Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [495]
This was precisely the reaction Kojirō had hoped for. It was part of his plan; other visitors would hear him praised by the defeated man himself. Calling once every two or three days, he made three more visits to Gorōji’s house. On one occasion he had a live fish delivered from the fish market as a get-well present.
Green Persimmons
In the dog days after the summer rainy season, the land crabs crawled sluggishly in the parched street, and the signs taunting Musashi to “come out and fight” were no longer visible. The few that hadn’t fallen in the rain-softened earth or been stolen for firewood were obscured by weeds and tall grass.
“There must be something somewhere,” thought Kojirō, looking around for a place to eat. But this was Edo, not Kyoto, and the cheap rice-and-tea shops so common in the older city had not yet made their appearance here. The only likely place stood in a vacant lot, screened off with reed blinds. Smoke rose lazily from behind the blinds, and on a vertical banner was the word “Donjiki.” The word immediately reminded him of tonjiki, which in the distant past had meant the rice balls used as military rations.
As he approached, he heard a masculine voice ask for a cup of tea. Inside, two samurai were energetically gobbling rice, one from an ordinary rice bowl, the other from a sake bowl.
Kojirō seated himself on the edge of a bench across from them and asked the proprietor, “What do you have?”
“Rice dishes. I also have sake.”
“On the banner it says ‘Donjiki.’ What does that mean?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you write it?”
“No. It was written by a retired merchant who stopped in to rest.” “I see. Good calligraphy, I must say.”
“He said he was on a religious pilgrimage, said he’d visited Hirakawa Tenjin Shrine, Hikawa Shrine, Kanda Myōjin, all sorts of places, making big contributions to each of them. Very pious and generous, he seemed.”
“Do you know his name?”
“He told me it was Daizō of Narai.”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“Donjiki—well, I don’t understand it. But I figured if a fine man like him wrote it, it might help keep the god of poverty away.” He laughed.
After a look into several large china bowls, Kojirō took some rice and fish, poured tea over the rice, brushed a fly away with his chopsticks and began eating.
One of the other customers stood up and peered through a broken slat in the blind. “Take a look out there, Hamada,” he said to his companion. “Isn’t that the watermelon vendor?”
The other man went quickly to the blind and looked out. “Yeah, that’s him all right.”
The vendor, shouldering a pole with baskets at either end, was walking languidly past the Donjiki. The two samurai ran out of the shop and caught up with him. Drawing their swords, they cut the ropes supporting the baskets. The vendor stumbled forward, along with the melons.
Hamada yanked him up by the scruff of his neck. “Where did you take
her?” he demanded angrily. “Don’t lie. You must be hiding her somewhere.”
The other samurai thrust the tip of his sword under the captive’s nose. “Out with it! Where is she?”
The sword blade tapped menacingly against the man’s cheek. “How could anybody with a face like yours think of going off with somebody else’s woman?”
The vendor, cheeks flushed with anger and fear, shook his head, but then, seeing an opening, shoved one of his captors out of the way, picked up his pole and took a swing at the other one.
“So you want to fight, do you? Careful, Hamada, this guy’s not just an ordinary melon vendor.”
“What can this ass do?” sneered Hamada, snatching the pole and knocking the vendor to the ground. Straddling him, he used the ropes to tie him to the pole.
A cry like that of a stuck pig went up behind him. Hamada turned his face around, right into a spray of fine red mist. Looking totally dumbfounded, he jumped up, screaming, “Who are you? What—”
The adderlike blade moved directly toward him. Kojirō laughed, and as Hamada shrank back, followed