looked as though he would fall over again, right there on the steps, if she let go.
“Hold on, now!” She carried him down one or two steps.
“Is anyone out there?” she called. “Could you help me, please? This boy is sick!”
Shadowy forms came running up the steps toward her—apparently other street urchins like him, from underneath the hall.
“Sorry!” With this apology, one of them put his arms around the boy to get him to his feet.
“Now look at you! We told you, didn’t we?”
“We told you you shouldn’t come tonight, but you just wouldn’t listen!”
They were going to half-carry him away. His eyes were closed. Oriku had a feeling she had seen that innocent, grubby face before.
“Wait a minute! Isn’t he Bandō’s son?” She came down the steps after them. “I’m sure you’re Bandō’s son, aren’t you.”
“Yes, I’m Shūsaku.” The boy opened his eyes and answered her himself. Apparently these ragamuffins did not know one another’s first names.
“Look, I’m sorry, but I know him, so I want you to leave him to me.”
“Fine, fine. He’s all yours. Take him anywhere you like.”
“But he’s ill!”
“You’ve got that right! We told him to stay in bed, but no, he ignored us, and now look what’s happened to him!”
“Will you take him for me to the Niō Gate and put him in a rickshaw?”
“Carry him, you mean, like porters?”
There were four of them. They picked up the limp Shūsaku and got him to the gate, where the four together managed to get him up into a rickshaw. Oriku gave them a silver fifty-sen coin, and they watched the two rickshaws leave. She took the easy way, around by Azuma Bridge. Her arrival home with a grubby boy had the whole place in an uproar. Everyone violently disapproved of her picking up some beggar boy from Asakusa, but Oriku gave no one, not even Ofune, a word of explanation. Instead she carried Shūsaku straight to the bath, washed him off everywhere, dressed him in a yukata and a padded jacket, put him to bed in her own Paulownia room, and called the doctor. The doctor said it wasn’t serious; the boy just had a bad cold. She fed him rice gruel and medicine, and kept him there for the night.
“Where on earth did you find him?” Ofune asked, frowning. “Everything he had on stank. All we could do was throw it away.”
“Fine.”
“But where’s he from?”
“He’s Mitsunojō’s son.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Bandō Mitsunojō, in Kanda. This boy’s his son.”
“You mean, the boy they say ran away from home?”
“That’s right, Shūsaku. He’s Shūsaku.”
“Well, this is a surprise!”
“For me too. I was just starting home after going by the temple when someone called me by name from beside the offering box. At first I didn’t know who it was, but then I recognized him. He called ‘Mistress Oriku!’ and collapsed right at my feet. I couldn’t get over it.”
“He certainly knew who you were, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he probably remembered me from when he was here.”
“Mitsunojō must be terribly worried about him. Shall I call Kanda right away?”
“Just a minute. Things are a bit complicated over there, and we can’t afford to make a wrong move.”
“Complicated or not, he’s Mitsugorō’s heir. Mitsugorō’s bound to be concerned.”
“Well, there’s no great hurry. After Shūsaku’s mother died, a mistress moved in, and they say things aren’t going well—the household is in turmoil.”
“I see. They say she has a son too.”
“Yes. I suppose that’s why Shūsaku left home.”
“Poor thing!”
“Yes, just look at that face—he’s a child. Isn’t he sweet?”
The hastily washed face was innocently asleep. His father, Bandō Mitsunojō, was a dance teacher of the Bandō school. His forebears had held the hereditary title of Dancing Master and received a stipend from the Tokugawa government for teaching dance to the women of the shogun’s palace. Then the Tokugawa regime had crumbled, and they had set themselves up as dance teachers for the people of the town. The present Mitsunojō had a practice stage near the Kanda Myōjin Shrine, and he was very good indeed; his hand and arm movements had a special refinement. He had little following in the entertainment world itself, since he did so many pieces derived from Noh, but he had many students from the best families. The Bandō line of kabuki dancers remained in principle a single house, and since Bandō Mitsugorō III had taught Mitsunojō I back in the early 1800s, the present Mitsunojō continued to acknowledge the present Mitsugorō as his master. Shūsaku, Mitsunojō’s eldest son, was said to show promise, but family difficulties had driven him to leave home and join the street urchins on the grounds of the Asakusa Kannon temple.
“Master Bandō is on the line.” Ofune had rung Mitsunojō the next morning.
“Shūsaku’s at your place, you say?” Mitsunojō’s voice resounded imperiously.
“Yes. I was so surprised! He seemed unwell, so I brought him home with me.”
“What made you do that?” The voice sounded displeased.
“Well, I just didn’t like the idea of him wandering around forever in a place like that.”
“You should’ve left him there.”
“But he was ill!”
“That’s his problem. He’s the one who decided to bolt, and now he’s making himself a burden on other people. I won’t have it! Just get rid of him, any way you like.” The tone was cold and peremptory.
“Get rid of him—you mean, you don’t care what happens to him?” Oriku was offended.
“If he wants to do as he pleases, it’s up to him. One of these days he’ll see the light and come back to say he’s sorry. Until then, you’re to ignore him. I can only apologize for the trouble he’s caused you.”
Mitsunojō said no more. With heartless cruelty, he hung up. Oriku was furious. What kind of father would not care what happened to a sweet boy like that? Perhaps his mistress had him bewitched, or perhaps he had always been like that, but at any rate, the kindhearted Oriku could hardly believe it. Ever since opening her place she had thought him a polite, considerate guest, a fine-looking man, and an admirable teacher. How wrong
