ARTS FOR SALE
Cat had purposely picked a quiet spot on the teeming grounds of Numazu’s main temple. She had set up her booth near a small door in the temple’s side wall. The door had not been used in such a long time that kudzu vines had covered it.
The priests’ kitchen had been destroyed recently by fire, and they had set aside this day to solicit donations for its rebuilding. The faithful had flocked here from Numazu and from the hamlets scattered for several ri around. Farmers dragged small carts loaded with grain while their wives, many of them with babies strapped on their backs, pushed from behind. Others carried coils of rope, fardels of bamboo poles, and rolls of cloth.
The usual vendors of tea and dumplings, fans and willow withes, of lurid papier-mâché masks and paper birds, had gathered, and the occasion had turned into a fair.
“You have a mouth as big as a stew pan!” Cat spoke in the explosive, guttural syllables and fierce nonsense words of the aragoto style of acting, the “rough stuff.” She was taking both roles, which required her to prowl back and forth behind her booth made from a plank laid across two upturned tubs.
To emphasize the moment, she rapped one of a pair of oaken blocks down on the plank. She paused, then hit the two blocks alternatively again and again. The intervals between the sharp sounds grew shorter until she was beating a frantic tattoo, a flurry of ratcheting clacks that signaled high drama just ahead.
She left the blocks on the plank and posed with her right arm held stiffly outward and her hand clenched into a fist. Her left hand rested on the butt of the stick stuck into her sash as a sword. She stuck out her
left leg with her toes pointed upward and rolled her head, ending by looking over her right shoulder. She crossed her left eye in the direction of her imaginary opponent and froze in a burlesque of Ichikawa Danjuro’s dramatic mie. The mie wasn’t called for in this comic interlude, which made it all the more ridiculous.
“That’s what we’ve been waiting for!” Someone shouted out the usual kabuki encouragement. The audience roared with laughter, luring more people away from the competition in Cat’s vicinity.
Cat had cut a wide strip from the bottom of Kasane’s black paper travel cloak and had wrapped it around her head. Another long piece covered the lower half of her face. It was the usual disguise of someone who didn’t want to be recognized. Bandits wore them, but so did illicit lovers, priests, and samurai when they frequented the gay districts. Cat knew a host of stories—romantic, comic, tragic, and terrifying—that required her to wear a mask.
She was playing both of the bumbling bandits in the old farce The Literate Highwaymen. She had reached the part of the play where they attacked each other.
Cat turned away from her audience. She wound one arm up around her neck and the other across her side, gripping at the small of her back. “The way we are grappling must be a wonderful sight.” She twisted and swayed so it appeared as if the hands belonged to someone else and she was struggling with him.
“If we should die, no one would see this heroic scene,” she shouted over her shoulder. “And who would notify our wives?”
“We could leave a note.” She assumed the guttural growl of the second bandit. “What do you think?”
“We can’t write a note.” Cat wrestled ferociously with herself. By now the laughter caused people to come running from distant parts of the temple compound. “Our arms are locked.”
“Let’s count ‘One, two, three,’ and at ‘three’ we’ll both let go at” once.
The sword swallower, the diviner, and the magician glowered at Cat. The blind lute player bowed gracefully to circumstance and went off in search of a quieter corner.
Cat hadn’t intended to draw undue attention to herself. She only wanted to earn a few coppers for the day’s food. At most she had hoped to make enough to pay the ferryman to take her and Kasane across the Kano River.
Kasane was doing her part, too. She had cajoled a bamboo ladle from a shopkeeper and was now circulating through the grounds, begging
with it. Cat knew that begging was an honorable and virtuous activity, but she hated doing it. She suspected that the old saying might be true—one who had been a beggar for three days could not stop. She preferred entertaining. Of course, entertaining was considered a form of begging and was neither honorable nor virtuous. And Cat suspected Musashi wouldn’t have approved.
In his Earth Book he deplored the trend toward “arts for sale,” men thinking of themselves as commodities. But he had been referring to those who advertised their schools of martial strategy, selling their prowess for profit. Cat was merely selling her wit.
She had fabricated her mask, using the scissors that had been with her through seven falls and eight rises, as the old saying went. She had scrounged the materials for her booth from the construction site at the charred kitchen and had gone into business. Now she was regretting her success and the attention it was drawing.
