Masks Read Free Page B

Mieko, Mikamé suddenly took on the smoothly sociable manner of his profession.
    “Do you know the way?”
    “Yes, Mr. Yakushiji sent the car around to get us.”
    It was Yasuko who responded directly to Mikamé’s attempts at conversation. Mieko only lay back languorously, deep in the cushions, nodding slowly or smiling in agreement with everything Yasuko said. Next to her, Yasuko seemed alert and vivid. Mikamé thought of Ibuki’s analogy to off-scale portraits of women in old Chinese paintings and Japanese ukiyo-e; but to him Mieko resembled less an outsize drawing of a beautiful woman than a slightly vulgar background of some sort—a heavy, ornate tapestry or a large blossoming tree—against which Yasuko’s youth and charm showed off to heightened advantage.
    A long bridge with ornamental post knobs appeared outside the car window, then the tiled roofs of a large temple complex. Mikamé had no idea what part of the city this might be. Eventually, after numberless twists in a road barely wide enough to squeeze through, the car stopped, and everyone got out. They followed a small stone path ten or twenty feet to the entrance of a latticed town house whose doorplate read “Yakushiji.” Standing in front of the door was a young woman with large eyes and thin eyebrows, who bowed deeply at the sight of Mieko and her party.
    “Welcome! I’m so glad you could come. My father and brother have been looking forward to this, too.” Toé, the daughter, spoke Tokyo Japanese with a distinct Kyoto flavor. Still bowing, she ushered them inside the house.
    To Ibuki and Mikamé, familiar with the world of No only as it appeared onstage, the house was surprisingly like that of a tradesman. They followed a narrow veranda around a corner and into a sitting room roughly three yards by four, so small that cushions for the four guests took up most of the floor space. Mikamé, a big man, knelt on his cushion with knees pressed closely together, looking more cramped than the others.
    “Father has been bedridden for a long time now,” said Toé, bringing in tea and cakes. “He’s very sorry not to be able to meet you today.” The sight of a middle-aged woman in an apron, probably a maid, disappearing down the hallway with a tray of food gave further evidence of an invalid in the house.
    “What’s wrong with your father?” asked Yasuko.
    “It’s cancer of the stomach. He’s been ill for so long that his face is quite thin and sunken.” She knitted her eyebrows. “Sometimes in his sleep he looks so much like the mask of the Wasted Man that it frightens me. I can’t bear the sight of that mask anymore.”
    “I can well imagine.” Mieko nodded sympathetically. Yasuko quickly joined in.
    “That was in your poem, wasn’t it? Remember, Mother, the one last month—” She looked at Mieko.
    “I’m afraid it wasn’t a very good idea for us to descend on you like this, was it?”
    “Oh, not at all!” Toé opened her clear eyes wide in seeming surprise. “The costumes are out of storage now for their fall airing anyway, and Father thought this would be a good chance for you to see them, Mrs. Toganō. Last year we enlarged the stage (at the expense of the rest of the house, unfortunately), and we’d like you to see that, too, while you’re here.”
    A young man who appeared to be a live-in pupil entered the room, carrying a bundle. “Miss, the young master says he’ll show the costumes here and leave the masks for later, on the stage.”
    “Oh? All right then. The guests are here, so you may tell him to come in.”
    “Yes, miss.”
    No sooner had the pupil departed with a perfunctory bow than Yorikata Yakushiji walked into the room, muscularand erect as a swordsman. He greeted Mieko brusquely, without a word in reference to her status as his sister’s poetry teacher. To Yasuko’s introduction of Ibuki and Mikamé he responded with a stiff seated bow, arms squarely akimbo. Then he gave a wry smile and said, “Father