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“Go about your day exactly as you normally would,” says Kyuubei’s father. “The people want to see that we’re just like them, except richer, better, and more famous, so even the dullest minutiae of your dullest day will give them an insight into the glamour and intrigue of everyday celebrity life. Is that understood, Kyuubei?”
“It is, Father.”
“Papa,” corrects Koshinori, “or – maybe not Papa... Maybe something even cooler. What says ‘celebrity’ better than Papa? Perhaps Daddy-o. Kyuubei, from now on—”
“—you’re Daddy-o,” says Kyuubei, and gives a single solemn nod. “I understand, Daddy-o.”
Everyone in the room stands up to leave it. Koshinori leads the way, and behind him follows Kyuubei, and close on Kyuubei’s heels follow the cast and the crew and the bristling electronic jungle of clustered camera poles and tangled sound wires that comprise the backstage kit of Close-Up Shots With Edo’s Big-Shots, ready for their latest assignment.
+++
The first day’s footage, as condensed for the viewing pleasure of Yagyuu Koshinori the next morning, begins with several hours of training.
The training takes place both alone and while leading that day’s classes in the clan dojo, and multiple brief breaks occur during the hours of training. The purpose of these breaks is clear only because Kyuubei looks directly into the camera and makes it so: “I’m going to use the toilet. Don’t follow me.” The audio track is pristine; the words are unmistakeable.
The footage continues: lunch, eaten in silence with a distant aunt, an even more distant uncle, and two of the four Yagyuu retainers.
Then: a long, steep hike down the hillside into the city itself. The footage follows Kyuubei on a journey through the busy streets, deep into the bustling heart of Kabukichou, and all the way to a destination – to a small and tidy supermarket, and then to its refrigerated aisle.
Then: several long minutes’ silence, as Kyuubei gazes wordlessly into the refrigerated cabinets.
And then: an abrupt turn, silent and composed. The footage follows Kyuubei from the supermarket; it follows Kyuubei on a return journey through Kabukichou; it follows Kyuubei on a return journey up the steep hillside towards the Yagyuu estate, the afternoon sun now beaming hotly, mercilessly down; it follows Kyuubei’s confident re-entry through the main gates—
And then: a pause. An abrupt turn. The footage follows Kyuubei’s return journey down the hillside. It follows Kyuubei’s return journey through Kabukichou. It follows Kyuubei’s return to the supermarket, and to the refrigerated aisle – and this time the second cabinet on the right is thrown confidently open, a hand is plunged confidently in—
And then: a pause. An abrupt turn. Kyuubei returns through Kabukichou, through Edo, through the Yagyuu main gates – and further, this time: across the main courtyard, onto the veranda of the main house, the main door slid halfway open—
And then: a pause. An abrupt turn. The footage follows Kyuubei back down the hillside, back through Edo, back into Kabukichou, back to the supermarket, back to the refrigerated aisle – and the second cabinet on the right is once again thrown open, a hand once again plunged in – and more, this time: a raspberry-flavoured Chuubert is seized – and considered, and replaced, and a melon-flavoured Chuubert extracted instead—
The product is taken to the counter. The purchase is made.
By the time Kyuubei returns to the Yagyuu estate, the Chuubert is long since finished.
The footage concludes with several hours of training. The training takes place both alone and while leading that evening’s classes in the clan dojo, but Koshinori sees none of it: he’s already extracted the DVD from its slot and snapped it over his knee, and snapped those pieces again and thrown them into the nearest ornamental pond to rot, and sent Tojo off to summon Kyuubei to him from the training grounds.
+++
Koshinori is red-faced and strident before Kyuubei even kneels in his room that morning. “The producers told me they couldn’t make an episode from yesterday’s footage even if they tried, and I don’t blame them! I tried to blame them, but I can’t blame them! What in the world were you doing, Kyuubei? Why did you spend all afternoon going back and forth?”
It’s a reasonable question. Kyuubei gives a reasonable answer. “Sometimes I’m at the dojo and I remember something I need from my room. So I go to my room. But once I get to my room, I forget what I needed. So I go back to the dojo, and then I remember. And then I go back to my room. It was like that,” says Kyuubei, “but with a Chuubert. A raspberry-flavoured one. Except... in the end,” with a rising flush, and an air of deep confession, “I wanted melon.”
“Well, we’ll have no more Chuubert nonsense,” says Koshinori.
“None at all, Daddy-o.”
“And let’s try that again,” continues Koshinori. “Go about your day exactly as you normally would, but—” his finger wagging, “but, Kyuubei, remember that in the process you will uphold the renowned celebrity reputation of the Yagyuu clan. And that means doing just as you would normally, except with an added celebrity flourish.”
“I understand,” says Kyuubei, which is wholly untrue.
“Because you know what’s riding on this, don’t you?” His voice is rising in passion. “You saw that article, didn’t you? Eh, Kyuubei, didn’t you?”
“I—” did, Kyuubei doesn’t say, because Koshinori has already tossed yet another copy of last week’s Edo Messenger onto the low table between them, folded open to the article in question: Which Is More Irrelevant In Our Modern Edo: Non-Aeronautical Diesel Cars, Front-Tying Obi, Or The Yagyuu Clan?
“Our honour,” cries Koshinori, “our dignity, our respect—” at which point words fail him, and instead he begins to pound his fist against the table in passionate protest. “Show them we’re relevant, Kyuubei! Show them the celebrity power of the Yagyuu! You’re young, you’re relevant by default, you’re a soaring firework with this clan’s hopes attached—”
“I understand,” says Kyuubei, which is still wholly untrue. “A normal day. An added celebrity flourish. I won’t let you down, Daddy-o.”
+++
“Merchandise,” says Tae, without a single instant of hesitation, as soon as the purpose of the research meeting is explained, “that’s the real hallmark of celebrity, Kyuu-chan. Tie-in merchandise, and magazine covers and figurines and unrelated items of grocery produce released with your face on the packaging. Yoghurt, perhaps, or long-grain rice—”
“Packs of a dozen eggs,” puts in Kagura, “or chicken cutlets—”
“Sheets of pre-cut nori—”
“Or toothpaste, or snack packs of sesame seeds or frozen carrots or packs of a dozen eggs, or oil to stir-fry the whole lot of it, or packs of a dozen eggs—”
“Exactly,” says Tae, clapping her fist determinedly into her hand. “Exactly, Kagura-chan! Anyone who calls themselves a celebrity but can’t produce the novelty salt shaker to prove it has no right to the title.”
“I see,” says Kyuubei, who is scribbling down notes with single-minded intensity at the Shimura dinner table.
Kagura rolls over to prop herself upside-down against the wall of the Shimura living room, hands braced in the small of her back. “Being a celebrity is like stepping in dog crap,” she announces. “That’s how I see it, uh-huh. If there isn’t some big disgusting stink following you around, then no one’s even gonna know about it.”
