Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [586]
This small corner of society had a certain fascination for Muka. The brush seller and his wife treated him kindly, the wife teaching him how to cook and sometimes doing his washing and sewing. All in all, he enjoyed living in the neighborhood. Everybody knew everybody else, and all sought out new ways to make their lives interesting. There was always something going on, if not a festival or street dances or a religious celebration, then a funeral or a sick person to be cared for.
That evening he passed the brush seller’s house as he and his wife were having dinner. With a click of her tongue, the wife said, “Where does he go? He teaches the children in the morning, takes a nap or studies in the afternoon, then in the evening he’s gone. He’s just like a bat.”
Her husband chuckled. “What’s wrong with that? He’s single. You ought not to begrudge him his nightly excursions.”
In the streets of Okazaki, the sounds of a bamboo flute mingled with the buzzing of captive insects in wooden cages, the rhythmical wail of blind street singers, the cries of vendors of melons and sushi. There was nothing here of the frantic bustle that characterized Edo. Lanterns flickered; people strolled about in summer kimono. In the lingering heat of a summer day, everything seemed relaxed and in its place.
As Muka passed, the girls whispered.
“There he goes again.”
“Hmph—paying no attention to anybody, as usual.”
Some of the young women bowed to him, then turned to their friends and speculated on his destination.
Muka walked straight on, past the side streets where he might have purchased the favors of the Okazaki harlots, regarded by many to be one of the chief local attractions along the Tōkaidō highroad. At the western edge of town he stopped and stretched, letting the heat out of his sleeves. Ahead of him were the rushing waters of the Yahagi River and the 208-span Yahagi Bridge, the longest on the Tōkaidō. He walked toward the thin figure waiting for him at the first post.
“Musashi?”
Musashi smiled at Matahachi, who was wearing his priest’s robe. “Has the master returned?” he asked.
“No.”
They walked across the bridge shoulder to shoulder. On a pine-covered hill on the opposite bank stood an old Zen temple. Since the hill was known as Hachijō, the temple had come to be called Hachijōji. They climbed up the dark slope in front of the gate.
“How are things?” asked Musashi. “Practicing Zen must be difficult.”
“It is,” replied Matahachi, bowing his bluish shaved head dejectedly. “I’ve often thought of running away. If I have to go through mental torture to become a decent human being, I might as well put my head in a noose and forget about it.”
“Don’t let it discourage you. You’re still only at the beginning. Your real training won’t come until after you’ve appealed to the master and persuaded him to take you as a disciple.”
“It’s not always impossible. I’ve learned to discipline myself a little. And whenever I feel low, I think of you. If you can overcome your difficulties, I should be able to overcome mine.”
“That’s the way it should be. There’s nothing I can do that you can’t do too.”
“Remembering Takuan helps. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d have been executed.”
“If you can bear up under hardship, you can experience a pleasure greater than the pain,” Musashi said solemnly. “Day and night, hour by hour, people are buffeted by waves of pain and pleasure, one after the other. If they try to experience only pleasure, they cease to be truly alive. Then the pleasure evaporates.”
“I’m beginning to understand.”
“Think of a simple yawn. The yawn of a person who’s been working hard is different