Musashi: Bushido Code (72 page)

Presently Mitsuhiro asked, in an injured tone, "Where's Nobutada? Did he go home?"

"Never mind him. Where's Yoshino?" Shōyū asked, suddenly looking quite sober.

Mitsuhiro told Rin'ya to go and bring Yoshino back.

As she passed the room where Shōyū and Kōetsu had started out the evening, Rin'ya looked in. Musashi was sitting there alone, his face next to the white light of the lamp.

"Why, I didn't know you were back," said Rin'ya.

"I haven't been here long."

"Did you come in by the back way?"

"Yes."

"Where did you go?"

"Umm, outside the district."

"I bet you had an engagement with a beautiful girl. Shame on you! Shame on you! I'm going to tell my mistress," she said saucily.

Musashi laughed. "No one's here," he said. "What happened to them?" "They're in another room, playing games with Lord Kangan and a priest." "Kōetsu too?"

"No. I don't know where he is."

"Maybe he went home. If he did, I should go too."

"You mustn't say that. When you come to this house, you can't leave without Yoshino Dayū's consent. If you just sneak away, people will laugh at you. And I'll be scolded."

Not being attuned to the humor of the courtesans, he received this news

with serious countenance, thinking: "So that's the way they do things here." "You absolutely mustn't go without taking your leave properly. Just wait

here until I come back."

A few minutes later Takuan appeared. "And where did you come from?" he asked, with a tap on the rōnin's shoulder.

"What?" gasped Musashi. Slipping off his cushion, he put both hands on the floor and bowed deeply. "What a long time since I saw you last!"

Lifting Musashi's hands from the floor, Takuan said, "This place is for fun and relaxation. No need for formal greetings.... I was told Kōetsu was here too, but I don't see him."

"Where do you suppose he could have gone?"

"Let's find him. I do have a number of things to talk to you about privately, but they can wait until a more suitable occasion."

Takuan opened the door into the next room. There, with his feet in the covered
kotatsu
and a quilt over him, lay Kōetsu, sequestered from the rest of the room by a small gold screen. He was sleeping peacefully. Takuan could not bring himself to wake him.

Kōetsu opened his eyes of his own accord. He stared for a moment at the priest's face, then at Musashi's, not quite knowing what to make of it.

After they had explained the situation to him, Kōetsu said, "If it's only you and Mitsuhiro in the other room, I have no objection to going there."

They found that Mitsuhiro and Shōyū, having finally talked themselves out, had sunk into melancholy. They had reached the stage where the sake begins to taste bitter, the lips feel parched, and a sip of water evokes thoughts of home. Tonight the aftereffects were worse; Yoshino had deserted them.

"Why don't we all go home?" someone suggested.

"We might as well," agreed the others.

Though not really eager to leave, they were afraid that if they stayed longer, nothing would be left of the evening's mellowness. But as they stood up to go, Rin'ya came running into the room with two younger girls. Clasping Lord Kangan's hands, Rin'ya said, "We're sorry to have kept you waiting. Please don't leave. Yoshino Dayū is ready to receive you in her private quarters. I know it's late, but it's light outside—because of the snow—and in this cold you should at least warm yourselves properly before getting in your palanquins. Come with us."

None of them felt like playing anymore. The spirit, once gone, was difficult to summon back.

Noting their hesitation, one of the attendants said, "Yoshino said she was sure you all thought her rude for leaving, but she saw nothing else to do. If she gave in to Lord Kangan, Mr. Funabashi would be hurt, and if she went away with Mr. Funabashi, Lord Kangan would be lonesome. She doesn't want either of you to feel slighted, so she's inviting you for a nightcap. Please understand how she feels, and stay a little longer."

