text: It was a stiff walk, even for Jiro's tough frame. The rumor he had heard in the festival was subsequently confirmed at other places. Satsuki was somewhere ahead of him, probably on the way to Yoshino. Towards evening he came to a village with a post house on the road. The village boasted a large inn. Jiro smiled grimly. More than food or lodging, he craved a bath. He felt at his sleeve: quite empty. A thought occurred to him, and he entered the prosperous- (and expensive-) looking establishment.
  
  No, the proprietor explained. No, he had no need for wood. Look, he said, and showed Jiro the bath house. A natural hot spring gushed from the rocks, filling a large bath in which bathers sat and steamed themselves. Jiro shrugged and turned to leave. Behind his back, the innkeeper wore a broad smile. Few samurai would descend to the level of begging for work, and it was a minor pleasure to be refusing one. Most of them just took.
  
  "Why are you smiling at my friend's departing back?" a hoarse voice interrupted him. He turned and bowed deferentially to his most illustrious guest, while Jiro paused in mid-stride.
  
  "Miura-san!" the hoarse voice called out. "Would you leave without having a drink with me?"
  
  Jiro turned to see the sumo wrestler Tatsunoyama beaming at him. They exchanged greetings, and within minutes Jiro was ensconced in a large room occupied by the wrestler's bulk. A slightly smaller, younger, slimmer version of Tatsunoyama was arranging luggage and laying out a robe.
  
  "That good-for-nothing is my student and valet," Tatsunoyama indicated. "He'll get us some food and drink."
  
  The youth hurriedly disappeared, and soon Jiro and his host were inundated with food and drink.
  
  "I had no idea sumotori lived so well!" exclaimed Jiro as he dug into a rich stew of fish, taro, pounded rice cakes, and vegetables. Though a large man and a hearty eater, he found it impossible to keep up with the wrestler, who ate as if he had not eaten for a week.
  
  "You think I pay for this?" Tatsunoyama laughed. He was in a jovial mood. "No, the landlord is only too honored to have me. His rooms will be full tonight as men come to catch a glimpse of me." He made a face and slurped at his bowl, then reached for the wine. Jiro reached the bottle first and looked for a cup to pour for his host. Tatsunoyama looked about him, saw the tiny sake cup, sneered, and held out his rice bowl. Jiro filled it and held out his own in a spirit of sharing Tatsunoyama's hardships.
  
  Their bellies full, both men relaxed on their seating cushions, chatting easily. Their sizes and consequent temperaments created a natural sympathy between them. The velvet night covered the wooded hillsides, and still they talked. A maid came in to light the candles.
  
  "Is there anything interesting to see in this town?"
  
  The maid giggled behind her hand at the wrestler and said excitedly, "Actually, there is a small troupe performing plays down in the old shed. Perhaps the honored guests would care to attend?"
  
  Both men rose and agreed that a stroll would do them good. The old shed turned out to be an unused rice depot. The sides were open now, and a crude stage had been erected at one end. Jiro looked at it critically. It was like a parody of a formal stage. A passageway was left for the appearance of the players, but there was no pine-tree prop, as all real stages should have. Instead someone had painted a backdrop of a city scene in garish colors. The players were on stage. Rather than proper players' masks, they wore simple makeup. Instead of a formal elegant presentation of the classics, they were singing a popular song that Jiro had been vaguely aware of in Miyako. And both actors were girls. The audience—farmers, youths, some of the inn guests, a merchant or two—were enthralled. They laughed at the jokes and innuendos, cried at the bathetic songs. Some called out encouragement to the actresses who posed before them, changing costumes and props swiftly before the audience's eyes. Most of the show consisted of dances and songs with short skits interspersed between musical sections. Jiro found that he recognized some of the pieces from the formal No theater he had been exposed to in samurai society. But the changes made on the originals were delightful and witty, and he found himself enjoying the skits more and more.
  
  Occasionally one of the players would strike an attitude, emphasizing a mood or emotion. This was new to the audience, and they expressed their appreciation noisily. One of the actresses struck a particularly effective pose before Jiro and Tatsunoyama. Jiro looked at her critically. Her costume was sewn together of bits and pieces of material, mended many times. Some of the pieces must have come from rich robes, he decided. He looked at the actress's face, and a shadow crossed his brow. He had seen the face before, but he could not recall when. He looked at the other actress, and the shock of recognition almost brought him to his feet. The second actress's face was a mirror image of the first. The makeup they wore was not heavy enough to hide the fact. Jiro also recalled now where he had seen the two before. They were, Lady One and Lady Two, the twin mistresses of a Lord Matsudaira, whom he had helped kill sometime before. Satsuki's husband had been another one of those killed, when Jiro and his friends had foiled a planned coup d'etat. The play rolled on, and Jiro cautiously relaxed.