When she saw Tora’s face, Hanae stopped bouncing little Yuki on her knees and asked, ‘Are you in pain again?’
Tora shook his head and winced. ‘No, I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘I’m going out. Don’t know when I’ll be back.’ He looked for his boots.
Putting the baby on the floor, Hanae jumped up. ‘Don’t go. You aren’t well.’ She shook his arm when he ignored her. ‘Surely the master wouldn’t make you run errands after what’s happened to you.’
The abandoned baby started crying, and Tora went to scoop up his son, wincing again. ‘Where are my boots? The master doesn’t know. And don’t tell him. This is my business.’
Hanae stood in front of the door, her arms folded. ‘You’re not leaving,’ she said. ‘It could be your death to walk around with that big swelling on your head. We need you alive.’
Tora’s face softened. He kissed the baby and handed him to Hanae. Retrieving his boots, he sat to put them on. ‘I just want to look in on the man whose father died last night.’
Hanae looked uncertain. ‘Is that all you’ll do? You’ll come right back afterwards? You won’t get into any more fights?’
He nodded, kissed her and, moving his wife and son out of his way, left the house.
The street that had seemed a living inferno the night before looked merely depressing by daylight. He recalled the urgency and excitement of the flames, sparks, moving shadows, and screams. Now there was only the wet, smoking pile of rubble. The houses on either side were scarred by the heat, and a few neighbors moved about, making repairs. No one bothered with the ruin.
The Kaneharus had made and sold tatami floor mats. The grass mats, of course, were a great fire hazard, and so the disaster might be blamed on carelessness with open flames and cooking fires, but Tora recalled the old woman’s calling to the gods. He shuddered. That fire had seemed unnatural. Could the gods really be so angry that they would kill an old man?
He walked up to a man on a ladder who was ripping charred boards from the wall of his house and asked what had happened to his neighbor.
The man glanced down. ‘He’s dead,’ he said and returned to his work.
The curt finality sickened Tora. It wasn’t right that people cared so little about each other. Maybe life was just a matter of accepting tragedy and making repairs. ‘What?’ he persisted. ‘Both the father and his son have crossed that bridge?’
The man now paused to look at Tora more closely. He took in his bruised face and the blistered hands. ‘You were here last night, weren’t you? You’re the one that tried to get Old Kaneharu out.’ When Tora nodded glumly, he climbed down and said, ‘The old man walks that path alone, but Young Kaneharu’s very bad. He’s staying with a cousin.’ He gave Tora directions, then added with a bow, ‘We’re grateful that you told us what to do to save ourselves and our houses. May the Buddha smile on you.’
Tora waved that away. ‘Buddha sent the rain, and you did the rest yourselves.’ He glanced once more at the steaming pile of blackened timbers that had been a shop and a house and was now unrecognizable. The smell was acrid, but he knew it would have been much worse if it had not rained. The whole street would have gone up in flames. Other people would have died in the fires. Perhaps the rain, too, had been the gods’ doing.
The neighbor looked at his damaged wall. ‘Old Kaneharu was cheap. A regular miser. Look at what his fire did to my place and the others.’
This astonished Tora. ‘What do you mean?’
The neighbor shook his head and started back up the ladder. Tora looked after him and reflected that neighbors were like family. You had no choice in the matter. And this man was clearly unhappy about the damage to his house. Then he had a thought and shouted up, ‘You have much trouble with thieving kids around here?’
The man looked down and shook his head. ‘Not lately.’
The search for Kaneharu’s cousin proved frustrating. After trying several streets in vain, Tora passed a large house of a rice dealer. A sign read ‘Watanabe – Best Rice for Eating or Seeding’. Bales of new rice were stacked near the door, and from the back came the sound of pounding: someone was grinding rice into a fine meal. A fat man stood in the doorway, filling it with a broad belly covered in gray silk. He was counting the bales and shouting numbers to a clerk, who was making entries in an account ledger. The fat man’s round, shiny face rested on several chins, and the bulging eyes and thick lips suggested that his body could barely contain so much good living.
When the merchant had finished counting, Tora greeted him and asked about the umbrella maker who was married to Kaneharu’s cousin.
The merchant pursed his thick lips. His face reminded Tora of a large koi. The man compressed his lips and said, ‘Two streets back. Number sixteen. Is it about the fire? The gods’ anger is a terrible thing.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s criminal to let this go on. Now a man has died, and they say the son’s not going to make it.’
The umbrella maker’s shop was one of the poorest in this quarter. He was not as well off as the Kaneharus. The owner sat cross-legged in his small shop, splicing bamboo. When Tora asked for Kaneharu, he made a face and shouted for his wife, then went on with his work of splicing and cutting umbrella ribs. His pale, thin wife took Tora to the back room, where her cousin lay on a pallet. He was shivering continuously and his teeth chattered. His chest, arms, and legs were covered with stained bandages, and his swollen, crimson face shone with oozing burns and the ointment the cousin had applied.
‘He’s bad,’ the cousin whispered. ‘The fire’s eating him up from inside. He says he’s got nothing to live for now. His business is gone, and so is Uncle.’
Tora nodded and squatted beside the injured man. ‘Kaneharu,’ he said, ‘can you hear me?’ The eyes flickered open, rested on Tora for a moment, then closed. Tora tried again. ‘Do you remember me? I tried to get your father out last night. It grieves me that I failed.’
This time the eyes flickered and stayed open longer. The blistered lips moved and sounds emerged, but Tora could not make out what Kaneharu was saying and bent closer. ‘What?’
His cousin offered a translation. ‘There’s no shame in that. You were very kind.’
Tora doubted that the shaking and shivering patient had said all of that, but he accepted it, asking, ‘Did your cousin say what happened? How the fire started?’
Kaneharu moaned loudly and said something.
The cousin gave a little cry and put a hand over Kaneharu’s lips.
‘What? What did he say?’ Tora asked.
The cousin shook her head. ‘He blames the gods, but it was an accident.’
The dying man – Tora no longer doubted that Kaneharu was dying – rolled his head about from side to side and said quite clearly, ‘Father paid the money. He paid.’ Then the shaking got worse, and he started to wail.
His cousin reached into a basin for a moist cloth and laid it on his head, making soothing noises as if to a whimpering child. She gave Tora a pleading look. ‘He’s not in his right mind,’ she muttered.
Tora nodded. He bent to Kaneharu. ‘Please forgive me for troubling you. I’ll pray for you.’
Kaneharu said nothing.
Tora let himself out. Perhaps the cousin was right and he was out of his mind with pain. Tora wondered if he should go back and talk to the neighbors again, but he did not feel up to it. His breathing was still shallow and painful and both his head and his hands hurt. It would have to wait.
More importantly, he had given his word to Hanae.