Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [577]
“I wonder if people will believe it’s that simple. If I may speak candidly, everybody says Hideyori and his mother furnish you great sums every year and at a wave of the hand you could muster five or six thousand rōnin.”
Yukimura laughed deprecatingly. “Not a word of truth in it. I tell you, Sado, there’s nothing worse than having people make you out to be more than you are.”
“You can’t blame them. You went to Hideyoshi when you were young, and he liked you better than anyone else. I understand your father’s been heard to say you’re the Kusunoki Masashige or the K’ung-ming of our times.”
“You embarrass me.”
“Isn’t it true?”
“I want to spend the rest of my days here, quietly, in the shadow of the mountain where the Buddha’s Law is preserved. That’s all. I’m not a man of refinement. It’s enough for me if I can expand my fields a little, live to see my son’s child born, have freshly made buckwheat noodles in the fall, eat fresh greens in the spring. Beyond that, I’d like to live a long life, far removed from wars or rumors of war.”
“Is that really all there is to it?” Sado asked mildly.
“Laugh if you will, but I’ve been spending my free time reading Lao-tsu and Chuang-tsu. The conclusion I’ve come to is that life is enjoyment. Without enjoyment, what use is there in living?”
“Well, well,” exclaimed Sado, feigning surprise.
They talked for another hour or so, over cups of fresh tea served by Daisuke’s wife.
Eventually Sado said, “I fear I’ve stayed too long, wasting your time with my chatter. Nuinosuke, shall we be going?”
“Don’t hurry off,” said Yukimura. “My son and his wife have made some noodles. Poor country food, but I wish you’d have some with us. If you’re planning to stop over at Kamuro, you have plenty of time.”
Daisuke appeared just then to ask his father if he was ready to have the meal served. Yukimura stood up and led the way down a corridor to the back part of the house.
When they were seated, Daisuke offered Sado a pair of chopsticks, saying, “I’m afraid the food isn’t too good, but try some anyway.”
His wife, not accustomed to having strangers around, diffidently held out a sake cup, which Sado politely refused. Daisuke and his wife lingered a moment longer before excusing themselves.
“What’s that noise I can hear?” asked Sado. It sounded rather like a loom, though louder and with a slightly different quality.
“Oh, that? It’s a wooden wheel for making cord. I’m sorry to say, I’ve had to put the family and servants to work braiding cord, which we sell to help with the finances.” Then he added, “We’re all used to it, but I suppose it might be annoying to anyone who’s not. I’ll send word to have it stopped.”
“No, that’s all right. It doesn’t bother me. I’d hate to think I was holding up your work.”
As he started to eat, Sado thought about the food, which sometimes provides insight into a man’s condition. But he found nothing revealing there. Yukimura was not at all like the young samurai he had known years before, but he seemed to have shrouded his present circumstances in ambiguity.
Sado then thought about the sounds he heard—kitchen noises, people coming and going, and a couple of times the clink of money being counted. The dispossessed daimyō were not accustomed to physical labor, and sooner or later they would run out of treasures to sell. It was conceivable that Osaka Castle had ceased to be a source of funds. Still, the idea of Yukimura in tight straits was oddly disturbing.
He had been aware that his host might be trying to piece together bits of conversation to form a picture of how things were going with the House of Hosokawa, but there was no indication of this. What stood out about his recollections of their meeting