Sensing that a refusal would be ungallant—and more than a little curious to see the leading courtesan in her own living quarters—they allowed themselves to be persuaded. Guided by the girls, they found five pairs of rustic straw sandals at the top of the garden steps. Donning these, they made their way soundlessly across the soft snow. Musashi had no idea of what was going on, but the others assumed they were to take part in a tea ceremony, for Yoshino was known to be an ardent devotee of the tea cult. Since there was something to be said for a bowl of tea after all the drinking they had done, no one was upset until they were led on past the teahouse and into an overgrown field.

"Where are you taking us?" asked Lord Kangan in an accusing tone. "This is a mulberry patch!"

The girls giggled, and Rin'ya hastened to explain. "Oh, no! This is our peony garden. In the early summer, we put out stools, and everybody comes here to drink and admire the blossoms."

"Mulberry patch or peony garden, it's not very pleasant being out here in the snow. Is Yoshino trying to make us catch cold?"

"I'm sorry. It's only a little farther."

In the corner of the field was a little cottage with a thatched roof, which, from the looks of it, was probably a farmhouse that had been here since before the area was built up. There was a grove of trees behind it, and the yard was cut off from the well-cared-for garden of the Ōgiya.

"This way," urged the girls, leading them into a dirt-floored room whose walls and posts were black with soot.

Rin'ya announced their arrival, and from the interior Yoshino Dayū answered, "Welcome! Please come in."

The fire in the hearth cast a soft, red glow on the shoji paper. The atmosphere seemed utterly remote from the city. As the men looked around the kitchen and noticed straw rain capes hanging on one wall, they wondered what sort of entertainment Yoshino had planned for them. The shoji slid open, and one by one they stepped up into the hearth room.

Yoshino's kimono was a pale solid yellow, her obi of black satin. She wore the minimum of makeup and had rearranged her hair into a simple housewifely style. Her guests stared at her with admiration.

"How unusual!"

"How charming!"

In her unpretentious outfit, set off by the blackened walls, Yoshino was a hundred times more beautiful than she was in the elaborately embroidered Momoyama-style costumes she wore at other times. The gaudy kimonos the men were accustomed to, the iridescent lipstick and the setting of gold screens and silver candlesticks were necessary for a woman in her business. But Yoshino had no need for props to enhance her beauty.

"Hmm," said Shōyū, "this is something quite special." Not one to offer praise lightly, the old man, with his acerbic tongue, seemed temporarily tamed.

Without spreading cushions, Yoshino invited them to sit down by the hearth.

"I live here, as you can see, and I can't offer you much, but at least there's a fire. I hope you agree, a fire is the most excellent feast one can present on a cold snowy night, whether one's guest is prince or pauper. There's a good supply of kindling, so even if we talk the night out, I won't have to use the potted plants for fuel. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

The nobleman, the merchant, the artist and the priest sat cross-legged by the hearth, with their hands over the fire. Kōetsu reflected on the cold walk from the Ōgiya and the invitation to the cheery fire. It actually was like a feast, the essence, really, of entertaining.

"You come up by the fire too," said Yoshino. She smiled invitingly at Musashi and moved slightly to make a place for him.

Musashi was struck by the exalted company he was in. Next to Toyotomi Hideyoshi and Tokugawa Ieyasu, she was probably the most famous person in Japan. Of course, there was Okuni of Kabuki fame and Hideyoshi's mistress Yodogimi, but Yoshino was regarded as having more class than the former and more wit, beauty and kindness than the latter. The men who associated with Yoshino were known as the "buyers," while she herself was called "the Tayū." Any courtesan of the first class was known as Tayū, but to say "the Tayū" meant Yoshino and no one else. Musashi had heard that she had seven attendants to bathe her and two to cut her nails.

This evening, for the first time in his life, Musashi found himself in the company of painted and polished ladies, and he reacted by becoming stiffly formal. This was partly because he could not help wondering what men found so extraordinary about Yoshino.

"Please, relax," she said. "Come sit here."

After the fourth or fifth invitation, he capitulated. Taking his place beside her, he imitated the others, extending his hands awkwardly over the fire.

Yoshino glanced at his sleeve and saw a spot of red. While the others were immersed in conversation, she quietly took a piece of paper from her sleeve and wiped it off.