“Like dog crap,” murmurs Kyuubei, and studiously scribbles that down too.
“If there’s no disgusting stink following you around, it probably never even happened at all,” continues Kagura, as the front panel of her qipao flops down and her face starts turning red. “You probably just thought you stepped in the dog crap, but actually you missed it and the footstep you thought you saw in it was just part of the shape the dog pooped it out to start with, uh-huh.” She kicks her heels against the wall for emphasis. There’s an inauspicious splintering sound, but the frame holds. “Sadaharu can do that,” she adds proudly, “I’ve trained him to poop all sorts of special shapes. He can do sausages, and snakes, and cute little sandcastles—”
Kyuubei flips hurriedly to a new page. “Cute little sandcastles—”
“Not cute,” says Shinpachi, “not cute at all, Kagura-chan, especially not when you let him leave them all around the house and never clean them up—”
“It’s like a treasure hunt,” objects Kagura, “like special little decorations that Sadaharu makes for us because he loves us so much. It’s like a little kid bringing arts and crafts home to his mummy from preschool – he made it for his mummy with love, and even though it’s only a load of glitter and glue and a few dirty smears of paint, his mummy will still hang it on the fridge forever and ever and treasure it every day. You wouldn’t understand, Shin-chan, never having been a mother.”
“You’re not a mother either,” says Shinpachi hotly, “and don’t you dare try to stick any of Sadaharu’s turds to the fridge, Kagura-chan, or I’ll—”
“Excuse me,” says Kyuubei, pencil paused mid-sentence, “just for a moment, Kagura-chan – was that ‘glitter, glue, and several dirty smears of paint’ or ‘glitter, glue, and a few dirty smears of paint’...?”
“A few,” confirms Kagura.
“A few,” says Kyuubei, and immediately resumes writing. “A few... Yes, I thought so. But I wanted to check. Thank you, Kagura-chan.”
“You’re taking notes on this?” says Shinpachi, his voice skidding several volumes upwards. “Kyuubei-san, you’re writing all this down? What kind of research do you think you’re—”
Kagura kicks away from the wall and lands with a thump. “If you want anyone to know you’re a celebrity or you stepped in dog crap, then you need a disgusting stink,” she concludes, red in the face and tousle-haired as she sits up. “That’s what I think. So merchandise is good, uh-huh – but scandal is better.”
“Why would you want anyone to know if you step in dog crap?” Shinpachi asks the room, in a voice of forlorn lamentation, but no answer comes.
At last there’s a sound from Gintoki. “Aa, you’ve all got it wrong,” he says, in a tone of some finality. He pushes himself up from his listless slouch across the table and drops his cheek into his hand. “You don’t want to listen to them, Kyuubei-kun – that kind of thing is cheap celebrity, not real celebrity. C-list stuff, perhaps, or B-list at best. The sort of thing discussed around the photocopier in the morning and forgotten by the day’s first toilet break.”
Kyuubei’s pencil is flashing quick as a sword. “Discussed around the—”
“And is that who the Yagyuu are?” says Gintoki. His voice has changed. It’s lower, and there’s something forceful in it. Kyuubei looks up: his gaze is suddenly piercing, focused and alert, directed at Kyuubei alone. “Are the Yagyuu B-list, Kyuubei-kun? Or... are they A-list?”
Struck by the sudden intensity of the moment, transfixed by the startlingly clear force of Gintoki’s stare, Kyuubei sits up straight. The note-taking ceases. “I would say... A-list, Gintoki-san.”
“And are they true A-listers? A-listers with A-lister lifestyles?” Gintoki slams a hand passionately onto the tabletop and demands, “A-listers who don’t need to brag about their influence to know that they have it? A-listers whose fame is so secure they know their name will live on long after they do? A-lister celebrities with A-list reputations?”
“We serve at the Shogun’s right hand,” says Kyuubei, and thinks hard. “If the Shogun is A-list, then the Yagyuu... are possibly A-minus. Not as good as an A, but your parents won’t be disappointed when you bring the report card home. You’ll probably still be allowed ice cream for a treat after your dinner that night. In some ways better than an A, because your classmates are unlikely to single you out as a target of ridicule for your achievements, and yet you still wield influence with your teacher.”
“But still essentially A-list,” concludes Gintoki, and sits back, satisfied. “Nowadays, what all the real A-listers are into is philanthropy. Write that down, Kyuubei-kun; get rid of all those other notes and just write that. Giving money to charitable causes, for example, such as self-employed small business owners, and single fathers, and those afflicted by horrific yet incurable medical conditions, such as curly hair or insatiably greedy alien girls—”
A cushion collides with the side of his head, hard enough to bowl him sideways. “Gin-chan, you good-for-nothing! I’m not a medical condition!”
“If you ask me,” says Shinpachi, his voice as loud as it is long-suffering, “which technically you did, even if no one’s actually listening to a word I’ve said – if you ask me, I’d say the most important thing is a fanclub. Celebrities without fanclubs are just embarrassing. If a celebrity doesn’t stir up enough love in the hearts of their fans to spur them into forming a devoted and regimented fanclub with faultlessly choreographed cheering routines, then what’s the point? What’s the use in fame if it doesn’t provoke burning creative passion?”
“Oh, Shin-chan, please don’t talk about your burning passion while your big sister’s in the room,” says Tae sorrowfully.
“Ane-ue! That wasn’t what I meant, you know it wasn’t what—”
“Merchandise, scandal, philanthropy, a fanclub...” Kyuubei contemplates the notebook a moment longer, then flips it closed and looks solemnly up. The clamour of the camera crew locked outside the front gate of the Shimura home is growing louder with every passing minute. “For maximum efficiency, do you think we might... combine them?”
Gintoki pushes himself back up, as well as he can with one of Kagura’s knees hooked around his throat in a death-hold and the other one jammed violently into his armpit. He raises his voice loud enough to be heard above Kagura’s growling, and says, “We’ll need more information before we take the job. A normal day with a celebrity flourish – well, what are your plans for the day, Kyuubei-kun?”
“I was going to take a walk with Tae-chan,” says Kyuubei, after a moment’s consideration. “And then I was going to have dinner with Tae-chan. And then I was going to stay the night with Tae-chan. And then we were going to—”
“Kyuu-chan!” Tae seizes Kyuubei’s hand where it rests atop the table and says, earnestly, “I’m sure Gin-san doesn’t need quite that much detail, Kyuu-chan.”
“A walk and dinner,” echoes Gintoki, his tone contemplative. With an effort, he succeeds in detaching almost half of Kagura from her leechlike chokehold. “And a celebrity job means a celebrity fee, doesn’t it? All right, Kyuubei-kun – we’ll take it. You’ve got a deal, and nothing to worry about. The Yorozuya are on the job.”
