His name was Minamizawa Tomei. He was the son of an oil seller. He was gentle, with the eyes of a child and a shuffling gait. He longed to work with Hokusai. But my father could teach only those who taught themselves. So I worked with Tomei instead and he relied on my example.I liked him. At the sake houses after work, he was company. We listened to the women with their heads bent over samisen. He sang like a bird. We clowned together. Since Sanba’s death, I was the punster.My father asked us one question after we announced our intention to marry: “Why do you drink sake?”“To let go of the hours of the day.”“Ah! I see!” he said. “Not me. I wish to hold on to every minute.”I was cruel to my husband. Some people said, “Oei is the daughter of a master and she laughs at the no-talent son of an oil seller.” That is another of the scurrilous accusations of history, and I dispute it. I married him for friendship. It would have been worse if I hadn’t.I was young and felt old, as if I had lived a famous life already.
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