looking for excitement.”

“That’s right. It’s a sad little pump, though, isn’t it. The better part of a hundred years old.”

“At least. Careful you don’t fall.”

“It is slippery.”

“Come sometime when we have a real blizzard, and the snow drives along the ground all night long. But you won’t, of course. Rabbits and pheasants come running inside the house to get out of the storm.” Komako’s voice was bright and eager. She seemed to take her beat from the chanting
voices and the tramping feet around her. Shimamura too was buoyed up by the crowd.

They could hear the sound of the flames now, and tongues of flame leaped up before them. Komako clutched at Shimamura’s arm. The low, dark houses along the street seemed to be breathing as they floated up in the light of the fire and faded away again. Water from the pumps flowed along the street. They came against a wall of people. Mixed in with the smoke was a smell like boiling cocoons.

The same standard remarks were taken up in loud voices through the crowd: the fire had started at the projector; children had been thrown one after another from the balcony; no one was hurt; it was lucky there had been no rice or cocoons in the warehouse. And yet a sort of quiet unified the whole fiery scene, as though everyone were voiceless before the flames, as though the heart, the point of reference, had been torn away from each individual. Everyone seemed to be listening to the sound of the fire and the pumps.

Now and then a villager came running up late, and called out the name of a relative. There would be an answer, and the two would call happily back and forth. Only those voices seemed alive and present. The fire-alarm no longer sounded.

Afraid people would be watching, Shimamura
slipped away from Komako and stood behind a group of children. The children moved back from the heat. The snow at their feet was melting, while farther on it had already turned to slush from the fire and water, a muddy confusion of footprints.

They were standing in the field beside the cocoon-warehouse. Most of the crowd on the main street had poured into that same open space.

The fire had apparently started near the entrance, and the walls and roof of half the building had burned away. The pillars and beams were still smoldering. It was a wide barn of a building, only shingles and boarded walls and floors, and the inside was fairly free of smoke. Though the roof, soaked from the pumps, did not seem to be burning, the fire continued to spread. A tongue would shoot up from a quite unexpected spot, the three pumps would turn hastily towards it, and a shower of sparks would fly up in a cloud of black smoke.

The sparks spread off into the Milky Way, and Shimamura was pulled up with them. As the smoke drifted away, the Milky Way seemed to dip and flow in the opposite direction. Occasionally a pump missed the roof, and the end of its line of water wavered and turned to a faint white mist, as though lighted by the Milky Way.

Komako had come up to him, he did not know
when. She took his hand. He looked around at her, but said nothing. She gazed at the fire, the pulse of the fire beating on her intent, slightly flushed face. Shimamura felt a violent rising in his chest. Komako’s hair was coming undone, and her throat was bare and arched. His fingers trembled from the urge to touch it. His hand was warm, but Komako’s was still warmer. He did not know why he should feel that a separation was forcing itself upon them.

Flames shot up again from the pillars and beams at the entrance. A line of water was turned on them. Hissing clouds of steam arose as the framework began to give way.

The crowd gasped as one person. A woman’s body had fallen through the flames.

The cocoon-warehouse had a balcony that was little more than a perfunctory recognition of its duties as an auditorium. Since it fell from the balcony, low for a second floor, the body could have taken but a fraction of a second to reach the ground; but the eye had somehow been able to trace its passage in detail. Perhaps the strange, puppetlike deadness of the fall was what made that fraction of a second seem so long. One knew immediately that the figure was unconscious. It made no noise as it struck the ground between the fire that had newly blazed up and the fire that still
smoldered beyond. Water had collected inside the building, and no dust arose from the fall.

A line of water from one of the pumps arched down on the smoldering fire, and a woman’s body suddenly floated up before it: such had been the fall. The body was quite horizontal as it passed through the air. Shimamura started back—not from fear, however. He saw the figure as a phantasm from an unreal world. That stiff figure, flung out into the air, became soft and pliant. With a doll-like passiveness, and the freedom of the lifeless, it seemed to hold both life and death in abeyance. If Shimamura felt even a flicker of uneasiness, it was lest the head drop, or a knee or a hip bend to disturb that perfectly horizontal line. Something of the sort must surely happen; but the body was still horizontal when it struck the ground.

Komako screamed and brought her hands to her eyes. Shimamura gazed at the still form.

When did he realize that it was Yoko? The gasp from the crowd and Komako’s scream seemed to come at the same instant; and that instant too there was a suggestion of a spasm in the calf of Yoko’s leg, stretched out on the ground.