"Uh, thank you," said Musashi. If he had remained silent, no one would have noticed, but the moment he spoke, every eye went to the crimson stain on the paper in Yoshino's hand.

Opening his eyes wide, Mitsuhiro said, "That's blood, isn't it?"

Yoshino smiled. "No, of course not. It's a petal from a red peony."

The Broken Lute

The four or five sticks of wood in the hearth burned softly, giving off a pleasant aroma and lighting up the small room as if it were noon. The gentle smoke did not cause the eyes to smart; it looked like white peony petals billowing in the breeze, flecked now and again with sparks of purple-gold and crimson. Whenever the fire showed signs of dying down, Yoshino added foot-long strips of kindling from the scuttle.

The men were too captivated by the beauty of the flames to ask about the firewood, but eventually Mitsuhiro said, "What sort of wood are you using? It's not pine."

"No," replied Yoshino. "It's peony wood."

They were mildly surprised, for the peony, with its thin, bushy branches, hardly seemed suitable for firewood. Yoshino took a stick that had been only slightly charred and handed it to Mitsuhiro.

She told them that the peony stumps in the garden had been planted more than a hundred years earlier. At the beginning of winter, the gardeners pruned them very closely, cutting off the worm-eaten upper parts. The trimmings were saved for firewood. Though the quantity was small, it was sufficient for Yoshino.

The peony, remarked Yoshino, was the king of flowers. Perhaps it was only natural that its withered branches had a quality not to be found in ordinary wood, just as certain men had a worth not displayed by others. "How many men are there," she mused, "whose merit endures after the blossoms have faded and died?" With a melancholy smile, she answered her own question. "We human beings blossom only during our youth, then become dry, odorless skeletons even before we die."

A little later, Yoshino said, "I'm sorry I have nothing more to offer you than the sake and the fire, but at least there's wood, enough to last until sunrise."

"You shouldn't apologize. This is a feast fit for a prince." Shōyū, though accustomed to luxury, was sincere in his praise.

"There is one thing I'd like you to do for me," said Yoshino. "Will you please write a memento of this evening?"

While she was rubbing the ink stone, the girls spread a woolen rug in the next room and laid out several pieces of Chinese writing paper. Being made of bamboo and paper mulberry, it was tough and absorbent, just right for calligraphic inscriptions.

Mitsuhiro, assuming the role of host, turned to Takuan and said, "Good priest, since the lady requests it, will you write something appropriate? Or perhaps we should first ask Kōetsu?"

Kōetsu moved silently on his knees. He took up the brush, thought for a moment and drew a peony blossom.

Above this, Takuan wrote:

Why should I cling to

A life so far removed from

Beauty and passion?

Peonies though lovely

Shed their bright petals and die.

Takuan's poem was in the Japanese style. Mitsuhiro chose to write in the Chinese manner, setting down lines from a poem by Tsai Wen:

When I am busy, the mountain looks at me.

When I am at leisure, I look at the mountain.

Though it seems the same, it is not the same,

For busyness is inferior to leisure.

Under Takuan's poem, Yoshino wrote:

Even as they bloom

A breath of sadness hangs

Over the flowers.

Do they think of the future,

When their petals will be gone?

Shōyū and Musashi looked on in silence, the latter greatly relieved when no one insisted that he write something too.

They returned to the hearth and chatted for a while, until Shōyū, noticing a
Biwa,
a kind of lute, next to the alcove in the inner room, asked Yoshino to play for them. The others seconded his suggestion.

Yoshino, displaying no trace of timidity, took up the instrument and sat down in the middle of the dimly lit inner room. Her manner was not that of a virtuoso proud of her skills, nor did she attempt to be unduly modest. The men cleared their minds of random thoughts, the better to give their attention to her rendition of a section from
Tales of the Heike.
Soft, gentle tones gave way to a turbulent passage, then to staccato chords. The fire dwindled and the room darkened. Entranced by the music, no one stirred until a tiny explosion of sparks brought them back to earth.

