drama. As the play advanced toward its climax, the puppets raised their eyebrows, waved their arms, shrieked and wailed in an agony of frustration and despair.
Then came the denouement: the anguished hero committed suicide with his mistress, a lovers’ suicide. Rie could hear men clearing their throats and shifting in their seats. When the lamps were relit, she noticed tears glistening on Jihei’s cheeks, and several men around them weeping. She smiled ruefully. Chikamatsu was in truth the master playwright. He had so accurately evoked the two separate worlds of Japan, the world of the family and the world of the geisha, the water world where wives never ventured. It was obvious where the sympathies of the men in the audience lay: with the hero and the geisha, not with his wife and children who were left behind.
“What a master Chikamatsu was,” Sunao said to Rie as they rode home in a ricksha together.
“And did you notice all the men in the audience weeping?” Rie asked. “We are supposed to sympathize with the hero and the geisha, not the wife and family at home,” she added with a wry smile.
“Isn’t that the way with most of his plays,” Sunao asked rhe-torically.
Work at White Tiger continued as if the Bunraku expedition had not occurred. Kobe was home to all the largest breweries in
80oyce Lebra
Japan, and competition among them for the Edo market, key to the success of any large brewery, was fierce. Thousands of other brewers scattered throughout the countryside did not enter the Edo market but brewed wherever farmers had a rice surplus and sold locally to loyal clientele.
Rie stood eavesdropping beyond the office one morning, as she often did. “Yamaguchi tried to contract one of the cask ships we’ve been using, to monopolize the whole ship,” Kin said to Kinzaemon and Jihei. “He offered a price higher than the going rate, but the shipper was wary because of his long connection with us. The man just has no scruples.”
“Well, it’s good that we’re in time with this year’s shipment to Edo,” Jihei said.
“Especially since we contracted the two extra ships to handle expansion this year,” Kinzaemon agreed.
Kin scratched his head. “But I’d like to see our gold-and-sil-ver exchange expanded further. Always less risk that way, as Rie says.”
Kinzaemon rubbed his chin. “That’s what we’ve always believed. Yes, we could raise it five, maybe ten percent.”
“Perhaps as much as fifteen, or twenty,” Kin said.
They heard someone running toward the door and looked up. Kinnosuke, as Shin’ichi was now called since he had become Kin’s apprentice, entered out of breath and bowed twice.
“There’s a messenger from the shipping contractor in the outer office. He’s very agitated,” he blurted out. He bowed twice.
Rie backed out of sight, but strained to hear. She moved down the hall toward the outer office. “Have him come in,” Kinzaemon said. “No, let’s go, Kin and Jihei.” Kinzaemon struggled up from the tatami and the three walked quickly to the outer office. “ Ah, Hayami-san,” Kinzaemon said to the bowing official.
“What brings you here?”
Hayami bowed again. “Very sorry to say, Sir. There has been
The Scent of Sake 81
a shipwreck on the way to Edo. One of the ships with part of your shipment has been lost.” He bowed again. “It was that dangerous shoal near Nagoya.” He wiped perspiration from his face with a towel from his sleeve and sighed.
“Oh! Oh!” Kinzaemon groaned. He pulled at his ear and glanced at Kin.
“It wasn’t our whole consignment, was it?” Kin asked, frowning. “We were using five ships.”
“Yes, I think one fifth of your total,” Hayami agreed.
“How will we repay our loans this year?” Jihei asked, rubbing his eyebrows.
“We’ll give you a discount on your next year’s shipment,” Hayami said. “Fifteen percent. We have no words to apologize adequately.” He bowed continuously.
“Yes, we’ll need
Then came the denouement: the anguished hero committed suicide with his mistress, a lovers’ suicide. Rie could hear men clearing their throats and shifting in their seats. When the lamps were relit, she noticed tears glistening on Jihei’s cheeks, and several men around them weeping. She smiled ruefully. Chikamatsu was in truth the master playwright. He had so accurately evoked the two separate worlds of Japan, the world of the family and the world of the geisha, the water world where wives never ventured. It was obvious where the sympathies of the men in the audience lay: with the hero and the geisha, not with his wife and children who were left behind.
“What a master Chikamatsu was,” Sunao said to Rie as they rode home in a ricksha together.
“And did you notice all the men in the audience weeping?” Rie asked. “We are supposed to sympathize with the hero and the geisha, not the wife and family at home,” she added with a wry smile.
“Isn’t that the way with most of his plays,” Sunao asked rhe-torically.
Work at White Tiger continued as if the Bunraku expedition had not occurred. Kobe was home to all the largest breweries in
80oyce Lebra
Japan, and competition among them for the Edo market, key to the success of any large brewery, was fierce. Thousands of other brewers scattered throughout the countryside did not enter the Edo market but brewed wherever farmers had a rice surplus and sold locally to loyal clientele.
Rie stood eavesdropping beyond the office one morning, as she often did. “Yamaguchi tried to contract one of the cask ships we’ve been using, to monopolize the whole ship,” Kin said to Kinzaemon and Jihei. “He offered a price higher than the going rate, but the shipper was wary because of his long connection with us. The man just has no scruples.”
“Well, it’s good that we’re in time with this year’s shipment to Edo,” Jihei said.
“Especially since we contracted the two extra ships to handle expansion this year,” Kinzaemon agreed.
Kin scratched his head. “But I’d like to see our gold-and-sil-ver exchange expanded further. Always less risk that way, as Rie says.”
Kinzaemon rubbed his chin. “That’s what we’ve always believed. Yes, we could raise it five, maybe ten percent.”
“Perhaps as much as fifteen, or twenty,” Kin said.
They heard someone running toward the door and looked up. Kinnosuke, as Shin’ichi was now called since he had become Kin’s apprentice, entered out of breath and bowed twice.
“There’s a messenger from the shipping contractor in the outer office. He’s very agitated,” he blurted out. He bowed twice.
Rie backed out of sight, but strained to hear. She moved down the hall toward the outer office. “Have him come in,” Kinzaemon said. “No, let’s go, Kin and Jihei.” Kinzaemon struggled up from the tatami and the three walked quickly to the outer office. “ Ah, Hayami-san,” Kinzaemon said to the bowing official.
“What brings you here?”
Hayami bowed again. “Very sorry to say, Sir. There has been
The Scent of Sake 81
a shipwreck on the way to Edo. One of the ships with part of your shipment has been lost.” He bowed again. “It was that dangerous shoal near Nagoya.” He wiped perspiration from his face with a towel from his sleeve and sighed.
“Oh! Oh!” Kinzaemon groaned. He pulled at his ear and glanced at Kin.
“It wasn’t our whole consignment, was it?” Kin asked, frowning. “We were using five ships.”
“Yes, I think one fifth of your total,” Hayami agreed.
“How will we repay our loans this year?” Jihei asked, rubbing his eyebrows.
“We’ll give you a discount on your next year’s shipment,” Hayami said. “Fifteen percent. We have no words to apologize adequately.” He bowed continuously.
“Yes, we’ll need
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