I then began to visit the doctor from time to time. Each time I went, he was at home. As I saw him more and more often, I went to his door more and more often.
However, his attitude towards me did not change much from the first time we greeted each other or after we got to know each other. He was always quiet. At times he was so quiet that I felt lonely. From the very beginning I had the feeling that there was something mysterious about him that made him difficult to approach. And yet, there was a strong feeling somewhere that I had to get close to him. I may be the only one among many people who had this feeling towards my teacher. But for me alone, this intuition was later proven to be true, and I am at any rate grateful and happy for my intuition that saw it through, even if I am called young and laughed at as ridiculous. A person who could love people, who could not help loving them, but who could not open his arms and embrace those who tried to enter his bosom - this was my teacher.
As I said, the teacher was quiet throughout. He was calm. But sometimes a strange cloudiness would cross his face. Like the shadow of a black bird on a window. It would shoot out, only to disappear just as quickly. The first time I recognised the cloud between the teacher's eyes was when I called out to him unexpectedly in the cemetery at ZOUSHIGAYA. That unusual moment slowed down the tide of my heart, which had been flowing so pleasantly until then, a little. But it was merely a temporary stasis. My heart regained its normal elasticity in less than five minutes. I had just about forgotten the shadow of this dark cloud. It was not until one evening, when the spring was almost over, that I was reminded of it again.
As I was talking with my teacher, I suddenly recalled in front of my eyes the large gingko tree that he had taken the trouble to warn me about. I checked and found that it was the third day of his monthly visit to the cemetery. The third day was an easy day for me to finish my work at noon. I said to the teacher.
'Sir, have the gingko trees at ZOUSHIGAYAalready fallen?'
'You won't be an empty-nester yet'
The teacher watched my face as I replied. Then he often kept his eyes there. I immediately said.
'May I accompany you the next time you visit the cemetery? I would like to take a walk with you."
'I'm going to visit a grave, not go for a walk.'
But wouldn't it be nice to go for a walk while you're at it?"
The doctor did not respond in any way. After a while, he said, "Mine is only a real visit to the graves", and seemed to be trying to separate the visit to the graves from the walk. I thought it was a strange, childish excuse for not wanting to go with me. I was still ready to go on.
'Then please take me with you to visit the cemetery. I will visit the graves too."
In fact, to me the distinction between a visit to a grave and a walk seemed almost meaningless. Then the doctor's eyebrows clouded over a little. A strange light appeared in his eyes. It was a faint uneasiness that could not be dismissed as annoyance, disgust or awe. I was immediately strongly reminded of the memory of when I had called out 'teacher' on ZOUSHIGAYA. The two expressions were identical.
'I,' said the teacher. 'I have a reason that I cannot tell you, and that is that I do not want to go to Asuko with others to visit the graves. Even my own wife has not yet accompanied me there.
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