Musashi: Bushido Code (40 page)

For two months Matahachi wandered about Osaka, increasingly confident that this was the place for him. Here was where he would catch the straw that would lead to success. For the first time in years he felt as brave and dauntless as when he'd gone off to war. He was healthy and alive again, unperturbed by the gradual depletion of the dead samurai's money, for he believed luck was finally turning his way. Every day was a joy, a delight. He was sure he was about to stumble over a rock and come up covered with money. Good fortune was on the verge of finding him.

New clothes! That was what he needed. And so he bought himself a complete new outfit, carefully choosing material that would be suitable in the cold of approaching winter. Then, having decided living in an inn was too expensive, he rented a small room belonging to a saddle-maker in the vicinity of the Junkei Moat and began taking his meals out. He went to see what he wanted to see, came home when he felt like it, and stayed out all night from time to time, as the spirit moved him. While basking in this happy-go-lucky existence, he remained on the lookout for a friend, a connection who would lead him to a good paying position in the service of a great daimyō.

It required a certain amount of self-restraint for Matahachi to live within his means, but he felt he was behaving himself better than ever before. He was repeatedly buoyed up by stories of how this or that samurai had not long ago been hauling dirt away from a construction site but was now to be seen riding pompously through town with twenty retainers and a spare horse.

At other times he felt a trace of dejection. "The world's a stone wall," he would think. "And they've put the rocks so close together there's not a chink where anybody can get in." But his frustration always eddied away. "What am I talking about? It just looks that way when you still haven't seen your chance. It's always difficult to break in, but once I find an opening . . ."

When he asked the saddle-maker whether he knew of a position, the latter replied optimistically, "You're young and strong. If you apply at the castle, they're sure to find a place for you."

But finding the right work was not as easy as that. The last month of the year found Matahachi still unemployed, his money diminished by half.

Under the wintry sun of the busiest month of the year, the hordes of people milling about the streets looked surprisingly unrushed. In the center of town there were empty lots, where in early morning the grass was white with frost. As the day progressed, the streets became muddy, and the feeling of winter was driven away by the sound of merchants hawking their goods with clanging gongs and booming drums. Seven or eight stalls, surrounded by shabby straw matting to keep outsiders from looking in, beckoned with paper flags and lances decorated with feathers to advertise shows being presented inside. Barkers competed stridently to lure idle passersby into their flimsy theaters.

The smell of cheap soy sauce permeated the air. In the shops, hairy-legged men, skewers of food stuffed in their mouths, whinnied like horses, and at twilight long-sleeved women with whitened faces simpered like ewes, walking together in flocks and munching on parched-bean tidbits.

One evening a fight broke out among the customers of a man who had set up a sake shop by placing some stools on the side of the street. Before anyone could tell who had won, the combatants turned tail and ran off down the street, leaving a trail of dripping blood behind them.

"Thank you, sir," said the sake vendor to Matahachi, whose glaring presence had caused the fighting townsmen to flee. "If you hadn't been here, they would have broken all my dishes." The man bowed several times, then served Matahachi another jar of sake, which he said he trusted was warmed to just the right temperature. He also presented some snacks as a token of his appreciation.

Matahachi was pleased with himself. The brawl had erupted between two workmen, and when he had scowled at them, threatening to kill them both if they did any damage to the stall, they had fled.

"Lots of people around, aren't there?" he remarked amiably.

"It's the end of the year. They stay awhile and move on, but others keep coming."

"Nice that the weather's holding up."

Matahachi's face was red from drink. As he lifted his cup, he remembered having sworn off before he went to work at Fushimi, and vaguely wondered how he had started again. "Well, what of it?" he thought. "If a man can't have a drink now and then ..."

"Bring me another, old boy," he said aloud.

The man sitting quietly on the stool next to Matahachi's was also a rōnin. His long and short swords were impressive; townsmen would be inclined to steer clear of him, even though he wore no cloak over his kimono, which was quite dirty around the neck.

