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father built her a small house in the hills. Her only visitor was a local monk, who had undertaken to teach Tsuyu the women’s characters her father wished her to learn – but not, of course, the Chinese characters a man of similar rank would be taught.’
    Taro looked down, embarrassed. He, too, knew only the hiragana.
    Oshi didn’t seem to notice. ‘One day the monk brought with him a friend – Hayao here. It goes without saying that he was handsome, his carriage and bearing fitting for a samurai of his rank.’
    Taro glanced at Hayao, slumped in the cart, trying to imagine the man strong and vigorous. It was difficult.
    â€˜When he and Tsuyu saw each other,’ continued Oshi, ‘they fell in love immediately – and though the monk kept a careful eye on them, they contrived to declare this love to each other. As Hayao left, Tsuyu whispered to him that if he did not return she would surely die.
    â€˜Hayao was only too glad to return, but sadly etiquette would not allow him to visit the small house alone. He waited and waited for the monk to invite him again – but the latter, having seen hints of the developing romance as clearly as an astrologer might read a fortune in the stars, avoided the young man scrupulously. He knew that Tsuyu’s father would have him killed if he besmirched – or caused to bebesmirched – the honour of the lady of the plum rain.’
    Hana snorted at this. ‘Men,’ she said.
    Taro looked at her. What did she mean by that?
    Oshi just shrugged. ‘Fathers must look out for their daughters,’ he said. At this Hana did blush – and Taro knew she was thinking of how her own father had ordered her to commit seppuku, when he knew of her treason.
    If Oshi noticed her discomfort, he didn’t say anything. They were walking through a long, broad valley of rice paddies, and as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, he continued his story.
    â€˜Not realizing the true reason for her love’s neglect, Tsuyu wasted away in the little house on the mountainside, and very soon died of a broken heart. She was buried in a nearby cemetery among the plum trees.
    â€˜Hayao, of course, knew nothing of this death, since his only channel for news of the girl was the monk, who had taken to ignoring him. But one day the monk unexpectedly arrived on his doorstep. “Forgive me for keeping my distance for so long, friend,” the monk said. Hayao forgave him instantly – his only preoccupation was with seeing Tsuyu again, and he knew that the monk was the one who could arrange it. “I forgive you, of course,” he replied, “but only if you will take me once more to see Tsuyu, my plum blossom rain, my cool dew on a hot day.”
    â€˜The monk’s face fell. “I am sorry to tell you, Hayao, but the girl is dead. I am afraid that when you saw her last, the meeting, though brief, was long enough for her to fall in love with you. But I was afraid to take you to her again, in case her father got wind of it and had me killed. When I heard that she had died, it was clear to me that she had suffered a broken heart.”
    â€˜Hayao could not believe his friend’s words. “But I love her,too!” he cried. “Surely I could have convinced her father of my honourable intentions?’
    â€˜The monk smiled. “Oh, Hayao, how hard it must be to be so handsome that girls will die for love of you! But come, let us not keep talking of the dead. All we can do now is open a bottle of sake and repeat the
nenbutsu
.”
    â€˜But Hayao could not move on – he remained frozen with grief for many months. Every night he repeated the
nenbutsu
, and the name of Tsuyu was never absent from his thoughts, and neither was the memory of her lithe figure and almond face absent from his imagination.’
    Oshi paused. ‘That part of the story I had from the monk – he was the first person I talked to, when