by I. J. Parker
Takenori said, “I see my path clear. There is nothing for me in this world.”
Toshikage shifted uncomfortably. Akitada wondered whether Takenori had rejected the temptations of a worldly career or felt abandoned by his father. He glanced uncertainly at Toshikage and thought he saw tears in his brother-in-law’s eyes. So it had been the young man’s own choice, just as apparently it had been the other son’s wish to become a soldier. To have both sons turn their backs on a career in the capital where they could support their father and eventually carry on the family name was a tragic blow. But eventually, of course, it would benefit Akiko, particularly if she did bear Toshikage more sons, and if Tadamine lost his life on the battlefield. No doubt his sister had taken these things into account. Thus were grief and happiness forever intertwined in the rope of fate.
“Takenori,” said Toshikage with a sigh, “stop your fidgeting and sit down. We must tell Akitada about our visitor.”
It developed that the director of the Bureau of Palace Storehouses himself had called on his assistant to express his dissatisfaction with certain rumors he had heard.
Toshikage was distressed. “Apparently the story of my having the lute got out past our department,” he said. “The director does not show his face very often in the office. His is one of those appointments which merely produces a good income. He was angry because someone made insinuations about lax administration at a party he was attending.”
Akitada watched his brother-in-law as he reported on the director’s visit. Toshikage appeared more frustrated than conscious of guilt. His son looked angry. When he met Akitada’s eyes, he cried, “It was an intolerable insult to my father and may cost him his position.”
Akitada said soothingly, “Well, nobody takes gossip very seriously. Next week they will have something else to talk about. I meant to tell you that my questioning the local antiquarians has at least given us the encouraging news that the thief, if there was one, has not offered any of the objects for sale.” He gave Toshikage a hard look. “I don’t suppose they could simply have been misplaced. Perhaps, like the lute, they were removed temporarily only and will be returned?”
“Impossible,” cried Takenori. “Father and I checked carefully. They have been missing for months.”
Toshikage nodded with a sigh. “Yes, I am afraid Takenori is right. We have made a most careful search since I last spoke to you. We did so after hours so as not to attract the notice of my colleagues.”
Fleetingly Akitada wondered if Takenori was taking refuge in Buddhist vows because he foresaw his father’s downfall and exile. They would certainly protect him from prosecution. But what about the figurine in Akiko’s apartment? “Are you quite certain, Brother, that you have not forgotten bringing home some of the things? They could easily have become mixed up with your own treasures.”
Toshikage stiffened. “Of course not. I am not yet in my dotage even if I am quite a bit older than you.”
“Sorry. I did not mean to imply anything.” Seeing the anger in Toshikage’s face, Akitada broke off awkwardly. How was he to pursue the matter? Any suggestion of his suspicion might offend Toshikage so seriously as to lead to a break between the families, or worse.
Toshikage had fallen into a hurt silence, but Takenori looked flushed with anger. When he saw Akitada’s eyes on himself, he protested, “My father is most meticulous in his duties. It is so unfair! I think that we should propose that this house be searched. It will establish his innocence once and for all.”
Toshikage cried, “Heavens, no! I forbid it. What are you thinking of? It would upset Akiko, and in her delicate condition that could endanger the child.”
Akitada, more than ever at sea about Toshikage’s culpability, sought desperately for something else to say and remembered the screen.
“Forgive me, Brother, for speaking so carelessly. I really was thinking of the many wonderful things I saw in Akiko’s quarters.”
Toshikage looked slightly mollified. “It gives me pleasure to surround beauty with more beauty,” he said sentimentally.
“She is a lucky woman. And you are a remarkable collector with a fine eye for art. I particularly admired the screen with the flowers.”
“Oh, that! Yes. Does it look well there? It cost a pretty penny. The fellow is getting a name at court.”
There was something not quite right about Toshikage’s response. Had the man not seen it for himself ? Akitada said, “It looks very well indeed. Was it you who chose to place it just to the side of the sliding doors to the courtyard? In the summertime it must look as if the garden had moved into the house.”
Toshikage beamed. “Hah! Very good. No, Akiko must have put it there. Clever girl!”
So Toshikage did not venture to his wife’s room regularly. Apparently, like the emperor’s consorts, Akiko proceeded to her husband’s quarters for their intimacies. More importantly, it was possible that Toshikage had nothing to do with the suspect figurine. It made the problem more complex, for someone else in the household could have placed it there. If, indeed, it was part of the imperial treasure and not some similar piece.
Akitada turned to Takenori. “By the way, your father has given me a description of the missing items. It occurs to me that you, too, may be familiar with them. Could you give me your recollection of what they looked like, please? It will help confirm your father’s memory.”
Takenori turned out to be less than helpful. He stumbled through some vague descriptions, getting the colors of the figurine wrong and being corrected by his father, and finally gave up with the comment that he did not take much interest in such things. The outcome was largely inconclusive, except to confirm that Akiko’s figurine was at least a close replica of the emperor’s and that Toshikage was not aware of its presence in his house.
