The Curse of the Matsumoto Cherrywood: Book One

By Matthew Crosby

"This curse, of times long gone, of now, must be set down with indelible ink and read out loud... If there is any hope, it is in the record; for evil prefers silence and withers in the telling."

I’m enjoying the journey... ancient Nara, the 16th century 100-year wars, down to the 1750’s publishing district of Shinbashi, learning woodblock printing, fashion and colour. On visits to the Ukiyo–the floating world–we meet customers and their imprisoned courtesans. On slow and fast trains and on foot, we see the sights of the nakasendo, the inland highway, and stay at its checkpoint inns. In Book One the yakuza, organised crime visit... ghosts past possess these narcissists in pursuit of the oldest prizes–lust, money, power. In Book Two, we meet a few good cops. I can't wait to share my personal experience of Tokyo tent theatre—the tragedy of a curse that takes hold; in Book Three we climb to the pilgrim hut, ghosts above Mt Ontakè, on to Matsumoto Castle and return to Melbourne to a dénouement that startles even me. The Curse of the Matsumoto Cherrywood is a new slow-burn saga told in the light of incendiary lamps. One reader said, 'I felt utterly transported, challenged and stimulated stylistically, never doubting the hand that held the narrative tiller; sure, in control, confident, a writer on top of his game.' Another said, 'Matthew Crosby's research and knowledge of Japan, both its language and culture is meticulous. He weaves this knowledge, together with an innate sense of drama seamlessly into his narrative to create an overall immensely satisfying and immersive experience.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Crosby
• Release date: Dec 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005857486

Matthew Crosby

In various forms, I've been writing all my life. My theatre, television and film career has focused my attempts within that sphere. At the age of 50 I commenced my first pass at longform fiction writing with The Curse of the Matsumoto Cherrywood. What a fabulous form! Early on, I took advice from a published speech that screen writer Andrew Bovell made, in which he said that a writer should be surprised by the trips and turns of their characters. When I came to decisions that might limit the scope, I admit, I should have known better. I followed the meandering path of ghost story writing till the scope became epic. A decade of research, theatre projects in Japan and experience gained writing in the novel fiction form led me to this saga. Concurrently, I wrote the play The Intriguing Case of the Silent Forest, and a screenplay following Japanese writer Akutagawa Ryunosuke which I called Lipstick. The play was performed in 2019, two days ago I met with Korean Japanese director Kim Sujin, who says that the project is advancing. So, with the second book hitting the digital stands this month of February 2024, I am thrilled to be presenting the fruits of these Japanese influences, a series of novels on the Smashwords format. It provides a platform for writers to reach readers directly, and for that I am thankful. Please do drop me a line, I look forward to hearing your response to the story so far.

Book preview

The Curse of the Matsumoto Cherrywood

Book 1

by Matthew Crosby

Front Matter

The Curse of the Matsumoto Cherrywood Book I

First published 2022

©Matthew Crosby 2008

Melbourne, Australia

Cover: Jack Kirby Crosby, font and graphic design: Heather Walker

Distribution: Smashwords

All rights reserved.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please visit your favorite eBook retailer to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

for Jack and Naree

Table of Contents

Front Matter

Characters

Glossary

Part One

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part Two

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Book 2 Free Sample

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Characters

Books 1, 2 & 3

(Japanese names: family name appears first)

8th century – Nara Period; Nara

Empress Shōtoku: 718 – 770. 46th and 48emperor of Japan. 1st reign: 749-758 (as Kōken); 2nd reign 765-770.

Dōkyō Yugeno: a priest attending the Empress Shōtoku

Fujiwara clan – The Fujiwara clan was a powerful family of regents in Japan

16th century – Province of Kai

Takeda Shingen: warlord of the provinces of Kai and Shinano… often called Shingen

Lord Baba of Mino: real name Baba Nobuharu (later Nobufusa) – one of Takeda’s 24 generals, inner vassal to Takeda

Lady Suwa: Suwa Yorishige; mistress of Takeda Shingen

Takeda Katsuyori: illegitimate son of Takeda Shingen and Lady Suwa

Oda Nobunaga: great warlord

Oda Hujin: Oda’s niece (adopted)

Father Gaspar Martinez: Spanish missionary

18th century, Tokugawa Period; Matsumoto

Warden: Mr. Fueda senior–warden at Matsumoto Castle

Tokugawa Shogunate: the clan of the Tokugawa, shoguns (military heads of state) ruling Japan during the Tokugawa period, 1603–1868