“I’ll go and find Shin-chan’s old arts and crafts kit,” says Tae, and gets to her feet.
“I’ll hunt down a loophole that permits temporary worship of a false idol in exceptional circumstances,” says Shinpachi, and gets to his feet.
“I’ll get some ultra-pretty little treasures from Sadaharu,” says Kagura, and gets to her feet.
“I’ll wait for the first cheque to go through,” says Gintoki, “and then I’ll invest sensibly in stocks and shares while also ensuring I set aside enough for at least one year’s worth of nightly drunken pachinko blowouts—”
Tae seizes a fistful of silvery hair and yanks him violently to his feet as well. “He’ll make some calls,” she promises Kyuubei.
+++
A little while later, Kyuubei leaves alone through the front gate.
The lead cameraman is there at once. “Yagyuu-san—”
“I had some private business to attend to,” says Kyuubei. “You can ask for details, but I won’t share; and if you respect the honour of virtuous women the way that I do then you won’t ask, either. A samurai is someone with whom all secrets are safe, no matter how immodest.”
Affixed to the gate at Kyuubei’s back is a sign that reads, quite clearly: SHIMURA.
“Not even under threat of death would I reveal the identity of the woman involved,” concludes Kyuubei gravely, and sets out along the street. The camera crew of Close-Up Shots With Edo’s Big-Shots follow along too: a fuzzy grey boom mic swinging overhead, two shoulder-mounted cameras, a presenter with a wireless microphone in hand.
Before long, the sound of raised voices becomes apparent. The synchronised hammer of pounding feet becomes apparent too. Kyuubei turns left towards the city park, and there in the wide central courtyard is a passionately bellowing squad of young men: few in number but great in volume, their movements coordinated with perfect timing. Each of them wears an eyepatch across their left eye.
At the sight of Kyuubei, a tremendous roar goes up. Their leader – wearing glasses above his eyepatch – gestures furiously for silence; the roar subsides, and an instant later the passionate bellowing resumes at ever greater speed, and ever greater volume. “Kyuu-san, Kyuu-san, we BLEEP into eternity for the BLEEEP BLEEP – BLEEP father’s juicy carousel, Kyuu-san, Kyuu-san – we BLEEP into eternity for the BLEEEP BLEEP, marmalade, marmalade—”
The presenter whirls from Kyuubei to the cheer squad to the camera crew, and all the way back around again. Her face is alight with excitement. “Yagyuu-san! Is this – who are these men? Is this for you? Are you Kyuu-san?”
“—we BLEEP BLEEEP for the confetti sunshine of BLEEEEP, Kyuu-san, Kyuu-san—”
“It’s too embarrassing,” says Kyuubei, striding firmly out across the courtyard’s gravel. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Get an interview,” the presenter’s telling her lead cameraman, in a not entirely furtive whisper. “That one at the front – that noisy four-eyes, get him over here. And let’s—”
+++
“I remember the first time I saw Kyuu-san,” says Shinpachi. He’s not looking into the camera, but slightly past it, as though addressing an unseen interviewer. The eye uncovered by a patch is bright, and fond with recollection as he continues to speak. “It was a summer’s day, and I was only young at the time – eleven, perhaps, or twelve. I had – sorry? Oh – oh, sixteen,” he says, in answer to an unheard question, “I’m sixteen now. Too old for such silly love, that’s what you might be thinking – oh, it’s okay if you are!” A self-deprecating, good-natured laugh. “I know how it looks, after all. But I remember I saw Kyuu-san there in the street, in that classic white coat – though not that white coat, I mean, obviously Kyuu-san was younger then too, I assume it was a different white coat – but the same brand, perhaps, or – well, anyway,” says Shinpachi, as behind him his highly experienced team of fans continue their routine in perfect formation, “I saw Kyuu-san in the street, playing the guitar, and in that moment I just knew. Ah – sorry, did I say playing the guitar? I meant practising a sword routine. That’s a sort of... ah, a sort of in-joke we have, in the Kyuu-san fanclub. Sometimes we say ‘guitar’ when we actually mean ‘sword’.”
He pauses for a moment, head cocked as he listens attentively.
“Because we love Kyuu-san,” says Shinpachi promptly. “That’s really all there is to it. We love Kyuu-san’s cutting-edge style, and generous personality, and approachably cute looks, and engagingly catchy music that’s nevertheless highly lyrically compelling – and that’s, ah, that’s another in-joke, actually – saying ‘music’ when what we mean is ‘swords’. And when I said approachably cute, what I actually meant was – not cute. And very threatening. Excuse me,” says Shinpachi, clearing his throat impressively, “I need to lead my men into our next formation.”
+++
Beyond the park, in the busy lunchtime chaos of Kabukichou, Kagura appears from an alleyway and falls into step at Kyuubei’s side. “Sukonbu?” she offers, and shoves an open packet under Kyuubei’s nose. There’s a picture of Kyuubei on the packet, hand-drawn and recognisable mostly from the eyepatch, the ponytail, and the label: KYUUBEI SUKONBU.
“No, thank you,” says Kyuubei.
“What?” yells Kagura.
“No, thank you,” Kyuubei yells back. The fanclub have followed all the way from the park, the perfect coordination of their movements suffering only a little from the lack of depth perception caused by their hastily home-made eyepatches; they’ve been joined on their way by a growing number of curious passers-by, drawn in by the din and the off-balance marching steps, and Kabukichou is consequently even louder than usual.
“But,” says Kagura – and breaks off to grab the nearest cameraman by the shoulder and yank him nearer, positioned so that his camera will have a full view of the sukonbu packet when she shoves it into Kyuubei’s face again, “but, Kyuu-chan, are you sure? It’s the most delicious sukonbu I’ve ever had.”
“I can’t accept charity from a child,” says Kyuubei, “but thank you, Kagura-chan.”
Kagura tosses the packet aside and produces another, identically decorated. “Then how about some chicken cutlets?”
“No, thank you.”
The chicken cutlets are tossed aside. “Long-grain rice?”
“No, thank you.”
The long-grain rice is tossed aside. “A pack of a dozen eggs?”
“Actually—”
The eggs are tossed aside. From an alleyway on Kyuubei’s other side emerges Gintoki, who falls into step without pause. “It’s not too late,” he says, under his breath. “If you want to rethink this, we can rethink this. I’ll get Patsuan away from all his sweaty virgin friends; he’ll help out, and Zura’s usually wasting his time on standby around here somewhere, and that Madao’s probably attracting flies in a dumpster nearby, and if you so much as mention Otae-san’s name and flutter your eyelashes a little then Tojo and the Shinsengumi’s pet gorilla will come bursting out like projectile vomit—”
“No,” says Kyuubei.
Kagura puts her nose in the air. “Kyuu-chan’s not interested in men,” she says haughtily, “and nor am I. Men are worthless scum. Don’t speak to us.”