She would have regretted it more if she had known that Hanshiro stood at the edge of the crowd. He had come to make a donation to the temple and, while he was at it, to ask discreetly if a certain brother and sister had sought pilgrims’ lodging. Instead he waited behind a tall, moss-covered stone lantern and listened.
Hanshiro was now in disguise himself, not because he thought he could fool Cat, but to be less conspicuous. He wore a blue cotton towel over his head and tied under his chin. He wore the wide bamboo hat, loincloth, fringed short apron, and belted padded jacket of a yakko, the lowest ranking of a lord’s retainers. When a mischievous wind blew up the tail of his jacket, it revealed a matched pair of bare, muscular buttocks.
Hanshiro had rolled his long-sword into the mat strapped across his back. He wore his short-sword in his sash and his iron fan tucked out of sight inside his coat. He carried his few belongings in a small furoshiki slung from his staff.
He had cozened the barrier scribe into revealing the names on Lady Asano’s and her companion’s travel papers, but he knew he would have to proceed cautiously. Alarming Lady Asano would undoubtedly cause a commotion that would be disastrous for all concerned.
Mistress Cat was continuing to cut an astonishing swath through her enemies and managing to remain anonymous while she did it. According to Hanshiro’s usual informants at the transport office in Mishima, a dangerous pair of thieves was on the loose. A young peasant and his sister had attacked and bested five Edo samurai at a low-class guest house two nights before.
They had beaten the men senseless and thrown them into a ravine. The samurai had suffered broken bones and bruises. When questioned by the authorities, they were mysteriously vague about the encounter, and the local magistrate was holding them in custody until the matter could be looked into.
The actual battle had been shrouded in night’s black cloak. However, plenty of witnesses and lanterns had been on hand when the men were pulled from the ravine. Even so, Hanshiro found it almost impossible to believe that one small woman and a peasant accomplice had overcome five of Kira’s retainers.
Whatever had happened behind that wretched inn, Lady Asano was certainly complicating Lord Kira’s life. He must be bowel-locked in fear.
Hanshiro smiled inwardly at the thought of it.
“Thank you all.” When her performance was over Cat bowed into the applause and the shower of coppers. She stood back until the last of the coins had fallen on the plank, then she began collecting them. Her audience drifted off to see the magician exhale bees.
Keeping the tall stone lantern between Cat and himself, Hanshiro backed away, turned on his straw-clad heel, and melted into the throng. Now he knew what voice the Lady Cat was using in her disguise as Hachibei of Pine village in the province of Kazusa. He retired to the small pleasure district hard by the temple’s main gate to drink tea, allow his heart to slow to its normal pace, and ponder his next move.
“Hachibei …” Kasane set her ladle on the plank of Cat’s booth. It contained thirty-seven coppers. She was flushed and out of breath. “I saw him!”
“Who?” Cat was seated on an upturned tub, but she pulled her staff closer and studied the milling crowd for enemies.
“The young man. The pilgrim. Please write the poem for me.”
Cat counted out some of the precious coins. Love, after all, was more important than food. “Buy a bit of ink, a brush this thick …” She held up her little finger. “And two sheets of paper. Honsho paper if you can find it.” Cat added more coins for a better grade of paper. Kasane deserved it, and besides, in worshiping love one should not distinguish between the highest and the lowest.
Kasane darted off.
“Forgive my rudeness … .” The voice was husky and musical. Its owner spoke with an Osaka accent. A pale, graceful hand laid two silver coins called “little drops,” wrapped in scented, lavender-colored paper, next to the coppers Cat was counting out on the rough board. “Are you interested in employment?”
When Cat looked up she saw a lovely white mask with a high arched nose, rouged cheeks, and a poppy-red pucker of a mouth painted in complete disregard of the actual contour of the lips. The teeth were blackened. The eyebrows had been shaved, and new ones, thin as a three-day moon, had been drawn halfway up on the forehead. The onnagata, the female impersonator, was wearing black-lacquered geta a foot high.
