Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [629]
The night before, while Musashi talked to his host, Otsuru sat in the next room sewing the new loincloth and stomach wrapper he’d said he wanted on the day of the bout. She had already prepared a new black kimono, from which at a moment’s notice she could remove the basting used to keep the sleeves and skirt properly folded until time for use.
It crossed Tarōzaemon’s mind that Otsuru just might be falling in love with Musashi. There was a worried look on her face; something serious was on her mind.
“Otsuru, where Musashi? Have you given him his breakfast?”
“Oh, yes. Long ago. After that, he shut the door to his room.”
“Getting ready, I suppose.”
“No, not yet.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He seems to be painting a picture.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. We were talking about painting, and I asked him if he’d paint a picture for me. I guess I shouldn’t have done that.”
“He said he’d finish it before he left. He’s painting one for Sasuke too.”
“Sasuke?” Tarōzaemon echoed incredulously. He was growing more and more nervous. “Doesn’t he know it’s getting late? You should see all the people milling about the streets.”
“From the look on Musashi’s face, you’d think he’d forgotten the bout.” “Well, it’s no time to be painting. Go tell him that. Be polite, but let him know that can wait till later.”
“Why me? I couldn’t … “
“And why not?” His suspicion that she was in love was confirmed. Father and daughter communicated silently but perfectly. Grumbling good-naturedly, “Silly child. Why are you crying?” he got up and went toward Musashi’s room.
Musashi was kneeling silently, as though in meditation, his brush, ink box and brush pot beside him. He had already finished one painting—a heron beneath a willow tree. The paper before him now was still blank. He was considering what to draw. Or more exactly, quietly trying to put himself into the right frame of mind, for that was necessary before he could visualize the picture or know the technique he would employ.
He saw the white paper as the great universe of nonexistence. A single stroke would give rise to existence within it. He could evoke rain or wind at will, but whatever he drew, his heart would remain in the painting forever. If his heart was tainted, the picture would be tainted; if his heart was listless, so would the picture be. If he attempted to make a show of his craftsmanship, it could not be concealed. Men’s bodies fade away, but ink lives on. The image of his heart would continue to breathe after he himself was gone.
He realized that his thoughts were holding him back. He was on the brink of entering the world of nonexistence, of letting his heart speak for itself, independent of his ego, free from the personal touch of his hand. He tried to be empty, waiting for that sublime state in which his heart could speak in unison with the universe, selfless and unhampered.
The sounds from the street did not reach his room. Today’s bout seemed completely apart from himself. He was conscious merely of the tremulous movements of the bamboo in the inner garden.
“May I intrude?” The shoji behind him opened noiselessly, and Tarōzaemon peered in. It seemed wrong, almost evil, to barge in, but he braced himself and said, “I’m sorry to distract you when you seem to be enjoying your work so.”
“Ah, please come in.”
“It’s nearly time to leave.”
“I know.”
“Everything’s ready. All the things you’ll need are in the next room.” “That’s very kind of you.”
“Please don’t worry about the paintings. You can finish them when you come back from Funashima.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I feel very fresh this morning. It’s a good time to paint.” “But you have to think of the time.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Whenever you want to make your preparations, just call. We’re waiting to help you.”
“Thank you very much.” Tarōzaemon started to leave, but Musashi said, “What time is high