“No one in the world’s interested in those men,” says Gintoki, and heaves a sigh. “I can’t blame you. All right, well – don’t say I didn’t warn you. Don’t say I never looked out for your best interests. Don’t say—”
“Kyuubei!” The call comes from just down the street: Tsukuyo, hurrying forwards with a look of determination. “You mind if we talk for a minute, Kyuubei? Just us? I got something I wanna say to you in private. Something – personal,” she says, stiffly as though she’s reading from a script, and Kyuubei consents to be towed by the arm to the relatively secluded shade of a nearby florist’s striped canopy.
Behind them erupts the sound of Gintoki chivvying the cameras onwards, and within moments the relatively secluded shade has acquired a crew, a presenter, and a fuzzy grey boom mic swung low over Tsukuyo’s head.
“It’s about,” she starts – and stops. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself, and starts again. “It’s about my... feelings. About the feelings what I got for you. About—” as she surreptitiously consults something tucked inside the sleeve of her kimono, “—the love I got that’d light a thousand lanterns all the way on a path into the underworld if I had to rescue you from where you got stolen into the underworld, using only the power of love and no weapons. And no cheating like getting a big sword and calling it Love. That’s what I feel about you.” She’s silent for a moment, reflective. Then she takes her pipe from her mouth and whispers, from behind the cover of her hand, “Who wrote this stuff?”
“That sounded like Kagura-chan,” says Kyuubei, also from behind the cover of a hand. “She enjoys historical romance and violence. Not just historical violence. Modern violence, too.”
Tsukuyo nods, and replaces her pipe. Louder again, and in the same gravely serious tone, she continues, “Won’t you look deep into your soul and see if there ain’t – ‘scuse me, just a moment,” a shuffling of papers, a look of ferocious concentration, “okay, got it – if there ain’t the slightest bit of lobster – lobster? Love – bit of love, all right – the slightest bit of love what might make you take pity on this hopelessly devoted—”
Sacchan launches herself onto the scene at a high velocity and a downward angle, plunged straight from a nearby rooftop, and bowls Tsukuyo aside into an array of sunflowers. “You’ve got needs,” she declares passionately, and falls just as passionately to her knees at Kyuubei’s feet, “and I’ve got needs, and even if our needs might not seem compatible at first on account of how you’re not Gin-san and I’m not an escapee from the Edo Zoo with great big monkey fists dragging on the floor and an insatiable desire to pluck lice from your fur, we can make it work. Perhaps I could eat a banana in the bedroom every now and then, and perhaps you could use a banana in the bedroom every now and then, if you catch my drift, and it’s fine if you don’t because I’m more than happy to explain—”
Catherine shoves Sacchan aside hard enough that she knocks Tsukuyo back into the sunflowers. “What you want is an experienced woman,” she announces. “A woman who’s been about the place and knows what’s what. A woman who’s seen the best of what this galaxy’s got to offer and grown into an alluring maturity. That’s me,” she says, jabbing a thumb aggressively at her chest. “If you don’t pick me you’re thick as a goddamn brick. That’s that.”
“Aa, if it’s maturity Kyuubei-san’s looking for...” Wreathed in her own personal cloud of tobacco smoke, Otose steps forward with a look of calm serenity. “Age before beauty, they say. But why choose? Just have both.”
Tsukuyo’s fought her way out of the sunflowers but not quite away from Sacchan, who’s attached herself to her arm and is pulling at it with all her weight. “The slightest bit of love,” Tsukuyo yells, “what might make you take pity on this hopelessly – Sarutobi! – this hopelessly devoted fool who’s got no thoughts but – you idiot, will you get off me! – no thoughts but – get the hell off me, I said! Sarutobi! – but those of you and me together—”
“Kyuu-chan!” yells Kagura, springboarding down into the middle of it all from the florist’s canopy. “Every long dark night and long dark day I spent imprisoned in that tiny cell, locked away for crimes of love, our love, I thought of the way you waved me farewell from the courtroom that long ago November afternoon with my very own monogrammed handkerchief clutched in your hand, uh-huh! And though in my windowless cell there wasn’t light enough to see by, I marked each new morning as it came and counted down until the moment of our reunion – one stick of Yagyuu-brand sukonbu per day, and in the nights I would lick the wrapper of that day’s stick and savour the traces of that Yagyuu-brand flavour, until over two thousand empty Yagyuu-brand sukonbu wrappers lay piled around the dark walls of my dark cell and still I waited—”
Beyond Kagura, beyond Sacchan and Tsukuyo, beyond the raptly attentive camera crew, beyond Gintoki prowling at their backs – his gaze intent, surveying the scene with focused assurance, an expert director in full command of his set and cast and crew – beyond the still-chanting team of repurposed Otsuu-chan devotees, all the way across on the far side of the street: Tae steps out of a chemist’s shop and catches Kyuubei’s eye, and smiles, and waves.
That’s Kyuubei’s cue. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Are we getting paid for this?” demands Catherine. “Wait, wait, forget that. Let me say it again. How much are we getting paid for this?”
“I’m sorry,” Kyuubei tries again, a little louder, “but although you’re—”
“I ain’t gonna ask for money just to do a favour for a friend,” says Tsukuyo, and very nearly succeeds in kicking Sacchan’s feet out from under her.
“Oh, I feel just the same, Tsukki – so I asked to be paid in sexual favours instead, and Gin-san promised me an entire week of illicit thrills and sticky spills in exchange for my work here today; you’re a fool not to have negotiated harder, you never know what you’ll get until you ask for it—”
Across the street, out of earshot of the chaos, Tae’s expression is turning to mild bemusement. Kyuubei tries again. “Excuse me—”
“You know what you’re getting before you ask for it,” retorts Kagura, “you’re getting nothing at all, except for thrown into the recycling lorry to get shredded and compacted if you hide in our dustbins again, probably—”
“Oi, oi,” says Otose, and tweaks one of Catherine’s ears. “How about we listen to what Kyuubei-san’s got to say?”
Relief sinks in. Kyuubei stands straight, and very seriously says, “I’m sorry, but although you’re each in possession of your own unique charm, I’m not interested. Stop sending me gifts. Stop following me everywhere. Stop proposing to me. It won’t happen, and your scandalous attentions threaten my reputation as a samurai of irreproachable honour.”
Tsukuyo bows her head in grave acceptance. “No hard feelings,” she says.
“Good riddance,” says Catherine.
“Don’t let that curly idiot get you into too much trouble,” says Otose.
“I’ll never give up,” shrieks Sacchan, “never, ever, ever—”
“Go!” yells Kagura, and pushes Kyuubei back out into the street.
