It was getting warm inside Zenji. It wasn’t just the glow from the fireplace or the merry voices, ringing festively throughout the izakaya^[1]. There was something else he couldn’t locate, grasp or understand. Why was he having more positive thoughts today, after returning from The Red House? Why did he get annoyed at Mitsuo when he had talked about courting Lady Miyasai? It wasn’t Zenji’s business after all. And yet…

“No way – Zenji san will be painting the walls at The Red House!,” Mitsuo exclaimed so loudly that some customers heard him even over the chatter and turned their heads.

“Perhaps you don’t want to make this a public matter for the time being, Taira san,” said Ishibashi and gave him a look of suppressed anger.

“But this is incredible! How did you manage to land that!,” Mitsuo insisted, completely ignoring the reproach.

They were playing cards but not really paying attention to the game. Zenji actually lost completely intentionally, hoping he could just retreat in his thoughts for a while. Mitsuo, however, was determined.

“I don’t understand why you’re so fixated on this, Taira san,” Ishibashi intervened, dealing a card that made a favourable combination for him. “The noble lady is new to our humble place and she is looking to make herself at home. As one of the town leaders, I’m obliged to help her. She wants more colour introduced tp the dreary place that The Red House has become. And could you name a better artist in Haruido than my dear nephew?”

That was beyond doubt. Zenji, the quiet introspective teacher, mastered any art with ease – from calligraphy to poetry to playing koto ^[2]. But nothing, absolutely nothing could rival his drawing skills. It was his art. Ishibashi could remember the winter when his nephew retreated for weeks in the mountains, drawing snowy landscapes and reveling in the quiet cold beauty of the season. Zenji loved winter, he found exhilaration in the sparkling snow and the fierce storms it could bring, burying the villagers in their homes, forcing them to rest till the first plum blossoms blush pink. He loved seeing the world coming back to life too, but stillness called to him more.

“That is all well and good, Ishibashi sama,” Mitsuo’s words cut abruptly as he downed a cup of rice wine and winced at the powerful effect it had spilling through him. “But I can’t believe this all happened completely naturally.”

Mitsuo flashed a cunning smile at the jizamurai, implying that the old man had ulterior motives. When Ishibashi’s face remained a mask, showing the young man that he didn’t find his remark funny, Mitsuo sighed and frowned a little.

“No matter,” he said and stared at the fire dancing at the back of the izakaya where many gathered around, laughing and exchanging good wishes for the season. “I was just wondering if you would introduce me to the lady. Or would you deny me trying my luck?,” and he gave him a mischievous look, but it was far less teasing than before.

Zenji’s upper lip trembled and he inhaled deeply when he heard this. Ishibashi’s eyes flashed quickly and captured his reaction. It was subtle and only he saw it, as his nephew was now sitting on a chair behind Mitsuo, staring at the snow falling outside. Mitsuo noticed nothing. But Ishibashi knew that Zenji is now listening intently, even though he appeared aloof. An idea started forming in the jizamurai’s head.

“I don’t think I should deny your wish, Mitsuo san,” he said, smiling at the bachelour. “But it may appear a bit strange if only the two of us go. The lady may turn suspicious as it would be too obvious I’m trying to introduce you. We should be more subtle and take Zenji with us. We could say we met you on the way to The Red House and invited you along – all very natural and quite by chance. Just like today.”

Two sets of eyes flashed at Ishibashi – both with different reactions to his offer, and both exactly as he had imagined them. He smiled like a satisfied cat. If his plan went well, he’d be killing not two but three birds with one stone.

“Ishibashi sama, I don’t know how to express my joy and gratitude!,” and Mitsuo bowed down deeply to the old man. “I will gift you the sacred arrow^[3] that I always carry on me…,” but he wavered, realising that may be too much of a sacrifice. “…if all goes well,” he concluded and sheepishly looked up at Ishibashi, with an apology for his hastiness silently lingering in his eyes.

But the old man didn’t mind. He knew that the impulses of youth more often than not brought regrets upon those who didn’t have a strong grip on them.

“It’s all well, Taira san,” he said calmly while flipping more cards on the table. “Let us hope things will pan out in the best possible way. For all involved.”

And with that he lifted his gaze to his nephew. The young man had frozen in his place, staring at his uncle with a mixture of shock, confusion and protest that he didn’t know how to voice – or if he could. Even though his mouth was closed, his jaw was hanging. He was trying to fight the unrest within himself. Ishibashi held his gaze for a few moments. Eventually, Zenji’s head drooped and his uncle could sense his mood had darkened.

Mitsuo noticed none of it. He had launched a zealous monologue about the preparations he was to make ahead of the visit.

“Ah, a worthy lady like her deserves an impressive gift. I need her to think of me as a gentleman,” his eyes sparkled with exhilaration.

“I thought you were a gentleman anyway, Taira san,” Ishibashi injected with a cunning smile but Mitsuo didn’t even hear him.

“I’ll bring her the most wonderful seven herbs^[5] to show her I think of her good health. And and I’ll make my first purchase for the year for her – something fancy! Any ideas? No, don’t tell me! I need it to be completely original! Something to remember me by. To awaken at least one of her senses. What do you think, Zenji? Some exquisitely delicious mirror rice cakes perhaps?”

And he turned to the young man who was sulking alone on the chair behind him. He shot Mitsuo a dark side glance and murmured.

“Why not a shimenawa^[6] to hang our hopes and dreams on if it doesn’t work out…,” Zenji’s voice gave away the irritation that was filling up inside him.

Ishibashi has remained composed until now but Zenji’s remark made him roar with laughter while Mitsuo shot Zenji a confused glance.

“What’s with you, Zenji san? Ah, don’t sulk, I know you prefer not to socialise much. But your presence will merely serve the purpose of a wingman of sorts. You don’t have to actually even say anything,” Mitsuo smiled and patted him on the back, thinking that his words were bringing comfort.

Zenji opened his mouth to protest but Mitsuo had already leapt to his feel and drowned his cup in one quick swig.

“Now gentlemen, I will go and start preparing for the important visit. I think I will wear a spring kimono. It may be early and still quite cold but will bring some joy to the heart of Lady Miyasai, don’t you think?”

But before anyone could even think of an answer, Mitsuo rushed out of the izakaya.

The celebrations were still continuing and more people had gathered around the fireplace, now that night was starting to fall. But silence fell between uncle and nephew. One of them was trying to soothe the unease that the conversation had left in him, the other – just waiting patiently to see if that would be possible. For a split second it looked like Zenji would say something as he lifted his head and his eyes met Ishibashi’s. His lips parted but in that moment the door of the izakaya swayed open and Mitsuo’s head poked inside, crying out to the two men.

“Pink kimono should do it, don’t you think?”

*****

NOTES:

[1] A type of Japanese bar

[2] a Japanese plucked half-tube zither instrument and the national instrument of Japan

[3] A good luck charm from a Shinto shrine.

[4] Medicinal, traditionally eaten on 7 Jan to promote health in the coming year.

[5]  A Shinto offering for the New Year; the mirror-shape is associated with the Sun Goddess, the mythological ancestor of the Japanese islands and people. 

[6] A sacred rope, a Shinto altarpiece or household shrine decoration associated with the New Year