Sitting behind the zither, his back straight and head tilted to one side, dressed to the nines, the man quietly turned his face to Misao. Misao looked into his eyes and caught sight of something unusual within them.
He was alone in the room. No geishas had been called. Misao guessed that he didn’t want many people around him.
Misao folded his hands in front of him and bowed, then moved to sit, not across from Masaomi, but a slight distance from the butterfly-leg table in the room.
He didn’t want to be a nuisance.
“I came to offer you some wine, but if I’m interrupting, I can leave.”
Masaomi shook his head gently. “No, it’s fine.”
He pulled the picks off of his fingertips and turned to face Misao, the little table between them. Misao relaxed and drew closer as well.
“Thank you for your help this morning.”
Masaomi thanked him, his face mild, in place of a greeting. Misao inclined his head ambiguously and held up a wine bottle. Masaomi raised his cup without objection.
“Did you get a chance to speak with Ukigumo?” Misao asked, his question weighty with implication as he tilted the wine bottle over Masaomi’s cup.
He was sure that when Ukigumo had left Sakai’s room earlier, it had been to come here.
“Well...”
Misao saw Masaomi smirk at his own evasiveness and he withdrew the wine bottle curiously.
“She was as tight-lipped as a clam, just like last night.”
“What?”
Misao’s voice slipped out at this unexpected information.
This was Masaomi’s second visit to the brothel. His second meeting with the courtesan. No matter how prideful the girl, she always spoke to a customer on his second visit to her.
“She was playing that zither there so that she wouldn’t have to talk, and she was kind enough to let me borrow it.”
Masaomi gazed at the zither anxiously, then turned his face back to Misao.
“I think she must hate me.”
His sorrowful smile stabbed into Misao’s heart.
“I can’t believe that,” he whispered.
It was exceedingly rare for a courtesan to brush off a customer. And what could she have possibly found to object to in Masaomi?
If it were me, Misao thought, then cut that train of thought off at once.
“Misao?”
The sound of his name flustered Misao more than it should have.
He was afraid he might drop the wine bottle, so he set it back on the table.
“Yes?”
He collected himself and tried to answer calmly, but he didn’t think he managed it very well.
“What sort of work do you do here?”
Misao was at a loss as to how to answer this question and searched for his words.
“Well... I do lots of things.”
“Such as?”
Cleaning the building, delivering trays to rooms, talking with the customers, lighting lamps: none of these things merited discussion. And the fact that he flirted with the customers to earn money was out of the question.
Misao looked down at the zither.
There was only one thing he did that he could be proud of with no qualifications.
And maybe it would cheer Masaomi up.
Misao drew Sakai’s gift from his sleeve and rested it on his knees. Once he was sure Masaomi had seen the fan, he said, “Would you play something for me?”
Masaomi glanced briefly at Misao’s composed features as he made this request, and after a languid pause he agreed. “Certainly.”
Masaomi stood and returned to the zither. He drew himself up beautifully and looked to Misao for his signal.
“What would you like?”
Misao’s mind went suddenly blank. His eyes dropped to the fan as he considered. He remembered the painting on the fan’s folded paper.
He looked up at Masaomi.
“Sakura, Sakura, please.”
Masaomi nodded and Misao rose to his feet, holding the fan.
Internalizing the plucking strings, he drew his feet together femininely and loosened his knees to take the beginning pose.
The beautiful strains of the song began.
He rested his left hand over his right and pulled open the fan, the right hand pulling it forward three slats and the left pulling it back five.
Each time a string reverberated, Misao imagined a single pink petal dancing through the air.
Gesturing with his left hand, he held the fan flat and lifted it as he twisted his legs, sliding them over the floor to turn around.
His mind was utterly silent.
Ever since childhood, dance was the only art of all those Misao had studied that he hadn’t hated.
It let him escape.
Like mist, or a cloud—he twirled the fan and slipped about the floor. Suddenly the sound of the zither stopped. But they had been approaching the final verse, so Misao simply continued dancing in the silence. He held the fan flat, then he flipped it over and danced low to the ground. He stretched the fan out, then brought it to the side of his face. He touched his right knee to the floor and held the pose, shaking his head three times to end the dance.
Silence reigned for several beats until it was broken by modest applause. Casting his eyes to Masaomi, Misao’s gaze asked him wordlessly why he had stopped playing.
Masaomi answered earnestly. “I realized that I couldn’t properly appreciate your dance if I was playing.”
Misao’s eyelashes fluttered twice, struck speechless by his serious answer. Then he whispered, “It was nothing, really.”
He laid three fingers over his heart and bowed. Masaomi returned the gesture.
“I feel better now. Thank you. You’ve been very kind to me.”
He looked at Misao with a tender smile.
“You’re a wonderful person.”
Misao felt a sharp pain, as if tiny threads were tightening around his heart.
His brow wrinkled and he shook his head. He rushed with mincing steps to Masaomi’s side and drew out the thing that he had kept tucked inside his kimono. He knelt on the tatami floor and swept up one of Masaomi’s hands in both of his own as Masaomi stared at him in shock.
He never said a word. He only stared at Misao. And Misao stared up at him. He felt there had never been a moment this serious in all his life.
“All I wanted was the handkerchief.”
Misao slowly, tenderly pulled his hands away from Masaomi’s.
“I did that because I wanted to,” he said quietly.
Masaomi’s gaze rested on Misao’s face, then slid to the door.
“Welcome back,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing with a smile as Ukigumo came in, Sazu in tow. Her face held none of its usual mildness; it was harsh as she looked back and forth from the money in Masaomi’s hand to Misao’s face. Sazu looked up at Ukigumo, frightened by this change in her older sister’s usual behavior.
“Omi—”
Ukigumo called to him, her hard voice almost scolding, and she took a step into the room.
Masaomi seemed taken aback for a moment to hear Ukigumo speak to him, but he quickly regained his calm and smiled at her.
Misao’s breath was arrested, as if he’d taken a blow to the chest.
Ukigumo sat coquettishly next to Masaomi.
There was no way she was brushing him off.
Seeing the two of them beside each other, Misao realized what the near future held.
Ukigumo glanced meaningfully at Misao, obviously wanting a word with him. Misao bowed his head and left the room. He heard Masaomi call out to him quietly, but Misao could never have turned to look back.