Gintoki’s there, and the chaos of the fanclub, and the ordinary mania of Kabukichou in the sunshine on any given day, and one cameraman swinging away to follow hurriedly on Kyuubei’s heels – and Kyuubei dodges an ice-cream cart rattling and swaying along the street behind its furiously pedalling owner’s bicycle, sidesteps a game of hopscotch chalked into the dirt, pauses for one respectful moment to permit a stray cat to strut by unimpeded, resumes running – and makes it, finally, to the other side.
“Have you had a good morning?” asks Tae.
“A—”
“Wait, wait,” says the cameraman, “sorry, Yagyuu-san, could you wait just one – okay, there we go,” as the sound technician skids onto the scene as well and the fuzzy grey boom mic swings down dangerously low above Tae’s head, “all right – as you were, Yagyuu-san.”
Tae looks at the camera crew for a moment. It’s a thoughtful look. Then she adjusts the shopping bag at her elbow and turns back to Kyuubei, her expression once again as fond as it’s ever been, and the camera crew continue with their lives unaware of the fact they very nearly didn’t. “Have you had a good morning?” she asks again.
“A normal morning,” says Kyuubei, after a few moments’ sombre reflection. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the same as every day.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” says Tae, and tucks her free hand into Kyuubei’s elbow. “Shall we walk, Kyuu-chan?”
+++
The walk becomes a much quieter affair after it passes a CD shop with promotional discounts splashed up across its windows; the fanclub peels away as one and streams into the shop as one, and without the chanting and the stamping and the occasional passionate bursts of heavily censored lyrics, the rest of the crowd begins dispersing too.
For the benefit of the camera crew, Tae leads conversation onto such topics as the phenomenal amount of gossip column interviews she’s had to turn down on Kyuubei’s behalf in the last twenty-four hours, the phenomenal amount of offers for free intergalactic cruises she’s had to turn down on Kyuubei’s behalf in the last twenty-four hours, and the phenomenal amount of signed photos she’s had to forge on Kyuubei’s behalf and send out in the last twenty-four hours.
“Business as usual, of course, Kyuu-chan – but still, you wouldn’t believe how tiring it gets to lick a dozen stamps per minute,” she remarks, and Kyuubei turns an involuntary shade of scarlet that will hopefully be cut from whatever final reel the producers decide to piece together. “Did you hear the city hospital wants to rename its children’s wing after you? Don’t tell anyone I told you that, of course; it’s top secret, and certainly mustn’t be leaked to the press so long before anything official is announced. And we’re closing in every day on that mysterious business involving bottles of your bath water being sold online, so you’ve no need to worry – we’ll have the culprit before long, and I’m sure the Shogun won’t be too happy to hear of—”
Surprise jolts Kyuubei from a reverie focused largely on the fact of Tae’s tired tongue. “He was selling them?”
“—the way his favourite teacher’s been,” says Tae, and stops mid-sentence. Her voice drops to a much less dramatic pitch and she says in concern, “Who was, Kyuu-chan?”
“I told Tojo to stop bottling my bath water weeks ago. But I thought he was only keeping it for personal use. I didn’t know he was selling it.” A moment’s consideration. “I’ll have to tell him to stop that, too. He probably thought he’d found a loophole.”
“Kyuu-chan,” says Tae, in a whisper close enough that her warm breath ruffles Kyuubei’s hair as much as Kyuubei’s composure, “that wasn’t true, about the bath water being sold online; I was only inventing stories for the cameras – but did he really?”
“In little round bottles, Tae-chan. He kept them lined up on a shelf in his room. In chronological order. He’d written the dates on them. So I smashed them all,” says Kyuubei, “and threw him into the glass. But I think he liked it.”
“I wonder if he’d like being forced to swallow it,” says Tae. “Tell me next time, Kyuu-chan. I’ll pinch his nose for you, so you don’t have to touch him, and we can pour the glass in through a funnel.”
“I’d like that,” says Kyuubei. “Thank you, Tae-chan.”
“Believe me, Kyuu-chan, it’s my pleasure.”
An uncanny groan emerges from the side of the road. A pile of old, damp cardboard boxes ruptures down the middle and from within unfolds a ragged shape and a mournful wail, and a pair of sunglasses atop it all.
“How pitiful,” says Tae, and presses her hand surreptitiously into Kyuubei’s back. “Just keep walking, Kyuu-chan.”
“Don’t keep walking!” wails Hasegawa. “Won’t anybody help me? You, young samurai, won’t you help me? A little change, a handful of yen, whatever you can spare—”
Kyuubei’s steps have slowed.
“Kyuu-chan,” says Tae, in a theatrically private whisper that’s more than loud enough for both Hasegawa and the cameras to pick up. “There’s no helping people like that, Kyuu-chan, I promise you. Once they’ve been that pathetic for that long, they start to become used to it, and after a while they actually prefer it. It’s like a bad haircut – at first you hate it, and resent all reflective surfaces for reminding you what you’ve become – and that’s you, Kyuu-chan, you’re this loser’s reflective surface, rich and famous and successful and talented – but since you’re stuck with it, you start to adjust. You start to like it. And maybe next time you get a haircut, you’ll ask for the same again.” She steps delicately aside, out of reach of Hasegawa’s wildly waving, dirt-smeared hands. “However much anyone might help him, the help won’t take,” Tae concludes. “By now, he’s evolved to remain pathetic.”
For one long, solemn moment, Kyuubei gazes out in contemplation of a faraway horizon – then at last heaves a sigh, and says gravely, “I can’t stand by, Tae-chan. I have to do something. When no one else will help, someone has to be the first to do the right thing. Today, that someone will be me.” And Kyuubei crouches in the dirt, eye-level with the blank sheen of those sunglasses, and says, “I have something for you.”
“Thank you,” says Hasegawa, sounding nearly crushed by gratitude. He pushes himself to his knees, hands fisted in the fabric of his trousers, and bows almost all the way down. “Thank you, thank you so much – anything you’ve got, Kyuubei-kun, anything at all, even a few hundred yen would—”
“Not money,” continues Kyuubei. “Something practical. Something to last you longer than any money would.”
“Something – a house?” says Hasegawa. “You’re not serious, Kyuubei-kun – a house? Or a car? Is it a car? Or a motorbike, just a little scooter – or a scooter and a house, perhaps a mobile phone—”
“Fifty floppy disks,” says Kyuubei seriously, and produces them: all blue with a yellow trim, stacked in a precarious tower. “There’s no need to thank me, Madao-san. I don’t look for gratitude. The simple joy shining in your eyes is all I need.”
Whatever simple joy is shining in Hasegawa’s eyes is blocked by his sunglasses. He’s looking at the floppy disks, though. He says nothing.
“Well, I won’t impose on you any longer,” says Kyuubei, and stands back up. “I wish you well, Madao-san. May fortune be with you.”
Tae’s hand is clutched to her chest. Her expression has turned to a look of wonder. “Kyuu-chan...”
