Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [312]
Musashi’s cautiousness warned him that they were deliberately trying to trick him into staying for what laughs they might derive from it later. Still, the seriousness he saw written on the faces of Yoshino and Kōetsu argued against its being only a joke.
Shōyū and Mitsuhiro, vastly amused by his discomfort, persisted in teasing him, one saying, “You’re the most fortunate man in the country,” and the other volunteering to stay in his stead.
The joking stopped with the arrival of a man Yoshino had sent out to take a look around the quarter. He was breathing heavily, and his teeth were chattering with fright.
“The other gentlemen can leave,” he said, “but Musashi shouldn’t think of it. Only the main gate is open now, and on either side of it, around the Amigasa teahouse and along the street, are swarms of samurai, heavily armed, roaming around in small bands. They’re from the Yoshioka School. The tradesmen are afraid something awful might happen, so they all closed early. Beyond the quarter, toward the riding ground, I was told there are at least a hundred men.”
The men were impressed, not only by the report but by the fact that Yoshino had taken such a precaution. Only Kōetsu had any inkling that some incident might have occurred.
Yoshino had guessed something was afoot when she saw the spot of blood on Musashi’s sleeve.
“Musashi,” she said, “now that you’ve heard what it’s like out there, you may be more determined than ever to leave, just to prove you’re not afraid. But please don’t do anything rash. If your enemies think you’re a coward, you can always prove to them tomorrow that you aren’t. Tonight, you came here to relax, and it’s the mark of a real man to enjoy himself to his heart’s content. The Yoshiokas want to kill you. Certainly it’s no disgrace to avoid that. In fact, many people would condemn you for poor judgment if you insisted on walking into their trap.
“There’s the matter of your personal honor, of course, but please stop to consider the trouble a battle would cause to the people in the quarter. Your friends’ lives would be endangered too. Under the circumstances, the only wise thing for you to do is stay here.”
Without waiting for his reply, she turned to the other men and said, “I think it’s all right for the rest of you to go, if you’re careful along the way.”
A couple of hours later, the clock struck four. The distant sound of music
and singing had died out. Musashi was seated on the threshold of the hearth
room, a lonely prisoner waiting for the dawn. Yoshino remained by the fire. “Aren’t you cold there?” she asked. “Do come over here, where it’s warm.” “Never mind me. Go to bed. When the sun comes up, I’ll let myself out.” The same words had been exchanged quite a number of times already, but
to no effect.
Despite Musashi’s lack of polish, Yoshino was attracted to him. Though it had been said that a woman who thought of men as men, rather than as sources of income, had no business seeking employment in the gay quarters, this was merely a cliché repeated by the patrons of brothels—men who knew only common prostitutes and had no contact with the great courtesans. Women of Yoshino’s breeding and training were quite capable of infatuation. She was only a year or two older than Musashi, but how different they were in their experience of love. Watching him sit so stiffly, restraining his emotions, avoiding her face as though a look at her might blind him, she felt once again like a sheltered maiden experiencing the first pangs of love.
The attendants, ignorant of the psychological tension, had spread luxurious pallets, fit for the son and daughter of a daimyō, in the adjoining room. Little golden bells gleamed softly on the corners of the satin pillows.
The sound of snow sliding off the roof was not unlike that of a man jumping down from the fence into the garden. Each time he heard it, Musashi bristled like a hedgehog. His nerves seemed to reach to the very tips of his hair.
Yoshino felt a