Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [456]
“Good evening,” Musashi repeated, a little louder.
When his voice penetrated Kōsuke’s torpor, the craftsman raised his head very slowly; he might have been awakening from centuries of slumber.
Wiping the saliva from his chin and sitting up straight, he asked lackadaisically, “Can I help you?” Musashi’s impression was that a man like this might make swords, as well as souls, duller, but he nevertheless held out his own weapon and explained why he was there.
“Let me take a look at it.” Kōsuke’s shoulders perked up smartly. Placing his left hand on his knee, he reached out with his right to take the sword, simultaneously bowing his head toward it.
“Strange creature,” thought Musashi. “He barely acknowledges the presence of a human being but bows politely to a sword.”
Holding a piece of paper in his mouth, Kōsuke quietly slid the blade out of the scabbard. He stood it vertically in front of him and examined it from hilt to tip. His eyes took on a bright glitter, reminding Musashi of glass eyes in a wooden Buddhist statue.
Snapping the weapon back into its scabbard, Kōsuke looked up inquiringly at Musashi. “Come, have a seat,” he said, moving back to make room and offering Musashi a cushion.
Musashi removed his sandals and stepped up into the room.
“Has the sword been in your family for some generations?”
“Oh, no,” said Musashi. “It’s not the work of a famous swordsmith, nothing like that.”
“Have you used it in battle, or do you carry it for the usual purposes?”
“I haven’t used it on the battlefield. There’s nothing special about it. The best you could say is that it’s better than nothing.”
“Mm.” Looking directly into Musashi’s eyes, Kōsuke then asked, “How do you want it polished?”
“How do I want it polished? What do you mean?”
“Do you want it sharpened so it’ll cut well?”
“Well, it is a sword. The cleaner it cuts, the better.”
“I suppose so,” agreed Kōsuke with a defeated sigh.
“What’s wrong with that? Isn’t it the business of a craftsman to sharpen swords so they’ll cut properly?” As Musashi spoke, he squinted curiously into Kōsuke’s face.
The self-proclaimed polisher of souls shoved the weapon toward Musashi and said, “I can’t do anything for you. Take it to somebody else.”
Strange, indeed, thought Musashi. He could not disguise a certain vexation, but he said nothing. Kōsuke, his lips tightly set, made no attempt to explain.
While they sat silently staring at each other, a man from the neighborhood stuck his head in the door. “Kōsuke, have you got a fishing pole? It’s high tide, and the fish are jumping. If you’ll lend me a pole, I’ll divide my catch with you.”
Kōsuke plainly regarded the man as one more burden he ought not to have to bear. “Borrow one somewhere else,” he rasped. “I don’t believe in killing, and I don’t keep instruments for murder in my house.”
The man went quickly away, leaving Kōsuke looking grumpier than ever.
Another man might have become discouraged and left, but Musashi’s curiosity held him there. There was something appealing about this man—not wit nor intelligence, but a rough natural goodness like that of a Karatsu sake jar or a tea bowl by Nonkō. Just as pottery often has a blemish evocative of its closeness to the earth, Kōsuke had, in a semi-bald spot on his temple, a lesion of some sort, which he’d covered with salve.
While attempting to conceal his growing fascination, Musashi said, “What is there to keep you from polishing my sword? Is it of such poor quality you can’t put a good edge on it?”
“Of course not. You’re the owner. You know as well as I do it’s a perfectly good Bizen sword. I also know you want it sharpened for the purpose of cutting people.”
“Is there anything wrong with that?”
“That’s what they all say—what’s wrong with wanting me to fix a sword so it’ll cut better? If the sword cuts, they’re happy.”
“But a man bringing in a sword to be polished naturally wants—”
“Just a minute.” Kōsuke raised his hand. “It’ll take some time to explain.
First, I’d like you to take another look