Kyuubei turns firmly away. “Let’s go, Tae-chan. We shouldn’t draw attention to the suffering of a once-proud samurai.”
“Very true, Kyuu-chan. In fact, it might be kinder to end his suffering here and now, don’t you think?”
“To put him out of his misery, Tae-chan?”
“To free him forever from his torment, Kyuu-chan.”
Kyuubei thinks hard. “To... let him rest in peace?”
“To let him rest in peace forever and ever,” agrees Tae.
With the moist, unpleasant sound of damp cardboard rubbing on damp cardboard, Hasegawa disappears hurriedly from sight.
“Perhaps another day,” concludes Kyuubei – and, both in the high good spirits of two travellers after an encounter with a wild but shy creature from some endangered species, their afternoon walk continues on.
+++
“It was a nice touch to get Hasegawa-san involved,” says Tae, hand across her mouth. “It really gave Kyuu-chan a chance to showcase some philanthropic urges.”
“Nothing to do with me,” says Gintoki, through a mouthful of melted chocolate and not-melted chocolate and sponge cake. “You think that Madao’s got a phone? The only way to get hold of him is throwing money in the air, since he always comes crawling out towards it before it even hits the ground. And I want Kyuubei-kun saving all those philanthropic urges for me, anyway – I’ve got rent to pay, parfaits to buy, hangovers to suffer...”
“Do you think we’ve done enough yet?” asks Shinpachi, who’s back in his usual blue and white hakama, though the hastily altered headband still remains: COMMANDING PRESIDENT-IN-CHIEF OF THE OTSUU-CHAN (PLUS KYUU-SAN) IMPERIAL GUARDS, tied around his forehead with the ribbons trailing merrily down his back. “They’ve got to have enough for an episode by now, haven’t they? And we’ve caused enough excitement in Kabukichou to last at least a week, surely, which is saying something.”
“We still need a swordfight on top of a moving train,” says Kagura, consulting her red-crayoned notes. “And Gin-chan’s gotta have a tragic death scene where he talks about how it’s all worth it for Kyuu-chan’s sake, uh-huh. And Pachi, get your top off. No one’s shown enough skin yet. Got to keep the ladies happy,” she says, chewing on the stem of her dango stick like a delinquent’s toothpick. “And Kyuu-chan needs to ride into the sunset on Sadaharu’s back, and then it all needs to end with a fireworks show, and then I get my coronation as queen of the galaxy while the final credits roll, uh-huh.”
“None of that’s happening, Kagura-chan,” says Shinpachi.
“Can the fireworks be blue and gold, Kagura-chan?” says Kyuubei.
“Whatever the talent wants,” says Kagura, and hails down the nearest cameraman with a yell. “You heard Kyuu-chan! Blue and gold, or commit seppuku! Blue and gold, or you can forget about that end-of-year bonus!”
Their waiter navigates through the cluster of tables in the courtyard and sets down another pot of tea. In his other arm are stacked three wide plates of cakes: cream-filled, fondant-topped, sugar-dusted, icing-coated. Their table is already cluttered with plates of cakes in various stages of emptiness; he balances the three in his arm and starts to clear space, piling the empty plates atop each other.
“This is living,” announces Gintoki, clapping his hands to his stomach as he gazes up at the blue skies with a look of rapturous bliss. “Everything else they try to tell you is living, it’s not. It’s a pack of lies. Living is nothing more and nothing less than so many cakes you’ve got to get rid of half of them just to make way for the rest of them.”
“Honestly, Gin-san, you spend enough time talking about your bowel movements,” says Tae, taking a neat scoop of ice cream, “but given the state of your diet, I really have to wonder how you ever manage to take a crap at all.”
“You don’t have to wonder that,” says Shinpachi. “You don’t actually have to wonder that at all, ane-ue.”
“You must be backed up for weeks in there, mustn’t you? Even the thought is revolting,” says Tae, and takes another scoop of ice cream with a look of consummate sorrow. “I just don’t like to imagine what kind of state your digestive system must be in, Gin-san.”
“Then don’t imagine the state of his digestive system at all,” says Shinpachi, “and especially not at the table, ane-ue, please—”
“You leave the boss lady alone,” orders Kagura, and spits her dango stick out in Shinpachi’s direction with extreme force at extreme speed – but at the same time the waiter reaches to move aside a plate – the dango stick jabs him in the wrist and he flinches hard, and the plates stacked in his arm begin to teeter, and then to topple, and in a move as swift as lightning Kyuubei upends the table and dives in front of Tae to save her from the brunt of the consequences.
Plates shatter. A lot of plates shatter. The fresh pot of boiling tea shatters too, and splashes its contents out across the ankles of the nearest cameraman, who starts shrieking and hopping around with very little care for the continued quality of his recording.
The scene is frozen for a moment, except for the shrieking, and then Kyuubei straightens up and surveys the damage. The damage consists of one large strawberry cake smeared down what had previously been clean white fabric and several chocolate eclairs splattered across the plain blue hakama beneath. What appears to be a custard slice has found its way into the left front pocket. Kyuubei extracts it, considers it, and offers it to Tae – who politely declines – and then to Kagura, who accepts, and devours it in one.
A sudden cry: “Gin-san!” and Shinpachi hurls himself from his seat and straight into Gintoki’s chest, fighting with all his strength to keep him where he is. “Gin-san, you can’t – you can’t, I know you want to, and I understand, I really do—”
“You don’t, Patsuan!” bellows Gintoki, voice nearly cracking with emotion. “You don’t, you can’t, you never will—”
“I do, Gin-san! My parents, and Hajime-nii – I know how it feels to suffer loss, Gin-san! I know how it feels to believe it’ll never be okay again, I do – but,” cries Shinpachi desperately, his voice strained with the effort of exertion, fighting his full weight against Gintoki’s, “but you can’t – you’re the main character, Gin-san! How will it look if the main character gets down on hands and knees and starts shovelling in cake from off the dirty ground?”
“I don’t care! I don’t care! Get out my way, Pachi, you’ve got no right to stop me—”
“Gin-san! How will it look if the main character accidentally chokes to death on a bit of gravel while he’s busy scooping up handfuls of dirt and whipped cream?”
“I don’t care!”
“You do care,” says Shinpachi forcefully, “I know you, Gin-san, and I know you care! Don’t do this to yourself! And if you must do it to yourself, at least don’t do this to us – don’t make us have to see you this way! Don’t make Kagura-chan see this! Don’t make this the way we have to remember you!”
Gintoki’s struggles have been weakening – and at last they cease; and he falls limply forward into Shinpachi’s arms, and clutches at him in a fierce and desperate hug, and muffles his sobbing into Shinpachi’s shoulder.
“There, there,” says Shinpachi, and pats his hair with a look of firm, resolute calm.
