Mistress Oriku. Matsutaro KawaguchiЧитать онлайн книгу.
off he went to the Kabuki-za, still looking light and cheerful. Oriku’s early feelings of revulsion largely melted away at the sight of his joy. Better me, she told herself, than just any woman. By evening she had forgotten all about it.
It was not Oriku’s way to dwell on what was over and done with, and if anything somewhat unpleasant happened, she would usually have forgotten it in a few days. By the next day that business with Monjirō had healed over like a scratch, and she no longer gave it a thought.
Two years later, Monjirō was promoted and took a new name. Monnosuke, his father, succeeded to his own teacher’s name and became Ichikawa Mon’emon, while Monjirō assumed his father’s and became the third Monnosuke. Mon’emon then paid another visit to Mukōjima.
“I would very much appreciate your backing on this occasion,” he said politely. “I will not ask for it again.”
Oriku was of course resolved to do whatever she could, and she gladly agreed. Mon’emon never normally brought her theater tickets unless she particularly requested them. He faithfully sent her a summer yukata every year during the gift-giving season, but that was all. He never displayed the slightest trace of cupidity. Knowing his character as she did, she replied, “I was thinking about this, too. Knowing as I do what sort of man you are, I’ll approach the Silver Flower about it too.”
She went on, “Your acting success can rise no higher, now that you’re Ichikawa Mon’emon. Let’s drink to that before you go.” She ordered a festive meal and served the saké in the great room of the main building.
“No congratulations could give me greater pleasure than yours,” said Mon’emon, for all his years ever the gentle onnagata. Then, later, when a few drinks had given him the courage:
“I understand Monjirō made himself a bit of a nuisance to you.”
“Yes, when he was drunk he’d come bursting in and say whatever he felt like.”
“He did?” He stopped himself. “I gather you taught him how to make love,” he said with perfect equanimity, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble.”
Oriku felt herself blush.
“He was so happy to have been initiated by the right person. I’m very grateful.” He expressed his thanks without a trace of irony or innuendo.
“Initiated”—he had stressed that wordwith particular appreciation.
Ah, yes, teaching and learning . . . For Monjirō it had been an education. There had been nothing shameful, nothing uncomfortable about it. She had simply acted as his teacher. For Mon’emon’s lover of all those years ago to spend the night with his son had simply been a matter of education, an experience a man needed. Mon’emon’s gratitude came from the bottom of his heart. Some people might leer and snigger, but no, to him it was just education. Oriku was impressed.
Any lingering aftertaste was gone now. Oriku could experience the satisfaction of knowing she had done a good deed.
“For the ceremony, let’s give you a proper stage curtain with both your names on it: Mon’emon and Monnosuke. ‘From the Shigure Teahouse,’ it’ll say.”
“Goodness! Thank you! I hadn’t dared hope for so much.”
Mon’emon bowed happily to her and left in an elated mood.
“That’s what makes a man a man,” Oriku reflected. Of her regrets at having been susceptible enough to let young Monjirō to get the better of her, she could only think, “I wasn’t yet a true child of Edo.”
That autumn at the Kabuki-za the promised stage curtain, bearing the names Mon’emon and Monnosuke, and inscribed “From the Shigure Teahouse,” brilliantly captured the audience’s attention. Oriku was there too. She looked radiant.
CHAPTER TWO
Tempura Soba
All the Shigure Teahouse customers, from the greatest man to the humblest, fancied Oriku. This was partly because Oriku did her best to make them want to keep coming.
“Look what a long way it is to get here! Wouldn’t it be wrong of me not to flirt with them a little?”
That was her policy, and she left no guest entirely to the care of a maid. Celebrity or nonentity, it made no difference to her. She would step forward to greet each one; when the meal was served she would fill his cup in person; and, if requested, she would bring out her samisen to sing kouta or hauta songs, or even sometimes a kiyomoto ballad.
In her Hashiba days she had worked hard and acquired the requisite skill. She played the samisen well; her voice had strength and character; and when she sang, with a tipsy flush around her eyes, “Oh, to be with you, / oh, to see you, / I could grow wings and fly to you! / Poor little caged bird, / it’s hard, too hard!” the guest would get all shaken up. “I do believe she’s in love with me!” he would think, quite pleased with himself. All this made her a hit with the customers. These alluring performances of hers were never perfunctory, but when it was time to bring on the clam chazuke she would rush back to the kitchen, sit herself down by the hearth, check the hot water, and prepare it in person.
“The Shigure Teahouse’s reputation would suffer if the clam chazuke was off,” she would explain to the maids.
“Let someone else do it, for once!” one of her regulars might say.
“Oh no, I can’t do that!” she would reply. “Why, this restaurant is my whole life!” When it came to the clam chazuke, she would allow no one else to touch it.
“If that’s how you feel, Oriku, then you’ll never be able to get away for a while. Isn’t that right?”
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“Never mind. I don’t care to, anyway. I go to the theater or the music hall only during the day.”
“And suppose you found yourself a lover. What would you do then?”
“Thank you for your kind concern,” she would laugh, “but you needn’t worry about me!”
She had so many customers that she did sometimes come across one she liked, but she amused herself only with artists from the entertainment world. She stayed away from respectable pillars of the community.
The artists in question included not only actors, but also kiyomoto or tokiwazu samisen masters, the heads of the Fujima or Hanayanagi schools of Japanese dance—whoever it was had to be at the top of his profession, or she would have nothing to do with him.
This policy of hers began when Monnosuke told her, “Never get involved with anyone conventionally respectable. Amuse yourself only with a man who lives by his art. A respectable man is gauche and susceptible,” he went on to tell her, “and if you let him, he’ll cling to you forever, which will make things hard for you. Once you’re trapped that way you’ll neglect your business, and the reputation of this place you’re so proud of will suffer. An artist understands these things better. He knows what he’s doing, and he’ll give you no trouble, regardless of how things work out between you. An artist may very well have a romantic streak, but he doesn’t get in over his head—he’s able to keep things light and to part lightly. And another thing: always choose an artist of the first rank. A man like that values his reputation, and that makes him discreet. If he’s an actor, go for someone like me or higher. If he’s in Japanese music, he should be the head of his school. As for music-hall artists, if I may say so, you should have nothing to do with them. They can be fun, but your clientele here is first-class—you manage to attract even statesmen, people like Itō Hirobumi. The Shigure Teahouse would start to lose its luster if it got about that you were involved with some storyteller.” To a degree Monnosuke was pleading his own cause, but his advice was perfectly sound. A first-rank artist undoubtedly had a first-class grasp of these things.
Monnosuke was the second man in Oriku’s life.
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