Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [114]
Musashi looked at her in astonishment. The garments were much too expensive for him to accept after having stayed there only two days. He tried to refuse, but the widow insisted. “No, you must take them. They aren’t anything very special anyway. I have a lot of old kimono and Nō costumes left by my husband. I have no use for them. I thought it would be nice for you to have some. I do hope you won’t refuse. Now that I’ve altered them to fit you, if you don’t take them, they’ll just go to waste.”
She went behind Musashi and held up the kimono for him to slip his arms into. As he put it on, he realized that the silk was of very good quality and felt more embarrassed than ever. The sleeveless cloak was particularly fine; it must have been imported from China. The hem was gold brocade, the lining silk crepe, and the leather fastening straps had been dyed purple.
“It looks perfect on you!” exclaimed the widow.
Jōtarō, looking on enviously, suddenly said to her, “What’re you going to give me?”
The widow laughed. “You should be happy for the chance to accompany your fine master.”
“Aw,” grumbled Jōtarō, “who wants an old kimono anyway?”
“Is there anything you do want?”
Running to the wall in the anteroom and taking a Nō mask down from its hook, the boy said, “Yes, this!” He’d coveted it since first spying it the night before, and now he rubbed it tenderly against his cheek.
Musashi was surprised at the boy’s good taste. He himself had found it admirably executed. There was no way of knowing who had made it, but it was certainly two or three centuries old and had evidently been used in actual Nō performances. The face, carved with exquisite care, was that of a female demon, but whereas the usual mask of this type was grotesquely painted with blue spots, this was the face of a beautiful and elegant young girl. It was peculiar only in that one side of her mouth curved sharply upward in the eeriest fashion imaginable. Obviously not a fictitious face conjured up by the artist, it was the portrait of a real, living madwoman, beautiful yet bewitched. “That you cannot have,” said the widow firmly, trying to take the mask away from the boy.
Evading her reach, Jōtarō put the mask on the top of his head and danced about the room, shouting defiantly, “What do you need it for? It’s mine now; I’m going to keep it!”
Musashi, surprised and embarrassed by his ward’s conduct, made an attempt to catch him, but Jōtarō stuffed the mask into his kimono and fled down the stairs, the widow giving chase. Although she was laughing, not angry at all, she clearly didn’t intend to part with the mask.
Presently Jōtarō climbed slowly back up the stairs. Musashi, ready to scold him severely, was seated with his face toward the door. But as the boy entered, he cried, “Boo!” and held the mask out before him. Musashi was startled; his muscles tensed and his knees shifted inadvertently.
He wondered why Jōtarō’s prank had such an effect on him, but as he stared at the mask in the dim light, he began to understand. The carver had put something diabolical into his creation. That crescent smile, curving up on the left side of the white face, was haunted, possessed of a devil.
“If we’re going, let’s go,” said Jōtarō.
Musashi, without rising, said, “Why haven’t you given the mask back yet? What do you want with a thing like that?”
“But she said I could keep it! She gave it to me.”
“She did not! Go downstairs and give it back to her.”
“But she gave it to me! When I offered to return it, she said that if I wanted it so badly, I could keep it. She just wanted to make sure I’d take good care of it, so I promised her I would.”
“What am I going to do with you!” Musashi felt ashamed about accepting, first, the beautiful kimono and then