Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [310]
“How unusual!”
“How charming!”
In her unpretentious outfit, set off by the blackened walls, Yoshino was a hundred times more beautiful than she was in the elaborately embroidered Momoyama-style costumes she wore at other times. The gaudy kimonos the men were accustomed to, the iridescent lipstick and the setting of gold screens and silver candlesticks were necessary for a woman in her business. But Yoshino had no need for props to enhance her beauty.
“Hmm,” said Shōyū, “this is something quite special.” Not one to offer praise lightly, the old man, with his acerbic tongue, seemed temporarily tamed.
Without spreading cushions, Yoshino invited them to sit down by the hearth.
“I live here, as you can see, and I can’t offer you much, but at least there’s a fire. I hope you agree, a fire is the most excellent feast one can present on a cold snowy night, whether one’s guest is prince or pauper. There’s a good supply of kindling, so even if we talk the night out, I won’t have to use the potted plants for fuel. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
The nobleman, the merchant, the artist and the priest sat cross-legged by the hearth, with their hands over the fire. Kōetsu reflected on the cold walk from the Ōgiya and the invitation to the cheery fire. It actually was like a feast, the essence, really, of entertaining.
“You come up by the fire too,” said Yoshino. She smiled invitingly at Musashi and moved slightly to make a place for him.
Musashi was struck by the exalted company he was in. Next to Toyotomi Hideyoshi and Tokugawa Ieyasu, she was probably the most famous person in Japan. Of course, there was Okuni of Kabuki fame and Hideyoshi’s mistress Yodogimi, but Yoshino was regarded as having more class than the former and more wit, beauty and kindness than the latter. The men who associated with Yoshino were known as the “buyers,” while she herself was called “the Tayū.” Any courtesan of the first class was known as Tayū, but to say “the Tayū” meant Yoshino and no one else. Musashi had heard that she had seven attendants to bathe her and two to cut her nails.
This evening, for the first time in his life, Musashi found himself in the company of painted and polished ladies, and he reacted by becoming stiffly formal. This was partly because he could not help wondering what men found so extraordinary about Yoshino.
“Please, relax,” she said. “Come sit here.”
After the fourth or fifth invitation, he capitulated. Taking his place beside her, he imitated the others, extending his hands awkwardly over the fire.
Yoshino glanced at his sleeve and saw a spot of red. While the others were immersed in conversation, she quietly took a piece of paper from her sleeve and wiped it off.
“Uh, thank you,” said Musashi. If he had remained silent, no one would have noticed, but the moment he spoke, every eye went to the crimson stain on the paper in Yoshino’s hand.
Opening his eyes wide, Mitsuhiro said, “That’s blood, isn’t it?”
Yoshino smiled. “No, of course not. It’s a petal from a red peony.”
The Broken Lute
The four or five sticks of wood in the hearth burned softly, giving off a pleasant aroma and lighting up the small room as if it were noon. The gentle smoke did not cause the eyes to smart; it looked like white peony petals billowing in the breeze, flecked now and again with sparks of purple-gold and crimson. Whenever the fire showed signs of dying down, Yoshino added foot-long strips of kindling from the scuttle.
The men were too captivated by the beauty of the flames to ask about the firewood, but eventually Mitsuhiro said, “What sort of wood are you using? It’s not pine.”
“No,” replied Yoshino. “It’s peony wood.”
They were mildly surprised, for the peony, with its thin, bushy branches, hardly seemed suitable for firewood. Yoshino took a stick that had been only slightly charred and handed it to Mitsuhiro.
She told them that the peony stumps in the garden had been planted more than a hundred years earlier. At the beginning of winter, the gardeners pruned them very closely, cutting off the worm-eaten