The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet

by David Mitchell

  “Yes. Yes, it does.” Suzaku looks at his assistant. “After many years of striving, enlightenment transforms a man in a single heartbeat. Master Genmu is so pleased with your improved spirits that he referred to it in a letter to the lord abbot.”

  He is watching me, Orito suspects, for evidence of annoyance.

  “I am unworthy,” she says, “of Lord Enomoto’s attention.”

  “Our lord abbot takes a fatherly interest in all our sisters.”

  The word “fatherly” evokes Orito’s father, and recent wounds ache.

  From the long room come the sounds and smells of supper.

  “We have no symptoms to report, then? No aches or bleedings?”

  “Truly, Master Suzaku, I cannot imagine being unwell in the House of Sisters.”

  “No constipation or diarrhea? Hemorrhoids? Itches? Headaches?”

  “A dose of my … my daily medicine is all I would ask, if I may.”

  “With the greatest pleasure.” Suzaku decants the muddy liquid into a thimble-sized cup and proffers it to Orito, who turns away and hides her mouth, as women of breeding do. Her body is aching with anticipation of the relief the solace will deliver. But before she can change her mind, Orito tips the contents of the tiny cup into her well-padded sleeve, where the dark-blue hemp soaks it up.

  “It has a—a honeyed taste tonight,” Orito pronounces. “Or do I imagine it?”

  “What’s good for the body”—Suzaku looks at her mouth—“is good for the soul.”

  ORITO AND YAYOI wash dishes, while Sisters Kagerô and Hashihime are given words of encouragement by their sisters—some shy and some, to judge from the laughter, not at all shy—before being led by Abbess Izu to the altar room to pray to the Goddess. A quarter hour later, the abbess leads them to their rooms, where they await their engifters. After the dishes are washed, Orito stays in the long room, not wanting to be alone with the thought that in one month’s time it may be her lying with an embroidered hood over her head for a master or acolyte. Her body is complaining about its denied dose of solace. One minute she is as hot as soup, the next as cold as shaved ice. When Hatsune asks Orito to read the last New Year letter from the first sister’s firstborn gift, now a young woman of seventeen, Orito is glad of the distraction.

  “‘Dearest Mother,’” Orito reads, peering at the feminine brushstrokes in the lamplight, “‘the berries are red along the verges and one may scarcely credit that another autumn is once more upon us.’”

  “She has her mother’s elegance with words,” murmurs Hatsune.

  “My Tarô is a blockhead,” sighs Kiritsubo, “compared to Noriko-chan.”

  In their New Year letters, Orito notices, the “gifts” regain their names.

  “But what hardworking brewer’s lad like Tarô,” objects proud, modest Hatsune, “has time to notice autumn berries? I beg the newest sister to continue.”

  “‘Once again,’” reads Orito, “‘it is time to send a letter to my dear mother on distant Mount Shiranui. Last spring, when your First Month letter was delivered to the White Crane Workshop, Ueda-san—’”

  “Ueda-san is Noriko-chan’s master,” says Sadaie, “a famous tailor in Miyako.”

  “Is that so?” Orito has been told ten times before. “‘Ueda-san gave me a half holiday to celebrate its arrival. Before it slips my mind, Ueda-san and his wife send their sincerest compliments.’”

  “How lucky,” says Yayoi, “to have found such an honorable family.”

  “The Goddess always takes care of her gifts,” avows Hatsune.

  “‘Your news, Mother, brought me just as much pleasure as you kindly say my foolish scribblings bring you. How wonderful that you are blessed with another gift. I shall pray that he finds as caring a family as the Uedas. Please give my thanks to Sister Asagao for nursing you during your chest illness, and to Master Suzaku for his daily care.’” Orito pauses to ask, “A chest illness?”

  “Oh, the trouble my cough caused! Master Genmu sent Acolyte Jiritsu—may his soul be at rest—down to Kurozane to procure fresh herbs from the herbalist.”

  A crow, Orito aches, could reach Otane’s chimney in a half hour.

  She recalls this summer’s journey to Kurozane and wants to weep.

  “Sister?” Hatsune notices. “Is anything the matter?”

