by I. J. Parker
It was all very upsetting, and Saburo knew that Tora and Genba and the women were becoming frantic with worry. He felt guilty for escaping into the arms of Shokichi. And when he remembered Lady Tamako’s kindness to him and how she had mixed her pastes and paints until she achieved just the right shade for his skin, how she had understood his embarrassment, yet had been firm about teaching him her skill, then he felt most deeply ashamed. He had wept when the news had come to Kyushu. It pained him that they were probably thinking he did not care, that he, the most recent to join the Sugawara family, had not formed the bonds of loyalty and family they had. And so he fled whenever he could.
*
Genba’s wife was expecting a child. She had been afraid to hope. Her life as a prostitute had meant so many forced abortions that she had been certain she could no longer bear children. Or, what was even worse, she feared she might bear a deformed child. She watched him as he played with the master’s children, and tears rose to her eyes to think that she might disappoint him, this gentle mountain of a man who doted on children and animals and all things weak.
She pitied the master’s children, as did Genba. He spent too much time with them while chores were left undone. They should be more with their father, but he was so changed that he frightened them, and they much preferred Genba or Tora to keep them company.
Yasuko was getting to be a handful these days. She was seven now and lorded it over her little brother Yoshitada, Yoshi for short. Yoshi was five and timid. Tora frequently shook his head when Yoshi was fearful of the rough games his son Yuki played with Yasuko. To Ohiro’s mind, this was all backwards. Yasuko should be calm and ladylike, and her brother should be the one to play boys’ games. She had pointed this out to her husband, but he had simply laughed and said, “Children have their own ways. Just so long as they’re happy.”
But the master’s children were not really happy. They had cried and cried after their mother and their new brother had died. They had cried again when their father returned and had barely smiled at them. And now they stayed away from him, and he from them.
*
Akitada was unaware of the concern he caused his household. He was unaware of life around him in general. He ate what they brought him, answered their questions vaguely, stared at his children when they came to make their morning bows to him and murmured a greeting and the admonition to be good children and run along.
He was preoccupied with thoughts about the emptiness of his world. Not about the emptiness the Buddhist priests talked about when they meant the various human pursuits like lust, ambition, greed, desire, jealousy, and anger, but rather a very specific state affecting him alone, a man suddenly bereft of all that made his efforts meaningful. He no longer took pleasure in the beauty of the garden, the graceful movements of the koi in his pond, the challenge of tricky legal cases, or the discovery of a killer, and even—may the gods forgive him—the laughter of his children.
The swallows had returned to his house and had nested as before under the eaves outside his study. This had pained him, because the continuance of life was only a few steps from death. And there had been another death: the wisteria outside Tamako’s pavilion had died during the summer.
He read doom in this. Doom for himself and the rest of his life, which seemed to him to have begun with his marriage to Tamako, marked by his presenting her with a flowering branch from this very plant. The wisteria had been near death once before. That time they had drifted apart in mutual recriminations over Yori’s death. It had revived, as had their love. They had both become stronger. And now there was no more hope. What was he to do with himself?
A scratching at the door brought Tora. Akitada wished him away and did not greet him.
Tora glanced at the untouched bowl of rice and vegetables. “You must eat, sir,” he said.
“Leave me alone if you have nothing better to offer,” snarled Akitada.
“I can go to the market.” Tora tried a grin.
Akitada merely glared. “What do you want?”
“They’ve sent again from the ministry. The minister wonders if you’re ill.”
“Then tell him I am. Maybe then they’ll leave me alone.”
Tora sat down uninvited. “I doubt it. I think the minister would hurry over with his personal physician.”
“Send them to the devil if they come. I don’t want to see anyone.”
A heavy silence fell.
“There are the children,” Tora said after a while.
“What about them?”
“You are their father. You owe them something. Her ladyship would be appalled.”
Akitada jumped up. “How dare you? Get out!”
Tora paled, got up, and walked out like a beaten dog.
An hour later he came back to open the door with the words, “Superintendent Kobe, sir.”
Kobe walked in with a smile on his face, but before he could say anything, Akitada cursed.
Kobe stopped in his tracks. “What’s this?” he demanded. “I don’t recall you using such language before. What’s twisted your tail in a knot? And what have I done to get such a greeting?”
Akitada barely glanced at him. “Not you. Tora. I told him I didn’t want to see anyone only a moment ago.”
Kobe glanced at the congealed food and sat down. “Any chance of getting a cup of wine? I had a hot walk over here.
For a moment it looked as though Akitada would get up and leave, but he relaxed again and clapped his hands.
Tora’s face appeared in the door opening.
“Get these dishes out of here and bring some wine,” Akitada snapped, giving him an evil look.
Tora grinned, gathered up the tray with the uneaten food, and murmured, “Right away, sir.”
“He’s grown intolerable,” grumbled Akitada as soon as the door had closed behind him.
“You’re the one who’s grown intolerant. Tora loves you, as does the rest of your household. And your friends as well. It isn’t right to treat us like enemies.”
Akitada looked away. “I have not treated anyone as an enemy,” he protested feebly.
“And your children suffer. Your wife would be shocked, could she see it.”
