Rain

Author(s): Koda Aya and Lane Dunlop

Source: Prairie Schooner, Vol. 59, No. 3 (Fall 1985), pp. 67-72
Published by: University of Nebraska Press
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/40631596
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 KodaAya

Rain
translated
fromtheJapanese
byLaneDunlop

The trainforNumazuwas aboutto leaveTokyoStation.A rainof

finedropswas falling in straight lines.A nicequietrain,butforall
thata winterrain.My toesand fingers and earsfeltitthemost,I
dedded. Although itwas December, hereI was offon a triptothe
hotspringsin Atami.
WhenI first caughtthecold,thesusukigrasseswerestarting to
losetheirlustre.Thinking "it'sover"and "nowit'sover,"I caught
itagainand again.Beforeit had gone,thesmallyellowchrysan-
themums had bloomedand faded,thecamellias had comeoutone
aftertheotheruntiltheyalsodisappeared. Itwas a longcold.Twice
I tooktomybed,oncewitha slightfever, oncewitha troublesome
cough. Both ran their course. Itwas nothing you'dcalla realillness,
so aside fromthosetwotimesI had carriedon. Afterawhilemy
nose and throatcleared,thefeverishness wentaway,and I could
breathefreely again. But I felt curiously exhausted. Althoughthe
discomfort was notsuchas tokeepmeinbed,myhealthhadgone
intotheredas itwere.Hencethisaftermath oftiredness.
Thishad neverhappenedtomebefore.TwoorthreetimesI had
been seriously ill,and I remembered how it had tiredme justto
turnoverin bed or combmyhair.Butthathad beenwhileI was
stillsick.It was the fatigueof thelongillness,fortheduration.
AlthoughI'd had thiscoldformanyweeks,itwas nothing more
thana cold.Thewearinesshad setin whenI was overthecold.It
was odd thatthereshouldbe suchfatigue whenI was wellagain.
"Why don't you go to a hot springs for fouror fivedays?"the
doctorsaid."Youshouldlookafter yourself more." A newthought
surprised me: was I getting old? Ifso, I could say thatage was a
newexperience forme. And how subtleitwas, makingyouthink
itwas new. Fromnow on, I wouldbe careful.Evenifitwas just

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68 PrairieSchooner

a cold,I would stayin bed untilI was reallywell.Professionally

courteous, thedoctoravoidedsuchwordsas "age"and"rundown."
Butitwas precisely his tactthatbrought homethefatigue ofage,
itsloss ofenergy.I'll go toAtamiand restawhile,I thought.
A friendofminehad a quietinnthere.I'd stayedat itbefore.
Therewas a smallroomin back,away fromthe regularguest
rooms,withitsown littlebath.It was forthevisitorwhomthey
treatedhalfas a guest,halfas one ofthefamily. WhenI thought
ofit,thepeace and privacyofthatguestroomforfriends seemed
likea sanctuary. I'd leftthehouseinnocent ofschedules, butwhen
I gottothestation thetrainforNumazuwas in.Despitemyknowl-
edge that I needed a restand myintention oftakingone,myold
habitof serenelyoverextending myself came out here.I wasn't
exactly looking after myself by sallying out in thisrain.Therewas
an emptyseatin themiddleofthecarawayfromthedrafty exits.
Sitting down, I curled up my toesand waited forthe traintoleave.
Theheatcameon as we gotunderway. Bythetimewe'dreached
Yokohama, the men had removed their coats andjackets.A woman
acrossthe aisle made her two girlsshed some of theirclothes.
Althoughshe herselfhad on onlya haori,herfacewas flushed
withtheheat.Sitting backwithmyfeetsideways,I triedto make
myself comfortable. It wasn'tso muchthethought ofthechange
in temperature whenI gotoffthetrain- I was stupefied by the
steamy heat. I took off as much as I could. My coat and scarfof
but
course, my haori too and the sleeveless garment under that.
Eventhesilkflosspads thatI'd slippedbetweentheinmostlayers
ofmyclothing I now pulledout through thearmholesofmyki-
mono. All at once, my sense of discomfort lightened. My skin
lookedas youthful as spring;thecoldthathad chilledme to the
bonemeltedaway.EvenwhenI undidtheclasps,myfeetbulged
intheirconstricting tabis.Liberated from myneckseemed
itscollar,
to awakerefreshed.
The windowwas cloudedby the moistheat.WhenI looked
closely,itwas coveredwithtinybeads ofwateras ifstrungon a
thread.Some,merging in a bigdrop,abruptly streaked downthe
glass. It was the rain striking the other side. But itwas to
difficult
tellwhichwas outsideand whichinside.Beyondthemistedpane,
an ordinary landscapeofgardensand fieldsracedbyobscurely. I
the
wiped glass with a bit oftissueand looked out. I could notsee
thelinesoffallingrain,but somefigures walkingundercountry
unbrellas. Therewerepallidturnips in theblack,ploughedfields.
Alongthelanesthatshotofffromthehighwayas itranalongside

