by I. J. Parker
Otori’s broad feet came slapping down the corridor. She carried a tray with several bowls on it. This she set down on the doctor’s desk. “Well, has he sold my bowl or does he still have it?” she asked.
The boy glanced at the tray, then at her. “The landlord took it,” he said.
Yamada put his hand on the child’s head. “Don’t worry, Sadamu. The bowl does not matter. I have many bowls.”
Otori bristled, but catching the doctor’s eye, she turned and marched off, muttering under her breath, “Sadamu!”
“Come and eat,” Yamada invited. “And if something is left, you can feed the fish.”
There was some sort of soup, fragrant rice, and sweet dumplings. Two servings of everything. Clearly, Otori had hoped Yamada would also eat and, after offering food to the boy, he did. They sat together near the brazier and ate, the child hungrily, the man slowly, his eyes intent on the child. Before he had finished his rice, the boy got to his feet, holding the half-filled bowl.
“The fish must be hungry,” he said.
The doctor carried the child out into the chilly garden and let him scatter the rice grains on the winter-black pond. The carp rushed up from the murky depths, snatching crumbs from each other and turning the surface of the pond into a swirl of brilliant orange and silver, lashing the water into spangles and flashes of refracted light.
Yamada hoped to see delight on the child’s earnest face, perhaps even to hear a gurgle of laughter, but the boy merely watched. His eyes widened a little for a moment, but otherwise he was unmoved.
They returned to the warm house and finished their meal.
“Will you wait here for me,” Yamada asked when all the food was gone, “or do you want to come with me?”
Sadamu wiped his hands on his wrinkled and very dirty shirt, and got up. “I’ll come,” he decided with a glance toward the back of the house where Otori could be heard sweeping.
They stopped in the kitchen to return the tray with the dishes, and Yamada asked Otori to wash the child’s face and hands. She did so with surprising gentleness.
Then they left, hand in hand, for the tenement where the boy used to live.
The landlord, a greasy character with one eye, was leaning against the doorway, cleaning his teeth with a straw. When he saw the boy with a gentleman in a silk robe, he straightened up and bobbed bow after bow. “So glad to see you again, Sadamu.” He grinned, laying a clawlike hand possessively on the boy’s head and rolling his one eye in Yamada’s direction. “Found your family, have you?”
Sadamu kicked his shin. “Where’s my mother?” he yelled. “What have you done with her?”
The landlord hopped aside and rubbed his leg. “Poor boy.” He laughed a little. “He’s confused and upset because his mother died.”
“He is not confused,” said Yamada. “What happened here?”
“Oh, you don’t know? She died two nights ago. Owing me money, too. I’m a poor man and had to rent the place again.”
“Where is she now?”
“The monks came and took her away. About my money . . .”
Doctor Yamada looked at him with distaste. “That is none of my business. You must apply to her relatives.”
The man’s jaw sagged. “But I thought you . . .”
“What was her name and where was she from?” the doctor snapped.
“She said her name was Miyuko. And that she was a soldier’s widow.” The landlord snorted. “Not that I believed it. More likely she was a whore.”
“Come,” said the doctor to the boy. They turned to go.
“Wait!” The landlord took a few steps after them. “The kid’s mine. She owed for two months.”
Without releasing the boy, the doctor turned on the landlord. Taking him by the front of his filthy robe, he pushed him back against the wall of the tenement. “What do you mean, the child is yours?” he demanded.
A passing mendicant priest, elderly and unkempt, stopped to watch the altercation.
The landlord squealed, “He’s got to work off the debt. He’s big enough. The law’s on my side.”
Yamada released him abruptly. “I am Doctor Yamada. Tomorrow you may bring the warden to my house. If your bill is correct, you will be paid.”
To the boy, he said, “Don’t worry. It will all be settled. Now let’s see about your mother’s funeral and then we’ll go home. Tomorrow’s another day.”
The priest heard him and nodded. “Every day’s a good day as long as you don’t think about the past or worry about the future.” He smiled a toothless smile and extended his empty bowl.
The Little Snail
The call for Toshiko did not come until two days after her disastrous performance. This time she was ready. She had been ready every day and all day, her face fully made up, her costume exquisite, her hair brushed and oiled. It had been a matter of self-discipline.
Her courage was much more difficult to maintain. As she hurried down the long, polished corridor toward the Emperor’s apartment, her heart beat so violently that her ears were ringing.
She entered and saw that he was again in the company of the nun and had writing utensils and papers spread out on a small desk and on the mat beside him. Her relief was almost dizzying. She approached on soft feet and prostrated herself.
“Ah, Toshiko,” the emperor greeted her affably. “Please come and join us. I am trying to finish a part of my collection of songs before the pilgrimage.”
He was leaving on a pilgrimage? Toshiko looked at Him in dismay. How was she to accomplish what she must do if He was about to leave – for many weeks. She had heard about His frequent visits to worship at the Kumano shrines but had somehow thought there would be time.
