Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [244]
Musashi silently accepted her kindness and covered his eye with the cloth. Then he stared at her face intently.
“Don’t you remember me?” she said incredulously. “But you must!” Musashi’s face was a perfect blank.
“You must!”
His silence broke the dam holding back her long-pent-up emotions. Her spirit, so accustomed to unhappiness and cruelty, had clung to this one last hope, and now the light was dawning that it was nothing more than a fantasy of her own making. A hard lump formed in her breast, and she made a choking sound. Though she covered her mouth and nose to suppress the sobs, her shoulders quivered uncontrollably.
Something about the way she looked when crying recalled the innocent girlishness of the days in Ibuki, when she’d carried the tinkling bell in her obi. Musashi put his arms around her thin, weak shoulders.
“You’re Akemi, of course. I remember. How do you happen to be here? It’s such a surprise to see you! Don’t you live in Ibuki anymore? What happened to your mother?” His questions were like barbs, the worst being the mention of Okō, which led naturally to his old friend. “Are you still living with Matahachi? He was supposed to come here this morning. You haven’t by any chance seen him, have you?”
Every word added to Akemi’s misery. Nestled in his arms, she could do no more than shake her weeping head.
“Isn’t Matahachi coming?” he persisted. “What happened to him? How will I ever know if you just stand here and cry?”
“He … he … he’s not coming. He never … he never got your message.” Akemi pressed her face against Musashi’s chest and went into a new spasm of tears.
She thought of saying this, of saying that, but each idea died in her feverish brain. How could she tell him of the horrid fate she had suffered because of her mother? How could she put into words what had happened in Sumiyoshi or in the days since then?
The bridge was bathed in the New Year’s sun, and more and more people were passing by—girls in bright new kimono going to make their New Year’s obeisance at Kiyomizudera, men in formal robes starting their rounds of New Year’s calls. Almost hidden among them was Jōtarō, his gnomish thatch of hair in the same disheveled state as on any other day. He was nearly in the middle of the bridge when he caught sight of Musashi and Akemi.
“What’s all this?” he asked himself. “I thought he’d be with Otsū. That’s not Otsū!” He stopped and made a peculiar face.
He was shocked to the core. It might have been all right if no one were watching, but there they were chest to chest, embracing each other on a busy thoroughfare. A man and a woman hugging each other in public? It was shameless. He couldn’t believe any grownup could act so disgracefully, much less his own, revered sensei. Jōtarō’s heart throbbed violently, he was both sad and a little jealous. And angry, so angry that he wanted to pick up a rock and throw it at them.
“I’ve seen that woman somewhere,” he thought. “Ah! She’s the one who took Musashi’s message for Matahachi. Well, she’s a teahouse girl, so what could you expect? But how on earth did they get to know one another? I think I should tell Otsū about this!”
He looked up and down the street and peered over the railing, but there was no sign of her.
The previous night, confident that she would be meeting Musashi the next day, Otsū had washed her hair and stayed up till the early hours doing it up in proper fashion. Then she had put on a kimono given her by the Karasumaru family and, before dawn, set out to pay her respects at Gion Shrine and Kiyomizudera before proceeding to Gojō Avenue. Jōtarō had wanted to accompany her, but she had refused.
Normally it would be all right, she had explained, but today Jōtarō would be in the way. “You stay here,” she said. “First I want to talk to Musashi alone. You can come along to the bridge after it gets light, but take your time. And don’t worry; I promise I’ll be waiting there with Musashi when you come.”
Jōtarō had been more than a little peeved. Not only was he old enough to understand Otsū’s feelings; he also had a certain appreciation