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 Rain 69

ofthetracks, therewas thesuddenpliancyofbambooswithmot-

tledstems.Ifyouwalkedbeneaththem,I thought, youwouldnot
heartherainbut a sound of dripping.Now and then,a rowof
houseswithripplingly overlappedrooftiles wentby. Perhapsbe-
cause theywere wet, the tilesseemedswollen.The rainlenta
brightness to thecolorsof things.On thewindowit made fora
soft,vivid,suffused gray.Itwas a beautiful window.Itgaveme a
pleasure which I could noteven have imaginedon a clearday.The
minutesspedbypeacefully.
Andyet,forsomeminutes pastI'd hada growing senseofunease.
Itwas likethefeeling whenyou'veleftsomething behindbutcan-
notremember what.It was a complicated unease,a mixture of
awkwardness and shynessand even a hintofelation.ButI was
lookingat theblurred, quiethuesofthecountryside, andmybody
was comfortable and warm.Therewas theslightanxiety ofhaving
forgotten the
something, uncertainty, but in the leisureofthetrain
rideit mayhave servedas a diversion, likea crossword puzzle.
Whatis it?I thought. I couldall butremember it.I drifted
offin a
lightbuoyantdoze. Drowsily, I heard the conductor call out:
"Ofuné!"ThenI sankintoa deep sleep.
I wokeup at Hiratsuka. Thatshouldhavemeanta sandyland-
scape, but the rain had melded bothsandyfieldsand earthy fields
in a singledarkcolor.Thisbackwards-speeding landscapewas the
sameas beforeI'd fallenasleep.Notonlyhad itnotchanged,but
myfeelings had ceased to attendon it. My previousuneasehad
a
takenon strangedepthand pervasiveness. Before, ithad merely
beenan inability to remember something I oughtto.
Now, however,itwas bornein on me thatmyuneasinesshad
todo withlife.Myanxiety had comea longwaywhileI had slept.
Whyhad thisbeenso?Often,whenI wenttosleepwithsomething
on mymind,itwouldramify in mydreams.Butmynap between
Ofunéand Hiratsuka had beenwithout dreams.Nonetheless, there
was now added to myvague apprehension thistroubling post-
scriptthatsaid life.Whaton earthwas it?I triedto tighten the
puzzle'snetofwordsaroundit. It seemedaboutto surface, but
wouldnot.
My coldhad beenlongand tedious,butwas nothingso grand
as life.Althoughmydoctorhad toldme to takecareof myself,
therewas nogreaturgency aboutit.Andno onethatI loved,young
orold,had died.Wheredid itcomefrom,thisexaggerated worry
aboutsomething calledlife?It was strange.I was foolishto letit
botherme.

