driven to paint. He must not perform the act of creation strictly for money or for our convenience. He must dance to the master’s tune.
And for all that, for all his laughing and carrying on while he did it, he never seemed to find pleasure.
I fell asleep leaning into my father’s side.
Sanba was standing under us.
“Hokusai, it would be good for you to disappear for a time. Utamaro has been arrested.”
My father’s arm tightened on me. He was silent for a minute. Then he called down, “So you tell me. And do you know what I answer? I feel for my friend. But how can I disappear? I am not a spirit, nor a demon! I am flesh and blood.”
Sanba gave a short, sharp laugh. “I think you will find a way, if you want to stay alive.”
We went to Shino’s house. It was early morning. The customers were gone and the girls asleep. Kana let us in, even though she was not supposed to. We slept there, in Shino’s room. Days were quiet in the green houses. Kana was kind, but she said we had to be out by the Hour of the Sheep.
Shino came to the door with us. I saw her put her foot into her sandal, and as she did so, I saw my father doing the same. For some reason the sight made me want to cry. Her small, delicate foot, a servant of other people’s desires. His callused, dry, and thick foot, ready for the roads. My stomach rose up and I was sick.
Shino cleaned me up. “I don’t want to leave,” I whispered to her.
Why was it, for me, so sweet within the thin walls of the bordello? The sadness spoke to me and piled up the woes of the courtesans with their foolish grace. It was like sour plums: I could lick and lick, tasting salt and sweet. They made your mouth raw, but you came to crave them.
It was late afternoon and the crowds were building. “Go to Waki’s tattoo shop. He will be frightened, but he will let you in. Stay there while the streets are full of people. Make sure Hokusai leaves Edo before dawn,” she told me.
“What about me?”
“Maybe you too. You and your father can both disappear for a while.”
My father was quiet, for once. He stumbled, holding me with one hand and Shino with the other.
We said good-bye.
We slept in the back of Waki’s shop and were up at dawn. The vomiting, the drunken songs, and the pleading of the small hours had barely died away. Only laborers rose at this time. The cleaners of the night soil had only just departed. The cats, my friends, were fighting over fishbones thrown out the kitchen doors of the brothels, but except for them, the street was empty. Waki had some money that the Mad Poets had collected.
“I’ll drop it by the jail for Utamaro,” said my father.
“You’re crazy. They’ll be looking for you.”
“No, they won’t. Not at the jail. It’s the one place they won’t dream of finding me.”
Waki and my father laughed then, arms on each other’s shoulders. Hokusai and I walked the length of the street. A tipsy samurai went into the house of straw hats and returned the one that had hidden his face. A child followed him. It was the job of this child to convince the samurai that the amount of change he was handed back from the merchant who had rented him the hat was too small for him to be concerned about. He should leave it to the hat renter, who would share it with the child, who would return a share to the courtesan, who would pay it out in tips to the yarite and the food provider. I knew all that—knew how money and much else flowed in this world—and it made me happy to understand.
At the gate, Shirobei retrieved the man’s swords. Then, hatless, momentarily recognizable to anyone, the samurai moved quickly to the top of the bridge and over the hump. The brown-skinned men with brooms followed, disappearing over the hump of the bridge. And we too followed in the wet streak their cleaning had left.
We humans are like snakes, boneless. We glide along on the earth, our scales rustling in the grass. We shrug off that skin, coming out green
And for all that, for all his laughing and carrying on while he did it, he never seemed to find pleasure.
I fell asleep leaning into my father’s side.
Sanba was standing under us.
“Hokusai, it would be good for you to disappear for a time. Utamaro has been arrested.”
My father’s arm tightened on me. He was silent for a minute. Then he called down, “So you tell me. And do you know what I answer? I feel for my friend. But how can I disappear? I am not a spirit, nor a demon! I am flesh and blood.”
Sanba gave a short, sharp laugh. “I think you will find a way, if you want to stay alive.”
We went to Shino’s house. It was early morning. The customers were gone and the girls asleep. Kana let us in, even though she was not supposed to. We slept there, in Shino’s room. Days were quiet in the green houses. Kana was kind, but she said we had to be out by the Hour of the Sheep.
Shino came to the door with us. I saw her put her foot into her sandal, and as she did so, I saw my father doing the same. For some reason the sight made me want to cry. Her small, delicate foot, a servant of other people’s desires. His callused, dry, and thick foot, ready for the roads. My stomach rose up and I was sick.
Shino cleaned me up. “I don’t want to leave,” I whispered to her.
Why was it, for me, so sweet within the thin walls of the bordello? The sadness spoke to me and piled up the woes of the courtesans with their foolish grace. It was like sour plums: I could lick and lick, tasting salt and sweet. They made your mouth raw, but you came to crave them.
It was late afternoon and the crowds were building. “Go to Waki’s tattoo shop. He will be frightened, but he will let you in. Stay there while the streets are full of people. Make sure Hokusai leaves Edo before dawn,” she told me.
“What about me?”
“Maybe you too. You and your father can both disappear for a while.”
My father was quiet, for once. He stumbled, holding me with one hand and Shino with the other.
We said good-bye.
We slept in the back of Waki’s shop and were up at dawn. The vomiting, the drunken songs, and the pleading of the small hours had barely died away. Only laborers rose at this time. The cleaners of the night soil had only just departed. The cats, my friends, were fighting over fishbones thrown out the kitchen doors of the brothels, but except for them, the street was empty. Waki had some money that the Mad Poets had collected.
“I’ll drop it by the jail for Utamaro,” said my father.
“You’re crazy. They’ll be looking for you.”
“No, they won’t. Not at the jail. It’s the one place they won’t dream of finding me.”
Waki and my father laughed then, arms on each other’s shoulders. Hokusai and I walked the length of the street. A tipsy samurai went into the house of straw hats and returned the one that had hidden his face. A child followed him. It was the job of this child to convince the samurai that the amount of change he was handed back from the merchant who had rented him the hat was too small for him to be concerned about. He should leave it to the hat renter, who would share it with the child, who would return a share to the courtesan, who would pay it out in tips to the yarite and the food provider. I knew all that—knew how money and much else flowed in this world—and it made me happy to understand.
At the gate, Shirobei retrieved the man’s swords. Then, hatless, momentarily recognizable to anyone, the samurai moved quickly to the top of the bridge and over the hump. The brown-skinned men with brooms followed, disappearing over the hump of the bridge. And we too followed in the wet streak their cleaning had left.
We humans are like snakes, boneless. We glide along on the earth, our scales rustling in the grass. We shrug off that skin, coming out green
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