On a sunny afternoon two or three days after I’d arrived, when Mr. Ibuse had caught up on his work somewhat, we hiked up to Mitsu Pass together. Mitsu Pass: one thousand seven hundred meters above sea level. A bit higher than Misaka Pass. You reach the top after climbing a steep slope, more or less on all fours, for about an hour. Parting the ivies and vines as I half crawled toward the summit, I presented a spectacle that was far from lovely. Mr. Ibuse was in proper hiking clothes and cut a jaunty figure, but I, having no such gear, was clad in a dotera—a square-cut, padded cotton kimono—that the teahouse had provided me with. It was too short and left a stretch of hairy shin exposed on either leg. I was also wearing a pair of thick, rubber-soled workshoes lent me by an old man at the teahouse, and was acutely aware of how shabby I looked. I’d made a few adjustments, securing the dotera with a narrow, manly sash and donning a straw hat I’d found hanging on the wall, but the only result was that I looked even more bizarre. I’ll never forget how Mr. Ibuse, a person who would never stoop to belittling someone’s appearance, eyed me with a compassionate air and tried to console me by muttering something about it not becoming a man, after all, to concern himself very much with fashion.

At any rate, we eventually reached the top, but no sooner had we done so than a thick fog rolled over us, and even standing on the observation platform at the edge of the cliff provided us with no view whatsoever. We couldn’t see a thing. Enveloped in that dense fog, Mr. Ibuse sat down on a rock, puffed slowly at a cigarette, and broke wind. He looked decidedly out of sorts. On the observation platform were three somber little teahouses. We chose one that was run by an elderly couple and had a cup of hot green tea. The old woman felt sorry for us and said what a stroke of bad luck the fog was, that it would surely clear before long, that normally you could see Fuji right there, looming up before you, plain as day. She then retrieved a large photograph of the mountain from the interior of the teahouse and carried it to the edge of the cliff, held it high in both hands, and earnestly explained that you could generally see Fuji just here, just like this, this big and this clear. We sipped at the coarse tea, admiring the photo and laughing. That was a fine Fuji indeed. We ended up not even regretting the impenetrable fog.

It was, I believe, two days later that Mr. Ibuse left Misaka Pass, and I accompanied him as far as Kōfu. In Kōfu I was to be introduced to a certain young lady whom Mr. Ibuse had suggested I marry. Mr. Ibuse was dressed casually, in his hiking clothes. I wore a kimono and a thin summer coat secured with my narrow sash. He led me to the young lady’s house on the outskirts of the city. A profusion of roses grew in the garden. The young lady’s mother showed us into the parlor, where we exchanged greetings, and after a while the young lady came in. I didn’t look at her face. Mr. Ibuse and the mother were carrying on a desultory, grown-up conversation when, suddenly, he fixed his eye on the wall above and behind me and muttered, “Ah, Fuji.” I twisted around and looked up at the wall. Hanging there was a framed aerial photograph of the great crater atop the mountain. It resembled a pure white waterlily. After studying the photo, I slowly twisted back to my original position and glanced fleetingly at the girl. That did it. I made up my mind then and there that, though it might entail a certain amount of difficulty, I wanted to marry this person. That was a Fuji I was grateful for.