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70 PrairieSchooner

Ratherthanthe finesprayof steam,a sheetof wetnessnow

coveredmyside ofthewindow.Atthebase oftheframe, a strip
ofwaterundulatedto thevibrations ofthetrain.As we entered
eachtown,therewas theswollen,heavycalmofthewavepattern
tiles.Abovetheroofs,an unblemished mouse-gray skywas un-
furledoffull,fleshy clouds.Thefinedropsoftherain,whencaught
by a straybreeze,benttheirfallinglineslikebows. All overmy
body,myskinrelaxedand breathed. Mybonesweresuppled,my
body eased of its weight. And yet, thebottomofthispleasure
at
was something markeddanger.And so I was borneonward,a
bundleofunsortedemotions.
PastOdawaraa ways,we begantosee thetangerine trees.Grow-
ing in under the eaves of farmhouses, they bore theirfruitlike
smallbright globes of color. The little
girlsstarted naggingat their
mother tobuythemsome.Givingin,atYugawarasheopenedthe
streaming windowand calledtotheplatform vender.Greedywith
the
expectation, girls waited smugly fortheir tangerines.It made
mewantone too.Tellingmyself Atamiwas thenextstop,I curbed
mygirlishcraving.As I sat up to getready,mynostrils flaredat
the peculiarpungentsmellof thefruit.Oh, I thought.I sensed
obscurelythatthisscenthad something to do withmy strange
disquiet. The alternation of daylight and dimnessas the train
emerged from and entered tunnels was makingme dizzy.Slowly
all
putting my clothes back on, I wondered aboutthetangerines
and the phantomlife.Whatbound themtogether? I stilldidn't
understand. Even whenI tiredof thinking of themand triedto
stop,I couldn't.Itwas a stubborn feeling.
SuddenlyI had an unpleasantidea. AlthoughI was trying to
remember something that I had forgotten,if I'd never forgotten it
I could not remember it. Whatifit was not something thatI'd
forgotten,buta premonition ofsomething thatwas aboutto hap-
pen? That was my unpleasantthought.Amongthesescattered
fruitpeelsand in theshabbyduskofthisrailway caras we plunged
headlong into the tunnel, would something do withlifetake
to
place? What would itbe? A heart attack,perhaps,or thegushing
blood of a hemorrhage? The wheelsof thetrainmade a hollow
roaringin thetunnel.I couldfeelan emanationofcold airfrom
thewet window.Whetherit was myunsettled moodor theun-
comfortable warmthof wearingall my clothesagain,theblood
rushedhotlyto myface.MaybeI'm goingto be sick,I thought,
whenlightly, softly,theroaringwentaway.The trainhad come
outat Atami.So muchformypremonition. I feltstupid,ata loss.

