Mistress Oriku. Matsutaro KawaguchiЧитать онлайн книгу.
really hard, I’m sure.”
“It is indeed. Today I felt like a student dragged before an examiner. At first I was shaking. Stop it, stop this right now, I kept telling myself, but it didn’t help. I clearly remembered the way the great Enchō did it, and Master Enshō, too, but I still couldn’t do it exactly like that. It’s strange. Art is really frightening. In the end it all turned out to be a remarkable, quite unexpected lesson. Even so, the tempura soba I had at that soba place. . .”
“Now, that’s enough. You’re embarrassing me.”
She lifted the jar from the kettle. “Let me pour you one.”
“But first, Mistress Oriku, won’t you let me pour for you?”
“With pleasure. It really makes me very happy when I think you never forgot a little thing like that, but took it instead as an encouragement that spurred you on.”
She lifted her cup as Shinkyō poured. When she brought it to her lips, she experienced a sort of rush of feeling. It was not desire, but Shinkyō did look very attractive.
“How old are you now?” she went on.
“Please don’t ask.”
“Well, you were eleven at the time, and it’s been sixteen years, so I suppose you must be twenty-seven.”
“That’s right, I’m a chick hardly out of the shell.”
“Young indeed—just my age when I heard Enchō.”
“In other words, you’re now the other side of forty.”
“Yes. I was just forty when I set up this place.”
“But you look so young!”
“Don’t flatter me. A woman has no age.”
“Indeed, indeed. An artist, either.”
“I’d ask you to come again, but you probably won’t have much of a chance. Still, do come by, if you think of it.”
“Thank you very much. I certainly would like to. Would it matter if it was late in the evening?”
“No, not at all. Just give me a ring, and I’ll get things ready.”
“I’ll really appreciate it. I owe you so much, I’d like to keep coming the year round.”
“On the other hand, if you’re too late there won’t be any more rickshaws, and the ferry will have stopped, too. You won’t be able to get back.”
“That will suit me perfectly, if I may be allowed to spend the night here.”
“What? This is only a chazuke restaurant, you know.”
“So they say. I hear you don’t find shigure clams like yours anywhere else in Tokyo.”
“Would you like some?”
“Yes, please.”
Oriku went back to the main house and sat down by the kitchen hearth, but the way she picked out the clams was new. Usually she went about it just as a man would, but for once she was back to being a woman. Shinkyō was far below her in age, but all the same, deep down she was excited. That a single bowl of tempura soba should have given him such pleasure, for so long, and served to spur him on toward mastering his art—there was something so sweet about that, an appeal beyond simple desire. She had them bring a tray laden with chazuke and two or three jars of saké. Midnight had come and gone already, and the whole place was quiet.
“Stay away from music-hall artists,” Monnosuke had said.
“Well,” Oriku told herself, feeling contrary, “it all depends.” Shinkyō, tonight, certainly yielded nothing to Monnosuke in the way of dedication to his art. In that sense, you felt, he really was solid gold.
Oriku, who knew everything she needed to know about amusing herself with men, never let herself just get carried away. She chose her man herself. If she did not like a fellow, she kept away from him. If she got on with someone, she did not hesitate to get close to him physically as well. Letting one thing lead to another, making mistakes, becoming involved against her better judgment—she avoided all that; but if she liked a man, she went right ahead, with no regrets.
That night, she finally lay down with the young Shinkyō in her arms. That feeling of sweetness had been desire. Shinkyō clung to her, weeping. All night long he kept his arms around her and never let her go.
He left at dawn, while everyone was still asleep. Then it was over; he never came to Mukōjima again. He had spent the night the very first time he came, and that night was to be all. He did not return. Oriku was sorry, but for Shinkyō that was that. She had been planning to feed him tempura the next time he came, but she never had a chance to do so, and she shrank from the thought of chasing after him. Meanwhile, five years went by, and she heard from afar that he had become famous.
Then, in the autumn of the fifth year, he came strolling down from the embankment with a fan of his. There was an entirely new weight-iness to his presence, now that he was a major star. He said he was the featured performer at the Hakubai Theater, which they remembered so well, and so had the honor of going on last.
“How about it, Shinkyō? Shall we go to the Yabu and have some tempura soba?” Oriku said teasingly.
Shinkyō frowned. “Mistress Oriku,” he said, “I still do not eat tempura. I mean not to eat it ever again.”
“Now, don’t be impertinent. You may not like tempura, but you seem to have quite a taste for clam.” The quip, which was just like her, contained not a trace of pique. Shinkyō remained unmoved.
“Mistress Oriku,” he declared gravely, looking her straight in the eye, “the good name of the Shigure Teahouse would have suffered if I had presumed further on your kindness.”
“That’s just an excuse. You ran away from me, didn’t you. Coward!”
“Say whatever you like. I have no intention of remaining an entertainer forever. No, I keep working for the day when I can become your lover openly. Then I will be back, I promise.”
“What a talker! You’d better hurry—I’ll be a sixty-year-old biddy pretty soon.”
“A woman has no age. Please wait for me, Mistress Oriku, until the day when I can enjoy tempura soba with you before all the world.”
Shinkyō’s eyes were clear and calm. Oriku found them overpowering. She had seen, she felt, into the heart of a single-minded man.
Not long afterwards, she heard he had opened a restaurant and inn on Uguisuzaka, at Ueno. However, no word came from him to say he felt like tempura soba. Had those clear eyes been telling the truth, or not? Even if they were not necessarily to be believed, they had seemed to say that, somewhere in his heart, he was waiting.
As an artist he had achieved early success, and he had retired early too. He was clever. That one night they had had together was over, but she felt as though the story itself was not over yet.
CHAPTER THREE
The Kannon of Asakusa
The Asakusa Kannon temple is home, so to speak, to all those who inhabit downtown Tokyo. An Asakusa native need only step onto the temple grounds to feel he is treading his native soil. When he returns after years away—when he comes up the stone-paved Nakamise Avenue, goes in through the Niō Gate, and catches his first sight of that great roof—tears spring to his eyes. The denizens of downtown Tokyo are all deeply religious. Their faiths vary, but whatever else they may believe, every single one reveres the Kannon of Asakusa.
Formally, the temple’s name is Kinryūzan Sensōji. In its branch of Tendai Buddhism it comes under Kan’eiji, the “Eastern Mount Hiei” at Ueno. Being a Tendai temple, it belongs to the wrong sect for many of those who make the pilgrimage to it, but none of them cares. No one would think of quibbling over a divine presence