From within the shadows at the back of the store, a small old woman was staring out at him, puffing on a long, thin pipe, her hair held up in a bun by a comb, watching him. Now she took the mouth of the pipe from her lips, tapped its black barrel on the edge of the table, looked back up at him, smiled and said, ‘Conk!’
Half in the doorway, half out on the street, Ryūnosuke looked away from the woman and stared down at the Maria Kannon – Mary staring up at him, Mary smiling up at him – and on the base of the stand on which she stood Ryūnosuke now read the inscription carved in Latin at her feet –
DESINE FATA DEUM FLECTI SPERARE PRECANDO.
*
Under a full May moon, on the Bridge of Hesitation, I am breaking apart a Castella cake from Fukusaya, stuffing great chunks of Castella into my mouth, longing and yearning, under this full May moon, on this Bridge of Hesitation, longing for a path to follow, a different path, yearning for wings, oh had I the wings, under the moon, on the bridge, the tranquil breezes from up the hill, the golden fruits there on the hill, longing and yearning, under the moon but off the bridge, beneath the willows, the weeping willows, through the lights of Maruyama-chō, her veiled lanterns shining red, longing and yearning, the currents raging, the torrents rising, taking me up the hill, walking me up the hill, to the horror of my soul, the horror of my soul, longing and yearning, without courage, without faith, no hand from the gods or a God, going up the hill again, walking up the hill again, longing and yearning, carrying me up the hill, walking me up the hill, on a promise of wonder, from longing by yearning, up the hill, to wonderland.
*
High up on the hill, up above Maruyama-chō, above the lanterns, above the rooftops, through the gate, past the well, through the garden, past the chestnut tree, in the grounds of the former residence of the mistress of Takashima Shūhan, at a geisha house named Tatsumi, in the second-floor room named Useirō, the Tower of the Voice of the Rain, sat on a cushion in the window, his notebook in his lap, Ryūnosuke had been doodling and sketching, doodles of thin, black, reptilian figures, sketches of the mythical Kappa; now he looked up and out of the window, watching the lights from the house fall through the night, over the barley and the bamboo of the garden, listening as sudden drops of an early summer rain fell on the pantile roof, on the stones of the path and the leaves of the plants below, imagining this house and its garden as they once must have been, the place now lost, the time now gone, the sound of the raindrops now gone, too, lost in the noise from the rest of his party; gathered around the large table on the mats in the centre of the room, Kanbara, Nagami and Watanabe chatting and drinking with the geisha of the house, Dateyakko, Kikuchiyo and Terugiku, everyone joking and laughing, the faces of the men shining red, their cheeks ruddy with drink, playing and singing, standing to dance, then falling to sleep …
Now Terugiku, the geisha of this house to whom Ryūnosuke had grown quite close, very close, in fact – indeed, his only reason to come back here tonight, on this night, his last night in Nagasaki – now Terugiku sat down beside Ryūnosuke, stared down at the doodles and the sketches he had drawn, looked back up, then asked, ‘Are you bored of this place, Ah-san?’
‘Not any more,’ said Ryūnosuke, looking back at Terugiku –
Her kimono of a chijimi weave and her obi of a hatan weave were very different from the geisha of Tokyo, and though her hair was drawn up into a ginkgo-leaf bun and her make-up pale, the features of her face were also uncommonly strong for her trade, her brows and her nose pronounced, and her dark eyes and downturned lips gave her a melancholy air, even when she smiled, even as she asked, ‘Do you believe Kappa really exist, Ah-san?’
‘Do you believe we really exist,’ he replied, ‘you and me?’
Terugiku gently squeezed his arm, smiled and said, ‘Of course …’
‘Then, of course, I believe Kappa exist, too.’
She touched his arm again and said, ‘You’ve touched a Kappa?’
‘No,’ laughed Ryūnosuke, ‘they are much too quick for me. But you know, there are so many tales of Kappa, from down the ages, from all over Japan, so one must conclude these tales are based on truth …’
Terugiku gently squeezed his arm again, smiled again, and said, ‘Well, I suppose, by the nature of your trade, you must believe the words you read.’
‘No,’ laughed Ryūnosuke again, ‘not at all. Though I suppose, by the nature of your trade, you must doubt every word you hear …’
Her arm still on his arm, Terugiku looked up at Ryūnosuke, slightly shook her head and quietly said, ‘Not every word, Ah-san.’
Ryūnosuke glanced away from Terugiku, glanced back at the room, saw his muddy-faced companions passed out on the cushions on the mats, their glasses now empty, the geisha now gone, saw the peeling flakes on the gold-plate screens of the room, again filling him with a sad nostalgia for the place as it must have been once, the place now lost, the time now gone, just the dusty face of an old clock staring back at him across the silent room –
‘It can’t be only eleven,’ he said. ‘It must be much later?’
‘Yes,’ said Terugiku, ‘it’s much, much later now.