Well, he could do no more at the moment without alerting father and son to his suspicions. With an inward sigh, Akitada gave up, and then remembered the screen. He said to Toshikage, “I am really impressed with the flower screen. Akiko could not tell me the name of the artist and referred me to you. I thought I might commission something similar for Tamako. She is very fond of gardening.”
Toshikage clapped his hands. “That is an excellent idea. Takenori took care of the commission for me. Please look up the address and tell Akitada how to get there, Takenori!”
His son obediently rose and went to the shelves, where he opened one of the document boxes and searched through the contents. He returned with a sheet of paper, which he handed to Akitada. “This contains the information, sir,” he said politely.
It was a copy of a bill of sale for “one screen, four panels, decorated with flowers of the season in exotic containers” to be delivered by the end of the Leaf-Turning Month to His Excellency, the assistant director of the Bureau of Palace Storehouses, in return for ten bars of silver. The bill was signed, “Noami, of the Bamboo Hermitage, by the Temple of Boundless Mercy.”
Ten bars of silver! It was an enormous price to pay a mere artisan. Artists usually scraped together a living hawking their wares at markets and during temple fairs. Akitada said, “At these prices the man must live in a palace. Where is this Bamboo Hermitage?”
Toshikage laughed. “I told you the fellow is becoming the fashion. Did you notice the detail? He is said to study a flower from the time the bud opens through all the stages of bloom until the petals fall. Such patience costs money. But I have an idea. I have wondered how to express my gratitude to you, dear Brother, and to welcome you home properly at the same time. Allow me the pleasure of making you a gift of such a screen. Takenori shall go with you, and you shall tell the man what you want. When it is done, I shall have the screen delivered to your lovely wife.”
Akitada was embarrassed. Under no circumstances did he wish to obligate himself to Toshikage, at least not until he knew exactly where his brother-in-law stood in the case of the missing treasures. “Thank you, Brother! You are most generous, but this particular gift to Tamako must be my own. You u
nderstand, I am sure?”
Toshikage raised an eyebrow and grinned knowingly. “Say no more, dear Brother! I understand completely. The lady must be reassured of your affection. I know the feeling.” He chuckled.
Akitada turned to the son. “There is no need for you to come, but perhaps you can give me directions to the artist’s house?”
It appeared that the painter lived in the western part of the city. Takenori hinted that it was in a rough neighborhood.
“What’s this?” cried Toshikage. “You said nothing to me about the place being dangerous.”
Takenori lowered his eyes humbly. “Forgive me, Father. I did not know until I was accosted by a pair of aggressive beggars. I got away from them easily enough, but Lord Sugawara may not be so lucky.”
Toshikage tsk-tsked. “The western city is getting so bad you cannot walk the streets any longer without being in fear for your life. Takenori is right. You had better take an armed servant with you. I cannot imagine why a successful painter would live among such riffraff.”
“Oh,” said Takenori, “his house is quite substantial, if a bit overgrown. I suppose it is his family home, but he lives there alone.”
“Well, it is time I were on my way.” Akitada got up, still frustrated by his suspicions about the figurine in Akiko’s room. After a moment’s hesitation, he said to Toshikage, “I think my sister might benefit from your explanations about the origin and meaning of some of the charming objects which decorate her room. I am sure knowing their history will increase her enjoyment greatly.”
Toshikage looked pleased. “Certainly, certainly. What a very good idea! It will give me great pleasure to do so. Please convey my regards and hopes for improvement to your lady mother.”
An empty wish, that, and they both knew it. Akitada bowed and took his leave.
After the pleasant warmth of Toshikage’s rooms, the cold air outside took his breath away, and he strode out briskly to let the physical exertion warm his blood. He intended to take care of the matter of Tamako’s screen as soon as possible. Takenori’s warning he ignored. The suggestion that he could not handle himself at least as well as that young man had been offensive and he ascribed the slight to the fact that young Takenori not only resented his father’s young wife, but by extension her brother also. He might have realized that Akitada had dealt single-handedly with far greater dangers than a couple of hungry beggars.
More irritating than the imputation of faintheartedness or a walk through a bad neighborhood were the painter’s prices. But this time he would not let money stand in his way. Tamako should have her screen, come what may.
Little did he know the price he would ultimately have to pay.
* * * *
SEVEN
The Bamboo Hermitage
Two days later Akitada went to see the painter. He had not set foot in the western city since his return. It was here that almost five years ago he had suffered soul-wrenching grief when his wife’s family home had been burned down with her father inside it. Since then, he had avoided this part of the capital.
It was another bitterly cold day. Winter here arrived not with the heavy snowfalls of the north country, but with an icy wind which bit more keenly, and the prevailing gray and brown hues of bare trees and dried grasses looked dirty and dismal in contrast to the sparkling snow cover in Echigo.
There were fewer people in this part of the capital and they seemed to hurry along with their chins tucked into the collars of their padded robes. A few women, with thick scarves draped around their heads and shoulders, walked clutching their baskets or small children with one hand, while the other held the scarf in place.