Akitada clenched his hands. Then he got to his feet, and without a look or word, he left the room and went outside into the garden. It was unforgivably rude, but he could bear no more of this. Kobe had visited regularly, but never had he spoken as harshly as this. He felt tears rise to his eyes, hot and burning, and he bit his lip hard to gain control. He could not bear the thought of Tamako’s anger from beyond the grave, yet, he also could not find the strength to speak to his children. He had tried many times and each time he had run out of words and felt close to tears. He did not want them to see him weep and burst into tears themselves. Better they should play with Genba and Tora or be coddled by the women. They were too young to grieve.
A step crunched on the gravel behind him and Kobe put a hand on his shoulder. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’ve run out of ideas how to help you, and lost my patience.”
Akitada choked back the lump in his throat. “Your patience? You surprise me. I didn’t know you had any,” he said. The smile which was to accompany the comment failed.
But Kobe grip on his shoulder tightened briefly before he took his hand away. “Would you like me to send my children’s tutor over? Or could the children come to my house? My children would like that very much.” Kobe was pleading.
Emotion gripped Akitada again. “Thank you,” he choked out. “Yes, perhaps something like that … I suppose I should have … Time has a way of slipping past.”
“Good. I’ll send the man over. You’ll like him. He did very well at the university but unlike you he failed miserably as a young official and is now forced to earn his living teaching children.”
Akitada thought about his own career. Had he done well? He doubted it. And now? It was probably over. He had left his post in Kyushu without permission, had not reported when he reached
the capital, and had not returned to his former position at the ministry. He had done nothing.
Fujiwara Kaneie had sent for him and later called in person, but Akitada had claimed illness so as not to have to deal with him. Would he end up teaching other people’s children? It was ridiculous when he could not even manage to teach his own. For the first time, it struck him that he had no income and that hunger and homelessness might be more unbearable than grief.
Or perhaps not. His grief was his own private world, but its effects were felt by his household. He had no right to it. A wave of self-pity washed over him. He had nothing; not even the right to grieve for Tamako’s death.
Kobe cleared his throat. “Don’t look so dismal. It will get better. I know. For a while you think nothing will ever be right again and then one day you find yourself laughing, and a bit later you will feel happy about something, and in the end the person you’ve lost will be a treasured memory of your youth.”
Akitada turned his head away. “You mean well, Kobe. I thank you for it, but telling me that the pain will pass will not speed up my recovery. Your reminder that I have obligations forces me to face the world when I lack the strength to do so.”
Kobe gave him a searching look. “You have always lived for your obligations, Akitada. Even at times when it was foolish to do so. I think you will do so again, and soon.” He touched Akitada’s arm. “I must go now, but you only have to send for me if there’s something I can do.”
Akitada remained in the garden a while longer. Then he went in search of the children. He found them outside Tamako’s pavilion and had to steel himself to go closer. Yoshi sat on the veranda, dangling his feet and watching his sister. His daughter had wrapped one of her mother’s gowns about her and paraded back and forth on the veranda, waving a fan and reciting something.
Akitada recognized the gown and felt a stab of pain. He was furious with his daughter. “Yasuko, take that off immediately,” he shouted. “How dare you dirty up your mother’s things in your silly games?”
Yasuko spun around and froze when she saw her father. Her eyes grew large and her chin trembled. Then, with a sob, she ran inside.
Yoshi was pleased. He jumped up and ran to embrace his father’s knees. “I told her not to do it, Father,” he cried. “She’s a bad girl.”
Akitada detached him. He stared at the pavilion in the summer sunshine. There on the veranda they had sat together, watching the children at play, looking at the garden, talking. It had been a regular occurrence every time he had spent the night with his wife.
No more. Not ever again.
He would not weep before his children. He would be strong and walk up the veranda steps. He would go inside, into the room where they had been together, and he would speak to his daughter calmly, explaining to her that her mother deserved respect even after her death.
But before he could do so, a woman appeared in the doorway. Tamako’s maid Oyuki. Yasuko’s tear-stained face peered out from behind her with frightened eyes.
“Sir? Is it you?” the maid said, bowing to him. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
The fact that they had apparently made themselves at home in Tamako’s pavilion angered him again. “Why should you be informed about my plans?” he snapped. “And what are you and the children doing here?”
“We live here.”
“You live here? By whose permission?” Akitada started toward them with a face like thunder.
The maid fell to her knees. “I’m sorry, sir. I only did as I was told. We’ll leave this moment. Please forgive the mistake.” She started knocking her forehead against the boards of the veranda floor. Yasuko burst into a wail, and behind him Yoshi began to cry as well.
Akitada stopped. He should not make his children cry. No matter how he felt himself, they were innocent of wrong doing. “Please get up, Oyuki,” he said more calmly. “Nobody told me. Who suggested that you and the children live here?”
Yoshi cried, “I don’t live here, Father. I have my own room.”
“Good,” said his father. “You must show me later.”
Oyuki, who was also weeping by now, got to her feet. “Lady Akiko thought it was best if Lady Yasuko took her mother’s room. Lady Akiko said I was to be Lady Yasuko’s maid now.”
