WOMAN: Her body is being removed even as you speak. Now go back to bed. There is still the other girl.
KAWABATA: Other girl?
WOMAN: Yes, there were two, remember?
KAWABATA: I can’t . . . your face. Why is it that way? I can’t go back in there. She’s dead. Do something. Go in.
WOMAN: Very little I can do. She took too much of her sleeping medicine, I think.
KAWABATA: This is inhuman.
WOMAN: It’s difficult, but these things happen.
KAWABATA: This is . . . not human.
WOMAN: Now, go back. It won’t do to be walking the streets at this hour.
KAWABATA: Why do people come here? Why don’t they leave? I won’t . . . I’m leaving.
WOMAN: You can’t leave.
KAWABATA: I’m leaving. Where’s my shirt, my coat?
WOMAN: Where will you go?
KAWABATA: Out. Home.
WOMAN: In your condition? Look at you—what happened, anyway?
KAWABATA: No, I don’t care. I’ll sleep in the streets.
WOMAN: You’ll die in the cold, that’s what you’ll do.
KAWABATA: Yes. I’ll die in the cold. I’ll die in the cold before I become like Old Eguchi. Look at him—pathetic—here every damn night.
WOMAN: Like Old Eguchi? How are you
not
like Old Eguchi?
KAWABATA: I can still sleep somewhere else.
WOMAN: Today, perhaps. Tomorrow, no.
KAWABATA: Where’s my shirt?
WOMAN: Here.
(She leads him to the mirror)
Look at yourself. Even as we speak, the lines are getting deeper, the hair is getting thinner, your lips are getting drier. Even as we speak, the shape of your face is changing, and with it, a mind, a will, as different as the face. You can leave now, Mr. Kawabata, but as much as you deny it, your face will continue to change, as if your will didn’t even exist. See my face? Look at it. Close. I try and powder it like a young girl. But look—all that’s here is an obscene mockery of youth. Don’t be like this, Mr. Kawabata. Go back to sleep and let’s not hear any more of your grandstanding.
(Kawabata is firmly in the grip of the drug now.)
KAWABATA: I’m . . . so tired. I drank too much of the potion.
WOMAN: That? I’m sorry. My fault. I shouldn’t have left it there. Well, you should be all right. That’s not as strong as the stuff you wanted.
KAWABATA: I would leave, I would, you know.
WOMAN: But you’re too tired?
KAWABATA: I’m not coming back.
WOMAN: Of course not. Here. I’ll help you to your room.
(She starts to sing the “Tokyo Ondo” softly as they exit together. As the lights fade slowly, we can still hear the song.)
Scene Four
A week later. It is evening. Kawabata is alone in the room. He is wrapping something in a small box. He completes the wrapping, puts the box into the breast pocket of the suit he is wearing. Woman enters from the door to the rooms. She carries a manuscript.
WOMAN: You’ve sent this to your publisher?
KAWABATA: Yes. It will be in print in time.
WOMAN: You go very easy on yourself.
KAWABATA: In what sense?
WOMAN: You don’t even name the main character after yourself. You call him Old Eguchi.
KAWABATA: Maybe I’m writing about him, not me.
WOMAN: And here . . . this story. That never happened. No man ever died here.
KAWABATA: Are you sure?
WOMAN: Who told you that?
KAWABATA: No one. I just thought . . . maybe.
WOMAN: And look at this. All this talk about the girls with their electric blankets. We don’t even have electric blankets.
KAWABATA: Madame, I write stories, not newspaper copy. I don’t—
WOMAN: This woman—she’s very . . . uh . . . she seems so hard.
KAWABATA: The story’s not about her.
WOMAN: She has no feelings, no heart. She’s so . . . above it all, like she never cries, like her heart has gone through life without stumbling. She’s like a ghost that walks through men’s houses without creaking the floorboards.
KAWABATA: It’s rather depersonalized, objective . . .
WOMAN: “Objective”? How can you say that? Look at the end—here—when the girl dies—like last week—and she says, “There’s still the other girl.” Doesn’t that make her just one kind of woman?
KAWABATA: What I mean is that—
WOMAN: Doesn’t it? Yes, I said that. But I shared things with you, stories. I let you see me ridiculous, hideous, a fool in my powder. Where is that? Is this all you remember? Just an old, cruel woman who serves you tea and takes your money?
KAWABATA: You have to understand . . . the joy was that I could finally write again at all.
WOMAN: Yes. That is surprising.
KAWABATA: I wasn’t going to stop it.
WOMAN: I was surprised when we hadn’t seen you all week.
KAWABATA: Do you understand?
WOMAN: Do you still think that the house will survive this story? Even after revealing the girl’s death?
KAWABATA: I don’t know. Who can say?
WOMAN: You didn’t change anything, make it harder for them to find us.
KAWABATA: I’m sorry. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.
WOMAN: No. Sorry has nothing to do with it. We each do our work.
KAWABATA: When I told you last week—drugged—that I wasn’t coming back again, did you believe me?
WOMAN: Of course not. But there was a part of me . . .
(Pause)
Up to a point, you’d acted like all my guests. The game with the tiles, being unable to assault my girl when you found her a virgin, you fit right into the gentleman’s pattern. But your memories—leaving you so soon. There was a part of me that wondered. I wanted to call you. Once I even finished dialing your number. But I hung up before it rang. I sat here and thought up tortures for you. I thought you’d gone away . . . committed
hara-kiri
, and that you were waiting for me to come and chop off your head. I decided to stay right here.
