Young men in this world, it seems, light up when talk turns to girls. That girl is beautiful, the princess of that house is such-and-such—they never tire of going on about it.
I don't understand it at all.
Women are frightening.
When I say that out loud, my attendants always laugh. My lord jests, they say. I'm not jesting. I'm scared to the bottom of my heart, scared enough to shake.
No, let me put it properly. I'm afraid of people themselves. Men and women, old and young. I'm terrified of letting someone whose thoughts I can't read get within reach. The softer the voice, the kinder the approach, the more frightening they are. Because I can't see what's hidden behind the kindness.
And of all of it, marriage meetings are the worst. They show you into a room with no way out, leave you alone with a girl you don't know, and tell you to lean in close and chat sweetly about something or other. You can't be serious. With someone who could be hiding anything in her sleeve, I'm supposed to lay bare the spot right in front of my heart, defenseless?
So at marriage meetings, I go full fool. I pull the gourd from my hip and gulp the water down. I take a dried persimmon out of my pouch and munch on it. If she asks me something, I don't say a single word; I glare into empty space. When the moment's right, I stand up without a word and walk briskly out of the room.
Inside, I'm a nervous wreck. The instant I turn my back, won't someone do something to me from behind? Won't someone be lying in wait at the corner of the corridor? So my feet speed up. I leave the room as if I'm fleeing.
That way, most marriage talks simply vanish on their own, from their side. "We cannot give our precious daughter to a fool like that." That's how it goes. If I do say so myself, it's a splendid way to ward off women.
But here's the thing.
People read that "foolery" like this.
"They say the young lord sat before a peerless beauty and did not so much as twitch an eyebrow."
"Unmoved by women—what steadiness of nerve... That is no ordinary vessel."
My nerves are anything but steady. I didn't leave my seat out of fortitude; I just ran away. My heart was pounding like an alarm bell until I was out of the room. By the time I'd made it all the way down the corridor and finally came back to myself, my back was damp with cold sweat. I wasn't unmoved out of virtue; I was scared to death of being approached.
Even so, I was relieved. Now, once again, no one would come near me. Without letting anyone within reach, I could sleep alone again tonight.
Being alone is lonely. But being lonely means being alive. Better to live lonely than to die stabbed, by a long way. I tell myself that, and close my eyes.
—That's how complacent I was, back then.
A strange rumor began to spread through the household.
Someone was coming, they said, whom I couldn't escape.
Someone who would never back down, no matter what antics I pulled, no matter how long I kept silent. Someone frightening, who would instead see right through to the bottom of me. Saito Dosan, feared as the Viper of Mino.
His daughter, they said.
The instant I heard, my stomach clenched tight. Of all people, the Viper's daughter. A woman who'd chase me even if I ran. Someone my foolery wouldn't work on.
—What do I do?
Feeling the cold sweat run down my spine, for the first time in my life, I just trembled at the approach of a marriage I couldn't escape.