Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [455]
“Make up your mind! If I don’t hear your answer soon, you’re in big trouble.” He uncrossed his legs and held the dagger vertically beside the lacquered box, its point touching the floor.
Musashi, restraining his mirth, said, “Well, now how should I respond to that?”
Lowering his bowl, he reached out with his chopsticks, removed a dark speck from the soba in the box and threw it out the window. Still silent, he reached out again and picked off another dark speck, then another.
Kumagorō’s eyes bugged; his breath halted.
“There’s no end to them, is there?” remarked Musashi casually. “Here, Iori, go give these chopsticks a good washing.”
As Iori went out, Kumagorō faded silently back into his own room and in a hushed voice told his companions of the incredible sight he had just witnessed. After first mistaking the black spots on the soba for dirt, he had realized they were live flies, plucked so deftly they had had no time to escape. Within minutes, he and his fellows transferred their little party to a more remote quarter, and silence reigned.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” said Musashi to Iori. The two of them grinned at one another.
By the time they’d finished their meal, the sun was down, and the moon was shining wanly above the roof of the “soul polisher’s” shop.
Musashi stood up and straightened his kimono. “I think I’ll see about having my sword taken care of,” he said.
He picked up the weapon and was about to leave when the proprietress came halfway up the blackened staircase and called, “A letter’s come for you.”
Puzzled that anyone should know his whereabouts so soon, Musashi went down, accepted the missive and asked, “Is the messenger still here?”
“No; he left immediately.”
The outside of the letter bore only the word “Suke,” which Musashi took to stand for Kimura Sukekurō. Unfolding it, he read: “I informed Lord Munenori that I saw you this morning. He seemed happy to receive word of you after all this time. He instructed me to write and ask when you will be able to visit us.”
Musashi descended the remaining steps and went to the office, where he borrowed ink and brush. Seating himself in a corner, he wrote on the back of Sukekurō’s letter: “I shall be happy to visit Lord Munenori whenever he wishes to have a bout with me. As a warrior, I have no other purpose in calling on him.” He signed the note “Masana,” a formal name he seldom used.
“Iori,” he called from the bottom of the stairs. “I want you to run an errand for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to deliver a letter to Lord Yagyū Munenori.”
“Yes, sir.”
According to the proprietress, everybody knew where Lord Munenori lived, but she offered directions anyway. “Go down the main street until you come to the highroad. Go straight along that as far as Nihombashi. Then bear to the left and go along the river until you get to Kobikichō. That’s where it is; you can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” said Iori, who already had his sandals on. “I’m sure I can find it.” He was delighted at the opportunity to go out, particularly since his destination was the home of an important daimyō. Giving no thought to the hour, he walked away quickly, swinging his arms and holding his head up proudly.
As Musashi watched him turn the corner, he thought: “He’s a little too self-confident for his own good.”
The Soul Polisher
“Good evening,” called Musashi.
Nothing about Zushino Kōsuke’s house suggested it was a place of business. It lacked the grilled front of most shops, and there was no merchandise on display. Musashi stood in the dirt-floored passageway running down the left side of the house. To his right was a raised section, floored with tatami and screened off from the room beyond it.
The man sleeping on the tatami with his arms resting on a strongbox resembled a Taoist sage Musashi had once seen in a painting. The long, thin face was the grayish color of clay. Musashi could detect in it none