eyes, leading me to wonder if the gossip might not be true. But if this were the case, this father and son led a remarkably cheerless existence. Sometimes, late at night, they would order noodles from a neighborhood shop—just for the two of them, without inviting me — and they ate in silence, not exchanging so much as a word. The boy almost always prepared the food in Flatfish's house, and three times a day lug would carry on a separate tray meals for the parasite on the second floor. Flatfish and the boy ate their meals in the
dank little room under the stairs, so hurriedly that I could hear the clatter of plates. One evening towards the end of March Flatfish---had he enjoyed some unexpected financial success? or did some other stratagem move him? (even supposing both these hypotheses were correct, I imagine there were a number of other reasons besides of so obscure a nature that my conjectures could never fathom them)—invited me downstairs to a dinner graced by the rare presence of sake. The host himself was impressed by the unwonted delicacy of sliced tuna, and in his admiring delight he expansively offered a little sake even to his listless hanger-on. He asked, "What do you plan to do, in the future I mean?" I did not answer, but picked up some dried sardines with my chopsticks from a plate on the table and, while I examined the silvery eyes of the little fish, I felt the faint flush of intoxication rise in me. I suddenly became nostalgic for the days when I used to go from bar to bar drinking, and even for Horiki. I yearned with such desperation for "freedom" that I became weak and tearful. Ever since coming to this house I had lacked all incentive even to