  “No. ‘What with two large court weddings in the fifth month and two funerals in the seventh, the White Crane was inundated with orders. My year has been a lucky one in another respect, Mother, though I blush to write about it. Ueda-san’s principal supplier of brocade is a merchant named Koyama-san, who visits the White Crane with his four sons every two or three months. For a couple of years the youngest son, Shingo-san, would exchange pleasantries with me as I worked. Last summer, however, during the O-bon festivities, I was summoned to the garden teahouse where, to my surprise, Shingo-san, his parents, Ueda-san, and my mistress were drinking tea.’” Orito glances up at the enraptured sisters. “‘You shall have guessed already what was afoot, Mother—but, being a dull-witted girl, I did not.’”

  “She isn’t dull-phitted,” Asagao assures Hatsune, “just phure and innocent.”

  “‘Small talk was made,’” Orito continues, “‘about Shingo-san’s many talents and my own pitiful accomplishments. I did my best to master my shyness, without seeming too forward, and afterward—’”

  “Just as you advised her, Sister,” clucks Sawarabi, “two years ago.”

  Orito watches the sister swell with pride. “‘And afterward, my mistress congratulated me on the favorable impression I had made. I returned to my duties, honored by the praise but expecting to hear nothing more about the Koyamas until their next visit to the White Crane. My foolishness was short-lived. A few days later, on the emperor’s birthday, Ueda-san took all his apprentices to Yoyogi Park to enjoy the fireworks along Kamo River. How magical were the brief-blooming reds and yellows against the night sky! Upon our return, my master summoned me into his office, where my mistress told me that the Koyamas had proposed that I become the wife of their youngest son, Shingo. I knelt there, Mother, as if a fox had put a spell on me! Then Ueda-san’s wife mentioned that the proposal had come from Shingo. That such an upstanding young man desired me as his bride caused tears to flow down my cheeks.’”

  Yayoi hands Hotaru a paper cloth to dab her own eyes.

  Orito folds the last page and unfolds the next. “‘I asked Ueda-san’s permission to speak frankly. My master urged me to do so. My origins were too obscure for the Koyamas, I said; my loyalties lay with the White Crane Workshop; and that if I entered the Koyama family as a bride, tongues would wag that I had used low cunning to ensnare such a fine husband.’”

  “Oh, just grab the lad,” Yûgiri cackles, a little drunk on sake, “by his dragon!”

  “For shame, Sister,” scolds Housekeeper Satsuki. “Let the newest sister read.”

  “‘Master Ueda replied that the Koyamas were well aware of my origins as the daughter of a shrine but saw no objection. They want a daughter-in-law who is dutiful, modest, resourceful, and not a’”—Orito’s voice is joined by sisters who lovingly recite the sobriquet—“’prissy sherbet-guzzling miss who thinks “hard work” is a town in China. Lastly, my master reminded me that I am a Ueda by adoption, and why did I suppose the Uedas to be so very far below the Koyamas? Blushing, I apologized to my master for my thoughtless words.’”

  “But Noriko-san didn’t mean that at all!” Hotaru protests.

  Hatsune warms her hands at the fire. “He is curing her shyness, I believe.”

  “‘Ueda-san’s wife told me that my objections did me great credit, but that the families had agreed that our engagement could last until my seventeenth New Year—’”

  “That would be this New Year coming,” Hatsune explains to Orito.

  “‘—when, if Shingo-san’s feelings are unchanged—’”

  “I pray to the Goddess to keep his heart constant,” says Sadaie. “Every night.”

  “�
�—we shall be married on the first auspicious day in the first month. Ueda-san and Koyama-san shall then invest in a workshop to specialize in obi sashes, where my husband and I can work side by side and train apprentices of our own.’”

  “Imagine!” says Kiritsubo. “Hatsune’s gift, with apprentices of her own.”

  “Children of her own, too,” says Yûgiri, “if Shingo has his way.”

  “‘Looking at these lines, my words read like a dreaming girl’s. Perhaps, Mother, this is the greatest gift our correspondence gives us: a space in which we can dream. You are in my thoughts every day. Your Gift, Noriko.’”

  The women look at the letter, or the fire. Their minds are far away.

  Orito understands that the New Year letters are the sisters’ purest solace.

