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?”
f
“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.
Having been warned that actors were fine, but storytellers were not, Oriku stayed away from music-hall artists. However, she still enjoyed the atmosphere of music halls. The Silver Flower’s former owner had been an ardent fan of the great Enchō I, and many artists visited his place. Enchō and his students would perform short comic and sentimental pieces there when the girls took their day off.
At the time, Enchō I was already old and had lost the vocal power of his youth, but his art itself continued to gain in refinement, and his sentimental pieces had something so special about them that he never failed to move his audience to tears. Particularly in the highlight section of his own Shiobara Tasuke, he gave a quiet, convincing intensity to the long scene—almost half an hour—between Tasuke and his beloved steed. Menaced by his entire family, Tasuke is about to leave his home forever when he bids farewell to the faithful horse that has long served him so well. The horse, Ao, sadly seizes Tasuke’s sleeve in his mouth and will not let him go. Tasuke, overcome, embraces Ao’s muzzle. “You’re the only one who wants me to stay!” he cries; at which the Silver Flower girls all burst into tears, and Oriku too.
“Talk about mastery, that’s the real thing!” the Silver Flower proprietor exclaimed after the performance. “Kikugorō V was so impressed by Enchō’s Shiobara that he adapted it for the stage, but even his rendition of it didn’t come up to Enchō’s. Genuine mastery has frightening power.” He simply could not get over it.
Oriku was swept along too. “What happens to Tasuke after he says goodbye to Ao?” she asked.
“I’m not sure, but he eventually finds himself a position in Edo, serves out his apprenticeship, and becomes a successful shop owner. That’s how the piece ends, but a lot goes on in between.”
“I’d love to hear the whole thing.”
“Then you’ll have to go to the theater