18th century, Tokugawa Period; Edo (Tokyo)

Takabata Akuma: a young artist, Momo's love

Momo: a dancer at the Ogiya restaurant, Akuma's love

Takabata Hiroshi: father of Akuma. A ronin (masterless samurai)

Toriyama Kenjiro: a wood block carver

Captain Kota Chishu: a captain of the palace guard and descendent of Takeda Shingen

Jūzaburō Tsutaya: publisher

Suzuki Harunobu: painter

Senryū: Karai Hachiemon–Edo era poet

Santō Kyōden: novelist

Rin: Studio foreman

Jun: a street urchin who befriends Takabata Akuma and finds employment at the ukiyo-e studio in Nihonbashi

Australia

Detective Peter Martin: a detective with the Victorian Police Force

Tom Martin: Peter Martin’s father

Mary Martin: Peter Martin’s mother (deceased)

Lisa Martin: Peter Martin’s sister (deceased)

Jean Martin: Peter Martin’s wife

John Soranno, Detective: Peter Martin’s partner in the Victorian Police Force

Clark, Inspector: Peter Martin’s superior

Siobahn White, Detective: Federal Police

Alan Foster, Crown Prosecutor

Tokyo Metropolitan Police

Ishiguro Tetsuo, Detective: Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force with a silver tooth

Sato Munenori, Inspector: of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force

Honda Yuka, Junior Detective: Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force

Shintaro, Detective (later acting inspector): Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force

Mori, Junior Detective: Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force - assistant to Shintaro

Miura, Retired inspector: Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force

Kondo, Junior Detective: Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force

Takemori, Junior Detective; Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force

Tokyo

Awaki Shinko: an ukiyo-e expert of Waseda University

Hiroyama Nanpo, Professor: friend of Shinko, (deceased)

Takako: a young girl

Kota direct family

Kota Masuji: head of the Kota clan yakuza gang

Mrs Kota: wife of Masuji

Kota Chikiji: Masuji’s only son

Kota Hanako: Masuji's daughter (deceased)

Kota Gang

Sugimura: senior Kota gang-member

Kobiyama: senior Kota gang-member, old school friend of Chikiji

Obe : senior Kota gang-member

Ishii: Kota accountant, second in command

Takeshi: junior Kota gang-member

Yun: junior Kota gang-member

Hiro: Kota gang-member

Genbei: Kota gang-member

Manabu: Kota gang-member

Tent Theatre

Kara: actor. Playwright, director and actor Kara Jurō founded Aka Tento, (Red Tent Theatre) in Tokyo

Taka: actor. Ōkubo Taka, performed with Aka Tento, (Red Tent Theatre), Tokyo

Kim: director. Actor and director Kim Sujin founded Shinjuku Ryozanpaku theatre, Tokyo.

Mihyang: actor who plays the shaman. Mihyang Bae is a Korean born actor and producer working in Tokyo and Korea.

Chiba prisoners (those named)

Ishihara: thin with high laugh

Akada: high-pitched voice

The dribbler

Yojimbo: the bus driver

Kato: high pitched laugh

Printers

Nabe: rubber

Asagaya: colourist

Otaki

Toriyama Hiroshi: a sculptor, husband of Hisako; descendent of the print-block carver Toriyama Kenjiro

Toriyama Hisako: a calligrapher, wife of Hiroshi

Endo Senior: neighbours to Hiroshi and Hisako

Endo Junior: Endo Senior's son

Kisofukushima

Fueda Eiichi: the fish seller, descendent of The Warden at Fukashi Castle

At Fueda’s party:

Hiromi: Fueda’s older sister

Hayashi, Mr & Mrs: bakers

Kato, Mr & Mrs: tofu makers

Nomura, Mr & Mrs: florists.

Sakamoto: fishing pal of Mr Fueda and Toriyama Hiroshi

Gong: the bus-driver

Nakamura: local policeman

Matsumoto TV

Minato: producer Joy+Life Television Magazine

Yamamoto: anchor woman

Hiro: editor

Glossary

chuban: medium size

Edo: Tokyo

iwana: Salvelinus: cold freshwater trout

Kabuki: Popular theatre form originating early Edo-period

kagami: mirror

kamisama: god

kimono: Japanese clothing, especially full length

nigiri: rice hand-formed with a topping of fish

Sakura: Cherry tree

Samurai: warrior, a retainer of a lord especially in Edo period

sashimi: sliced raw fish

Shibaraku: literally ‘for a short time’, in the play title, the nuance of ‘just a moment’ or ‘hold on a second’.

shikoso: pigment, colourant

shogun: military leader of Japan during the Tokugawa period

tayu: in this sense, high-ranking courtesan. Also, high-ranking actor.

tofu: pressed soy bean curd

Ukiyo-e: Japanese woodblock print

yūgen: mysterious profundity; quiet beauty; the subtle and profound.