When he passed Konoe Avenue, he glanced down it toward the imperial flags flying over the prison. The capital had two of these, just as it had two city administrations and two markets. The division of the capital into an eastern or left half and a western or right half, with Suzaku Avenue the central dividing line, had created two worlds, for the two halves could not be more different. The eastern city was crowded, bustling, affluent, and mostly law-abiding; the western half had sunk into a rapid decline and now was inhabited mostly by the poor and desperate. The prison on this side of town was always crowded and the court docket full.
Nagaoka’s brother was in the other prison, but was suffering, no doubt, the same daily beatings until he signed his confession. Akitada’s stomach twisted at the thought of it and he drew up his shoulders with a shiver.
The artist’s studio lay in the westernmost quarter of the city. He walked quickly to keep warm in the cold air, tucking his chin into the collar of his quilted robe. But there was little he could do to keep his ears warm, and they began to hurt unpleasantly.
Once there had been fine private homes in large gardens here, but they had fallen into ruin or burned to the ground. The “good people” had moved away to the other side of town, leaving behind a tangled wilderness. Squatters occupied the empty spaces now, and here and there thin spirals of smoke rose from huts and abandoned pavilions.
Poorly dressed people gave him a wide berth after a brief glance at his silk robe and black hat. He was one of the “good people,” an oddity like a piece of brocade among hemp, or—as he soon realized when he could not get close enough to anyone to ask for directions—a fish out of water.
He began to regret his good clothing even more when he attracted a following of about six or seven ragged young men who seemed to wait for him to turn down one of the narrow side streets where there would be no witnesses to a quick robbery.
He got directions eventually from a laborer carrying a load of roof tiles on his back, no doubt salvage from another abandoned villa. He gave them grudgingly enough, along with an astonished glance at Akitada’s formal silk robe. The farther Akitada walked, the more uneasy he became. His clothes shamed him among the poor and ragged creatures who inhabited the makeshift shacks by the side of the weed-grown and rutted roads. When his surroundings became more densely populated, the character of the quarter became even worse. Workers’ tenements crowded together, interspersed with poor shops and leaning stalls. Now and then he passed a shrine or small temple, and once a somewhat more substantial house which bore the insignia of the local warden, but in most blocks cheap wine shops alternated with eateries stinking of rancid fish oil and rotted vegetables.
The Temple of Boundless Mercy was a surprise when he finally reached it. It occupied a large area and was dominated by a towering main hall and a three-story pagoda. These and other, smaller buildings stood inside a vast courtyard surrounded by the remnants of tall plaster walls which had lost most of their plaster and had collapsed altogether in some sections. The temple grounds lay in a haze of thin gray smoke and, from what he could see through the gaping holes in the wall, appeared to be a sort of local market.
He stopped to look at the temple, wondering how to find the painter’s house, when he felt a violent push to his back and stumbled forward. Hands pulled at his sash and felt his sleeves. Reacting by instinct, he whirled, his fists clenched and lashing out at his attackers. His right made sharp contact with a body. There was a yelp, and a slight figure scurried away. But he had no time to waste on that one, for he had grabbed hold of a second attacker with his left and flung him face down on the ground. Falling on his prostrate opponent with his knees, he knocked the breath out of him and caught the flailing hands by the wrists, pinning them into the dirt. His prisoner screamed in a high, thin voice, and Akitada realized that he had caught a youngster, about fourteen or fifteen years old. Pickpockets, he thought disgustedly, and shifted his knees from the boy’s back, wondering what to do with his captive.
The answer became quickly obvious. A small hostile crowd gathered around him. Kneeling on the street, Akitada saw their feet and legs first, mostly naked or in ragged straw sandals, except for one pair of massive leather boots right before his eyes. Large as the boots were, the wearer had had to cut them open to make room for some enormous dirty toes. Akitada’s eyes traveled upward an
d found that their owner matched them in size and uncleanliness. A bearded giant glared down at him. Worse, on either side of him stood no fewer than ten or fifteen burly, hostile males. Akitada swallowed. The bearded giant alone easily outweighed him by a third.
“Let him go!” the giant growled down to him.
Akitada rose to his feet but jerked the youngster up with him, his fist firmly grasping the boy’s flimsy shirt by the neck. The young thief had stopped wailing and struggling and was awaiting the outcome of the confrontation with renewed confidence.
At eye level, or near eye level, for the big man was almost a head taller than Akitada, the bearded giant did not improve. The part of his face which was not covered by the unkempt bristly beard was badly pockmarked, and a fleshy nose and thick lips did nothing for his appearance. They eyed each other in mutual disgust for a moment; then Akitada said matter-of-factly, “This boy and his companion tried to steal from me. I’d like a word with his father if you can tell me where he lives.”
The big man’s jaw dropped a little, but he recovered quickly. “I said to let him go. It’s none of your business. We don’t need your kind here, giving our kids a bad name, calling them thieves.” The others muttered their agreement and shuffled up a little more closely.
