“Yes, I would. As long as you’re not in our camp, you’re our enemy!”
“Say that again!” Toyama, clenching his fist, edged right up.
“I say, straight out, that as long as you keep your Right-Wing leanings you’re no friend of mine.”
Almost before he had finished speaking Toyama’s fist had grazed Nagai’s face. A thin trickle of blood from his nose flowed down his twitching lips, but Toyama was disappointed; Nagai was not to be roused. With a hand trembling slightly, he quietly reached out and picked up one of the sheets of paper lying near and wiped his bleeding nose with it. Toyama suddenly became abject. He was ashamed of the noise of his own agitated breathing. He started to get up.
“Wait,” Nagai stopped him. “You’re just like a moth trying to kill yourself, aren’t you?” Nagai was incredibly calm; there was even a smile on his face.
“You’re now struggling on the verge of going to pieces, aren’t you, Toyama?” The straight-flung words hit home, but Toyama remained obstinate.
“You used to be one of our best leaders. Who was it, I’d like to know, who led me, the happy-go-lucky unmanageable chap that I was, to where I am to-day?”
This dragging up the past was unpleasant for Toyama.
“Sit down, sit down when I tell you.” Unwillingly Toyama sat down again.
