Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [208]
Otsū gasped at the beauty of the scrolls, and Jōtarō’s eyes widened as he bent over to examine them more closely. Since the commentary had not yet been written in, neither of them knew what story was depicted, but as Arakida unrolled scene after scene, they saw before them a picture of life at the ancient imperial court, fastidiously executed in magnificent colors with touches of powdered gold. The paintings were in the Tosa style, which was derived from classic Japanese art.
Though Jōtarō had never been taught anything about art, he was dazzled by what he saw. “Look at the fire there,” he exclaimed. “It looks like it’s really burning, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t touch the painting,” admonished Otsū. “Just look.”
While they gazed in admiration, a servant entered and said something in a very low voice to Arakida, who nodded and replied, “I see. I suppose it’s all right. Just in case, though, you’d better have the man make out a receipt.” With that, he gave the servant the pack and the two swords Otsū had brought to him.
Upon learning that their flute teacher was leaving, the girls in the House of Virgins were disconsolate. In the two months she had been with them, they had come to regard her as an elder sister, and their faces as they gathered about her were full of gloom.
“Is it true?”
“Are you really going away?”
“Won’t you ever come back?”
From beyond the dormitory, Jōtarō shouted, “I’m ready. What’s taking you so long?” He had doffed his white robe and was once again dressed in his usual short kimono, his wooden sword at his side. The cloth-wrapped box containing the scrolls was suspended diagonally across his back.
From the window, Otsū called back, “My, that was fast!”
“I’m always fast!” retorted Jōtarō. “Aren’t you ready yet? Why does it take women so long to dress and pack?” He was sunning himself in the yard, yawning lazily. But being impatient by nature, he quickly grew bored. “Aren’t you finished yet?” he called again.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Otsū replied. She’d already finished packing, but the girls wouldn’t let her go. Attempting to break away, Otsū said soothingly, “Don’t be sad. I’ll come to visit one of these days. Till then, take good care of yourselves.” She had the uncomfortable feeling that this was not true, for in view of what had happened, it seemed unlikely that she would ever return.
Perhaps the girls suspected this; several were crying. Finally, someone suggested that they all see Otsū as far as the holy bridge across the Isuzu River. They thereupon crowded around her and escorted her out of the house. They didn’t see Jōtarō immediately, so they cupped their hands around their mouths and called his name, but got no reply. Otsū, too used to his ways to be disturbed, said, “He probably got tired of waiting and went on ahead.”
“What a disagreeable little boy!” exclaimed one of the girls.
Another suddenly looked up at Otsū and asked, “Is he your son?”
“My son? How on earth could you think that? I won’t even be twenty-one till next year. Do I look old enough to have a child that big?”
“No, but somebody said he was yours.”
Recalling her conversation with Arakida, Otsū blushed, then comforted herself with the thought that it made no real difference what people said, so long as Musashi had faith in her.
Just then, Jōtarō came running up to them. “Hey, what’s going on?” he said with a pout. “First you keep me waiting for ages, now you start off without me!”
“But you weren’t where you were supposed to be,” Otsū pointed out.
“You could have looked for me, couldn’t you? I saw a man over there on the Toba highroad who looked a little like my teacher. I ran over to see whether it was really him.”
“Someone who looked like Musashi?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t him. I went as far as that row of trees and got a good look at the man from behind, but it couldn’t have been Musashi. Whoever it was had a limp.”
It was always like this when Otsū and Jōtarō were traveling. Not a day passed without their experiencing a glimmer of hope, followed by disappointment.