Part One

Preface

The only way to tell a story is onwards as the saying goes, but how can that be when all things come from the past? Begin with a departure; as usual a woodblock-carver leaves his wife early in the morning with a fond farewell by the portico; no… that’s just a cheerful bloom finding early spring sun–the roots lie beneath. Like those rhizomes that spread from the source… quietly, assuredly, taking advantage of good conditions when they come, patient if they don’t… from a distant past these roots grow; they creep under the unsuspecting carver, Mr Toriyama. He was chosen for just that sometimes his father went fishing with a man, his friend the warden of a castle. It’s a simple association on which the rootstock of a wandering story feeds. Thus it finds the block-cutter’s poor collaborator the young artist Takabata Akuma and unfortunate Momo his love. Centuries later Detective Martin, his doomed wife and though I name myself so, his faithful partner Detective Soranno are inveigled. Detective Kiko Honda shall be named Martin’s counterpart in Japan for now… as storytelling demands some things be allowed to unfold. Just for the supremacy, without pause or remorse, this narcissistic invader dwells in the corners of reflections and sucks on those who gaze at themselves over-long. In the end all are endangered by this creeper for such is the vigour of malicious intent. Across counties and countries, down through time, underground, this intention spreads, releases its seed to the air. So the curse whispers through the waving needles of ancient pines, the psithurism propagates things better never planted, but once sprouted best weeded. Bearing witness carries the point of a story, and the reporter notes past ills for present thrift. So this curse, of times long gone, of now, must be set down with indelible ink and read out loud… If there is any hope, it is in the record; for evil prefers silence and withers in the telling.

Chapter 1

Everything is as it should be. A bird finds a spot to claim, hiding in the cedar, calls on the chill air, invites a mate. A fine day awaits birth in the black blue of the pre-dawn. Toriyama stares up into Naomi's eyes. She understands him. Slight wrinkles have appeared, but he would never say. His wife rubs her shoulder for warmth on the front step.

‘Don’t forget, hand behind the blade,’ she says.

Knuckles up, she gives his hand where the scar still shows a gentle shake and brings him to the business of departure. Her stern face painted thinly, Toriyama sees the twinkle shining through her mundane mask… of rice-cooking and tea-making and child-dressing and cleaning and getting him off to work. They share the longing even before the departure. A pace apart by the door, but the need flits between, hands spanning the gap, she lets him go. He only stands; just looking, into her, not letting her retreat just yet, content in her gaze. The memory still sits uneasy between them both of when the chisel slipped into his hand, the web of skin between his thumb and finger. She just showing with the first child, they were hurrying to finish up for her parent’s arrival, sorting and cleaning, dusting and fixing. He cut the piece of wood for the shoe-rack a whisker too long, but with her calling for him to finish, in the race to get things done, he used the wrong tool for adjusting the length, and the chisel found his hand. Blood and swabs and kisses and apologies reminded them both to give each other the time. In the end her parents stayed the night to help with setting things up. Her father helped with the shoe-rack. He said that nothing shared was ever done in haste. So, on they went with a scar for the reminder.

‘You’ve got the Tafelon Anatomy book meeting with Ribee for lunch.’

‘Yes dear.’

‘The children always wait for you in the evenings so don’t be too late.’

‘No dear.’

‘And the novella is finished?’

‘Yes dear. We’ll start the print as soon as Jūzaburō has looked over it. It’s a good story.’

‘Who’s the writer?’

‘Kyōden.’

‘Ah yes. My mind’s going.’

‘Then there’s no hope for me.’

‘Get on with you. And don’t forget about the calendar party, it’s coming up fast you know.’

‘Yes dear.’

‘Don’t yes-dear me. Who will you ask to illustrate?’

‘Oh, Harunobu owes me a favour.’

‘Him? Really?’

‘Why?’ He can see her bristling.

‘Nothing. Never mind.’

‘No, now you’ve said it–’

‘I said never mind. Now get along, you’ll be late.’