  EARLY IN THE HOUR of the Boar, the gate opens for the two engifters. Every sister in the long room hears the bolt slide. Abbess Izu’s footsteps leave her room and pause at the gate. Orito imagines three silent bows. The abbess leads two sets of male footsteps along the inner passageway, toward Kagerô’s room and then to Hashihime’s. A minute later, the abbess’s footsteps make their return journey past the long room. The candles hiss. Orito expected Yûgiri or Sawarabi to try to catch a glimpse of the chosen engifters in the unlit corridor, but instead they play a sober game of mah-jongg with Hotaru and Asagao. Nobody so much as acknowledges the arrival of the master and acolyte in the chosen sisters’ rooms. Hatsune is singing “The Moonlit Castle” very softly to her own accompaniment on the koto. Housekeeper Satsuki is repairing a sock. When those carnal negotiations the house terms “engiftment” are actually occurring, Orito sees, the jokes and gossip all cease. Orito also understands that the levity and lewdnesses are not a denial that the sisters’ ovaries and wombs are the Goddess’s, but a way of making their servitude endurable.

  BACK IN HER ROOM, Orito watches the fire through a chink in her blanket. Male footsteps left Kagerô’s room some time ago, but Hashihime’s engifter is staying longer, as an engifter may when both parties are willing. Orito’s knowledge of lovemaking is derived from medical texts and the anecdotes of the women she treated in Nagasaki brothels. She tries not to think of a man under this blanket, pinning her body against this mattress, just one short month from now. Let me cease to be, she begs the fire. Melt what I am into you, she begs the darkness. She finds her face is wet. Once again, her mind probes the House of Sisters for a means of escape. There are no outside windows to climb through. The ground is stone and cannot be dug through. Both sets of gates are bolted from inside, with a guardroom between them. The eaves of the cloisters jut far over the courtyard and cannot be reached or climbed over.

  It’s hopeless. She looks at a rafter and imagines a rope.

  There is a knock at her door. Yayoi whispers, “It’s me, Sister.”

  Orito jumps out of bed and opens the door. “Is it your waters?”

  Yayoi’s pregnant shape is fattened further by blankets. “I can’t sleep.”

  Orito bundles her inside, afraid of a man stepping out of the darkness.

  “THE STORY GOES,” Yayoi says, curling Orito’s hair around her finger, “that when I was born with these”—Yayoi taps her pointed ears—“the Buddhist priest was called. His explanation was that a demon had crept into my mother’s womb and laid his egg there, like a cuckoo. Unless I was abandoned that very night, the priest warned, demons would come for their offspring and carve up the family as a celebratory feast. My father heard this with relief; peasants everywhere ‘winnow the seedlings’ to rid themselves of unwanted daughters. Our village even had a special place for it: a circle of pointed rocks, high above the tree line, up a dry streambed. In the seventh month, the cold could not kill me, but wild dogs, foraging bears, and hungry spirits were sure to do the job by morning. My father left me there and walked home without regret.”

  Yayoi takes her friend’s hand and places it on her belly.

  Orito feels the bulges move. “Twins,” she says, “without a doubt.”

  “Arriving at the village that very night, however”—Yayoi’s tone becomes low and droll—“so the story goes, was Yôben the Seer. For seven days and seven nights a white fox had led the holy man, whose halo of starlight lit his path, under mountains and across lakes. His long journey ended when the fox jumped onto the roof of a humble farmhouse above a village that barely warranted a name. Yôben knocked, and at the sight of such a personage, my father fell to his knees. When he heard about my birth, Yôben the Seer pronounced”—Yayoi changes her voice—“‘The fox’s ears of the baby girl were no curse but a blessing from our Lady Kannon.’ By abandoning me, Father had spurned Kannon’s grace and invited her wrath. The baby girl had to be rescued, at all costs, before disaster struck …”

  A door along the passageway is slid open and shut.

  “As my father and Yôben the Seer approached the place of winnowing,” Yayoi continues her recital, “they heard all the dead babies wailing for their mothers. They heard wolves bigger than horses, howling for fresh meat. My father quivered with fear, but Yôben uttered holy incantations so they could pass through the ghosts and wolves unhurt and enter the circle of pointed rocks, where all was calm and warm as the first day of spring. Lady Kannon sat there, with the white fox, breastfeeding Yayoi, the magical child. Yôben and my father sank to their knees. In a voice like the waves of a lake, Lady Kannon commanded Yôben to travel throughout the empire with me, healing the sick in her holy name. The mystic protested he wasn’t worthy, but the baby, who at one day old could speak, told him, ‘Where there is despair, let us bring hope; where there is death, let us breathe life.’ What could he do but obey the lady?” Yayoi sighs and tries to make her distended abdomen more comfortable. “So whenever Yôben the Seer and the magical fox girl arrived at a new town, that was the story he put about to drum up trade.”

