The Toyotomi Blades

24

We piled out of the Nissan Patrol as soon as Junko stopped the engine. The Jeep-like Patrol might be fine for acting like a mountain goat, but it was not my idea of the ideal vehicle for the long drive from Tokyo to Lake Biwa. Mariko and I were plenty glad to escape the confines of the vehicle to work out the kinks from our bodies.

The producers of News Pop had been ecstatic over the results obtained. They generously offered to pay for Mariko to go with me to Lake Biwa, along with Junko. The plan was for us to scout locations for a day. Then Nagahara-san would show up to film some location shots and an on-the-scene promo. Yukiko-chan was doing the same thing with Sugimoto at the Osaka location. Then the network planned to promote the hell out of a special News Pop show that centered around the blades and the treasure. Junko told me the producers were positively giddy over the ratings possibilities for the show.

The four of us were staying at a small village near the center of the map. The village was several kilometers north of the main town of Ostu and had a small main street of bars and a couple of clubs that catered to vacationing tourists. We were staying at a ryokan, or Japanese-style inn, that was located on a side street off the main road. I was surprised to see that the inn looked very much like a farmer’s hut and wondered what I was getting myself into after the pampered care of the Imperial.

The ryokan had a low tile roof and a porch made of a dark, weather-stained wood. In front of the inn were sliding shoji screens with a band of clear panels halfway up the screen. A little wooden sign with Japanese characters hung near the door. We walked up to the shoji screen and slid it back. Junko stuck her head into the opening and said, “Sumimasen,” or excuse me.

There was a scurrying of feet inside the inn and a short, square-faced woman wearing a brown kimono greeted us. The woman stood about five feet tall and her hair was pulled back into a glossy bun. She bowed and she and Junko exchanged greetings. They talked for a few minutes and the woman bowed again, motioning for us to walk into the entryway of the inn.

“What about the bags?” I asked.

“She says her son will get them from the car,” Junko said, handing over the car keys to the woman.

“This is the only Japanese-style inn in this village,” Junko said. “We were lucky to get rooms here.” She sat down on a bench near the door and took off her shoes. The woman took slippers out from a bookcaselike shelf near the side of the entrance and handed them to Junko. Mariko and I followed suit.

Junko and the woman talked for a few more minutes, then Junko said to us, “She says we’re going to share the best rooms in the inn. Shows you the power of television.”

We followed the woman to a door at the back of the lobby. When I walked through the door I was surprised to see that we were outside and there was a covered walkway leading to the next structure.

Junko talked to the woman as she scurried past us in the hallway to lead us into the next structure and to our room. “She says that her family has owned this inn for about one hundred twenty years. The original building, the one with the lobby, is actually about three hundred years old. Over the years, her family has bought up surrounding houses and added the passageways and that’s how they’ve been able to expand. She says our rooms will open up into a private garden.”

The woman led us further down a passageway and stopped, sliding back a shoji screen. Junko entered, followed by Mariko and me. We were standing in a plain, rectangular room of wood, paper, and grass tatami mats. The woman crossed the room and opened up the shojis on the back wall. Before us was a beautiful miniature garden of dark rock, bamboo, and green moss.

Junko sucked in a breath of surprise and walked over to the open shoji. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it,” she said.

I walked over and looked out. The garden was no more than twelve feet across and four feet deep. In one corner was a grove of bamboo, and in the middle was a sloping hillside covered with a thick blanket of moss. Jagged rocks were artfully arranged on the hillside, giving the illusion of looking out on a vista with distant mountains. The moss had a golden haze from the late afternoon sunshine, and it formed a rolling carpet around the rocks and up around the base of the bamboo.

Mariko said, “This is going to be great. I’m really glad we came. Even if we don’t find any treasure, this will be a wonderful vacation for us. Should we tip the lady?”

Junko shook her head. “No. Her name is Mrs. Sakurai and we certainly shouldn’t tip her. The tip will be added to our bill as a service charge. We should, of course, thank her.” Which she proceeded to do, bowing and saying her thanks in Japanese. I could see Mariko didn’t like the tone of Junko’s correction.

I gave an awkward bow and said, “Arigato,” which elicited some giggles from Mrs. Sakurai. She said something to Junko. “She said she thinks you’re really cute,” Junko said. “Mariko, Sakurai-san told me she has daughters as well as sons working here. Watch out!”

Mariko sighed. “I don’t see what the attraction is, but I’m used to defending my investment in this guy.” That seemed a warning as much as a statement.

Mrs. Sakurai left and Junko walked over to the wall and slid back one panel, revealing a row of shelves with pillows, linens, and blankets. “We’ve got two rooms, a tatami room and a Western-style room. I’ll take the Western-style room, if you don’t mind, and you can have the tatami room. The tatami room has a private bath with a Japanese-style o-furo bathtub.” She reached onto a shelf and held up a gray and white kimono, “We also have yukatas. They’re summer kimonos. Inns like this usually provide them for guests to wear, so they can be comfortable. It’s a little bit chilly for them, but I suppose we can increase the heat in the room, or I can call Mrs. Sakurai and ask her to send us some flannel ones, instead.”

“This room has central heating?”

“Yes. She said she had it added to this wing and the main entry wing. See, all the comforts of home. It just looks old-fashioned. What more could you want? You’re the king surrounded by two queens.”

I looked around, “Well, I could ask for a bedroom, and for that matter a bed.”

“Sakurai-san’s son will show up with the luggage any minute and we can eat dinner. We’ll have the dinner brought to our room, ryokan style. After that, someone will come and lay out the futons for you. Futons are sort of a padded mat. They roll right out on top of the tatamis. I think you’ll find them comfortable. I’ll be relaxing in a Western-style bed.”

Ryokan living was a combination of camping out and being treated like Japanese royalty. We sat on cushions on the tatami floor as our dinner was served to us in the room by Mrs. Sakurai and one of her daughters. They didn’t go through all the folderol of the Kori-Mizu in Kyoto, but the atmosphere was warm, the food was delicious, and we had a good time. After dinner there was a lull in the conversation because I think we all realized we had a long evening to kill until we could start scouting treasure locations with the coming of the next day.