They both know she doesn’t want him to leave, and he doesn’t want to part. At the gate he turns for the farewell wave.

‘Tell Rin to give the men a proper break–no sense killing them,’ she calls.

‘Yes dear. Will you drop by?’

‘Not today. I’m teaching. Come home. You know the children look for their story.’

‘Yes dear.’

A sheepish wave and latch the gate and gone. Toriyama had totally forgotten about the anatomy book. Fascinating. Depictions from the West of the human form were so real. He admitted to feeling slightly queasy when he regarded them, as though he were peeling back skin and peeking beneath at the bones. Not for him to judge–Ribee the publisher was covering all the costs. Toriyama had even borrowed two carvers from next door to finish on time.

A blue early spring hue lightening, some ash-grey expels on his breath with the remains of the frost. At the top of the arch of the Nihonbashi bridge his chest expands as Mount Fuji comes into view, sparkling with the first of the sun, mystical, floating up above low cloud. He stops, rests on the railing, takes three deep breaths and takes in the scene. Still some ice patties like pale rice-cakes floating down. A few boatmen, manoeuvring their skiffs into the wharf, shout a greeting between themselves, and he is bumped from his reverie on the mastery of canal-poling by a careless vegetable-carter, who lets his basket brush his bottom with a not-so-sincere apology as he does. He understands the censure that he is blocking the path, but it does not break Toriyama’s appreciation of the morning air. At Nihonbashi, the great Coast Road runs from the bridge south down past Mount Fuji there, all the way to the capital, Kyoto. He feels it as the artist’s duty to consider the world each day, and it is on this bridge that he notes the changes, sees the similarities, observes the shape, the health of the day after yesterday. It's as though this spot were the measure of the nation. In truth his mental journal is the same everyday rain, hail or shine,

‘Even better,’ he confides with himself.

He pats that pitifully expanding belly of his, leaving behind Kanda for the business district of Nihonbashi where his studio is situated.

Across the bridge,

‘How are you today Mr Toriyama?’ calls the arthritic Mrs Suzuki the fishcake-maker, who is making sure he doesn’t neglect a stop.

Reaching in his sleeve for the purse, he responds as usual, ‘Ever better Mrs Suzuki.’

‘Until ever ends,’ she cackles.

Happy because like so many, she had seen off the miserable hardship of failing crops and edicts prohibiting the eating of the rice that she herself had grown. She packed up and came to town. She cooked just one recipe… it was a Chinese thing… minced fish, salt and deep-fry. Ten years ago it was unknown, twenty years before that, no one would be cooking on the street, and yet here was Mrs Suzuki making her fortune on the stomach of Toriyama's print-shop. A hundred thousand books published last year she's heard.

‘I’ll take sixty if you have them… for the men.’

‘Two-a-piece?’

‘Two-a-piece Mrs Suzuki.’

The oil is ready; the small triangular-shaped cakes counted out and floated carefully, bubble cheerfully.

‘How’s Mrs Toriyama?’

‘Busy as ever. Off to teach flower-arrangement before lunch.’

‘Oh, she’s a clever woman.’

‘Cleverer than me, Mrs Suzuki.’

‘Really? You’re too modest.’ She ladles them in to printing wastepaper that Toriyama himself supplied, ‘Here we are Mr Toriyama.’

He pays and waves and goes. He’s about on time because the real bustle isn’t yet upon the street, he even catches sight of a night-soil cart, which strictly speaking is not allowed because of the damage the wheels cause to the roads, and that was true enough, but one would be churlish to enforce such a law. In London he’d heard that they throw their excrement in the river… imagine! He rounds the dog’s leg corner and announces his arrival through the large open double-doors with the call of fishcakes, which is met with cheers of thank-you and well-done and thanks-be-to-god. Immediately he is set on by Rin the foreman with his board of agenda for the day, and a countermand for the men to sit back down and work until the break-bell is rung. The woodblock-cutters have been at work since sunrise. One shouldn’t waste daylight was how Rin justified the early starts. The workmen liked to joke about his name, which also meant wheel, in saying he liked to keep them all rolling, but Toriyama thought that unfair. The man was meticulous in everything he did, and in the publishing game success could not be achieved without that trait.

‘Have we heard anything from Ribee?’

‘Ah yes boss, I’m glad you asked.’

Toriyama is glad he remembered.

