In her twenties Miya had been slightly built, almost frail, with such a delicacy even of bone structure that Yukitomo would liken her, to her delight, to a young doe. But she was fond of alcohol, and every evening would drink with Michimasa, mixing indiscriminately large quantities of beer and saké; from around the time when she had her fourth child, Yoshihiko, she began to get fatter, until in the end one might have wondered just where the bones were concealed in such a well-covered body. As her already fair skin acquired a damask-like sheen, becoming ever sleeker and more satin-smooth with a look as though the fine-grained flesh might break like bean-curd at the touch, Michimasa would anger her by likening her to a white pig or a goose or other such unpleasant creatures. It was left to Yukitomo to give her in full measure the sensual gratification that she craved, to tell her that in China a woman of such soft and ample proportions was considered the height of feminine attractiveness, and that to hold her in his arms was to forget his age and ascend to the paradise of eternal youth.

Neither Takao nor Ruriko of course had any idea of the peculiar relationship between their grandfather and mother. Yet the grandfather who took her to the theater and department stores and bought her whatever she wanted was for Ruriko in her innocence far more to be loved and revered than the father who was always so irascible and self-willed. Next to her grandfather, she fancied that it was her eldest brother Takao whom she revered the most. Although both her father and her mother spoke contemptuously of Takao as ‘the eccentric,’ his sullenly taciturn, moody-looking face inspired in Ruriko a kind of trusting affection that made her prefer him by far to the more affable Kazuya, her elder brother by the same mother. The only thing that made her diffident with Takao was his difficulty in expressing himself and the infrequency of his smiles, which convinced her that this brother did not like her.

‘They say Mother will never get well … The doctor and everybody else say so, but I don’t believe it. Takao – you don’t know what your real mother looked like, do you?’

‘No, of course not. You know she died giving birth to me.’

‘Then I think you’re lucky. It’s better than having your mother die when you’re grown-up like me.’

‘You just can’t say either “lucky” or “unlucky.” ’

‘Yes, but …’ She looked up at Takao as though to protest, when a black shadow brushed past their faces.

‘Oh! It’s those butterflies again!’ she cried shrilly, beating at the air with the fan with a lacquered handle that she had in her hand.

There were two butterflies as before, black swallowtails, flitting about together as though they were mates, near the pillar at the corner of the room.