Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [315]
The young girls who waited on her knew better than to open the door to her little house until they were summoned.
A Sickness of the Heart
Within two days, the snow had melted, and warm spring breezes were encouraging a myriad of fresh buds to swell to their fullest. The sun was strong and even cotton garments were uncomfortable.
A young Zen monk, mud spattered up the back of his kimono as high as the waist, stood before the entrance of Lord Karasumaru’s residence. Getting no answer to his repeated calls for admission, he walked around to the servants’ quarters and stood on tiptoe to peek through a window.
“What is it, priest?” asked Jōtarō.
The monk whirled around and his mouth fell open. He couldn’t imagine what such a ragamuffin could be doing in the courtyard of Karasumaru Mitsuhiro’s house. “If you’re begging, you’ll have to go around to the kitchen,” said Jōtarō.
“I’m not here for alms,” replied the monk. He took a letter box from his kimono. “I’m from the Nansōji in Izumi Province. This letter is for Takuan Sōhō, and I understand he’s staying here. Are you one of the delivery boys?”
“Of course not. I’m a guest, like Takuan.”
“Is that so? In that case, would you please tell Takuan I’m here?” “Wait here. I’ll call him.”
As he jumped into the entrance hall, Jōtarō tripped over the foot of a standing screen and the tangerines cradled in his kimono tumbled to the floor. Retrieving them rapidly, he sped off toward the inner rooms.
He came back a few minutes later to inform the monk that Takuan was out. “They say he’s over at the Daitokuji.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“They said ‘pretty soon.’ “
“Is there someplace I could wait without inconveniencing anyone?”
Jōtarō bounded into the courtyard and led the monk straight to the barn. “You can wait here,” he said. “You won’t be in anybody’s way.”
The barn was littered with straw, cart wheels, cow manure and a variety of other things, but before the priest could say anything, Jōtarō was running across the garden toward a small house at the west end of the compound.
“Otsū!” he cried. “I’ve brought you some tangerines.”
Lord Karasumaru’s doctor had told Otsū there was nothing to worry about. She believed him, though she herself could tell how thin she was just by putting her hand to her face. Her fever persisted and her appetite had not returned, but this morning she had murmured to Jōtarō that she would like a tangerine.
Leaving his post at her bedside, he went first to the kitchen, only to learn there were no tangerines in the house. Finding none at the greengrocers or other food shops, he went to the open marketplace in Kyōgoku. A wide variety of goods was available there—silk thread, cotton goods, lamp oil, furs and so on—but no tangerines. After he left the market, his hopes were raised a couple of times by the sight of orange-colored fruit beyond the walls of private gardens—bitter oranges and quinces, as it turned out.
Having covered nearly half of the city, he met with success only by turning thief. The offering in front of the Shinto shrine consisted of small piles of potatoes, carrots and tangerines. He stuffed the fruit into his kimono and glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Fearful that the outraged god would materialize at any minute, he prayed all the way back to the Karasumaru house: “Please don’t punish me. I’m not going to eat them myself.”
He lined the tangerines up in a row, offered Otsū one and peeled it for her. She turned away, refusing to touch it.
“What’s the matter?”
When he leaned forward to look at her face, she buried her head deeper in the pillow. “Nothing’s the matter,” she sobbed.
“You’ve started crying again, haven’t you?” said Jōtarō, clicking his tongue. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize; just eat one of these.”
“Later.”
“Well, eat the one I’ve peeled, at least. Please.”
“Jō, I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I can’t eat anything just now.” “It’s because you cry so much. Why are you so sad?”
“I’m crying because I’m happy—that you’re so good