Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [424]
“This road’s terrible,” he said. “We should have brought a lantern.”
“People’d laugh if you went around the licensed quarter carrying a lantern,” said Jūrō. “Watch out, sir. That pile of dirt you’re on came out of the new moat. You’d better come down before you fall in.”
Presently the water in the moat took on a reddish cast, as did the sky beyond the Sumida River. A late spring moon hung like a flat white cake above the roofs of Yoshiwara.
“That’s it over there, across the bridge,” said Jūrō. “Shall I lend you a hand towel?”
“What for?”
“To hide your face a little—like this.” Jūrō and Koroku both drew red cloths from their obi and tied them kerchief-fashion over their heads. Kojirō followed suit, using a piece of russet silk crepe.
“That’s the way,” said Jūrō. “Stylish like.”
“Looks very good on you.”
Kojirō and his guides fell in with the bandannaed throng sauntering from house to house. Like Yanagimachi in Kyoto, Yoshiwara was brightly lit. The entrances to the houses were gaily decorated with curtains of red or pale yellow; some had bells at the bottom to let the girls know when customers entered.
After they had been in and out of two or three houses, Jūrō said leeringly to Kojirō, “There’s no use trying to hide it, sir.”
“Hide what?”
“You said you’d never been here before, but a girl in the last house recognized you. The minute we went in, she gave a little cry and hid behind a screen. Your secret’s out, sir.”
“I’ve never been here before. Who’re you talking about?”
“Don’t play innocent, sir. Let’s go back. I’ll show you.”
They reentered the house, whose curtain bore a crest shaped like a bitter buckbean leaf, split in three. “Sumiya” was written in rather small characters to the left.
The house’s heavy beams and stately corridors were reminiscent of Kyoto temple architecture, but the garish newness nullified the attempt to create an aura of tradition and dignity. Kojirō strongly suspected that swamp plants still thrived beneath the floor.
The large parlor they were shown to upstairs had not been straightened up after the last customers. Both table and floor were strewn with bits of food, tissue paper, toothpicks and whatnot. The maid who came to clean up performed her chore with all the finesse of a day laborer.
When Onao arrived to take their orders, she made a point of letting them know how busy she was. She claimed that she hardly had time to sleep and another three years of this hectic pace would put her in her grave. The better houses of Kyoto contrived to maintain the fiction that their raison d’être was to entertain and please their customers. Here the aim was obviously to relieve men of their money as quickly as possible.
“So this is Edo’s pleasure quarter,” sniffed Kojirō, with a critical glance at the knotholes in the ceiling. “Pretty shoddy, I’d say.”
“Oh, this is only temporary,” Onao protested. “The building we’re putting up now will be finer than anything you’d see in Kyoto or Fushimi.” She stared at Kojirō a moment. “You know, sir, I’ve seen you somewhere before. Ah, yes! It was last year on the Kōshū highroad.”
Kojirō had forgotten the chance meeting, but reminded of it, he said with a spark of interest, “Why, yes; I guess our fates must be entwined.”
“I should say they are,” Jūrō said, laughing, “if there’s a girl here who remembers you.” While teasing Kojirō about his past, he described the girl’s face and clothing and asked Onao to go find her.
“I know the one you mean,” said Onao, and went to fetch her.
When some time had passed and she still hadn’t come back, Jūrō and Koroku went out in the hall and clapped their hands to summon her. They had to clap several more times before she finally reappeared.
“She’s not here, the one you asked for,” said Onao.
“She was here only a few minutes ago.”
“It’s strange, just as I was saying to the master. We were at Kobotoke Pass and that samurai you’re with came walking