Free The Printmaker's Daughter by Katherine Govier Page A

horse. Clumsily, Sadanobu dismounted and began to walk in our direction.
    “Speak of the devil!”
    “Look at the has-been slumming it down here in the quarter!”
    I agreed with those who said Utamaro was wrong. Sadanobu might no longer be senior councilor, but he would never lose power: his grandfather had been shogun. They called him a hypocrite because he loved the brothels and the drinking life, even though he preached against them.
    We stared as he loomed up. The tobacconist murmured, “I wonder if he’s still reading my books.”
    Laughter broke out, and it carried in the air.
    “No, he isn’t,” said Sanba. “He’s going to bed early because he has to get up to practice jujitsu with his sensei. That’s before he delivers lectures on Confucian fealty. No time for reading.”
    “No more writing either, I guess.”
    “I really do wish I’d published that miserable little novel he wrote when I had the chance,” murmured Tsutaya while they all watched the large, clumsy man. “You know he offered it to me? But he was just a sappy young lord who was going to inherit some faraway domain—who cared? I passed on it. Now I hear he’s destroyed it.”
    “Don’t believe it. No writer ever destroys his work. He’s got a copy,” said Kyoden. “A secret part of him believes it will be discovered one day, and he’ll be seen as a genius.”
    “Probably the loyal retainer has it.”
    “I remember one line,” said Tsutaya dreamily. “ ‘The truth dawned on me: words of praise that had been showered on me were nothing but flattery from those who wanted my favor. I had neither talent nor good memory.’ ”
    Everyone laughed. “He got that right.”
    Now Sadanobu was within earshot.
    The Mad Poets all turned their backs and became fascinated with the troupe of dancers in the riverbed. I saw that Waki was trembling and that sweat came from his temples.
    We felt, rather than saw, Sadanobu stop. He was breathing heavily. He was big, and from the side he bulged like a pregnant woman.
    “I have a message,” he said. Nobody moved. “A message for the man called Utamaro.”
    “No such man here,” Utamaro called out. “No such man at all. The artist of that name is an immortal.”
    More heavy silence.
    “When you meet him next”—heavy irony here—“kindly tell him he should take care. He treads close to the line.”
    “Close to the line? With what?”
    “His pictures of the courtesans. He makes their faces known, as if they were heroines of legend. As you all know, the brothel world brings shame on our realm. It has long been forbidden to put out pictures of these evils. He has been warned.” The heavy man was out of breath.
    No one said anything. The retainers folded Sad-and-Noble back in their midst and set off.
    When the horses’ hoofs could no longer be heard, the laughter began.
    “You see?” Utamaro preened. “I am the best. That proves it.”
    No one rose to the bait. The wine was gone. A chill rose from the grass. I felt it through my kimono. The waitress kneeled on the bank picking up glasses. The birds pipped; it was dusk. A sadness welled. Yuko sat with her hands folded in her lap, with no expression on her face. Only Utamaro went on.
    “Let him say what he wants. I know I’m safe. I’ve been painting these women for how many years? And never been touched. Kyoden was arrested because he used words. Words are flagrant and can’t be ignored. But pictures,” Utamaro was saying, as we all packed up, “pictures can be as I please. Strictly speaking, they are forbidden, but that means nothing when it is a question of greatness.”
    “Bring your picture, Ei,” said my father gently. He lifted it and looked at it carefully. “It’s not so very bad. We might be able to put it in the book.”
    I SAT WITH Shino in her room, making characters with brush and ink. She was heating water for tea on the small grill. She was a proper courtesan now. She’d debuted and had her own clients. Her