The Master Puppeteer: Chapters 12–16

But it was not that he was selfish or so wrapped up in his own concerns that he could not proceed. It was, rather, that in the enormity of the problems that faced him he had no inkling as to how to proceed.

But it was not that he was selfish or so wrapped up in his own concerns that he could not proceed. It was, rather, that in the enormity of the problems that faced him he had no inkling as to how to proceed.

No, he had no desire to die even a magnanimous or romantic death.

He needed an intermediary—someone he and Yoshida both trusted—to approach the puppeteer.

The chanters and musicians lived in their own world and only deigned to step down into that of the puppeteers when the practice of their art demanded it.

“Forgive me for imposing again, but I need to see Okada today." Jiro licked his lips. “It's very important."

“So you are to produce the elusive Saburo for Kinshi in just two days?”

“Tozo's always poking around in there and in my chest. Besides, I couldn't find it so easily myself. Blindness is not so much an affliction as a wretched inconvenience."

Jiro hardly noticed that the other boys were disgruntled at him for leaving his midmorning chores for them to do, such a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Remember the story of the peasant girl who was courted by a handsome suitor? She was not content that a highborn personage would deign to notice an ordinary girl like herself. She wanted to know what his name was and who his noble parents might be and where his ancestral home might stand.”

“The old nurse lit a lamp, and the two curious women went into that cave—and what should they find but an enormous serpent writhing in pain, the needle pierced deep into its throat.”

“Where in the devil have you been?” Mochida’s usually placid features were contorted with anger.

Had his concentration wavered for one instant from the performance, he would have gone to pieces, so he drove himself into the depths of it.

Above the shouts of the firemen and even above the clamor of the gongs, there was a cacophony of banging and crashing and strange unearthly cries as though hell had unleashed all its goblins.

Above the shouts of the firemen and even above the clamor of the gongs, there was a cacophony of banging and crashing and strange unearthly cries as though hell had unleashed all its goblins.

Above the shouts of the firemen and even above the clamor of the gongs, there was a cacophony of banging and crashing and strange unearthly cries as though hell had unleashed all its goblins.

They ran into the flames and came running out again, laden down, still laughing and shouting to one another, showing off their loot for a moment; then they dropped it into the street to smash and burn again.

“I am sorry,” he said, his words careful and deliberate, “for the pain I have caused you and your mother.”

He walked along, his heart beating so noisily and painfully that at first he heard the cries and clangor of the streets distantly like the background pot beating behind stage at the Hanaza.

But the streets of Osaka were still teeming with evil intent, and if Jiro had had less within to fear, he would have been acutely aware of all that was swirling about him.

But the streets of Osaka were still teeming with evil intent, and if Jiro had had less within to fear, he would have been acutely aware of all that was swirling about him.

“Fireman!” He used the word like an obscenity, and then raising his leg kicked it under Jiro and sent him sprawling against the crowd, which moved back quickly, allowing him to fall on the cobblestones.

The ronin jerked away from this offer. “I don’t need help.” He shifted the bolt from under his right arm to his left and grasped both bolts tenaciously.

Both bolts were gone by the time the ronin’s body hit the pavement, and so was Jiro, leaving the crowd shrieking derisively at the braggart who had now neither silk nor fireman to boast of.

Both bolts were gone by the time the ronin’s body hit the pavement, and so was Jiro, leaving the crowd shrieking derisively at the braggart who had now neither silk nor fireman to boast of.

But in this second wave of violence the crowds had grown in size and in belligerence, so that the search itself was far more hazardous.

He was greeted respectfully by an underassistant magistrate, a stout, pleasant man, who told him what a courageous role his fire brigade had played the night before and questioned him closely about a number of close calls.

Fortunately Jiro's ignorance about the Namba Cho Fire Brigade was taken for modesty, and he was praised lavishly and led into the courtyard—after proper approval had been gained from the officer in charge—to see if he could find his relatives.

Here and there an injured person was stretched out on the stones, but for most there was hardly room to sit down, and when someone moved, the movement rippled through the yard, so that people were falling and stumbling across the prone figures.

Jiro stepped up on the stool. Dozens of sullen eyes turned toward him. It took him a minute to realize that it was the Namba Cho uniform. They hated his uniform.

“We’ll march right up and bluff our way through. These ragamuffins are easily cowed.” The officer had regained control.

“We’ll march right up and bluff our way through. These ragamuffins are easily cowed.” The officer had regained control.

“We’ll march right up and bluff our way through. These ragamuffins are easily cowed.” The officer had regained control.

At last he shook his head, and in exactly the same bantering tone he used in the boys’ dressing room at the Hanaza, he said, “I seem to have misplaced the fool thing.”

Jiro’s hand flew to his eyes as if to shut out the unbearable scene scrawled on his brain by Kinshi’s mocking voice.

Kinshi nodded at the remains of his right arm. “I’m merely spared the ordeal of handling the feet of my father’s puppets ever again.”

“No,” Yoshida said. “It is the nature of the boy. He has always spent his spirit the way a profligate son spends his father’s wealth.”

“Perhaps he was trying to test you. He knew you would not betray me because of your loyalty to Kinshi. But Kinshi is not Okada’s son. He had to know you would not betray him either. Perhaps he had devised a trial.”

Despite the women’s protests, Kinshi was propped up regaling the other boys with a comic version of his adventures as a would-be night rover.

In my politest manner—to anyone else I would have sounded like the third concubine of a minor court official in a conversation with the Emperor—I inquired about his health.