As the music ended, Yoshino said, with a slight smile, "I'm afraid I didn't play very well." She replaced the lute and returned to the fire. When the men stood up to take their leave, Musashi, happy to be saved from further boredom, was the first to reach the door. Yoshino said farewell to the others one by one but said nothing to him. As he turned to go, she quietly took hold of his sleeve.

"Musashi, spend the night here. Somehow ... I don't want to let you go home."

The face of an importuned virgin couldn't have been redder. He tried to cover up by pretending not to hear, but it was plain to the others that he was too flustered to speak.

Turning to Shōyū, Yoshino said, "It'll be all right if I keep him here, won't it?"

Musashi removed Yoshino's hand from his sleeve. "No, I'm going with Kōetsu."

As he made hastily for the door, Kōetsu stopped him. "Don't be like that, Musashi. Why don't you stay here tonight? You can come back to my house tomorrow. After all, the lady has been kind enough to show her concern for you." He pointedly went to join the other two men.

Musashi's cautiousness warned him that they were deliberately trying to trick him into staying for what laughs they might derive from it later. Still, the seriousness he saw written on the faces of Yoshino and Kōetsu argued against its being only a joke.

Shōyū and Mitsuhiro, vastly amused by his discomfort, persisted in teasing him, one saying, "You're the most fortunate man in the country," and the other volunteering to stay in his stead.

The joking stopped with the arrival of a man Yoshino had sent out to take a look around the quarter. He was breathing heavily, and his teeth were chattering with fright.

"The other gentlemen can leave," he said, "but Musashi shouldn't think of it. Only the main gate is open now, and on either side of it, around the Amigasa teahouse and along the street, are swarms of samurai, heavily armed, roaming around in small bands. They're from the Yoshioka School. The tradesmen are afraid something awful might happen, so they all closed early. Beyond the quarter, toward the riding ground, I was told there are at least a hundred men."

The men were impressed, not only by the report but by the fact that Yoshino had taken such a precaution. Only Kōetsu had any inkling that some incident might have occurred.

Yoshino had guessed something was afoot when she saw the spot of blood on Musashi's sleeve.

"Musashi," she said, "now that you've heard what it's like out there, you may be more determined than ever to leave, just to prove you're not afraid. But please don't do anything rash. If your enemies think you're a coward, you can always prove to them tomorrow that you aren't. Tonight, you came here to relax, and it's the mark of a real man to enjoy himself to his heart's content. The Yoshiokas want to kill you. Certainly it's no disgrace to avoid that. In fact, many people would condemn you for poor judgment if you insisted on walking into their trap.

"There's the matter of your personal honor, of course, but please stop to consider the trouble a battle would cause to the people in the quarter. Your friends' lives would be endangered too. Under the circumstances, the only wise thing for you to do is stay here."

Without waiting for his reply, she turned to the other men and said, "I think it's all right for the rest of you to go, if you're careful along the way."

A couple of hours later, the clock struck four. The distant sound of music

and singing had died out. Musashi was seated on the threshold of the hearth

room, a lonely prisoner waiting for the dawn. Yoshino remained by the fire. "Aren't you cold there?" she asked. "Do come over here, where it's warm." "Never mind me. Go to bed. When the sun comes up, I'll let myself out." The same words had been exchanged quite a number of times already, but

to no effect.

Despite Musashi's lack of polish, Yoshino was attracted to him. Though it had been said that a woman who thought of men as men, rather than as sources of income, had no business seeking employment in the gay quarters, this was merely a cliché repeated by the patrons of brothels—men who knew only common prostitutes and had no contact with the great courtesans. Women of Yoshino's breeding and training were quite capable of infatuation. She was only a year or two older than Musashi, but how different they were in their experience of love. Watching him sit so stiffly, restraining his emotions, avoiding her face as though a look at her might blind him, she felt once again like a sheltered maiden experiencing the first pangs of love.

