Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [580]
“And,” she went on, “he’s allowed to have a surname and carry two swords, like a samurai. Everyone in western Honshu and Kyushu knows the name of Kobayashi Tarōzaemon of Shimonoseki. In time of war, daimyō like Shimazu and Hosokawa never have enough ships, so my father is just as important as a general.”
“I didn’t mean to make you angry,” said Iori.
The two women laughed.
“We’re not angry,” said Otsuru. “But a boy like you, what do you know of the world?”
“I’m sorry.”
Turning a corner, they were greeted by the tang of salt air. Otsuru pointed to a ship tied up at Kishiwada Pier. It had a capacity of five hundred bushels and was loaded with local produce.
“That’s the ship we’ll go home in,” she said proudly.
The ship captain and a couple of Kobayashi agents came out of a dockside teahouse to meet them.
“Did you have a nice walk?” asked the captain. “I’m sorry to say we’re very heavily loaded, so I couldn’t keep much space open for you. Shall we go on board?”
He led the way to the stern of the ship, where a space had been partitioned off with curtains. A red rug had been spread, and elegant Momoyama-style lacquered utensils contained an abundance of food and sake. Iori had the feeling he was entering a small, well-appointed room in a daimyō’s mansion.
The ship reached Sakai in the evening, after an uneventful voyage up Osaka Bay. The travelers went directly to the Kobayashi establishment, facing the wharf, where they were welcomed by the manager, a man named Sahei, and a large group of assistants who had gathered at the spacious entrance.
As Osei was going into the house, she turned and said, “Sahei, will you look after the child, please?”
“You mean the dirty little urchin who came off the ship?”
“Yes. He seems quick-witted, so you should be able to put him to work… . And do something about his clothes. He may have lice. See that he washes well and give him a new kimono. Then he can go to bed.”
Iori didn’t see the mistress of the house or her daughter for the next few days. There was a half-length curtain separating the office from the living quarters in the back. It was like a wall. Without special permission, not even Sahei dared go beyond it.
Iori was given a corner of the “shop,” as the office was called, in which to sleep, and though he was grateful for being rescued, he soon became dissatisfied with his new way of life.
The cosmopolitan atmosphere into which he’d been dropped had a certain fascination. He gaped at the foreign innovations he saw on the streets, at the ships in the harbor and the signs of prosperity evident in the way people lived. But it was always, “Hey, boy! Do this! … Do that!” From the lowest assistant to the manager, they made him chase around like a dog, not at all like their attitude when speaking to a member of the household or a customer. Then they turned into fawning sycophants. And from morning to night, they talked of money, money. If it was not that, it was work, work.
“And they call themselves human beings!” thought Iori. He longed for the blue sky and the smell of warm grass under the sun and decided any number of times to run away. The yearning was strongest when he remembered Musashi talking about ways of nourishing the spirit. He visualized how Musashi had looked, and the face of the departed Gonnosuke. And Otsū.
Matters came to a head one day when Sahei called, “Io! Io, where are you?” Getting no answer, he stood up and walked to the black-lacquered keyaki beam forming the threshold of the office. “You there, the new boy,” he shouted. “Why don’t you come when you’re