  Orito lies on her side. “May I ask whether Yôben was your real father?”

  “Maybe I say, ‘No,’ because I don’t want it to be true …”

  The night wind plays a rattling flue like a rank amateur plays shakuhachi flute.

  “… but certainly, my earliest memories are of sick people holding my ears as I breathe into their rotten mouths, and of their dying eyes, saying, Heal me, of the filthiest inns, of Yôben standing in marketplaces, reading ‘testimonials’ to my powers from great families.”

  Orito thinks of her own childhood among scholars and books.

  “Yôben dreamed of audiences at palaces, and we spent a year in Edo, but he smelled too much of the showman … of hunger … and, simply, he smelled too much. During our six or seven years on the road, the quality of our inns never improved. All his misfortunes, of course, were my fault, especially when he was drunk. One day, near the end, after we’d been chased out of a town, a fellow healing trickster told him that where a magical fox girl could squeeze money from the desperate and dying, a magical fox woman was another matter. That got Yôben to thinking, and within the month he sold me to a brothel in Osaka.” Yayoi looks at her hand. “My life there, I try hard to forget. Yôben didn’t even say goodbye. Perhaps he couldn’t face me. Perhaps he was my father.”

  Orito wonders at Yayoi’s apparent lack of rancor.

  “When the sisters tell you, ‘The house is far, far better than a brothel,’ they don’t mean to be cruel. Well, one or two may, but not the others. For every successful geisha with wealthy patrons vying for her favors, there are five hundred chewed-up, spat-out girls dying of brothel diseases. This must be cold comfort for a woman of your rank, and I know you’ve lost a better life than the rest of us, but the House of Sisters is only a hell, a prison, if you think it is. The masters and acolytes treat us kindly. Engiftment is an unusual duty, but is it so different from the duty any husband demands from his wife? The duty is certainly paid less often—much less.”

  Orito is frightened by Yayoi’s logic. “But twenty years!”

  “Time passes. Sister Hatsune is leaving in two years. She can settle in
the same town as one of her gifts, with a stipend. Departed sisters write to Abbess Izu, and they are fond and grateful letters.”

  Shadows sway and coagulate among the low rafters.

  “Why did the last newest sister hang herself?”

  “Because being parted from her gift broke her mind.”

  Orito lets time pass. “And it’s not too much for you?”

  “Of course it hurts. But they haven’t died. They are in the world below, well fed and cared for, and thinking about us. After our descent we can even meet them, if we wish it. It’s a … strange life, I don’t deny it, but earn Master Genmu’s trust, earn the abbess’s trust, and it needn’t be a harsh life, or a wasted one …”

  The day I believe this, Orito thinks, is the day Shiranui Shrine owns me.

  “… and you have me here,” says Yayoi, “whatever this is worth.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE SURGERY ON DEJIMA

  An hour before dinner on the twenty-ninth day of the eleventh month

  “LITHOTOMY: FROM THE GREEK LITHOS, FOR ‘STONE,’ AND TOMOS, for ‘cut.’”

  Marinus addresses his four pupils. “Remind us, Mr. Muramoto.”

  “Remove stone from bladder, kidneys, gallbladder, Doctor.”

  “‘Till kingdom come …’” Wybo Gerritszoon is drunk, senseless, naked between his nipples and his socks, and trussed on the backward-slanting operating table like a frog on a dissection board. “‘Who art unleavened bread …’”

  Uzaemon takes the patient’s words to be a Christian mantra.

  Charcoal in the brazier rumbles; snow fell last night.

  Marinus rubs his hands. “Symptoms of bladder stones, Mr. Kajiwaki?”

  “Blood in urine, Doctor, pain to urine, and wants to urine but cannot.”

  “Indeed. A further symptom is fear of surgery, delaying the sufferer’s decision to undergo his stone’s removal until he can no longer lie down without aching to piss, notwithstanding that these few”—Marinus peers at Gerritszoon’s dribble of pink urine in its specimen dish—“drops are all he can muster. Implying that the stone is now positioned … where, Mr. Yano?”