Lady Akiko! His sister. Meddlesome as always. “Well,” he said, “I’m sorry if I spoke harshly to you. I didn’t know. I suppose this is a practical arrangement. Only my daughter seems rather young to take possession of my wife’s things.”
“We asked permission of Lady Akiko because Hanae said you weren’t to be bothered. Lady Akiko and I looked through Lady Tamako’s things and chose two gowns that could be shortened for Lady Yasuko. Lady Yasuko was trying on the gown, sir.”
And so he had been put in the wrong. He always seemed to become the ogre in his children’s eyes. A flash of another memory crossed his mind: Yori looking up at him with frightened eyes after a reprimand. Yori, who had died shortly afterward of smallpox. And his father had spent the years that had passed wishing he could take back his harshness, wishing he had instead held his son and told him that he loved him.
He raised his hands to his face and groaned. Then he lowered them, turned to his son and held out his hand, and said, “Come, Yoshi. Let us go up to your mother’s pavilion and see your sister’s room.”
Yoshi came reluctantly. “You will come and see mine also? I have a picture of a very fierce tiger.”
“I will come and see it.”
They climbed the steps together. Oyuki stepped aside, and Akitada looked down at his daughter’s tear-stained face. “I’m very sorry, Yasuko,” he said. “It’s been a very hard time for me. I miss your mother very much, you see.”
She burst into new tears and flung herself into his arms. He ended up kneeling on the veranda and holding his weeping children.
And weeping with them.
Oyuki sniffled and withdrew.
3
A Conspiracy
Later that day another visitor arrived. This time, Akitada made an effort to be hospitable.
The gentleman announced by Tora was Nakatoshi, formerly his clerk in the Ministry of Justice, but now senior secretary at the Ministry of Ceremonial. Nakatoshi had called before to express his condolences, but he had seen how deeply wounded Akitada was and left again quickly.
Nakatoshi was one of the few friends who had never asked Akitada for anything, while Akitada had gone to him on numerous occasions for assistance that always been freely given. He had obligations to Nakatoshi.
Nakatoshi came into Akitada’s study almost timidly. “Forgive me,” he said, just as if he were still his clerk. “I hate to intrude. You must tell me to go if it’s an imposition.”
It was an imposition, but Akitada would never say so. He rose to his feet, fixed a smile on his face, and went to greet Nakatoshi with an embrace. “Welcome, my friend,” he said, “and I hope I never hear you call me ‘sir’ again. I think by now you outrank me.” He grimaced. “If we give it another month, I’ll be lucky if they’ll let me serve as a junior clerk in your office.”
It was a feeble joke. Akitada expected a very serious reprimand for deserting his post.
Nakatoshi looked anxious. “Have you heard anything from the Central Affairs Office?”
Akitada shook his head. “Come, let us sit. You’ll take some wine?”
With their cups filled and tasted, they fell into an awkward silence. Akitada did not know what to say. He thought that Nakatoshi probably wondered how he was handling his loss but could not ask such a question. Clearly word was out that he was handling it poorly. But to his surprise, Nakatoshi had something very different on his mind.
“I’ve come to beg a favor, Akitada,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I know I shouldn’t burden you with this, but I cannot talk about it to anyone else.”
Oh yes, there were obligations! Obligations had a way of stepping in your path and forcing you to go in another direction whether you wanted to or not.
Akitada nodded and said, “As you know, my friend, I’m very much in your debt. Please tell me what I can do.”
Nakatoshi flushed deeply. “No, no,” he said quickly, “you mustn’t feel like that, Akitada. I’ve done nothing. I’m the one who always benefitted from your assistance.”
Akitada shook his head and smiled a little. “Please speak freely.”
Nakatoshi took a gulp of wine. “I think you may remember the Abbot Genshin of the Daiun-ji near Mount Hiei?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He used to be Takashina Tasuku. You were at the university together, I heard.”
“Tasuku? Yes. I know Tasuku. And I did know that he took the tonsure many years ago. He’s an abbot now?”
Nakatoshi nodded.
Tasuku, the handsome heir of a powerful and wealthy family, had been blessed with extraordinary looks and the attention of the most beautiful women at court. But he had engaged in secret trysts with an imperial concubine who was murdered on her way back to the palace. In remorse or to escape punishment, Tasuku had become the monk Genshin. Tasuku an abbot of a monastery?
“Not surprising, given his family’s influence. What about him?” Akitada said, curious in spite of himself.
“Someone living in his mansion, a woman, was found hanged a week ago. It’s being called a suicide, but Abbot Genshin is uneasy about the matter. He came to me and asked if I would speak to you.”
Akitada frowned. He did not like the fact that a man who had once been his friend had taken such a roundabout way to approach him. True, Tasuku knew that Akitada had strongly disapproved of him in the past and held him responsible for the concubine’s death. And now he was apparently again involved in some scandal with a woman, and this woman had also died. But perhaps Nakatoshi owed him a favor much as Akitada owed many to Nakatoshi. It was the way of the world. Never mind that he had meant to escape it.
“What was this woman to the abbot?” he asked, his voice cold.