“Why, what is the matter?” he asked, raising his brows at her expression.
She felt the blood rise hotly under her make-up. “I . . . did not know, sire. I did not know you are leaving.” Even she could hear the grief in her words.
The emperor smiled and extended a hand toward her. “Come, my dear,” He said in the friendliest manner. “I am not leaving quite so soon.”
Slightly dazed she went and took his hand. It was warm and soft. As she touched it, she felt a slight thrill run up her arm and warmth spread through her body. He pulled her down on a cushion beside him and said, “We shall have time together before I leave, and I shall come back a better man than I am now, I hope. And while I am gone, I shall remember to say a prayer to the gods that you will be waiting for me when I return.”
She was speechless and merely looked at him gratefully. It could not be this easy, could it? But no. They were not alone. Otomae was sitting there, regarding them with a knowing little smile. And behind the daytime screens, the curtained dais where He slept, lay in darkness, its draperies drawn around it. She felt hot and breathless.
The moment passed. The emperor turned to his papers, selecting a sheet, and handed it to her. “Can you read this? Will you see if it is correct?”
His brush strokes were more elegant than any she had ever seen. She read the poem. It was the song she had performed last time, and shame flooded over her again. She dropped the sheet and covered her face with both hands.
“What? Is my calligraphy so horrid you cannot bear to look at it?” He teased.
She could smell His scent. He was so close that it almost made her dizzy. “No, sire,” she murmured. “It is the song I performed. I am so ashamed.”
She felt his hands on hers, pulling them from her face, and raised her eyes. He looked very kind and smiled a little. She thought that his eyes were as gentle as a doe’s.
“You have no need to be ashamed, Toshiko,” He said. “I am getting very impatient with that aging virago who seems to take out her own discontent on you. She meant to embarrass you and make me send you away. It did not work. I thought you enchanting, and I hope you will honor me with another dance tonight.”
She forgot that they were not alone. Her hands lay in his warm ones. She could not keep them from trem
bling a little, but so intensely aware was she of his touch that she did not want to take them back. And so they sat for a long moment absorbed in each other, and Toshiko felt with amazement for the first time a sense of power.
He finally released her hands with a slight squeeze. “Otomae,” he said, turning to the nun, “will you help Toshiko with the costume?” He gestured toward a lacquered trunk decorated with flying geese. Otomae smiled and got up. She moved somewhat painfully. The emperor said to Toshiko, “Go with her, my dear. It would give me great pleasure to see you dance just the way your teacher Akomaro did.”
Toshiko was much younger than Otomae, but she found her legs strangely unsteady when she stood. Otomae was holding a white silk jacket, cut like a man’s hunting cloak, and a pair of pleated red silk trousers, the traditional costume of shrine maidens and shirabyoshi. Where was she to change? The nun did not waste any time. She quickly gathered Toshiko’s long, loose hair and tied it in back with a white silk ribbon. Then she removed the embroidered Chinese jacket and laid it aside. When Otomae untied her sash and let it fall to the floor, Toshiko realized that she was being undressed here, before the emperor’s eyes, and murmured a protest.
Otomae paused to look at her. “It is for His Majesty,” she said softly. “Do not be afraid to give him pleasure.”
And so, layer after layer, the colored gauze gowns were removed and laid aside. Toshiko kept her eyes on the floor and turned obediently when Otomae tugged her this way and that. And then she wore nothing but her thin white under gown and the white trouser skirt. The cool silk moved against her hot skin, and she shivered. She remembered how it had felt when the fabric had clung wetly to her breasts and raised her hands protectively. Her eyes flew to the Emperor. He looked back, intently, and smiled a little at her gesture.
When Otomae reached for the ribbons that held Toshiko’s full trousers around her waist, Toshiko shuddered away from her touch.
“I think that is enough, Otomae,” the Emperor said. “Toshiko may dress in complete costume next time.”
“Raise your arms, child,” instructed the nun. She wound the long sash tightly around Toshiko’s waist, making her turn like a top with her arms in the air, and when she was done, she attached the long, gold-embossed sword to the sash with red silk cords. Then she helped Toshiko into the full-sleeved man’s jacket and tied a man’s tall black hat on her head. Except for her long hair, Toshiko looked like a young courtier.
It was a strange and uncomfortable costume to dance in. Akomaro had explained that shirabyoshi dance in men’s clothing to tease a male audience and make them wonder what was under the clothing, but His Majesty had just watched Toshiko’s transformation. There was little left for him to wonder about.
Otomae placed an open fan into Toshiko’s hand, then stepped aside. His Majesty nodded. “Charming,” he said. “Now, my dear, what will you dance for us?”
Because she was still ashamed, Toshiko chose one of Akomaro’s religious songs, “When I hear the Lotus Sutra.”