‘Yes, we heard late last night that he’s had to re-schedule today’s lunch. Sent his sincere apologies, you see he’s been called to the censor with this business.’

‘Really?’

‘Something about Western content, I think. We’re already halfway.’

‘It will be fine Rin. Censors need to justify their existence the same as everybody else. There will be some twiddling and tweaking I imagine.’

Toriyama admires Rin’s eyebrow–an arch as steep as the Nihonbashi bridge.

‘Mm. The main thing I wanted to let you know was that this arrived for you.’

‘This? What this?’

In silence Rin hands Toriyama a sealed note from a province… he can tell by the seal.

‘Matsumoto, is it?’

‘Yes,’ says Rin.

Mr Toriyama breaks the seal.

To Mr Toriyama Kenjiro,

Given the great lack of suitable lumber for the purpose of the creation of fine artworks such as printing which your honourable self produces, on behalf of my master, I, keeper of the grounds at Matsumoto Castle, ask if you would be interested in the gift of the wood of a very old cherry tree which has died on our property. We believe the tree was a thousand years old. You come highly recommended, and the wood is offered unencumbered. We would be well pleased if your honourable self could travel here to see to its cartage personally.

Yours sincerely

Warden Fueda, Matsumoto Castle

for the most honourable

Lord Toda Mitsuyasu

Meiwa 1 (the year 1764)

The paper droops in his hand.

‘Something amiss Mr Toriyama?’

‘Not exactly Rin. You read.’

The offer of free timber is fine if it were a stand of trees, but one tree trunk, and this warden seems to insist on Toriyama’s attendance. Wood a thousand years old is significant, but normally such a thing would be turned over to a furniture maker or a sculptor. Why the wood blocks for an ukiyo-e print?

‘That’s curious; and well… it’s such a busy time.’

‘Is one able to refuse a provincial lord’s offer?’

The foreman’s face blanks, which usually means he doesn’t know or he doesn’t think so. Since he rarely doesn’t know, he probably thinks a refusal unwise. Toriyama starts to factor the plusses and the minuses of such a trip on his imaginary page–time wasted, reputation gained; old wood hardness, interest in the woodgrain; journey expense, new patronage; permits required, permissions received. Anyway he looks at it, both sides balance. His stomach feels the falling emptiness… anxiety is the great appetizer.

‘Perhaps it’s time for morning tea?’

Heads lift, hopes rise, chisels stop. A silence spreads. The sweet smell of cooked rice and miso soup flares nostrils. All eyes fall on Rin. He lifts the well-worn cedar striker beside the hanging bell just when a loud and important hello calls through from the portico, and without awaiting a response, a captain followed by several marshals, clatter on the boards of the entranceway with their clogs, and glare imperiously into the workshop’s expectation of morning tea.

It is to be a morning of upset routines, and through his wide smile Toriyama sucks in the interruption, sighs out his calm, thanking the gift of respiration for equilibrium.

‘How can we help you gentlemen?’ he greets.

‘Captain Kota Chishu from the Commissioner’s office, we’re here to see Kyōden’s work.’

‘Eh? Kyōden you say? But he’s not here, I’m afraid. We rarely meet the writers here.’

‘That’s why I asked to see the writing not the writer.’

‘Yes, I see. I was just about to have the tea, let’s go to my office and see what this is all about. I’ve got some delicious fishcakes for you to try. Let’s see about the rice. ‘Taka!’ He shouts the name and the captain winces.

‘I don’t need your tea or your fish-cakes. Let me see the novella.’

‘Ah! Behind the Brocade; I’m afraid it isn’t finished yet Captain. It’s a very nice re-telling of Yugiri of the Whirlpool. You know the history play?’ Toriyama stresses history as if he were nailing a floorboard.

‘History my arse–rank parody set in a brothel more like. Show me what you’ve got.’

‘You see Captain Kota the woodcuts are finished but we’re still waiting for Mr Jūzaburō’s go-ahead for the print.’

‘Where are they? Show me the blocks.’

The captain kicks off his clogs, steps up onto the boards of the shop floor and strides towards the first of the carvers. Their work is still paused… neat rows of eyes peering up from their angle boards, gouges and chisels and scribes poised, curled shavings and loose jaws frozen with the incursion on their morning tea. The captain’s men fall in behind, and Toriyama coughs, scandalized by that they have their truncheons drawn twirling in the fleshy part of their hand. Occasionally they tap them on desks as they go or on their black lacquer breast-plates making the sound they wished to imitate of wood on skull.