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 Rain 71

Everyone gotup at once.Although I'd beensitting inthemiddle

ofthecar,I was laston thelineofpassengers getting off.No wind
I'd
today, thought, but I shivered in the draftthat came downthe
aislefromtheexit.Was itbecausethiswas theseashore?Ifitwas
drafty intheaisle,thatwas nothing towhatitwas on theplatform.
A chillgustofwindblewup fromthetracks.Mylegs,as ifthey'd
been abruptly stripped, lostthewarmththey'denjoyedbetween
them.In myJapaneseclothes,whenthewindblewup from below,
mylegs were as good as naked. From the outside, my skirts did
not seem undulydisarranged. But mylegs weredefenseless, at
thewind'smercy.Atthehead oftheexitstairs,thewindblewup
again.Not a traceofthewarmththathad beenmineon thetrain
remainedto me. As iftheybelongedto a stranger, mylegscame
toa haltand stoodfrozenintheirseparatenumbness. Twoorthree
I
stepsdown, stoppedby the railout of theothers' wayandrubbed
my knees together. It was because they were stiff, as myknees
but
chafedand scrapedeachotherI feltmiserably cold.A saucyfeeling
likediscontent simmered up in me. It was as if someoneelsewere
making me cold.
Althoughso manypeoplehad gottenoffat thisrainystation,
theyall seemedtohavegoneon aheadofme.WhenI finally came
through the ticket the
gate, driveway was almost deserted. A single
taxistoodwaitingwithitsdooropen. Pushingmyone smallbag
intothecab beforeme, withhead loweredand bentbodyI was
aboutto getin whensomething deep insideme said:"Yes." Yes,
thatwas it.Itwas thedaythatI gavebirth.
"Getin,please."Itwas thegruff voiceofthedriver. Awkwardly
doublingup again, gotin, I the door closedand thecarstarted on
itsway. I feltas ifsomething wereover- I even feltsomewhat
embarrassed, as ifI'd beenduped.
It is twenty-seven yearssinceI gavebirth.Although I celebrate
my child's birthday each year, I've come not to think of it as the
day when I gave birth. I'd almost forgotten, but ifI think hardas
I do now,someofthedetailscomeback.Itwas atjustthistimeof
year,a dayoffinerainliketoday's."It'scoldoutside,"myhusband
had said. Butthe hospitalroomwas properly heated.The large
glass window was clouded with steam from the inside.Whenthe
nursewiped it clearforme, therewas theunblemished mouse-
graysky and the wet wave pattern of theroof tiles.In the excite-
mentand fatigueofgivingbirthsafelyand well,thecalmfeeling
ofthoserooftiles sankdeep intomyeyes.Mylimbsfelteased,my
body unburdened as it had not been fordays in thisbed. The

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72 PrairieSchooner

warmthoftheroom,thedelicateresponsiveness ofthesheetsto
my slightest movement - such were the happinessesof having
given birth.As I was fallingasleep, someone said:"Yes,it'sgood
foryou to rest.Sleep is thebestway to getwell."AfterI'd slept
awhile,I was roughlyshakenawakeand givenshotsin myarms
and legs.Languidand dull,I feltnothing. A waveofnauseaswept
overme, and an illusionthatmylegs werein water.I was told
laterthatI had hemorrhaged profusely in my sleep. Therehad
been a possibility of death. Even afterthe bleedinghad been
checked,I was stillnauseated.The vomitspurtedintomymouth
and filledmynostrils withitsacridscent.WhenI complained to
my husband, he tooka tangerine that came to hand,peeled it and
helditto mynose. Itwas a resourceful thingto do. Itis trivialike
thosethatcometo thesurfaceas I reelthemin one byone. Old
memories.
Theinnwas thesameas ever.I felthalflikea guestthere.Taking
myeaseinthecleanlittle tub,I hada longhotsoak.WhenI thought
ofit,itwas strangethatI shouldhavebeentakenbackthirty years
to thatold birthbythecold,naturalrainand artificial steamheat.
Butthen,whatoftheappallingstubbornness ofone's emotions?
Itis perhapsinevitable thatmanydifferent feelingsshouldbe bound
up in birth.That among them should remain thisdeep shynessis
frommybabybeingseeninallitshelplessnakedness.I oftenthink
backto thattime.Whatwas unusualtodaywas thatmythoughts
ofthebirth hadbeenslowlyforced outbymyimmediate surround-
ings. And theflash ofrealization as I was entering thecab? Itmust
havebeenmywoman'saccurateinstinct. I can onlythinkthatmy
bowedpositionrecalledthatofthefoetus.
Thelightswerealreadyon inthebathroom. Itwas brighter than
necessary.Takingadvantage of the of
completeexposure myage
and fatiguethatnormally I would nothave noticed,I examined
myselfminutely. Withoutmyknowingit,I'd becomea cumber-
somebodythathad tobe takencareof.Therewas nothing I could
do aboutthat.And yet,I'd madean effort to comeforthesetwo
orthreedaysin December.I feltthatthispleasantinnand thehot
springswouldat leastcurethetiredness frommycold.An inchor
twoin front ofmyeyes,a wispofsteamcurledup lazilyfromthe
water'ssurface.

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