Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [582]
The manager, fearing the consequences when the mistress of the house heard what had happened, suddenly had an urge to soothe Iori’s feelings. Iori, for his part, wouldn’t have anything to do with the man for the rest of the day.
On his way out that evening, Namban’ya stopped in Iori’s corner of the shop. A little drunk but in high spirits, he said, “Well, you won’t be going with me after all. The women wouldn’t hear of it. Ha!”
His conversation with Osei and Otsuru did have one salutary effect, however. The very next day Iori entered a temple school in the neighborhood. He was allowed to wear his sword to school, and neither Sahei nor the others gave him further trouble.
But still he was unable to settle down. When he was inside, his eyes often strayed to the street. Every time a young woman even remotely like Otsū passed, his color changed. Sometimes he ran out for a closer look.
One morning toward the beginning of the ninth month, a prodigious quantity of luggage began arriving by riverboat from Kyoto. By midday, chests and baskets were piled high in front of the office. Tags identified the property as that of samurai in the House of Hosokawa. They had been in Kyoto on business similar to that which had brought Sado to Mount Kōya, looking after the posthumous affairs of Hosokawa Yūsai. Now they sat drinking barley tea and fanning themselves, some in the office, some under the eaves outside.
Coming back from school, Iori got as far as the street. He stopped and turned pale.
Kojirō, seated atop a large basket, was saying to Sahei, “It’s too hot out here. Hasn’t our ship docked yet?”
Sahei looked up from the manifest in his hands and pointed toward the pier. “Your ship is the Tatsumimaru. It’s right over there. As you can see, they haven’t finished loading, so your places on board aren’t ready yet. I’m sorry.”
“I’d much prefer to wait on board. It should be a little cooler there.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll go and see how things are coming along.” Too rushed to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he scurried out to the street, where he caught sight of Iori.
“What’re you doing there, looking as though you’d swallowed a ramrod? Go and wait on the passengers. Barley tea, cold water, hot water—give them whatever they want.”
Iori went to a shed at the entrance of the alley by the storehouse, where a kettle of water was kept boiling. But instead of going about his business, he stood glaring at Kojirō.
He was usually called Ganryū now, the rather scholarly-sounding name seeming more appropriate to his present age and status. He was heavier and more solid. His face had filled out; his once piercing eyes were serene and untroubled. He no longer made frequent use of his rapier tongue, which in the past had caused so much injury. Somehow the dignity of his sword had become a part of his personality.
One result was that he had gradually been accepted by his fellow samurai. They not only spoke highly of him but actually respected him.
Pouring sweat, Sahei returned from the ship, apologized again for the long wait and announced, “The seats amidship are still not ready, but those in the prow are.” This meant the foot soldiers and younger samurai could go on board. They proceeded to gather up their belongings and left in a group. There remained only Kojirō and six or seven older men, all officials of some importance in the fief.
“Sado hasn’t come yet, has he?” said Kojirō.
“No, but he should be here before long.”
“We’ll be getting the sun from the west soon,” Sahei said to Kojirō. “It’ll be cooler if you move inside.”
“The flies are terrible,” complained Kojirō. “And I’m thirsty. Could I have another cup of tea?”
“Right away, sir.” Without getting up, Sahei shouted toward the hot-water shed. “Io, what are you doing? Bring some tea for our guests.” He busily addressed himself to his manifest again, but realizing Iori had not answered, he started to repeat his order. Then he saw the boy approaching slowly with several cups of tea on