Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [173]
“That’s not so good. Are you coming down with piles again?”
Matahachi, in a show of filial devotion, said, “Climb on my back, Mama.”
“Oh, you want to carry me? Isn’t that nice!” Grasping his shoulders, she shed tears of joy. “How many years has it been? Look, Uncle Gon, Matahachi’s going to carry me on his back.”
As her tears fell on his neck, Matahachi himself felt strangely pleased. “Uncle Gon, where are you staying?” he asked.
“We still have to find an inn, but any will do. Let’s go look for one.”
“All right.” Matahachi bounced his mother lightly on his back as he walked. “Say, Mama, you’re light! Very light! Much lighter than a rock!”
The Handsome Young Man
Gradually obscured by the wintry noonday mist, the sunlit island of Awaji faded into the distance. The flapping of the great sail in the wind drowned out the sound of the waves. The boat, which plied several times each month between Osaka and Awa Province in Shikoku, was crossing the Inland Sea on its way to Osaka. Although its cargo consisted mostly of paper and indigo dye, a distinctive odor betrayed it was carrying contraband, in the form of tobacco, which the Tokugawa government had forbidden the people to smoke, sniff or chew. There were also passengers on board, mostly merchants, either returning to the city or visiting it for the year-end trading.
“How’s it going? Making lots of money, I bet.”
“Not at all! Everybody says things are booming in Sakai, but you couldn’t prove it by me.”
“I hear there’s a shortage of workmen there. Heard they need gunsmiths.” Conversation in another group went along similar lines.
“I supply battle equipment myself—flagstaffs, armor, that sort of thing. I’m certainly not making as much as I used to, though.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, I guess the samurai are learning how to add.”
“Ha, ha!”
“It used to be that when the freebooters brought in their loot, you could re-dye or repaint things and sell them right back to the armies. Then after the next battle, the stuff would come back and you could fix it up and sell it again.”
One man was gazing out over the ocean and extolling the riches of the countries beyond it. “You can’t make money at home anymore. If you want real profits, you have to do what Naya ‘Luzon’ Sukezaemon or Chaya Sukejirō did. Go into foreign trade. It’s risky, but if you’re lucky, it can really pay off.”
“Well,” said another man, “even if things aren’t so good for us these days, from the samurai’s viewpoint we’re doing very well. Most of them don’t even know what good food tastes like. We talk about the luxuries the daimyō enjoy, but sooner or later they have to put on their leather and steel and go out and get killed. I feel sorry for them; they’re so busy thinking about their honor and the warrior’s code they can’t ever sit back and enjoy life.”
“Isn’t that the truth? We complain about bad times and all, but the only thing to be today is a merchant.”
“You’re right. At least we can do what we want.”
“All we really have to do is make a show of bowing down before the samurai, and a little money makes up for a lot of that.”
“If you’re going to live in this world, might as well have a good time.” “That’s the way I see it. Sometimes I feel like asking the samurai what they’re getting out of life.”
The woolen carpet this group had spread for themselves to sit on was imported—evidence that they were better off than other elements of the population. After Hideyoshi’s death, the luxuries of the Momoyama period had passed largely into the hands of merchants, rather than samurai, and these days the richer townspeople were the ones with elegant sake-serving sets and beautiful, expensive travel equipment. Even a small businessman was normally better off than a samurai with an allowance of five thousand bushels of rice per year, which was considered a princely income by most samurai.
“Never much to do on these trips, is there?”
“No. Why don’t we have a little card game to pass the time.”
“Why not?”
A curtain was hung, mistresses and underlings