"Hey, bring me another one too, and make it quick!" he shouted. Propping his right leg on his left knee, he scrutinized Matahachi from the feet up. When his eyes came to the face, he smiled and said, "Hello."

"Hello," said Matahachi. "Have a sip of mine while yours is being heated."

"Thanks," said the man, holding out his cup. "It's humiliating to be a drinker, isn't it? I saw you sitting here with your sake, and then this nice aroma floated through the air and pulled me over here—by the sleeve, sort of." He drained his cup in one gulp.

Matahachi liked his style. He seemed friendly, and there was something dashing about him. He could drink too; he put down five jars in the next few minutes, while Matahachi was taking his time over one. Yet he was still sober.

"How much do you usually drink?" asked Matahachi.

"Oh, I don't know," replied the man offhandedly. "Ten or twelve jars, when I feel like it."

They fell to talking about the political situation, and after a time the rōnin straightened up his shoulders and said, "Who's Ieyasu anyway? What kind of nonsense is it for him to ignore Hideyori's claims and go around calling himself the 'Great Overlord'? Without Honda Masazumi and some of his other old supporters, what have you got? Cold-bloodedness, foxiness and a little political ability—I mean, all he has is a certain flair for politics that you usually don't find in military men.

"Personally, I wish Ishida Mitsunari had won at Sekigahara, but he was too high-minded to organize the daimyō. And his status wasn't high enough." Having delivered himself of this appraisal, he suddenly asked, "If Osaka were to clash with Edo again, which side would you be on?"

Not without hesitation, Matahachi replied, "Osaka."

"Good!" The man stood up with his sake jar in his hand. "You're one of us. Let's drink to that! What fief do you— Oh, I guess I shouldn't ask that until I tell you who I am. My name is Akakabe Yasoma. I'm from Gamō. Perhaps you've heard of Ban Dan'emon? I'm a good friend of his. We'll be together again one of these days. I'm also a friend of Susukida Hayato Kanesuke, the distinguished general at Osaka Castle. We traveled together when he was still a rōnin. I've also met Ono Shurinosuke three or four times, but he's too gloomy for me, even if he does have more political influence than Kanesuke."

He stepped back, paused for a moment, seemingly having second thoughts about talking too much, then asked, "Who are you?"

Matahachi, though he did not believe everything the man had said, felt somehow that he had been put temporarily in the shade.

"Do you know of Toda Seigen?" he asked. "The man who originated the Tomita Style."

"I've heard the name."

"Well, my teacher was the great and selfless hermit Kanemaki Jisai, who received the true Tomita Style from Seigen and then developed the Chūjō Style."

"Then you must be a real swordsman."

"That's right," replied Matahachi. He was beginning to enjoy the game.

"You know," said Yasoma, "I've been thinking that's what you must be. Your body looks disciplined, and there's an air of capability about you. What were you called when you were training under Jisai? I mean, if I'm not being too bold in asking."

"My name is Sasaki Kojirō," said Matahachi with a straight face. "Itō Yagorō, the creator of the Ittō Style, is a senior disciple from the same school." "Is that a fact?" said Yasoma with astonishment.

For a jittery moment, Matahachi thought of retracting everything, but it was too late. Yasoma had already knelt on the ground and was making a deep bow. There was no turning back.

"Forgive me," he said several times. "I've often heard Sasaki Kojirō was a splendid swordsman, and I must apologize for not having spoken more politely. I had no way of knowing who you were."

Matahachi was vastly relieved. If Yasoma had happened to be a friend or acquaintance of Kojirō, he would have had to fight for his life.

"You needn't bow like that," said Matahachi magnanimously. "If you insist on standing on formalities, we won't be able to talk as friends."

"But you must have been annoyed by my spouting off so."

"Why? I have no particular status or position. I'm only a young man who doesn't know much about the ways of the world."

"Yes, but you're a great swordsman. I've heard your name many times. Now that I think about it, I can see you must be Sasaki Kojirō." He stared intently at Matahachi. "What's more, I don't think it's right that you should have no official position."

Matahachi replied innocently, "Well, I've devoted myself so single-mindedly to my sword that I haven't had time to make many friends."