KAWABATA: Did you think I wasn’t coming back?
WOMAN: After a time, I began to wonder.
(Pause. She goes to the mirror, looks at it)
Well, there’re many things I could do now. I could move to another city. Try to start again, from the ground. Or I could sit here, the same as always. Who knows? Perhaps no one will believe your story.
KAWABATA: That’s quite possible. I’ve told you that.
WOMAN: Which would you recommend?
KAWABATA: Me? I don’t know what kind of risks you take, or what’s involved in starting over.
WOMAN: No. You don’t.
KAWABATA: I think, though, that at our age, starting again is only worthwhile if one enjoys the process.
WOMAN: “At our age”?
KAWABATA: It’s—uh—difficult to make long-range plans, you know.
WOMAN: Since when are we the same age?
KAWABATA: We are, aren’t we?
WOMAN: Yes, we are.
KAWABATA: Give or take five years—
WOMAN: And you, then—
KAWABATA:—which hardly matters at this point.
WOMAN:—what will you do? Will you come back here?
KAWABATA: No.
WOMAN: Oh.
KAWABATA: No. My life becomes very simple now.
(He takes out a packet of bills, offers them to her)
Here. Here. Take it. Enough for you to . . . I don’t know, buy a new house, anywhere you want. Or retire. Yes, retire and never worry about a thing again.
WOMAN: This is . . . so much . . . amazing. I can’t take this. Why?
KAWABATA: I want you to serve me.
WOMAN: This is . . . an outrageous amount, Mr. Kawabata. I cannot accept it.
KAWABATA: Please. You’ll need the money. An even trade.
WOMAN: Do you want a girl? A room?
KAWABATA: No.
WOMAN: I can fix you something special.
KAWABATA: Fix me some tea.
WOMAN: Oh, I forgot. I’m sorry.
KAWABATA: No. Don’t apologize.
WOMAN: I’m sorry. So rude of me. It’s such a cold night.
KAWABATA: You make very wonderful tea.
WOMAN: No, it’s not.
KAWABATA: Yes.
WOMAN: It’s nothing.
KAWABATA: I’ve grown in this house.
WOMAN: You feel young here?
KAWABATA: I did. As I’ve slept here, I’ve grown older. I’ve seen my sweethearts, my wife, my mistresses, my daughters, until there’s only one thing left.
(She comes with the tea.)
Will you powder your face again?
WOMAN: Mr. Kawabata, don’t—
KAWABATA: Please.
WOMAN: You’re mocking me—an old woman.
KAWABATA: No, I’ve brought you something.
(He reaches into a bag he is carrying, pulls out a kimono)
WOMAN: Oh!
KAWABATA: Yes. Take it.
WOMAN: It’s . . . No, this isn’t for me.
KAWABATA: Yes. See? Gold thread. Brocade.
WOMAN: I can’t accept this. Please. Give it to someone who deserves it.
KAWABATA: It’s for you.
WOMAN: One of your young admirers. You are a famous writer. You must have many.
KAWABATA: Please. Put it on. It’s just like the one you told me about.
WOMAN: It’s gorgeous, too beautiful—
KAWABATA: Put it on and powder your face.
WOMAN: You’re so foolish, Mr. Kawabata. I’ll disgrace these clothes. Once they drape down my old bones, especially with my face in that powder, they’ll change into something else completely, believe me.
KAWABATA: Don’t be shy. You’ll do me a great honor to wear my gift.
WOMAN: If you insist.
KAWABATA: Yes. Please.
(She starts to leave.)
No. Please. Do it in here. I want to watch.
WOMAN: Women don’t like men to watch them making up.
(Pause. She sits, begins making up.)
KAWABATA: I finished that story several days ago, you know. It came out of me like a wild animal, my hands were cramping at the pen. I wanted to show it to you while it was still warm, but I kept turning back. It’s the same way I’ve felt before when I’ve written the end of a story, yet known that the story had more to do before I could rest. So I trusted my instincts—I watched television for two full days, since usually, what hasn’t yet been revealed will rise to the surface in its own time. Yesterday, I woke up and knew what had to be added, and words weren’t the question at all, so I sent the manuscript as it was to my publisher and went out shopping.
WOMAN: For the kimono? It’s so beautiful.
KAWABATA: I tried to imagine the one you described.
WOMAN: This is every bit as beautiful.
KAWABATA: It’s not the same?
WOMAN: It’s difficult for me to remember. I was so young. But my sister’s couldn’t have been any finer.
(She takes the kimono, goes behind the screen, begins changing into it. He takes the small box out of his breast pocket, removes his jacket, takes off his tie, unbuttons his collar, takes off his shoes. Finally, she speaks:)
After the war, when we realized Father wasn’t coming back, and the family was dispersed, I moved here to Tokyo. And I thought, “Now I’ll dress in brocade also. I’ll wear gold threads, too.” But when I remembered my sister, I lost any desire to have anything like that. It’s just as well, that being after the war and all. And I’ve never had the money, even to this day—ai! You’d think at my age, I’d have earned the right to stop worrying about money.