He also wore a heavy unbelted silk brocade coat that looked black until sunlight revealed it to be the deep purple color of the black dragonfly. It was embroidered with huge gold-and-silver dragonflies. The iridescent green-gold lining of the rolled, padded, and weighted hem would have trailed in the dust if not for the geta. The tabi, white as a crane’s down, fit like a second skin.
A lavender scarf was tied to two of the long, jade-tipped hairpins in the actor’s elaborate coiffure. The scarf covered the top of his head and dipped onto his brow. It hid the fact that a large circle on the crown of his head was shaved as the government required of actors who impersonated women. The onnagata was flanked by a box bearer, an attendant for his pipe and tobacco, five servants, almost invisible behind their loads of parcels, and a boy apprentice also made up and dressed as a maid in bright scarlet.
A flock of adoring women had gathered behind them. Out here in the provinces people rarely saw the fashionable elite of the Eastern and the Western capitals. They had to make do with books of theater news and pleasure district gossip. They studied the cheap woodcut prints of famous actors and courtesans. And they lamented the fact that styles changed so quickly in the capitals, the prints were usually out of date by the time they saw them.
So these women clutched their writing boxes in hopes the exquisite onnagata would inscribe a poem on their fans or their copies of the theater guide, Three Cups of Sake on a Rainy Night. They discussed in earnest whispers the latest convolutions of his hairdo. They calculated the exact width of the brocade sash that covered his chest from his groin almost to his chin under the long, trailing coat. They speculated about the subtle messages in the enormous, superimposed folds of the bow tied in front in the style of the courtesans.
“What kind of employment?” Cat asked suspiciously. She didn’t intend to encourage someone who was shopping for a catamite.
“Ah.” The actor flipped open his fan and tittered behind it. “I was so entranced by your performance I forgot my manners entirely. My name is Hashikawa Hatsuse. But I prefer to be called by my art name, Dragonfly.” With his fan, Dragonfly brushed nonexistent dust from the
enormous insects embroidered into the front of his coat. “Our troupe is touring, and we have need of strong lads to help with scenery and costumes. What is your name, if I may be so rude as to ask?”
“Hachibei,” Cat mumbled. “From Kazusa province.”
“Well, you are the mysterious one, Sir Hachibei, with your horrid little mask.” Dragonfly used his fan to lift the bottom corner of the long paper cloth that covered Cat’s face and chest. Cat drew back and turned her head just enough to disengage the fan.
“Ah, the bashful rustic.” Dragonfly peered impishly over the fan. “I shall tell the theater chief to expect you. We’re staying at the reception rooms next to the priests’ quarters.”
He made a slight gesture, and the box bearer produced ink and a brush. Using the box as a desk, Dragonfly wrote a poem on his fan and presented it. A wistful sigh rose from the women.
That the season has begun
Is decided by the appearance of
The red dragonfly.
“Show this to the stage manager. He’ll admit you.” Dragonfly adjusted the six collars of his layered robes to expose more of the shaved, white nape of his neck while his apprentice hastened to open the parasol. Dragonfly was tall, and the geta raised him well above the crowd. His young page had to wear very high geta to hold the umbrella over his huge hairdo.
Walking in foot-high pattens was difficult even for the practiced. For balance, Dragonfly kept a languorous hand on his page’s shoulder as he swept off through the press, his slender hips undulating in the “floating step” of the courtesan on promenade. And like a courtesan, he gave way to no one.
His entourage of admirers parted to let him pass, then closed in and trailed behind him. The sunlight on his dark silk robes sent off shimmers of subtle yet intense color. Long, sinuous, and radiant, he did indeed look like a dragonfly among crickets.
Openmouthed, Kasane watched him go.
“Do you plan to make a living like that fraud over there?” Cat nodded toward the magician.
“What?” Kasane transferred her attention to Cat.
“Do you intend to belch bees through that ugly gap under your nose?”
Kasane closed her mouth and blushed.
“If you want to attract a husband, you’ll have to learn refinement.”
Kasane hung her head and sighed. “You can’t make a crow white, even if you wash it for a year,” she said sadly.
“Maybe not. But we can dip you in white paint. By the time your suitor finds out you’re not a crane, he’ll love you for your inner virtues.”
“He’s nearby.” Kasane blushed. “At the stall of the comic gentleman selling tea.”