‘Just a moment, we’re working on several jobs all at once.’ Toriyama uses his most jovial tone, ‘body-parts on the right, whirlpool on the left,’ and measures the response, ‘of course in the case of an inspection, if that’s what the honourable Captain is proposing but, well you see, it’s really most unusual… without any warning. One wonders if there might be any paperwork for one to regard before we disturb the–’

‘Shut your fat trap and show me the wood blocks.’

It’s clear that the captain has a nasty temper, and Toriyama only wishes he could pour some tea down the man’s gullet as clearly last night’s sake was still playing on his mood. The captain’s truncheon is at the ready, and it seems to Toriyama that, impersonating a razor, it finds his throat all by itself so swiftly does it move. Everyone gasps, except the captain’s men, who smirk.

‘Yes, well if not the tea, then let’s see now, I think we can manage that, Rin, where have we stored Mr Kyōden’s parable, I wonder?’ Toriyama remembers something from the censor’s code about moral instruction being a caveat for titillation.

‘On the rear racks boss. If the gentlemen would like to come this way, I’ll show them to you.’ Rin leads them under the mezzanine, which extends above the studio floor.

They march along the aisle separating the thirty or so carvers, down to the younger apprentices supplying tools and lumber, ready with brooms and bins. There are colourists and artists towards the back near shuttered windows where a thin bald man, an old-timer, the chief colourist is in charge of the post-print rubbing of tan or pink.

‘So, this is where the fine art of Edo is created eh? I’m a great admirer,’ the captain deviates to the artists in the drafting corner.

‘Is that so sir,’ says the most senior of them, combing his shock of grey hair back off his temple, a satisfied smile to have gained the attention of an appreciator. ‘Would the Captain care to see this. I’ve been illustrating Toshi-sen, Selections of Poetry of the Tang Dynasty.’

‘The first run of a thousand sold out in a day,’ adds Toriyama.

But the captain turns his back, closes around the vain artist.

‘A little savoury Mr Artist,’ lowers his voice, ‘I have a sweet tooth if you know what I mean.’

‘Sweet you say sir?’

‘Come now,’ Captain Kota bends down to the man’s ear, lifts a few of the sheets of drafting paper off the low table, cracks the corner of one rendering it useless for tracing, ‘don’t play the innocent, haven’t you got something I can keep under my pillow? A memento for my visit here today? Something a little cosier… juicier shall we say?’

The artist’s eyes slide down with the greasy innuendo, find his master Mr Toriyama, who jumps into the hiatus like a falling tree.

‘None of that! Certainly, we never dip our toes in any of the smutty publications that so demean the industry, Captain Kota.’

‘Are you suggesting I indulge in smut Mr Toriyama?’

‘No,’ Toriyama squirms, ‘no not at all. I merely… that is to say–as the Senryū poem goes…

The joy is unknown

Of tasting poison fish soup

Because they all died.

Toriyama starts a cheeky giggle to see if the captain will join him but covers it in coughing when he sees his audience cool. Perhaps it’s too early in the day for Senryū.

Sitting washing brushes in the corner, the youngest of the artists takes the captain’s eye. ‘Your face looks familiar young man.’

Young Takabata stops, eyebrows rise, mouth opens, but nothing comes.

‘I’m certain of it. Have we met?’

‘I’m not sure, sir.’

‘Ever been in any trouble with the law?’

‘No sir.’

‘Sure?’

‘Quite sure, sir.’

Mr Toriyama encourages the youngster. ‘Akuma my boy, where might you have met Captain Kota? Don’t be shy.’ He turns to the captain, ‘This is young Takabata. Of course, just for now we have him on the washes, but Suzuki Harunobu himself noticed him. Isn’t that so, Rin?’

‘Eh?’ Rin rouses, ‘Yes master, Harunobu himself.’

The captain ceases his sideburn pulling. ‘Taka… Takabata? Course it is. You’re Taka’s son! Ha. How’s your father Master Taka?’

‘Oh, well you see, he died some two years back sir.’ Takabata doesn’t meet the captain’s eye.

‘Sad; sorry to hear,’ but a kind of triumph lights across his face. ‘I knew him. We worked together… out on the Coast Road. Fine fighter and no denying it. If half had his skill, we’d save twice the trouble.’

‘Is that so sir?’

The young artist leans forward on his knees to hear talk of his father.

Captain Kota points as if Takabata were