I was grateful to her for those words. This may be overstating it a bit, but to me her concern seemed the purest form of support and encouragement for one making every effort to go on living. She expected nothing in return. I thought her quite beautiful.

By the end of October, the autumn leaves had become dark and ugly, and then an overnight storm came along and left nothing behind but a bare, black, winter forest. Sightseers were few and far between now. Business dropped off, and occasionally the proprietress would go shopping in Funazu or Yoshida at the foot of the mountain, taking the six-year-old boy with her and leaving the girl and myself alone for the day in the quiet, deserted teahouse. On one such day I began to feel the tedium of sitting alone on the second floor and went outside for a stroll. I saw the girl in the back yard, washing clothes, went up to her, flashed a smile, and said, in a loud voice, “I’m so bored!” She hung her head, and when I peered at her face I got quite a start. She was nearly in tears and obviously terrified. Right, I thought, doing a grim about-face and stomping off along a narrow, leaf-covered path. I felt perfectly miserable.

I was careful from then on. Whenever the girl and I were alone in the place, I tried to stay in my room on the second floor. If a customer came, I would lumber downstairs, partially with the intention of watching out for the girl, and sit in one corner of the shop drinking tea. One day a bride, escorted by two elderly men in crested ceremonial kimonos and haori coats, arrived in a hired automobile. The girl was alone in the shop, so I came downstairs, sat in a chair in one corner, and smoked a cigarette. The bride was decked out in full wedding regalia: long kimono with an elaborate design on the skirt, obi sash of gold brocade, and white wedding hood. Not knowing how to receive such singular guests, the girl, after pouring tea for the three of them, retreated to my corner as if to hide behind me and stared silently at the bride. A day that comes but once in a lifetime . . . No doubt the bride was from the other side of the mountain, on her way to be married to someone in Funazu or Yoshida, and had decided to rest at the top of the pass and gaze at Fuji. It made for a scene that, even to a casual observer, was provocatively romantic. In a little while the bride rose and quietly left the shop to stand near the edge of the cliff and take in the view at her leisure. She stood with her legs crossed—a bold pose. Awfully sure of herself, I was thinking, admiring her, Fuji and her, when suddenly she looked up at the summit and gave a great yawn.