Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [167]
“Why, of course,” said Yasoma, obviously relieved. He appeared to think it only natural that Matahachi paid his bill too.
Soon they were in a district some distance from the main streets. Matahachi had intended to take his newfound friend to an elegant drinking establishment, but Yasoma pointed out that going to such a place would be a waste of money. He suggested someplace cheaper and more interesting, and while singing the praises of the red-light district, led Matahachi to what was euphemistically called the Town of Priestesses. Here, it was said, with only slight exaggeration, there were a thousand houses of pleasure, and a trade so thriving that a hundred barrels of lamp oil were consumed in a single night. Matahachi was a little reluctant at first but soon found himself attracted by the gaiety of the atmosphere.
Nearby was an offshoot of the castle moat, into which tidewater flowed from the bay. If one looked very closely, one could discern fish lice and river crabs crawling about under the projecting windows and red lanterns. Matahachi did look closely and ended up slightly unsettled, for they reminded him of deadly scorpions.
The district was peopled to a large extent by women with thickly powdered faces. Among them a pretty face was to be seen now and then, but there were many others who seemed to be more than forty, women stalking the streets with sad eyes, heads wrapped in cloth to fend off the cold, teeth blackened, but trying wanly to stir the hearts of the men who gathered here.
“There sure are lots of them,” said Matahachi with a sigh.
“I told you so,” replied Yasoma, who was at pains to make excuses for the women. “And they’re better than the next teahouse waitress or singing girl you might take up with. People tend to be put off by the idea of selling sex, but if you spend a winter’s night with one of them and talk with her about her family and so on, you’re likely to find she’s just like any other woman. And not really to blame for having become a whore.
“Some were once concubines of the shōgun, and there are lots whose fathers were once retainers of some daimyō who have since lost power. It was the same centuries ago when the Taira fell to the Minamoto. You’ll find, my friend, that in the gutters of this floating world, much of the trash consists of fallen flowers.”
They went into a house, and Matahachi left everything to Yasoma, who seemed to be quite experienced. He knew how to order the sake, how to deal with the girls; he was flawless. Matahachi found the experience quite entertaining.
They spent the night, and even at noon on the next day, Yasoma showed no sign of tiring. Matahachi felt recompensed to some extent for all those times he had been pushed off into a back room at the Yomogi, but he was beginning to run down.
Finally, admitting he’d had enough, he said, “I don’t want any more to drink. Let’s go.”
Yasoma did not budge. “Stay with me until evening,” he said.
“What happens then?”
“I have an appointment to see Susukida Kanesuke. It’s too early to go to his house now, and anyway I won’t be able to discuss your situation until I have a better idea of what you want.”
“I guess I shouldn’t ask for too large an allowance at first.”
“There’s no point in selling yourself cheap. A samurai of your caliber should be able to command any figure he names. If you say you’ll settle for any old position, you’ll be demeaning yourself. Why don’t I tell him you want an allowance of twenty-five hundred bushels? A samurai with self-confidence is always better paid and treated. You shouldn’t give the impression you’d be satisfied with just anything.”
As evening approached, the streets in this area, lying as they did in the immense shadow of Osaka Castle, darkened early. Having left the brothel, Matahachi and Yasoma made their way through the town to one of the more exclusive samurai residential areas. They stood with their backs