Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [95]
Jōtarō, now calm and reassured, suddenly remembered something and reached inside his kimono. “I almost forgot. I have something for you. Here it is.” He pulled out a letter.
Eyeing it curiously, Musashi asked, “Where did you get that?”
“Remember last night I said there was a rōnin drinking at the shop, asking a lot of questions?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when I went home, he was still there. He kept on asking about you. He’s some drinker, too—drank a whole bottle of sake by himself! Then he wrote this letter and asked me to give it to you.”
Musashi cocked his head to one side in puzzlement and broke the seal. Looking first at the bottom, he saw it was from Matahachi, who must have been drunk indeed. Even the characters looked tipsy. As Musashi read the scroll, he was seized with mixed feelings of nostalgia and sadness. Not only was the writing chaotic; the message itself was rambling and imprecise.
Since I left you at Mount Ibuki, I haven’t forgotten the village. And I haven’t forgotten my old friend. By accident I heard your name at the Yoshioka School. At the time, I got confused and couldn’t decide whether to try to see you. Now I’m in a sake shop. I’ve had a lot to drink.
Thus far the meaning was clear enough, but from this point on the letter was difficult to follow.
Ever since I parted from you, I’ve been kept in a cage of lust, and idleness has eaten into my bones. For five years I’ve spent my days in a stupor, doing nothing. In the capital, you are now famous as a swordsman. I drink to you! Some people say Musashi is a coward, good only at running away. Some say you’re an incomparable swordsman. I don’t care which is true, I’m just happy that your sword has the people in the capital talking.
You’re smart. You should be able to make your way with the sword. But as I look back, I wonder about me, the way I am now. I’m a fool! How can a stupid wretch like me face a wise friend like you without dying of shame?
But wait! Life is long, and it’s too early to say what the future will bring. I don’t want to see you now, but there will come a day when I will.
I pray for your health.
Then came a rapidly scrawled postscript informing him, at some length, that the Yoshioka School took a serious view of the recent incident, that they were looking everywhere for him, and that he should be careful about his movements. It ended: “You mustn’t die now that you’re just beginning to make a name for yourself. When I, too, have made something of myself, I want to see you and talk over old times. Take care of yourself, stay alive, so you can be an inspiration to me.”
Matahachi had no doubt meant well, but there was something twisted about his attitude. Why must he praise Musashi so and in the next breath carry on so about his own failings? “Why,” wondered Musashi, “couldn’t he just write and say that it’s been a long time, and why don’t we get together and have a long talk?”
“Jo, did you ask this man for his address?”
“No.”
“Did the people at the shop know him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did he come there often?”
“No, this was the first time.”
Musashi was thinking that if he knew where Matahachi lived, he would go back to Kyoto right now to see him. He wanted to talk to his childhood comrade, try to bring him to his senses, reawaken in him the spirit he had once had. Since he still considered Matahachi to be his friend, he would have liked to pull him out of his present mood, with its apparently self-destructive tendencies. And of course, he would also have liked to have Matahachi explain to his mother what a mistake she was making.
The two walked on silently. They were on their way down the mountain at Daigo, and the Rokujizō crossing was visible