The attendants, ignorant of the psychological tension, had spread luxurious pallets, fit for the son and daughter of a daimyō, in the adjoining room. Little golden bells gleamed softly on the corners of the satin pillows.

The sound of snow sliding off the roof was not unlike that of a man jumping down from the fence into the garden. Each time he heard it, Musashi bristled like a hedgehog. His nerves seemed to reach to the very tips of his hair.

Yoshino felt a shiver run through her. It was the coldest part of the night, the hour just before dawn, yet her discomfort was not due to the cold. It came from the sight of this fierce man and clashed in an intricate rhythm with her natural attraction to him.

The kettle over the fire began to whistle, a cheerful sound that calmed her. Quietly she poured some tea.

"It'll be daylight soon. Have a cup of tea and warm yourself by the fire." "Thank you," said Musashi, without moving.

"It's ready now," she said again, and gave up trying. The last thing she wanted to do was make a nuisance of herself. Still, she was slightly offended at seeing the tea go to waste. After it was too cold to drink, she poured it into a small pail kept for that purpose. What is the use, she thought, of offering tea to a rustic like him, for whom the niceties of tea-drinking have no meaning?

Though his back was to her, she could see that his whole body was as taut as steel armor. Her eyes grew sympathetic.

"Musashi."

"What?"

"Who are you on guard against?"

"No one. I'm just trying to keep myself from relaxing too much." "Because of your enemies?"

"Of course."

"In your present state, if you were suddenly attacked in force, you'd be killed immediately. I'm sure of it, and it makes me sad."

He did not answer.

"A woman like myself knows nothing of the Art of War, but from watching you tonight, I have the terrible feeling I've seen a man who was about to be cut down. Somehow there's the shadow of death about you. Is that really safe for a warrior who may at any minute have to face dozens of swords? Can such a man expect to win?"

The question sounded sympathetic, but it unsettled him. He whirled around, moved to the hearth and sat facing her.

"Are you saying I'm immature?"

"Did I make you angry?"

"Nothing a woman ever said would make me angry. But I am interested in knowing why you think I act like a man who's about to be killed."

He was painfully conscious of the web of swords and strategies and maledictions being woven around him by the Yoshioka partisans. He had anticipated an attempt at revenge, and in the courtyard of the Rengeōin, had considered going away to hide. But this would have been rude to Kōetsu and would have meant breaking his promise to Rin'ya. Far more decisive, however, was his desire not to be accused of running away because he was afraid.

After returning to the Ōgiya, he thought he had displayed an admirable degree of composure. Now Yoshino was laughing at his immaturity. This would not have upset him had she been bantering in the fashion of courtesans, but she seemed perfectly serious.

He professed not to be angry, but his eyes were as keen as sword tips. He stared straight into her white face. "Explain what you said." When she did not answer immediately, he said, "Or maybe you were just joking."

Her dimples, which had deserted her for a moment, reappeared. "How can you say that?" She laughed, shaking her head. "Do you think I'd joke about something so serious to a warrior?"

"Well, what did you mean? Tell me!"

"All right. Since you seem so eager to know, I'll try to explain. Were you listening when I played the lute?"

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Perhaps it was foolish of me to ask. Tense as you are, your ears could hardly have taken in the fine, subtle tones of the music."

"No, that's not true. I was listening."

"Did it occur to you to wonder how all those complicated combinations of soft and loud tones, weak and strong phrases, could be produced from only four strings?"

"I was listening to the story. What else was there to hear?"

"Many people do that, but I'd like to draw a comparison between the lute and a human being. Rather than go into the technique of playing, let me recite a poem by Po Chü-i in which he describes the sounds of the lute. I feel sure you know it."

She wrinkled her brow slightly as she intoned the poem in a low voice, her style somewhere between singing and speaking.

The large strings hummed like rain,

The small strings whispered like a secret,

Hummed, whispered—and then were intermingled

Like a pouring of large and small pearls into a plate of jade.