by I. J. Parker
Shortly before dawn, there was a faint knocking at the street door. He got up more wearily than he had lain down. It was probably the father of the dying girl or some other desperate case. They never knocked at this hour unless there was no hope.
The night was still very dark. A faint smell of rain and moist soil filled the air — a scent of spring and growing things. The beginnings of life in the middle of death, he thought bitterly. His visitor was leaning against the wall of his house. It was too dark to see more than a vague shape, lighter than the surrounding night or the plaster of the wall. He was not sure if it was a man or a woman; the clothes look elaborate and formal, a white jacket over full trousers. Dully, he wiped his eyes and realized that it must be one of the street entertainers who sang and danced in the markets in men’s clothes.
“What is wrong?” he asked. “Do you need help?”
She raised her head, her face with its garish make-up luminous in the darkness. “Yes,” she said softly — just that — and took a step toward him. Before he could catch her, she crumpled to the stone path.
He picked her up. She was light in his arms, but her clothes got in his way, as did the long hair. Its length astonished him. He stumbled with his burden to his room and laid her down on his bedding. Then he located the flint and lit the wick of his oil lamp, using that to light the candle near his desk, and carried both across the room to examine his patient.
She was struggling to sit up, looking dazedly around the room. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not know where else to go.”
He knew the voice but could not quite believe it. Toshiko? At this time of night? In his room?
He must have said her name aloud, standing there frozen in the utter surprise and joy of it, because she looked up at him and nodded. And began to cry.
He almost dropped the oil lamp in his haste to kneel and take her cold hands, to look in her face, searching for the familiar features under the thick paint. The black paint that ringed her eyes had made streaks down the white cheeks. He melted with love.
“Oh my dearest,” he said. His voice trembled. “What happened to you? What can I do?” He remembered her fainting on his door step and asked anxiously, “Are you ill?”
She wiped at the tears with her sleeve, leaving smudges on the white silk, and smiled at him, shaking her head. His heart nearly overturned at that smile. She said, “No. Not now,” and squeezed his hands gently. “Not now,” she said again and removed her hands from his to reach out for him.
They held each other without speaking. He thought he could feel her heart beating against his and stroked her hair. She was wet, her hair heavy with rain. At some point, he told her that he loved her and made her cry again and clutch him more tightly.
When the first faint gray light of dawn intruded, they were lying naked in each others arms. They had got there without conscious thought and without volition but with the urgency of an act long overdue.
Afterward they talked. She told him of the poisoned gruel and the dead cat, about dressing in her costume in the middle of the night and slipping past the snoring maid, past a gate guards, of walking through the night, across the river and along the dark streets, asking the people of the night for his house, the one he had written on the slip of paper, and of being shown the way by a real prostitute.
Later he got up, throwing on some clothes, and went to the kitchen for warm water. He knelt and cleaned her face with great tenderness, finding under the mask again the girl he remembered, paler, thinner, and more beautiful.
Only then did she tell him about the emperor, bowing her head, ashamed.
But he had known, had known it when they lay together and their bodies joined — had not wanted to think about it then because of his own responsibility in the matter. It did not affect his love for her, but it would affect their future together.
Otori walked in, having been woken by his excursion into her kitchen. She carried his gruel on a tray and stopped in surprise at seeing a woman in his bed, wearing nothing but her thin under robe. Her sharp eyes took in the disordered bedding and noted his own undress, the embarrassment that was surely on their faces. She stood, at a loss whether to be scandalized or pleased, frowning and smiling and then frowning again.
He was suddenly filled with great joy and took Toshiko’s hand. “My dear,” he said, “this is Otori, our housekeeper.” To Otori, he said, “Otori, you should have brought moon cakes for my bride.”
Outside the temple bells began to ring again, and Otori dropped her tray.
His Father’s Wife
Hachiro returned late from Master Soma’s, his head still filled with dreams of being a famous swordsman. The Master had praised him today and advanced him to the next level long before other students achieved this. He entered the house, not immediately aware that something had changed, but passing the open doorway of his father’s room on the way to the kitchen and food, he caught a glimpse of a strange female.
He slid to a halt and crept back to peer around the corner of the door. She stood at his father’s desk, her back to him, dressed in a fine gown of heavy green silk. Long, glossy hair trailed to the floor behind her. His father’s patients were poor women, and this one looked like a princess. Hachiro was so surprised that he made a sound, and she turned. He saw a mere girl, certainly not much older than he, and very beautiful. They locked eyes, and she smiled, covering her mouth with a small hand. Was she laughing at him?
He drew himself up and glowered. “Who are you?”
“My name is Toshiko,” she said in a voice as clear as running water. “And yours?”
“I’m Hachiro, the doctor’s son. Are you a patient?”
“No. I think . . . I am his wife.”
“He has no wife.”
She laughed softly, like wind passing through leaves. “I came late last night, and you left very early this morning, before I could meet you. Your father has told me about you, Hachiro.”
Nothing good, probably. Hachiro flushed, his mind already on how this was going to affect his future. What happened to adopted children when a father had children of his own? She looked too young to be a mother, or even a wife — though he could see she was beautiful and desirable. His lips narrowed. So, even the saintly Doctor Yamada was merely human and had succumbed to lust. He, Hachiro, would never let low desires get in the way of his dream.
Steps approached, and then his father’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Ah, I see you’ve met my other son, Hachiro. Hachiro, this is my wife.”