The emperor chuckled, but Otomae gave her an approving nod and took up a hand drum to start the throbbing measure of the dance. Ottomae was very skilled, and Toshiko was fond of the Buddha song and poured out all of her hopes and secret prayers. “My body shines like a brilliant mirror,” she sang, “and my heart becomes the heart of Buddha.” When she was done, it took her a moment to return to the present.
His Majesty was silent at first but then He applauded. “Excellent. This song is new to me, and the delivery is quite unusual. This Akomaro was a true artist.”
Toshiko bowed deeply. “Akomaro was perfection itself. I am only a poor student.”
“Will you write down the words of all the songs you remember?”
“Yes, sire.”
He patted the pillow beside him. “Come here.”
She went to kneel beside him, feeling strange with the hat on her head and the awkward sword by her side. He did not really like my performance, she thought. He was disappointed. That is why he wanted me to sit down again.
As if to prove her correct, the Emperor turned to the nun. “Otomae, will you favor us next?”
Otomae shook her head. “No, sire,” she said — though no one ever says no to the emperor. “I am old and have put aside the things of this world, except for the memories you keep stirring up. Dancing is for the young.” She smiled at Toshiko. “Pleasure is for those who are still in the world, sire.”
There was a brief and strangely weighty silence, then the Emperor said, “You know that I make no distinction between the performance of imayo and religion. As for my being in the world, I shall follow your advice, but you must not refuse me your help in this matter.”
Toshiko looked from one to the other. Something significant had just passed between them, something that affected her.
Otomae hesitated, then got to her feet. “Because I bear you great respect, sire, I will just this once, dance for you. I have a song in mind that I would have you remember in the months to come. It is called ‘Dance, Little Snail.’”
“Oh, I know it,” cried Toshiko. “It is charming but sad . . .”
They looked at her in surprise, and she stopped, embarrassed.
“Go on,” said His Majesty.
She stammered, “Well, Akomaro said it was very sad but I never knew what she meant.”
The emperor reached for a box and took out a plain flute. “I also know it. It is not sad at all. Give us your version, Otomae.” He put the flute to his lips and played a few notes.
Toshiko became wide-eyed with surprise. “Oh,” she cried, “how beautiful! I did not know you played so well, sire.” It was a very stupid thing to say, and she immediately clasped a hand over her treacherous lips.
He lowered the flute, leaned a little closer, and whispered, “For such a charming compliment, I promise to play often for you, little one. We shall make music together all night long. Perhaps we shall even drown out the cuckoo’s cry that marks the dawn.”
Toshiko understood his meaning. Face flaming, she bowed. “I scarcely know if this is a dream,” she murmured. “Perhaps the cuckoo will wake me.” He laughed softly, and her heart pounded so that she pressed a hand to her chest to still it. But the gesture reminded her of Lady Sanjo and she quickly lowered it again and took a deep breath. He laughed again and reached for her hand.
Otomae cleared her throat, and they drew apart like children caught at a forbidden game. The emperor snatched up his flute again and began to play in earnest.
Otomae moved her fan with extraordinary grace, but Toshiko watched blindly, her breathing shallow and rapid. She knew she should pay attention but was much too conscious of Him. Otomae’s voice had astonishing strength and sweetness. It was full and had a much greater range than Toshiko’s, and as she sang, a powerful emotion seemed to flow from her to Toshiko.
Dance, little snail,
Dance!
Don’t falter, snail,
Or my horse will kick,
My horse will stamp,
My horse will crush you.
And Otomae’s foot stamped and ground the invisible snail into the soil, until the viciousness of her words and movements seemed like a knife in Toshiko’s belly.
Then the nun paused, adjusted her posture, and changed her tone and melody to cheerful banter:
But if you dance well for me,
I’ll let you dance in my garden.
There was a moment’s silence when she stopped. Then the emperor applauded. “You have not forgotten your art,” he said. “That was wonderful. Will you repeat the song with this child? I have a great desire to see you dance together.”
But Otomae begged to be excused, and the emperor did not press her.
Toshiko thought that they would have made an odd pair, a young girl beside an aged nun — like something seen in a magic mirror that shows the beginning and end of life. Akomaro had been in the middle of hers, at the height of her skills of giving men pleasure. Now Toshiko’s own fate had begun.
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The emperor asked her, “What part of the song made you sad?”
“I’m not sure, sire, but I think it is the fear the little snail must feel.”
“Ah!” Otomae said quickly. “How clever you are, little one. Yes, that fear is a terrible thing. It is much more terrible than being crushed because it is the fear that forces the snail to dance.”
The emperor laughed. “Come, surely nothing can be worse than being crushed. While the snail lives, dancing is a very pleasant occupation.”
Otomae raised a thin hand. “You and I know very well what the little snail signifies, but this child does not – and yet I think she has a notion already. Have pity, sire.”
