Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [588]
“Oh, these mosquitoes!” said Matahachi, waving away smoke from the insect repellent, then rubbing his irritated eyes. “Let’s go outside.”
They walked to the main hall and sat down on the porch. The grounds were deserted and there was a cool breeze.
“Reminds me of the Shippōji,” said Matahachi, his voice barely audible. “It does, doesn’t it,” said Musashi.
They fell silent. They always did at times like this, thoughts of home invariably bringing back memories of Otsū or Osugi or events neither of them wanted to talk about for fear of upsetting their present relationship.
But after a few moments, Matahachi said, “The hill the Shippōji was on was higher, wasn’t it? There isn’t any ancient cryptomeria here, though.” He paused, stared for a time at Musashi’s profile, then said diffidently, “There’s a request I’ve been wanting to make, but …”
“What is it?”
“Otsū—” Matahachi began, but immediately choked up. When he thought he could manage it, he went on: “I wonder what Otsū’s doing right now, and what will happen to her. I think of her often these days, apologizing in my heart for what I did. I’m ashamed to admit it, but in Edo I made her live with me. Nothing happened, though. She refused to let me touch her. I guess after I went to Sekigahara, Otsū must have been like a fallen blossom. Now she’s a flower blooming on a different tree, in different soil.” His face showed his earnestness and his voice was grave.
“Takezō—no … Musashi: I beg you, marry Otsū. You’re the only person who can save her. I’ve never been able to bring myself to say that, but now that I’ve decided to become a disciple of Gudō, I’m resigned to the fact that Otsū is not mine. Even so I worry about her. Won’t you look for her and give her the happiness she longs for?”
It was about three o’clock in the morning when Musashi started down the dark mountain path. His arms were folded, his head was bowed; Matahachi’s words rang in his ears. Anguish seemed to tug at his legs. He wondered how many nights of torment Matahachi must have spent mustering up the courage to speak. Yet it seemed to Musashi that his own dilemma was uglier and more painful.
Matahachi, he thought, was hoping to flee from the flames of the past to the cool salvation of enlightenment—trying, like a baby being born, to find in the twofold mysterious pain of sadness and ecstasy a life worth living.
Musashi had not been able to say, “I can’t do that,” much less, “I don’t want to marry Otsū. She’s your fiancée. Repent, purify your heart and win her back.” In the end, he had said nothing, for anything he might have said would have been a lie.
Matahachi had pleaded fervently, “Unless I’m sure Otsū will be cared for, it’ll do me no good to become a disciple. You’re the one who urged me to train and discipline myself. If you’re my friend, save Otsū. That’s the only way to save me.”
Musashi had been surprised when Matahachi had broken down and wept. He hadn’t suspected he was capable of such depth of feeling. And when he’d stood up to leave, Matahachi clutched his sleeve and begged for an answer. “Let me think about it,” was all Musashi could say. Now he cursed himself for being a coward and lamented his inability to overcome his inertia.
Musashi thought sadly that those who have not suffered from this malady cannot know its agony. It was not a matter merely of being idle, which is often a pleasant state, but of wanting desperately to do something and not being able to. Musashi’s mind and eyes seemed dull and empty. Having gone as far as he could in one direction, he found himself powerless either to retreat or to embark on a new path. It was like being imprisoned in a place with no exit. His frustration bred self-doubt, recrimination, tears.
Getting angry with himself, recalling all the things he had done wrong, did not help. It was because he was experiencing early symptoms of his ailment that he had parted with Iori and Gonnosuke