"I see. Does that mean you aren't interested in finding a good position?" "No; I've always thought that one day I'd have to find a lord to serve. I just haven't reached that point yet."

"Well, it should be simple enough. You have your reputation with the sword to back you up, and that makes all the difference in the world. Of course, if you remain silent, then no matter how much talent you have, nobody's likely to search you out. Look at me. I didn't even know who you were until you told me. I was completely taken by surprise."

Yasoma paused, then said, "If you'd like me to help you, I'd be glad to. To tell the truth, I've asked my friend Susukida Kanesuke to see whether he can find a position for me too. I'd like to be taken on at Osaka Castle, even though there might not be much pay in it. I'm sure Kanesuke would be happy to recommend a person like you to the powers that be. If you'd like, I'll be glad to speak to him."

As Yasoma waxed enthusiastic about the prospects, Matahachi could not avoid the feeling that he had stumbled straight into something it wouldn't be easy to get out of. Eager as he was to find work, he feared he'd made a mistake passing himself off as Sasaki Kojirō. On the other hand, if he had said he was Hon'iden Matahachi, a country samurai from Mimasaka, Yasoma would never have offered his help. Indeed, he probably would have looked down his nose at him. There was no getting around it: the name Sasaki Kojirō had certainly made a strong impression.

But then—was there actually anything to worry about? The real Kojirō was dead, and Matahachi was the only person who knew that, for he had the certificate, the dead man's only identification. Without it, there was no way for the authorities to know who the rōnin was; it was extremely unlikely they would have gone to the trouble of conducting an investigation. After all, who was the man but a "spy" who had been stoned to death. Gradually, as Matahachi convinced himself that his secret would never be discovered, a bold scheme took definite shape in his mind: he would become Sasaki Kojirō. As of this moment.

"Bring the bill," he called, taking some coins from his money pouch.

As Matahachi rose to leave, Yasoma, thrown into confusion, blurted, "What about my proposal?"

"Oh," replied Matahachi, "I'd be very grateful if you'd speak to your friend on my behalf, but we can't discuss this sort of thing here. Let's go somewhere quiet where we can have some privacy."

"Why, of course," said Yasoma, obviously relieved. He appeared to think it only natural that Matahachi paid his bill too.

Soon they were in a district some distance from the main streets. Matahachi had intended to take his newfound friend to an elegant drinking establishment, but Yasoma pointed out that going to such a place would be a waste of money. He suggested someplace cheaper and more interesting, and while singing the praises of the red-light district, led Matahachi to what was euphemistically called the Town of Priestesses. Here, it was said, with only slight exaggeration, there were a thousand houses of pleasure, and a trade so thriving that a hundred barrels of lamp oil were consumed in a single night. Matahachi was a little reluctant at first but soon found himself attracted by the gaiety of the atmosphere.

Nearby was an offshoot of the castle moat, into which tidewater flowed from the bay. If one looked very closely, one could discern fish lice and river crabs crawling about under the projecting windows and red lanterns. Matahachi did look closely and ended up slightly unsettled, for they reminded him of deadly scorpions.

The district was peopled to a large extent by women with thickly powdered faces. Among them a pretty face was to be seen now and then, but there were many others who seemed to be more than forty, women stalking the streets with sad eyes, heads wrapped in cloth to fend off the cold, teeth blackened, but trying wanly to stir the hearts of the men who gathered here.

"There sure are lots of them," said Matahachi with a sigh.

"I told you so," replied Yasoma, who was at pains to make excuses for the women. "And they're better than the next teahouse waitress or singing girl you might take up with. People tend to be put off by the idea of selling sex, but if you spend a winter's night with one of them and talk with her about her family and so on, you're likely to find she's just like any other woman. And not really to blame for having become a whore.

"Some were once concubines of the shōgun, and there are lots whose fathers were once retainers of some daimyō who have since lost power. It was the same centuries ago when the Taira fell to the Minamoto. You'll find, my friend, that in the gutters of this floating world, much of the trash consists of fallen flowers."