"You are very strong, samurai-sama," she said, breaking a silence. "Those you fought must be dead or suffering."
For a moment Hiraga did not reply, enjoying the deep probing and wise fingers that sought out his knotted muscles and relaxed them. "Perhaps."
"Please, may I suggest, I have some special oil from China that will help heal your cuts and bruises quickly?"
He smiled. This was an often-used ploy to gain extra money. "Good, use it."
"Oh but you smile, honored samurai! It is not a trick to get more money," she said at once, her fingers kneading his back. "My grandmother who was also blind gave me the secret."
"How did you know I smiled?"
She laughed and the sound reminded him of a lark sailing the dawn air currents. "A smile begins in many parts of the body. My fingers listen to you--to your muscles and even sometimes to your thoughts."
"And what am I thinking now?"
"About sonno-joi. Ah, I was right!" Again the laugh that disconcerted him. "But don't be afraid, you have said nothing, the patrons here have said nothing, I will say nothing but my fingers tell me you are a special swordsman, the best I have ever served. Clearly you're not Bakufu, therefore you must be ronin, ronin by choice because you are a guest in this house, therefore shishi, the first we have ever had here." She bowed. "We are honored. If I were a man I would support sonno-joi."
Deliberately her steel-hard fingertip pressed a nerve center and she felt the tremor of pain go through him and it pleased her that she could help him more than he knew. "So sorry but this point is very important to rejuvenate you and keep your juices flowing."
He grunted, the pain grinding him to the futons yet strangely pleasing. "Your grandmother was also a masseuse?"
"Yes. In my family at least one girl in every second generation is born blind. It was my turn in this lifetime."
"Karma."
"Yes. It is said that in China today, fathers or mothers will blind one of their daughters so that when she grows up she will find employment for all her life."
Hiraga had never heard this but he believed it and was incensed. "This is not China and never will be and one day we will take China and civilize her."
"Eeee, so sorry to disturb your harmony, Lord, please excuse me, oh so sorry. Ah, that's better, again so sorry, please excuse me. You were saying, Lord... civilize China?
As Dictator Nakamura wanted to do? Is it possible?"
"Yes, one day. It is our destiny to gain the Dragon Throne, as it is your destiny to massage and not to talk."
Again her laugh was gentle. "Yes, Lord."
Hiraga sighed as her finger released the pressure point and left a pervading, soothing glow in place of pain. So everyone knows I'm shishi, he thought. How long before I'm betrayed?
Why not? Two koku is a fortune.
Getting into this haven had not been easy. When he had strode into the quarter there was an aghast silence for here was a samurai, a samurai without swords, looking like a wild man. The street cleared except those nearby who knelt and awaited their fate.
"You, old man, where is your nearest ryokan--Inn."
"We don't have one, Lord, there's no need, Honored Lord," the old shopkeeper muttered, his fear making him gabble on, "there's no need as our Yoshiwara is nearby, bigger than most cities with dozens of places you can stay in and over a hundred girls not counting maids, three real geisha and seven trainees, it's that way ..."
"Enough! Where's the house of the shoya?"' "There, Lord."
"Where, fool? Get up, show me the way."
Still enraged he followed him down the street, wanting to smash the eyes that watched from every opening and crush the whispers in his wake.
"There, Lord."
Hiraga waved him away. The sign outside the open shop that was filled with goods of all description but empty of people announced that this was the residence and place of business of Ichi Ryoshi, shoya, rice merchant and banker, the Yokohama agent for the Gyokoyama. The Gyokoyama was a zaibatsu--meaning a closely knit family complex of businesses-- immensely powerful in Yedo and Osaka as rice traders, sak`e and beer distillers, and all-important, bankers.
He took hold of himself. With great care and politeness he knocked, squatted on his heels and began to wait, trying to dominate the pain from the beating he had taken from the ten-man patrol. At length a strong-faced, middle-aged man came out into the open shop, knelt and bowed. Hiraga bowed back equally, introduced himself as Nakama Otami and mentioned that his grandfather was also shoya, not saying where but giving enough information for him to know it was the truth and that, perhaps, as there was no ryokan to stay at, the shoya might have a room for paying guests that was not being used. "My grandfather also is honored to have dealings with the Gyokoyama zaibatsu--his villages sell all their crops through it," he had said politely. "In fact I would like you, please, to send my pledge to them in Osaka, and would be grateful if you would advance me some cash against it."
"Yedo is nearer than Osaka, Otami-san."
"Yes, but Osaka is better for me than Yedo," Hiraga said, not wanting to risk Yedo where there could be leaks to the Bakufu. He noted the cool, unafraid appraisal and hid his hatred but even daimyos had to be careful when dealing with the Gyokoyama or their agents, even Lord Ogama of Choshu. It was common knowledge that Ogama was heavily in debt to them, with years of future revenue already pledged as security.
"My company is honored to serve old customers. Please, how long would you wish to stay in my house?"' "A few days, if it would not inconvenience you." Hiraga told him about Tyrer and the problem of the soldiers, only because he was sure the news had preceded him.
"You may stay at least three days, Otami-san. So sorry, but you must be prepared to leave quickly in case of a sudden raid, by day or night."
"I understand. Thank you."
"Please excuse me but I would like an order signed by this Taira, or better the chief of the gai-jin, ordering me to open my house to you, in case or when the Bakufu arrive here."
"I will arrange it." Hiraga bowed his thanks and hid his irritation at the restraints.
"Thank you."
The shoya ordered a maid to bring tea and writing materials and watched while Hiraga wrote the pledge that asked the amount be deducted from the account of Shinsaku Otami, the secret code name of his father. He signed it and sealed it with his chop, signed and sealed the receipt for Ryoshi, who agreed to advance half the amount at the usual interest of two percent per month, for the three months that would be needed to send the paper to Osaka and complete the transaction. "Do you want the money in cash?"' "No, thank you, I still have a few oban," he said exaggerating, down to his last two.
"Please open an account for me, deduct the charges for my room and food, I need some clothes, swords, and could you please arrange a masseuse."
"Of course, Otami-san. About clothes, the servant will show you our stock. Choose what you want. As to swords for sale," Ryoshi shrugged, "the only ones I have are trinkets for gai-jin and hardly worth your trouble but you may see what I have. Perhaps I could obtain proper ones for you. Now I will show you your room and your private entrance and exit--there is a guard here, by day and by night."
Hiraga had followed him. Never once had Ryoshi commented on his nakedness or bruises or asked any questions. "You are welcome and honor my poor house," he had said and left him.
Remembering the way it was said suddenly made Hiraga's skin crawl--so polite and grave but underneath so deadly. Disgusting, he thought, disgusting that we samurai are kept in poverty by corrupt daimyos and Shoguns and Bakufu and forced to borrow from these low-class zaibatsu who are nothing but filthy, money-grubbing merchants who act as though their money gives them power over us. By all gods when the Emperor has regained power there'll be a reckoning, merchants and zaibatsu will begin to pay....
In the same instant he felt her fingers stop.
"What is it, Lord?" the masseuse asked, frightened.
"Nothing, nothing. Please continue."
Her fingers obeyed, but now their touch was different and there was tension in the room.
It was an eight-mat room, the futons stuffed with down, the tatami of good quality and shojis recently renewed with oiled paper. In the takoyama niche was an oil lamp, flower arrangement and small scroll painting of a vast landscape, its only habitation a tiny cottage in a bamboo grove, with an even tinier woman forlorn in the doorway, peering into the distance--a love poem beside it.
Waiting, Listening to the rain Beating on the rain So lonely, filled with so much hope for her man's return.