Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [12]
Takezō knew the two of them had been at this for a long time, but even so, it was astonishing how much they had accumulated. There was a dagger, a spear tassel, a sleeve from a suit of armor, a helmet without a crown, a miniature, portable shrine, a Buddhist rosary, a banner staff… . There was even a lacquered saddle, beautifully carved and ornately decorated with gold, silver and mother-of-pearl inlay.
From the opening in the ceiling Matahachi peered out, a perplexed look on his face. “Is that everything?”
“No, there’s one thing more,” said Okō, rushing off. In a moment she was back, bearing a four-foot sword of black oak. Takezō started passing it up to Matahachi’s outstretched arms, but the weight, the curve, the perfect balance of the weapon impressed him so deeply that he could not let it go.
He turned to Okō., a sheepish look on his face. “Do you think I could have this?” he asked, his eyes showing a new vulnerability. He glanced at his feet, as if to say he knew he’d done nothing to deserve the sword.
“Do you really want it?” she said softly, a motherly tone in her voice. “Yes … Yes … I really do!”
Although she didn’t actually say he could have it, she smiled, showing a dimple, and Takezō knew the sword was his. Matahachi jumped down from the ceiling, bursting with envy. He fingered the sword covetously, making Okō laugh.
“See how the little man pouts because he didn’t get a present!” She tried to placate him by giving him a handsome leather purse beaded with agate. Matahachi didn’t look very happy with it. His eyes kept shifting to the black-oak sword. His feelings were hurt and the purse did little to assuage his wounded pride.
When her husband was alive, Okō had apparently acquired the habit of taking a leisurely, steaming hot bath every evening, putting on her makeup, and then drinking a bit of sake. In short, she spent the same amount of time on her toilette as the highest-paid geisha. It was not the sort of luxury that ordinary people could afford, but she insisted on it and had even taught Akemi to follow the same routine, although the girl found it boring and the reasons for it unfathomable. Not only did Okō like to live well; she was determined to remain young forever.
That evening, as they sat around the recessed floor hearth, Okō poured Matahachi’s sake and tried to persuade Takezō to have some as well. When he refused, she put the cup in his hand, seized him by the wrist and forced him to raise it to his lips.
“Men are supposed to be able to drink,” she chided. “If you can’t do it alone, I’ll help.”
From time to time, Matahachi stared uneasily at her. Okō, conscious of his gaze, became even more familiar with Takezō. Placing her hand playfully on his knee, she began humming a popular love song.
By this time, Matahachi had had enough. Suddenly turning to Takezō, he blurted out, “We ought to be moving on soon!”
This had the desired effect. “But … but … where would you go?” Okō stammered.
“Back to Miyamoto. My mother’s there, and so is my fiancée.”
Momentarily taken by surprise, Okō swiftly regained her composure. Her eyes narrowed to slits, her smile froze, her voice turned acid. “Well, please accept my apologies for delaying you, for taking you in and giving you a home. If there’s a girl waiting for you, you’d better hurry on back. Far be it from me to keep you!”
After receiving the black-oak sword, Takezō was never without it. He derived an indescribable pleasure from simply holding it. Often he’d squeeze the handle tightly or run its blunt edge along his palm, just to feel the perfect proportion of the curve to the length. When he slept, he hugged it to his body. The cool touch of the wooden surface against his cheek reminded him of the floor of the dōjō where he’d practiced sword techniques in winter. This nearly perfect instrument of both art and death reawakened in him the fighting spirit he