sleeping cat, a sack of coins, a snake tied in a knot, and a rare hinged one of a pair of baboons squat-fucking, the realistic action of which was much admired by connoisseurs, who detected in the intricacy of its design and the audacity of its mechanism the epitome of the style of the Edo townsman.
The merchants had sent servants at dawn to encircle the area around one of the larger cherry trees with red-and- white-striped barrier curtains. All down the length of the riverbank other parties had done the same. Red felt ground-mats covered the grass, casks of rice wine stood against the trunks of every cherry tree, and black lacquer stacked-boxes of seasonal delicacies dominated the centre of each picnic site, along with tray tables arranged for the convenience of pleasure seekers.
At last! Osome pushed her way through the barrier curtains, her plump cheeks rosy. I couldn’t find a good bush! she cried breathlessly. Then I got lost coming back!
Osome waved a flowering branch of cherry blossoms like a dancer in the new-style kabuki theatre. And all these cherry trees look alike!
Oyuki whacked her samisen as if punctuating a dramatic entry, and Osome cocked her hip in a saucy pose then began singing, ‘Oh, come and look! What won’t you see?’ in a sweet if reedy voice.
Start again, said Oyuki, struggling with the unfamiliar melody; but Osome continued with, ‘ Rice crackers, salmon crackers and…’ and I forget the rest of it.
She flopped down beside her companions, jarring apart the elaborate brocade mass of her front-tied sash knot. Next time I’ll just piss in those reeds down there, Osome said, smirking at her own foolishness.
The grassy scent of rice wine greeted Ohasu as she began filling the long-handled pourers. People thought she seemed older because she was so thin. But she would let it be known that she rarely became ill and still had all her teeth. And that because she was small, she wouldn’t take up much space.
A scattering of cherry petals spangled the lid of the wine cask, the pale pink flakes lovely against the reddish-brown lacquer surface. Ohasu was careful not to disturb them as she replaced the lid.
Osome came over to help, her collapsing sash knot clutched up against her midriff. Which one’s your poet? she whispered, then slipped in behind the tree to reconfigure herself.
He’s not here yet, Ohasu said.
And these are the ones who will decide it?
Perhaps some of them.
And you’ll go if requested?
It’s a matter of the price for my contract…
Of course. But if you do go, then you’ll have lots of opportunities to practice your poetry. Osome struggled with the stiff, new oversized knot, jerking it tighter then backing it off slightly. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
Yes.
Under the trees, soup and fish salad too:
cherry blossoms.
P ETAL FALL CONTINUED STEADILY throughout the afternoon. Every cherry tree on the riverbank had its crowd of revellers regretting the passing of the year’s most precious season, and consoling themselves with music and laughter, dancing and wine. The rising wind riffled the surface of the river, blew up dust on the cart tracks, and sent latecomers scurrying through pink swirls of cherry petals as they searched for an open space where they too could celebrate what was so poignantly ending.
Old Master Bashō accepted wine when it was offered but didn’t seem to mind when the pourers were commandeered by others. Osome heaped a dish with fish salad for him, and he smiled at the excess and declared he couldn’t finish even half that amount. Ohasu interceded. She selected a few of the choicest titbits and arranged them nicely for him.
Bashō sat by himself at the edge of the red felt ground-mat. He replied politely to queries about his well-being and commented on issues of local concern but volunteered nothing about himself and asked no questions about others. Ohasu watched him covertly. She thought he seemed exactly as he should be: subtle and
The merchants had sent servants at dawn to encircle the area around one of the larger cherry trees with red-and- white-striped barrier curtains. All down the length of the riverbank other parties had done the same. Red felt ground-mats covered the grass, casks of rice wine stood against the trunks of every cherry tree, and black lacquer stacked-boxes of seasonal delicacies dominated the centre of each picnic site, along with tray tables arranged for the convenience of pleasure seekers.
At last! Osome pushed her way through the barrier curtains, her plump cheeks rosy. I couldn’t find a good bush! she cried breathlessly. Then I got lost coming back!
Osome waved a flowering branch of cherry blossoms like a dancer in the new-style kabuki theatre. And all these cherry trees look alike!
Oyuki whacked her samisen as if punctuating a dramatic entry, and Osome cocked her hip in a saucy pose then began singing, ‘Oh, come and look! What won’t you see?’ in a sweet if reedy voice.
Start again, said Oyuki, struggling with the unfamiliar melody; but Osome continued with, ‘ Rice crackers, salmon crackers and…’ and I forget the rest of it.
She flopped down beside her companions, jarring apart the elaborate brocade mass of her front-tied sash knot. Next time I’ll just piss in those reeds down there, Osome said, smirking at her own foolishness.
The grassy scent of rice wine greeted Ohasu as she began filling the long-handled pourers. People thought she seemed older because she was so thin. But she would let it be known that she rarely became ill and still had all her teeth. And that because she was small, she wouldn’t take up much space.
A scattering of cherry petals spangled the lid of the wine cask, the pale pink flakes lovely against the reddish-brown lacquer surface. Ohasu was careful not to disturb them as she replaced the lid.
Osome came over to help, her collapsing sash knot clutched up against her midriff. Which one’s your poet? she whispered, then slipped in behind the tree to reconfigure herself.
He’s not here yet, Ohasu said.
And these are the ones who will decide it?
Perhaps some of them.
And you’ll go if requested?
It’s a matter of the price for my contract…
Of course. But if you do go, then you’ll have lots of opportunities to practice your poetry. Osome struggled with the stiff, new oversized knot, jerking it tighter then backing it off slightly. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
Yes.
Under the trees, soup and fish salad too:
cherry blossoms.
P ETAL FALL CONTINUED STEADILY throughout the afternoon. Every cherry tree on the riverbank had its crowd of revellers regretting the passing of the year’s most precious season, and consoling themselves with music and laughter, dancing and wine. The rising wind riffled the surface of the river, blew up dust on the cart tracks, and sent latecomers scurrying through pink swirls of cherry petals as they searched for an open space where they too could celebrate what was so poignantly ending.
Old Master Bashō accepted wine when it was offered but didn’t seem to mind when the pourers were commandeered by others. Osome heaped a dish with fish salad for him, and he smiled at the excess and declared he couldn’t finish even half that amount. Ohasu interceded. She selected a few of the choicest titbits and arranged them nicely for him.
Bashō sat by himself at the edge of the red felt ground-mat. He replied politely to queries about his well-being and commented on issues of local concern but volunteered nothing about himself and asked no questions about others. Ohasu watched him covertly. She thought he seemed exactly as he should be: subtle and
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