Hachiro looked at his father. He sounded cheerful but seemed tense, and the smile disappeared quickly. Hachiro said nothing. He waited.
“I’m sorry, Hachiro, to spring this on you suddenly, but . . . well, it happened unexpectedly. I hope you will look kindly on each other in the future, but at the moment we must prepare for some changes.”
Hachiro’s mind skipped over the phrases: it happened unexpectedly? How do you take a wife overnight without telling anyone? Kindness to each other? She still smiled at him, nodding her head, but for his part, Hachiro did not think so. He was not likely to be near his father’s wife. But when he heard “changes,” his head snapped back to his father. “What changes?”
Perhaps it was a rude response on being told of his father’s marriage, but Hachiro had much to lose.
“We will pack the most necessary things and leave today. We are moving to the farm. I’ll rent horses for you and me. Sadamu can travel with Toshiko and Otori in an oxcart.”
Hachiro and Toshiko protested simultaneously.
He said, “I’m not going.”
She said, “I would like to ride, too. Oh, please, Sadahira. I’m a good horsewoman, and I have so missed the pleasure.”
Hachiro’s father faltered. “The journey is long and hard, but perhaps you may ride part of the way,” he told his wife. To Hachiro, he said, “I cannot have heard you correctly. Would you repeat your words?”
Hachiro flushed, then paled. He felt as if he stood at the
edge of an abyss, but he looked back at his father as calmly as he could and said, “I do not want to leave. My school is here. I can live with the monks.” He was not at all sure of that, but he would find a way to survive.
His father opened his mouth to protest, then just shook his head.
The new wife said softly, “I am sorry. It is my fault. Can he not stay? Surely it will only be for a short time.”
The doctor’s face lengthened. “He’s too young to live here on his own. Besides — it isn’t safe.”
Hachiro narrowed his eyes and said firmly, “I want to stay, Father.” He would run away, offer to cancel the adoption, if necessary.
The new wife took his side again. “Hachiro is nearly grown. I expect he is older than I am. Surely he has a right to choose his way?”
His father looked at him. “I don’t know.” He ran his hand over his hair, distracted by this new complication. “Your sudden love for education is very surprising.”
Hachiro flushed. “I . . . the monks think I’m a good student,” he said. Then he was recalled something his teacher had said. “They think I might become a monk and serve the Buddha. I’d like to try, Father.”
There was a moment’s silence, then his father said, “I never expected this, but if the monks will indeed look after you, and if you find you truly have a desire for this life, I won’t stand in your way.” He glanced at his wife. “Perhaps you will help Otori pack while Hachiro and I make arrangements for him? The wagon and the horses will be here soon. We’ll leave as soon as night falls.”
On the way to the monastery, Hachiro got around to asking, “Why do you have to leave the capital?”
His father hesitated, then said, “It’s better if you don’t know the details. I have made enemies among the powerful. You must give me your word that you will not tell anyone about my marriage or where we have gone.” He stopped to put his hand on Hachiro’s shoulder. “I trust you in this, son. It may be a matter of our lives. I want your promise.”
So, thought Hachiro, he trusts me, yet he doesn’t trust me enough to tell me how he stole his new wife. But he put the thought from his mind: He did not have to go with them. Instead, he was free to stay and study with Master Soma. And Akogi would see to it that he had enough to eat.
He smiled. “Of course. You can rely on me, Father.”
From Lady Sanjo’s Pillow Book
Alas, my fate is sealed.
Oh, how many letters I wrote! Every day I sent a letter in the morning and a second later that day. I sat up by the light of the moon wielding my brush, wetting the ink cake with my tears. There never was a reply.
For a while, rumors went around that His Majesty had ordered a thorough search to be made of the city and had even gone to see the regent about the matter. But she had not gone to the regent’s son, and the regent was deeply offended. Then I heard His Majesty had summoned the girl’s father. Nobody knows what passed between them, but Oba left in a terrible temper. It was clear that she had not returned to her family.
After that the palace settled back into its normal routine, and I, too, breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that I could surely resume my devoted service to His Majesty and see Him smile upon me again as in the past.
But this morning— oh, ill-fated day! — a servant brought the message that I was to report to His Majesty’s office. I went, filled with the most tender hopes. Alas, He was not there. Instead Tameyazu, His secretary and a singularly unpleasant man, received me.
“Lady Sanjo,” he said in his cold voice, “you are to join your husband. His Majesty no longer has need of your services.”
My heart froze. I am afraid I gaped at him. “B-but,” I stuttered, “my husband serves in Settsu Province. I cannot go to him.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“It is too far. It is some wild place with rude natives. What would I do there? How would I survive?”
He sneered at that. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your husband is the governor of the province. He has been notified that you are coming. You will leave the palace today. Pack your trunks and arrange for lodging until you can set out on the journey.” With that he handed me a package with my travel papers.
I don’t remember how I got back to my room. When I returned to my senses, I opened the package with trembling fingers. There was nothing from His Majesty, not so much as a scribbled note. And no gift to help defray travel expenses or to recognize my many years of service. I have been dismissed like a criminal and sent into my exile.
My life is over!
Also by I.J.Parker, the Sugawara Akitada mystery series:
The Dragon Scroll
Rashomon Gate
Black Arrow
Island of Exiles
The Hell Screen
The Convict's Sword
The Masuda Affair
The Fires of the Gods