Kasane was afraid the young man would leave before she could have her letter delivered to him. She was more terrified that he wouldn’t. She laid the brush, the paper, her ladle filled with water, and the small bamboo container of liquid ink on the plank.
“Pick those things up and lay them down again, elder sister,” Cat said. “Hold them as though they were a hummingbird’s eggs in the palm of your hand. Set them down as gently as a leaf landing on a windless day. A person’s breeding shows in how she handles objects.”
Cat’s interest in improving Kasane’s market value wasn’t exactly selfless. If Kasane’s allegiance were to be transferred to a worthy man, Cat could travel on alone. She could act unencumbered by the fear of exposing an innocent to peril.
Kasane kept glancing over at the tea stall while Cat wrote out the poem.
A pale moon waning,
Wisp of cloud shadow passing
It is. Then is not.
When the ink had dried Cat folded the paper in a simple, slightly dated, but tasteful style. The fold’s message was that the sender was a thrifty, wholesome virgin of traditional values. Cat put the letter inside the second sheet, which she folded lengthwise until both formed a narrow strip. She looped one end around the other until she had formed a flat knot in the middle. She dry-brushed ink along the creases.
“Why are you doing that, younger brother?” Kasane asked.
“To ensure secrecy. If someone undoes the knot, they won’t be able to tie it exactly as it was. The brush strokes will not match.”
“Ma!” Kasane despaired of ever learning the tricks of love.
“Bring a piece of kudzu vine from the wall,” Cat said.
Cat used her scissors to trim the vine, then twined it around the letter. Her deliberate motions were maddeningly slow.
“At a time now past,” Cat said as she worked. “A princess fell in love with a lord, and he loved her in return. Their passion was deep,
but they kept the affair secret so the lady’s reputation would not be eaten by worms.”
Cat frapped the ends of the vine to hold it in place. “When the princess died, the lord’s love became a kudzu vine and clung to her grave. So the tale’s been handed down.”
She studied the effect of her handiwork. Sending a first poem wrapped in a vine with such an erotic history was a brazen move. Shame is throw aside when one travels, Cat thought. And the sooner Kasane eloped with her lover, the better for everybody.
“Now what do we do?” Kasane asked.
With the knife Cat slit the end of a slender bamboo pole and held the cleft open with the blade while she wedged the letter into it. “What is he wearing today?”
“The same white pilgrim’s robe and black leggings. And a short cloak of blue-and-white-striped pongee. And he has a mole at the outer corner of his left eye.”
Cat studied her choice of messengers in the throng of fairgoers. The one who delivered the poem must set the correct tone. She beckoned to a girl of about seven carrying her baby brother in a sling on her back. She would strike the right note of innocence, a delicate contrast to the kudzu vine.
The girl could tell from the letter wedged into the cleft bamboo cane what was wanted of her. It was the usual way to carry messages.
“Five coppers to deliver this to the young gentleman in the pilgrim’s robe sitting at the tea stall. But wait until we’re gone before you do it.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Come along, elder sister.” Cat held up the paper-wrapped coins Dragonfly had given her. “As soon as I see a riverbed beggar about work, we’re going to the used-clothing dealer. You can’t attract a suitor dressed like that.”
Kasane did look shabby. If fate had rowed her far offshore on a sea of troubles the past few days, the pilgrim’s robe had traveled with her. Cat didn’t worry about the ragged condition of her own clothing. The more tattered and stained it was, the safer and more anonymous she felt.
Still wearing mask, Cat led the way past the drum tower and the main temple, then through the rear courtyard to the low building housing the reception rooms and the priests’ quarters. A novice intercepted her warily on the veranda. Cat looked as though she harbored fleas, at the very least. And her mask was ominous.
Cat started to ask to see the kabuki theater chief. Then something in the periphery of her vision registered. She waved Dragonfly’s fan at the
huge stack of travel boxes that were being carried into the side door of the building.
“Where is the troupe from?” Cat recognized the crest, but Hachibei the peasant boy wouldn’t be likely to.
“This is the famous Nakamura-za, of Edo.”
“Is that right? What is the theater chief’s name?”
“The renowned Nakamura Shichisaburo, of course. The greatest of the Eastern Capital’s ‘soft stuff’ actors.”