Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [454]
The soba was slow to arrive, so Musashi stretched out on the tatami for a nap. But the voices in the next room had risen several decibels and become quarrelsome. “Iori,” he said, opening one eye, “will you ask the people next door to be a little quieter?”
Only shoji separated the two rooms, but instead of opening them, Iori went out into the hall. The door to the other room was open. “Don’t make so much noise,” he shouted. “My teacher’s trying to sleep.”
“Hunk!” The squabble came to an abrupt halt. The men turned and stared angrily at him.
“You say something, shrimp?”
Pouting at the epithet, Iori said, “We came upstairs because of the flies. Now you’re yelling so much he can’t rest.”
“Is this your idea, or did your master send you?”
“He sent me.”
“Did he? Well, I’m not wasting my time talking to a little turd like you. Go tell your master Kumagorō of Chichibu will give him his answer later. Now beat it!”
Kumagorō was a great brute of a man, and the two or three others in the room were not much smaller. Cowed by the menace in their eyes, Iori quickly retreated. Musashi had dropped off to sleep; not wanting to disturb him, Iori sat down by the window.
Presently, one of the horse traders opened the shoji a crack and peeked in at Musashi. There followed much laughter, accompanied by loud and insulting remarks.
“Who does he think he is, butting into our party? Dumb rōnin! No telling where he comes from. Just barges in and starts acting like he owns the place.” “We’ll have to show him what’s what.”
“Yeah, we’ll make sure he knows what the horse traders of Edo are made of.”
“Talking’s not going to show him. Let’s haul him out back and throw a bucket of horse piss in his face.”
Kumagorō spoke up. “Hold on, now. Let me handle this. Either I’ll get an apology in writing or we’ll wash his face with horse piss. Enjoy your sake. Leave everything to me.”
“This should be good,” said one man, as Kumagorō, with a confident smirk, tightened his obi.
“I beg your pardon,” said Kumagorō, sliding the shoji open. Without standing up, he shuffled into Musashi’s room on his knees.
The soba, six helpings in a lacquered box, had finally arrived. Musashi was sitting up now, addressing his chopsticks to his first helping.
“Look, they’re coming in,” said Iori under his breath, moving slightly to get out of the way.
Kumagorō seated himself behind and to Iori’s left, legs crossed, elbows resting on his knees. With a fierce scowl, he said, “You can eat later. Don’t try to hide the fact that you’re scared by sitting there playing with your food.”
Though he was grinning, Musashi gave no indication that he was listening. He stirred the soba with his chopsticks to separate the strands, lifted a mouthful and swallowed with a joyous slurp.
The veins in Kumagorō’s forehead nearly popped. “Put that bowl down,” he said angrily.
“And who are you?” Musashi asked mildly, making no move to comply. “You don’t know who I am? The only people in Bakurōchō who haven’t heard my name are good-for-nothings and deaf-mutes.”
“I’m a little hard of hearing myself. Speak up, tell me who you are and where you come from.”
“I’m Kumagorō from Chichibu, the best horse trader in Edo. When children see me coming, they get so scared they can’t even cry.”
“I see. Then you’re in the horse business?”
“You bet I am. I sell to the samurai. You’d better remember that when you’re dealing with me.”
“In what way am I dealing with you?”
“You sent that runt there to complain about the noise. Where do you think you are? This is no fancy inn for daimyō, nice and quiet and all. We horse traders like noise.”
“I gathered that.”
“Then why were you trying to bust up our party? I demand an apology.” “Apology?”
“Yes, in writing. You can address it to Kumagorō and his friends. If we don’t get one we’ll take you outside and teach you a thing or two.” “What you say is interesting.”
“Hunk!”
“I mean your way of speaking is interesting.”
“Cut out the nonsense! Do we get the apology or don’t we? Well?” Kumagorō’s voice had gone from a growl to