Mistress Oriku. Matsutaro KawaguchiЧитать онлайн книгу.
Please forgive me for imposing on your time. I am most grateful to you for receiving me. If I have presumed to trouble you this way, it is because I am so anxious to give my thanks.” He kept his head bowed low, with both hands on the tatami floor. Presumably he had changed after the performance and come straight here, dressed with severe discretion in a dark, warm-toned grey cotton haori jacket over a very quiet cotton kimono.
“Such ceremony! Goodness, please sit up! I’m no good at bowing myself, so do please straighten up! I was a guest at the theater, but now you’re my guest, and you mustn’t be formal. Now that I’m here, please allow me to pour you a cup.”
She picked up the saké jar and was about to do so when Shinkyō stopped her. “No, no,” he protested, “I did not come for that. I am here to thank you, you see.”
“There’s no need for you to thank me. It’s a storyteller’s job to earn a living from telling stories, just as it’s my job to earn a living from selling chazuke. As long as I go to hear you, and you come to eat here, we’re even, if you see what I mean. Please don’t make such a big thing of it.”
“No, no, Mistress Oriku, you do not understand. I am not here to thank you for coming today. I am here to express my thanks for sixteen years ago.”
Shinkyō’s face changed. The blood drained from it, and he suddenly turned pale.
“Sixteen years ago? What do you mean? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t? Mistress Oriku, have you forgotten? I have not, and I never will as long as I live.” He placed his hands very properly on his knees.
“Sixteen years ago, Mistress Oriku, you went every day to the Hakubai Theater in Kanda to hear the great master Enchō perform Shiobara Tasuke. You must remember that.”
“I certainly do. That was when I was still in the Yoshiwara, and Kanda was a long way off. But how do you happen to know that?”
“On the last day, you went to the Yabu soba restaurant behind the theater and had tempura soba. Do you remember?”
“Mm, perhaps I did. I always liked that soba place in Renjakuchō, and I still go there now and again. The tempura soba there is so good.”
“Yes, you had it that time too. I was sitting next to you, and I watched.”
“Why on earth do you still remember a little thing like that?”
“Well, you see, I was just eleven then, and working at the theater as an errand boy. Sometimes I’d get a tip from one of the artists, and being a boy I was always hungry, so I’d rush straight out to the Yabu. It was expensive for a child like me, but I had no time to look further. Expensive or not, in I’d go. But that day I was with Enji, a budding artist and a close disciple of Master Enkyō. He brazenly ate tempura soba, but that was beyond my means and I had to make do with plain. So there I was, just longing to grow up fast and be a success, so that I too could afford tempura soba, when the lady sitting next to me—you—apparently saw how I felt. ‘Young fellow,’ you suddenly said, ‘I’ll treat you to tempura soba.’ You called the waitress over and placed the order. I was flabbergasted and just sat there like a stump. Then you paid for yours and mine together, and left. It all happened so quickly, I completely forgot to thank you properly. Then the soba arrived, steaming hot and delicious. You know what it’s like there. They don’t deep-fry the big, juicy prawn till the dish is actually ordered, which makes the tempura soba there completely different from anywhere else. I was just a boy then, but even so, I didn’t feel like picking up my chopsticks right away. I just sat there, staring at the soba you’d bought me.”
What he remembered from sixteen years ago seemed still to be as real to him as though it had happened yesterday. And now Oriku remembered, too. The two boys had come in together, and the big one had ordered tempura soba, while the little one had sadly ordered plain.
“I see,” she said. “That boy was you.”
“Yes. It was the happiest moment of my life. At first I simply could not believe it, and even when the soba came, I was still in a daze. ‘What are you gawking at? Go ahead, eat!’ Enji said, so I finally did. ‘Do you know who that was?’ he asked. ‘That was the mistress of the Silver Flower, in the Yoshiwara. She’s been coming every evening to hear Master Enchō’s Shiobara Tasuke.’”
“My goodness, that’s amazing, the connection between you and me.”
“Yes, it’s an amazing connection. At the time I must have been looking jealously at Enji’s tempura soba. You saw all that, I’m sure. You were so wonderfully kind to a boy of whom you knew nothing, either who he was or where he was from! When I had finished, I raced back to the theater and peered through a crack at the back of the stage. I saw you sitting there, next to the dais, and I stared at you hard enough to bore a hole in the wood. Even at that age, I wanted somehow to do well enough to be worthy of thanking you. I know the whole thing sounds like one of Master Enchō’s sentimental dramas, but still, it is perfectly true. For someone like you, Mistress Oriku, it was nothing, but for me, what you did was beyond price. I have never eaten tempura since, not once. I decided it would be taboo for me until the day I was worthy to thank you. That is when I asked Master Enshō to take me on as a disciple and began to learn his art.”
Shinkyō fell silent and wiped his eyes. Childhood memories had filled them with tears.
“After my teacher had died, and I finally became a principal artist, my first thought was to pay you a visit. You knew nothing about this, Mistress Oriku, but I owe you an enormous debt of gratitude. So I planned today’s three-man performance accordingly, and when you were kind enough to come, I was so happy, I was just so happy. . .”
“But I really did nothing to make such a fuss about, you know. It was just a bowl of tempura soba. You mustn’t exaggerate.”
“No, no, you still do not see. For you it was just a bowl of tempura soba, but what I shall never forget is the warmth of your kindness. I worried about whether you would actually come and hear me perform as a principal artist, but you did, and that old memory then convinced me on the spur of the moment to do Shiobara Tasuke.”
“It’s quite embarrassing, to imagine you thinking of me that way. But you did Tasuke very well. You certainly mastered the lessons you were taught. I assume it’s true then, that, as you said before you began, you were told not to perform it until you were forty.”
“Yes, it is true. I thought it was a bit soon myself, but Master Enchō’s Shiobara returned to me when I stopped to remember that day. I did not feel that way until I actually seated myself on the dais, but as soon as I saw your face, that performance at the Hakubai Theater sixteen years ago came back to me. It was the last night, and I will never forget how Master Enchō looked. He himself said it was his very last performance of Shiobara, and he turned out to be right, so that was my final memory of him. When I saw him there at the theater today, from the dais, I felt he was telling me to go ahead, it was all right, I could do Shiobara; so then and there I made up my mind, and I did. That warning against doing it till I was forty had made me want to try it so much, I could hardly stand it—and then, there you were. I could not help myself. I know I should not have, but I was carried away.”
Perhaps his tears had dried by now; at any rate, he moved to pour himself some saké.
“Now, now, I’m a woman, this is what I’m here for.” Oriku picked up the jar. The saké was cold.
“Dear me, it’s icy!” She plunged the jar straight into the kettle on the hibachi.
“Well, I’m very pleased, I must say. To think that seeing my face made you want to do Shiobara! I really appreciate that. You are a bit young for it, and it really isn’t completely yours yet, but you gave it wonderful energy and style. The obvious pleasure it gave the audience proves that. That was truly heartfelt applause, not just some hand-clapping to be polite. They were simply delighted.”
“I hope so.”
“Of course they were. A sentimental piece has real flavor, unlike