“Are you safe, Tae-chan?” Kyuubei asks her gravely.
“Very safe, thank you,” says Tae, “but Kyuu-chan, look at your coat! I hope this tea shop intends to pay for the damage, and to give us twice as many cakes for free as their waiter just dumped so carelessly into the dirt, and to accept with humility that neither the Yorozuya Gin-san nor its extensive network of associates will ever frequent these premises again—”
Their waiter clears his throat in the impressive manner of a man who expects a silence to fall.
It doesn’t. He clears his throat again, and then again – and at last something like a silence does fall, gradual and bemused.
“I cannot excuse my actions,” he begins portentously, brushing pastry dust and shattered porcelain from his hands, “although I can explain them: for I am but a trainee, and as yet inexperienced in the mastery of the waiter’s hidden arts; I have supped of the broth of knowledge, and sampled a little of its rice, but not yet partaken of the main course.” The waiter sweeps a silken waterfall of dark hair back across his shoulder, and grandly continues, “In truth, you see me now in the earliest stages of what will become my lifelong journey: I have undergone the first rites of initiation, five days and five nights cast out into the wilderness of Edo’s SuperSmart SuperStore with nothing but a pocketknife with which to forage for my survival amidst those towering, well-stocked shelves, but I have not yet spent the night in meditation locked within the sacred frost of the deep-chill freezer, reflecting on the optimal delivery with which to recite each day’s specials menu, and equally nor have I suffered the darkest rites through which any waiter must pass to earn his key into the hallowed halls of—”
Gintoki launches to his feet. “Cameras off! Cameras off!”
“Cameras?” says Katsura, turning to them at once with interest. “For me? An interview? I can’t, of course; to seek recognition for my tireless service goes against both the letter and the spirit of the Waiter’s Law – but oh, well, when you put it like that – and you’re quite right, it’s true, I haven’t strictly sworn the fullest version of the oath yet – and if you insist, then, I suppose an exception might be—”
“Nothing to see here! Cameras off! Look, isn’t that that guy from the news? The one who’s always casting Ketsuno Ana all those lecherous looks? Isn’t it him? Across the street? Taking a shit right there in broad daylight?”
“We’re here for Yagyuu-san, actually,” the presenter tells Katsura.
“Yagyuu-san?” says Katsura suspiciously. Then he appears to notice Kyuubei for the first time, silent and cake-smeared at his side; and he draws himself haughtily to his fullest height. “I’ll have you know, Kyuubei-kun, I was a reputable member of the samurai nobility prone to starring in personal celebrity documentaries before you were even a second-rate copycat twinkle in the manga-ka’s eye—”
“Personal terrorist documentaries,” says Gintoki, under his breath, then yells again: “And turn those cameras off! Off! Off! Or turn them to me! Turn them to me and I’ll tell you previously unaired backstory from the Joui War! You wouldn’t believe the ratings you can get with that stuff!”
“Gintoki!” says Katsura, delighted – and then he looks around him, and with a start he notices the rest of them as well. “Leader, Shinpachi-kun! Your disguises are excellent; allow me to congratulate you. Had your cover not been blown by Kyuubei-kun’s reckless misconduct, I would never have recognised you.”
“We’re not in disguise,” says Shinpachi, still sitting wearily in the mess of cake and gravel. “You’re just an idiot.”
“It’s not idiot, it’s Katsura—”
“It’s not Katsura, it’s idiot! It’s definitely idiot! Turn those cameras off—!”
Kagura consults her list one final time. “You got everything you need?” she asks the presenter, with the jaded, conspiratorial air of a fellow professional. “You got tragedy, you got drama, you got scandal, you got intrigue, you got the full package. You ready to call it a day? Ready to wrap? Ready to can it?”
“Well, we’ve still got a few more interviews to complete,” says the presenter, affably enough, “perhaps with Sakata-san, or that unwashed tramp whose life was changed by Yagyuu-san this afternoon – and we’ll need a few words from Yagyuu-san as well, of course, and I imagine the rest of the Yagyuu would like to—”
“Completely finished, you say? Totally done? Great, great,” says Kagura, and with a sudden whirling kick she smashes in the lens of the nearest camera. While its cameraman is still reeling and Tae is still applauding she takes out the second one, and for a finishing touch she seizes up a trailing wire between the sound boom and the camera’s wreckage and yanks it impressively apart. A shower of tiny sparks explodes from the frayed ends, which jerk and twitch for only a moment before falling limp in her hands.
Immediately, Gintoki barrels past and seizes Katsura by the lapels of his immaculate waiter’s waistcoat, shaking hard and yelling even louder then before. Shinpachi scrambles to his feet and starts attempting to reason with the TV crew, all of whom seem more interested in bewailing the fate of their equipment than being reasoned with; and Kagura promptly sidles off to the next table over, blue eyes wide and innocent, to do her best impression of a child whose daily cake intake so far today has been well below acceptable levels.
“Kagura-chan’s going to go far, isn’t she?” says Tae fondly, when Kyuubei steps away from the chaos to join her. “Ah, you’ve still got an ice cream wafer in your collar, Kyuu-chan – not there, it’s – no, by your—”
Kyuubei holds obligingly still. “Do you think it’s over, Tae-chan?”
“I think it’s over,” agrees Tae. She tosses the ice cream wafer aside and brushes shattered camera glass from the front of her kimono. “At least, I don’t see how they can continue it after this; and all of this mess is the Yorozuya Gin-san’s fault, which means it’s the Yorozuya Gin-san’s problem, which means we have absolutely no obligation whatsoever to stick around and help them with it. So I think it’s over.”
“Then let’s go,” says Kyuubei. “While no one’s looking. Let’s go away together, Tae-chan; let’s go somewhere they won’t find us and—”
“Elope?” cries Kondou, bursting up from beneath a nearby table. “Is it elope? Were you about to say elope, Kyuubei-kun? Otae-san? Was it elope?”
“Of course it wasn’t elope!” shrieks Tojo, leaping out from behind the chalkboard listing the specials of the day, “because it was play a playful girly game of dressing-up – wasn’t it, Young Master? Wasn’t it, Otae-dono? It was play a super-cute and super-frilly game of—”
There’s a thud, and there’s another thud. A moment later there’s another thud, as of a Shinsengumi Commander’s skull colliding with a lamppost and the rest of a Shinsengumi Commander subsequently collapsing into the shrubbery that surrounds the tea shop’s courtyard, and then there’s another thud, as of a retainer to samurai nobility hurtling headlong into and through the front window of a parked Shinsengumi car.
“And enjoy the sun,” concludes Kyuubei, as though no interruption had come at all, turning away from Tojo’s pitiful wails. “Let’s go somewhere they won’t find us and enjoy the sun, Tae-chan.”
Tae wipes her hand fastidiously down on her kimono. “Just what I was thinking, Kyuu-chan. Where would be best?”
