remember if the photograph resembled the face he had seen at Ugo Kameda, but he thought it was the same person. Yoshimura had said that he was a member of the Nouveau group. Seeing his young face among the photos of well-known figures in various fields, Imanishi realized that Sekigawa must be getting a lot of attention. He couldn’t be thirty years old yet, he thought, impressed at such quick success.
Imanishi turned the page, but the sports news didn’t interest him. On the city page, a large headline caught his eye: “Composer Waga Eiryo Injured Last Night in Taxi Rear-end Collision.”
There was a photograph of Waga. Imanishi was startled to recognize another of the men he had seen at Ugo Kameda. He hurriedly read the article. It was about the accident he had come across the night before. Staring at yet another young face, Imanishi felt an odd connection.
Imanishi called to his wife, “Hey, look at this.” He showed her the newspaper article. “There’s something in the paper about last night.”
“Oh, really? So there were no deaths after all.”
“It seems not. This man was taken to the hospital, but he wasn’t that badly injured.”
“Well, that’s good.” Yoshiko took the paper and skimmed the article.
“Do you know anything about him?” Imanishi asked, turning over on his stomach to smoke a cigarette.
“Just his name. Sometimes his picture appears in the women’s magazines I read.”
“Really?” Imanishi found out once more how uninformed he was.
“There was a photo essay featuring him with his fiancee, a pretty sculptor. Her father is a former cabinet minister.”
“That’s what I hear,” Imanishi responded. “You know, I’ve seen this guy.”
“You have? In connection with a case?” Yoshiko asked.
“No, it wasn’t. You remember, I went to Akita Prefecture a while ago? When we got to the station, he was there. I didn’t know who he was. Yoshimura had to tell me.”
“I wonder why he went to a place like that?”
“We were in a town called Iwaki. He and some others were on the way back from visiting a rocket research center near there. Several local newspapermen were asking them questions,” Imanishi said. “This fellow was one of them, too.” Imanishi flipped through the pages of the newspaper and showed her Sekigawa’s photograph. “They’re quite something. They’re even popular in the countryside.”
“Their names are in the magazines all the time.”
“That’s what I hear.”
Imanishi continued to smoke. His wife left to cook breakfast. He looked at his watch. It was nearly time to get up.
Waga Eiryo’s private room at the hospital was filled with flowers, baskets of fruit, and boxes of candy. The accommodations were luxurious and included a television set.
Waga sat on the bed in his pajamas. A newspaper reporter was interviewing him. A cameraman took photographs of Waga from various angles.
“By the way,” the reporter asked, looking around carefully, “isn’t Tadokoro Sachiko-
“She called a while ago. She should be here soon.”
“I should leave quickly, then. Can we get one more shot of you with all these flowers in the foreground?”
“That’s fine, go ahead.”
The photographer clicked away.
After they left, there was a knock at the door. A tall man wearing a beret entered.
“Hi.” He raised a hand holding a bouquet. “How’s it going?” It was the painter Katazawa Mutsuo. He wore his usual black shirt. Katazawa sat on the chair next to the bed and crossed his long legs. “You were involved in quite a disaster.”
“Thanks for coming.”
The young artist looked around at the luxurious room. “It doesn’t seem like a hospital room at all. It must be really expensive.” Katazawa slapped his leg. “I get it. You’re not paying for it. I bet Sachiko-
Waga frowned. “I have some pride. I’m not letting him pay for everything.”
“Why not? Let the rich pay.” Katazawa filled his pipe and asked, “All right if I smoke?”
“Sure. It’s not as if I’m sick.” Waga continued, “I’m not depending on the bourgeoisie. You never know when something might happen to them. After all, the present-day capitalist system is rushing toward collapse. Do you think young artists like us can survive if we rely on such a system?”
“I agree with you. But I get discouraged at times. Critics say some nice things about my paintings. But when penniless critics say they like my paintings, it doesn’t lead to the sale of a single canvas. You know I don’t approve of Picasso, but I am envious that his paintings sell for so much money.”
“I’d expect you to feel that way,” Waga said. “By the way, how is everyone doing?”
“They all seem to be very busy. Have you heard that Takebe is going to France?”
“Really? He is?” Waga looked surprised.
“It was decided a while ago. Then he’s planning to travel around northern Europe. You know how he’s always saying that northern European plays need to be reevaluated. He wants to study Strindberg and Ibsen. He wants to create a new direction for Japanese theater.”
“You think along the same lines as he does. You admire northern European painters. You say that the current fad for mere abstraction is over, that we should return to northern European realism as a new starting point. Who were those artists that you admire? Oh, yes, Van Dyck and Breughel, right?”
“But I can’t ever hope to go abroad no matter how hard I work.”
“It’s not set, so I haven’t told anyone yet, but I may be going to America this fall,” Waga admitted. “A music critic over there has heard about my music and has asked me to go to America to perform.”
“Really?” Katazawa looked surprised.
“It isn’t sure yet, so I haven’t told anyone.”
“You’re lucky.” The artist slapped the patient’s shoulder. “Will you be taking Tadokoro Sachiko with you on this trip to America?”
“I don’t know yet. Like I said, nothing has been settled.”
“Don’t be so cautious. You’re telling me about it, so your trip must be certain. I’m envious. That’ll probably be your honeymoon. It looks like both you and Takebe are going abroad. It makes me feel that we’re getting close to the artistic revolution in Japan that the Nouveau group wants.”
“Don’t get too excited,” Waga cautioned him. Lowering his voice, he continued, “Just between us, if Sekigawa hears about my trip to America, who knows how he might react? Hey, how is he doing?”
“Sekigawa?” Katazawa responded. “He’s doing quite well. He’s written reviews for two big newspapers.”
“Yeah, I read those,” Waga said in a bored voice. “They were typical Sekigawa.”
“It seems that there’s a Sekigawa boom these days. He has several long pieces in magazines as well.”
“That’s why some people put us down,” Waga said, spitting out his words. “We’re contemptuous of the popular media, but nobody is exploiting it as much as Sekigawa. He’s always alluding to his contempt for publicity, yet he’s the one who’s making the most of it. Then we’re criticized for Sekigawa’s behavior.”
The young artist nodded in agreement. “You’re right. He’s beginning to act cocky. His recent political opinions sound presumptuous to me.”
“Right. That statement he gave a little while ago, remember? He acted like he was our representative and collected our signatures to present somewhere. That’s typical of the kind of gestures he makes. You could see right through him. His real intention was to get his name in the papers.”
“Others agree with you,” Katazawa said. “Some even walked out of that meeting in protest.”
Waga nodded. “He acts like he’s the leader of the Nouveau group.”
They heard a knock on the door. It opened slowly. A young woman looked into the room.
“Oh, do you have a guest?” The bouquet she held wavered as the flowers brushed against her chin.
“It’s all right, please come in.” Waga’s eyes lit up as he spoke to his new guest.
“Excuse me,” she said as she entered.
The young woman wore a pink spring suit. Her face was round and she had dimples. It was Waga’s fiancee, Tadokoro Sachiko.
