The Salaryman's Wife(7)
“Yes, but I’m certain it would be too expensive for you.” Setsuko’s cold, perfectly shadowed eyes rested on me briefly, then turned back to Hugh.
“It’s not the lacquer that’s interesting, it’s the ghost story,” Taro grumbled. “Lord Uchida’s eldest son ruled the house after his death, but unfortunately he was a very poor leader. Therefore, a cousin decided to take over. The eldest son was murdered. His family escaped except for one daughter, Miyo, who stayed and tried to fight with the cousin.”
“Physical fighting?” I asked, a dramatic picture forming in my mind.
“Like many samurai ladies, she carried a small knife inside her kimono for possible bad situations. She used it on her cousin.” Taro paused, eyes sweeping the crowd to make sure we were all with him. “It was not a deadly wound. His servant took the knife and prepared to execute her, but this cousin had a kind heart and let her live. The shame of failing was too strong for Princess Miyo. She did not want to join her family again. Perhaps they would think the new lord spared her because…” He pursed his lips, and I imagined he was thinking of rape.
“The soldiers released her outside the castle. She ran to the forest and was never seen again. But over time, some people who have walked in the woods tell stories about seeing a beautiful girl in a fine, old-fashioned kimono. She stands before them and then is vanished. And when it is very windy weather, people like to say Miyo is crying.” Taro Ikeda bowed to applause, his story over.
“So it’s really mostly superstition,” I said. I didn’t believe half of it, but thought that would be rude to say.
“Not for me! This is my historical project. I’ve done research at the museums here. With a metal detector, I have searched the forest for evidence of weapons and other things.”
“He finds only beer cans,” Yuki sniffed.
“Yes, I was unsuccessful.” Taro didn’t sound upset. “Probably her treasures were taken many years ago.”
“In my opinion, this conquering cousin sounds quite generous to his enemies. How did he perform as a leader? Was he able to build up the town’s economic base?” Hugh spoke from his halt-sprawled position at the fire. I had grown sick of watching Setsuko go through an elaborate ritual of warming a flask of sake-over the flame before pouring a splash in a tiny lacquer saucer for him. The ritual of a woman caring for her man. Where had Mr. Nakamura gone, anyway?
Taro shrugged. “Everyone agrees that the new ruler saved the town. He forced the people to concentrate on lumber, work far more important to the future than shunkei lacquer.”
“Is that true?” I asked Mrs. Yogetsu in Japanese when she came in to refresh Setsuko and Hugh’s sake supply.
The innkeeper shrugged. “Business is good here. The runaway princess is just a story for tourists. If a daughter existed, she traveled with her family when they left the castle. As any daughter would,” she added firmly.
I thought about the story as I paged through a guide-book to the Japanese Alps after the crowd drifted away from the living room. The legend was an easy way for the town to romanticize its brutal takeover. The ghostly fate of the princess was pure propaganda, a bit of sweet bean paste smeared over the ending like dessert.
A handsome man in his fifties with a thick, some-what rakish crown of silver-and-black hair came out of the kitchen. Yuki told him how much she had enjoyed the meal, and I chimed in. The man looked exhausted, but managed a polite bow of thanks before leaving.
“That man is such a talented chef. I wish my husband cooked,” Yuki complained. Japanese husbands were notorious for not being able to boil water.
“He is talented. I ate so much it will take days to hike it off,” I exaggerated for the sake of girlish goodwill.
“Oh! Then you must come walking with us at midnight.” Yuki and Taro were going to Shiroyama’s oldest temple, where the New Year would be rung in 108 times according to the Buddhist calendar. I had planned on going alone, but the thought of navigating a strange, dark town with new friends was more attractive. At Yuki’s urging, I went upstairs to invite Mrs. Chapman.
I knocked several times on the door two down from mine and called her name. There was no response except the sound of a television blaring an English-language nature program. As I turned to start down the stairs, Hugh Glendinning opened his door.
“Wait just a minute. I want to say I’m sorry but hardly had a chance downstairs.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” It was bad enough up here, with doors as thin as paper separating us from the others.
“Now that I hear you were a victim of sexual assault, I feel rotten. Post traumatic stress disorder and all that.” Hugh studied me like I was some strange species, the violated woman.