Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [482]
Yogorō was too young to listen with detachment, yet he was loath to reveal his anger by some involuntary twitch. Taking leave of Handayū as quickly as possible, he hurried home.
His mind was made up.
The Talk of the Town
Kōsuke’s wife was in the kitchen making gruel for Shinzō when Iori came in. “The plums are turning yellow,” he said.
“If they’re almost ripe, that means the cicadas will be singing soon,” she answered absently.
“Don’t you pickle the plums?”
“No. There aren’t many of us here, and pickling all those plums would take several pounds of salt.”
“The salt wouldn’t go to waste, but the plums will if you don’t pickle them. And if there was a war or a flood, they’d come in handy, wouldn’t they? Since you’re busy taking care of the wounded man, I’ll be happy to pickle them for you.”
“My, what a funny child you are, worrying about floods and such. You think like an old man.”
Iori was already getting an empty wooden bucket out of the closet. With this in hand, he sauntered out into the garden and looked up at the plum tree. Alas, though sufficiently grown up to worry about the future, he was still young enough to be easily distracted by the sight of a buzzing cicada. Sneaking closer, he captured it and held it in his cupped hands, making it screech like a terrified hag.
Peeking between his thumbs, Iori experienced a strange sensation. Insects were supposed to be bloodless, he thought, but the cicada felt warm. Perhaps even cicadas when faced with the peril of death gave off body heat. Suddenly he was seized by a mixture of fear and pity. Spreading his palms, he tossed the cicada into the air and watched it fly off toward the street.
The plum tree, which was quite large, was the home of a sizable community—fat caterpillars with surprisingly beautiful fur, ladybirds, tiny blue frogs clinging to the undersides of leaves, small sleeping butterflies, dancing gadflies. Gazing in fascination at this little corner of the animal kingdom, he thought it would be inhuman to throw these ladies and gentlemen into consternation by shaking a branch. Carefully, he reached out, picked a plum and bit into it. Then he shook the nearest branch gently and was surprised when the fruit did not fall off. Reaching out, he picked a few plums and dropped them into the bucket below.
“Son of a bitch!” shouted Iori, abruptly firing three or four plums into the narrow lane next to the house. The clothes-drying pole between the house and the fence fell to the ground with a clatter, and footsteps hastily retreated from the lane into the street.
Kōsuke’s face appeared at the bamboo grille of his workroom window. “What was that noise?” he asked, his eyes wide with astonishment.
Jumping down from the tree, Iori cried, “Another strange man was hiding in the shadows, squatting right there in the lane. I threw some plums at him, and he ran away.”
The sword polisher came outside, wiping his hands on a towel. “What sort of man?”
“A thug.”
“One of Hangawara’s men?”
“I don’t know. Why do those men come snooping around here?” “They’re looking for a chance to get back at Shinzō.”
Iori looked toward the back room, where the injured man was just finishing his gruel. His wound had healed to the extent that the bandage was no longer necessary.
“Kōsuke,” called Shinzō.
The craftsman walked to the edge of the veranda and asked, “How are you feeling?”
Pushing his tray aside, Shinzō reseated himself more formally. “I want to apologize for causing you so much trouble.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m sorry I’ve been too busy to do more for you.”
“I notice that besides worrying about me, you’re being annoyed by those
Hangawara hoodlums. The longer I stay, the more danger there is that they’ll
come to regard you as an enemy too. I think I should be leaving.” “Don’t give it a thought.”
“I’m much better now, as you can see. I’m ready to go home.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry. At least wait until Musashi comes back.”
“I’d rather not, but please thank him for me. He’s been