Part of the shrubbery launches to its feet, hastily glued-on leaves showering down. “Kondou-san! What are you doing here?” Yamazaki yells in panic. “This is my investigation! You can’t come here, you’ll frighten Katsura off, you’re going to compromise the months of work I’ve—”
“The park is too obvious,” says Kyuubei, ducking just slightly as a ticking metal object whizzes by overhead. “Unless the park is so obvious that it becomes... less obvious. Unless the double bluff is also too obvious. But if the double bluff is too obvious, then perhaps it’s just obvious enough—”
The ticking metal object hits the low gate of the tea shop’s courtyard, ricochets, and explodes into a cloud of yellow smoke. At their backs, Katsura lets out a diabolical cackle of triumph and summons Elizabeth with a booming cry.
“How about the river?” says Tae. She’s tucked her hand into Kyuubei’s elbow again, and the two of them forge on through the gritty, powdery, oddly curry-scented dust cloud, squinting against the yellow haze. “It’ll be cooler near the water, and if we go a little way out of town then there’s sure to be plenty of space – and it’s just the season for watermelon stands, if we want—”
From deep in the heart of the curry powder haze, a bazooka belches up a soaring ball of flame and trailing smoke. Okita strides forward from the dust cloud, and the wail of Shinsengumi sirens grows suddenly deafening, brakes shrieking to a halt, rubber scorching over tarmac.
“The river sounds perfect, Tae-chan,” says Kyuubei, and kicks away Kondou’s feebly grasping hand before diving for the gate. Tae follows close behind; out in the street she’s the first to regain her sense of direction, and she seizes Kyuubei’s wrist and starts to run.
A jam doughnut catapults from the chaos and smashes open against Okita’s pristine uniform, and an instant later Kagura catapults after it.
“Go,” she’s yelling, “go, go, go—”
And by the time the aerial news crew arrives, swooping their helicopter down low above the riot in the tea shop’s courtyard to broadcast live across the city, Tae and Kyuubei are long gone. By the time the back-up Shinsengumi squad arrives, Hijikata in the lead, armed with water cannons to disperse the merrily brawling crowds, they’re settling down in the broad, dappled shade of a riverside oak tree. By the time the first ambulance arrives, Tae’s kicked off her sandals and hitched up her kimono, and gone to sit with her feet in the clear, cold water instead; by the time the second ambulance arrives, Kyuubei has joined her.
In the far-off distance, through the hot, still summer air, the echo of something a little like sirens occasionally carries – but it’s Edo; there are always sirens, and whatever summer frenzy is raging through the city today, it’s surely no concern of theirs.
+++
“Perfect,” says Kyuubei’s father, as at last the closing music strikes a chord. “Perfect. Excellent work, Kyuubei.”
Kyuubei’s head bows in solemn acknowledgement. The final credits begin to roll, unspooling down across a slideshow montage of frozen images: a dozen cakes mid-flight and Kyuubei both mid-heroic dive and mid-heroic yell, Shinpachi mid-synchronised hip thrust, Gintoki and Kagura mid-synchronised nose picking, Sacchan and Tsukuyo and Catherine mid-violent streetside brawl, Sadaharu mid-poop, a bystander’s grainy photograph of Katsura mid-arrest, of the ambulance crew mid-securing Kondou to his stretcher.
“You see, Kyuubei, that’s all we needed! And it wasn’t so hard, was it? Subtle, understated... That implication of tremendous fame, natural and effortless – nothing too try-hard! Nothing that suggests this is anything but ordinary! Yes, very good,” says Koshinori, and claps his hands together in satisfaction. His toes are wriggling in satisfaction too, feet sticking out from the edge of the sofa.
“I couldn’t have done it alone, Daddy-o,” says Kyuubei gravely.
But all around the main room of Yorozuya Gin-san, no one else speaks up. An air of black, oppressive shame has filled the room, and beneath its weight it’s difficult for each of them even to keep their heads unbowed, let alone join in with Yagyuu Koshinori’s jubilation.
“Well, I thought it was excellent,” says Tae firmly. “Whoever says television cameras aren’t flattering probably couldn’t be flattered with a paper bag on their head. My only criticism would be the parts that didn’t have me in them; it really felt like something was lacking, though I can’t quite put my finger on what it was.”
“I’m no television critic, Tae-chan, but I’d have to agree with that. I’d have to completely agree with that.”
“Perhaps some indescribable star quality, Kyuu-chan?”
“You took the words right out of my mouth, Tae-chan.”
On screen, the credits sequence has moved smoothly into recycled aerial news footage of the riot that had raged for hours across the district that baking summer afternoon. The camera closes in on Gintoki and Hijikata, the former howling maniacally while mashing the latter’s face into a crate of tomatoes, as a pair of gilded double doors nearby slams open and Mademoiselle Saigou’s elegant troops burst out to join the fight; and at the same time rise up the wild screams of Sadaharu bowling Kagura and Okita head over heels into the filthy city river together, just as Shinpachi, wild-eyed and shirtless and streaked with curry powder like war paint, hurtles shrieking into shot—
Shinpachi stirs himself. He switches the television off, and says, “But as for the rest of us...”
But then instead of finishing his sentence he drops his head into his hands and says nothing, gazing unseeing at the carpet.
“Will we ever find work again, Gin-chan?” asks Kagura.
“I doubt it,” says Gintoki. “We’d better think about leaving the city. Change our names, change our faces; I’m assuming this celebrity fee will be enough for plastic surgery, and then we can move to a city where they’ve never heard of anime, let alone of us.”
Gloomily he accepts the envelope that Yagyuu Koshinori passes across his desk, and lifts a corner to peek inside – and then without pause he kicks back his chair, seizes up his bokuto, and strides out across the room.
“Gin-san?”
Gintoki whirls around in the doorway, and his mood travels through the room as quick as an electric spark: Kagura and Shinpachi bolt to their feet, already beaming. “Well? What are you all doing, sitting round inside on a day like today? Isn’t it summer? A beautiful summer’s day? A beautiful summer’s day, and all you can think to do is sit around inside watching yourselves on television like that doesn’t happen every single week of the year anyway, now that we’re back to a regular broadcast schedule, and sometimes more often if you’re accounting for repeats?” He tucks the envelope safely away inside his yukata and pats it several times, as though it’s a fragile young houseplant he’s concerned about neglecting. “No, that won’t do at all. A successful job calls for a celebration, and a celebration calls for ultra-deluxe summertime cherry sauce parfait – and was it a successful job, Kyuubei-kun?”
“It was a very successful job,” confirms Kyuubei.
“Then it calls for a very deluxe summertime cherry sauce parfait,” concludes Gintoki, and this time, when he throws back the front door and strides out into the bright, lazy summer heat haze, all the rest of them are following.