James Clavell

by Asian Saga 03 - Shogun (v5)

  He added a spoonful of cool water, bowed to Mariko, who knelt opposite him, and offered the cup. She bowed and took it with equal refinement, admiring the green liquid, and sipped three times, rested, then sipped again, finishing it. She offered the cup back. He repeated the symmetry of the formal cha-making and again offered it. She begged him to taste the cha himself, as was expected of her. He sipped, and then again, and finished it. Then he made a third cup and a fourth. More was politely refused.

  With great care, ritually he washed and dried the cup, using the peerless cotton cloth, and laid both in their places. He bowed to her and she to him. The cha-no-yu was finished.

  Buntaro was content that he had done his best and that now, at least for the moment, there was peace between them. This afternoon there had been none.

  He had met her palanquin. At once, as always, he had felt coarse and uncouth in contrast to her fragile perfection—like one of the wild, despised, barbaric Hairy Ainu tribesmen that once inhabited the land but were now driven to the far north, across the straits, to the unexplored island of Hokkaido. All of his well-thought-out words, had left him and he clumsily invited her to the cha-no-yu, adding, “It’s years since we … I’ve never given one for you but tonight will be convenient.” Then he had blurted out, never meaning to say it, knowing that it was stupid, inelegant, and a vast mistake, “Lord Toranaga said it was time for us to talk.”

  “But you do not, Sire?”

  In spite of his resolve he flushed and his voice rasped, “I’d like harmony between us, yes, and more. I’ve never changed, neh?”

  “Of course, Sire, and why should you? If there’s any fault it’s not your place to change but mine. If any fault exists, it’s because of me, please excuse me.”

  “I’ll excuse you,” he said, towering over her there beside the palanquin, deeply conscious that others were watching, the Anjin-san and Omi among them. She was so lovely and tiny and unique, her hair piled high, her lowered eyes seemingly so demure, yet for him filled now with that same black ice that always sent him into a blind, impotent frenzy, making him want to kill and shout and mutilate and smash and behave the way a samurai never should behave.

  “I’ve reserved the cha house for tonight,” he told her. “For tonight, after the evening meal. We’re ordered to eat the evening meal with Lord Toranaga. I would be honored if you would be my guest afterwards.”

  “It’s I who am honored.” She bowed and waited with the same lowered eyes and he wanted to smash her to death into the ground, then go off and plunge his knife crisscross into his belly and let the eternal pain cleanse the torment from his soul.

  He saw her look up at him discerningly.

  “Was there anything else, Sire?” she asked, so softly.

  The sweat was running down his back and thighs, staining his kimono, his chest hurting like his head. “You’re—you’re staying at the inn tonight.” Then he had left her and made careful dispositions for the whole baggage train. As soon as he could, he had handed his duties over to Naga and strode off with a pretended truculence down the river bank, and when he was alone, he had plunged naked into the torrent, careless of his safety, and fought the river until his head had cleared and the pounding ache had gone.

  He had lain on the bank collecting himself. Now that she had accepted he had to begin. There was little time. He summoned his strength and walked back to the rough garden gate that was within the mother garden and stood there for a moment rethinking his plan. Tonight he wanted everything to be perfect. Obviously the hut was imperfect, like its garden—an uncouth provincial attempt at a real cha house. Never mind, he thought, now completely absorbed in his task, it will have to do. Night will hide many faults and lights will have to create the form it lacks.

  Servants had already brought the things he had ordered earlier—tatamis, pottery oil lamps, and cleaning utensils—the very best in Yokosé, everything brand-new but modest, discreet and unpretentious.

  He stripped off his kimono, laid down his swords, and began to clean. First the tiny reception room and kitchen and veranda. Then the winding path and the flagstones that were let into the moss, and finally the rocks and skirting garden. He scrubbed and broomed and brushed until everything was spotless, letting himself swoop into the humility of manual labor that was the beginning of the cha-no-yu, where the host alone was required to make everything faultless. The first perfection was absolute cleanliness.

  By dusk he had finished most of the preparations. Then he had bathed meticulously, endured the evening meal, and the singing. As soon as he could he had changed again into more somber clothes and hurried back to the garden. He latched the gate. First he put the taper to the oil lamps. Then, carefully, he sprinkled water on the flagstones and the trees that were now splashed here and there with flickering light, until the tiny garden was a fairyland of dewdrops dancing in the warmth of the summer’s breeze. He repositioned some of the lanterns. Finally satisfied, he unlatched the gate and went to the vestibule. The carefully selected pieces of charcoal that had been placed punctiliously in a pyramid on white sand were burning correctly. The flowers seemed correct in the takonama. Once more he cleaned the already impeccable utensils. The kettle began to sing and he was pleased with the sound that was enriched by the little pieces of iron he had placed so diligently in the bottom.

  All was ready. The first perfection of the cha-no-yu was cleanliness, the second, complete simplicity. The last and greatest, suitability to the particular guest or guests.

  He heard her footsteps on the flagstones, the sound of her dipping her hands ritually in the cistern of fresh river water and drying them. Three soft steps up to the veranda. Two more to the curtained doorway. Even she had to bend to come through the tiny door that was made deliberately small to humble everyone. At a cha-no-yu all were equal, host and guest, the most high daimyo and merest samurai. Even a peasant if he was invited.

  First she studied her husband’s flower arrangement. He had chosen the blossom of a single white wild rose and put a single pearl of water on the green leaf, and set it on red stones. Autumn is coming, he was suggesting with the flower, talking through the flower, do not weep for the time of fall, the time of dying when the earth begins to sleep; enjoy the time of beginning again and experience the glorious cool of the autumn air on this summer evening … soon the tear will vanish and the rose, only the stones will remain—soon you and I will vanish and only the stones will remain.

  He watched her, apart from himself, now deep in the near trance that a cha-master sometimes was fortunate enough to experience, completely in harmony with his surroundings. She bowed to the flower in homage and came and knelt opposite him. Her kimono was dark brown, a thread of burnt gold at the seams enhancing the white column of her throat and face; her obi the darkest of greens that matched the underkimono; her hair simple and upswept and unadorned.

  “You are welcome,” he said with a bow, beginning the ritual.

  “It is my honor,” she replied, accepting her role.

  He served the tiny repast on a blemishless lacquered tray, the chopsticks placed just so, the slivers of fish on rice that he had prepared a part of the pattern, and to complete the effect, a few wild flowers that he had found near the river bank scattered in perfect disarray. When she had finished eating and he, in his turn, had finished eating, he lifted the tray, every movement formalized—to be observed and judged and recorded—and took it through the low doorway into the kitchen.

  Then alone, at rest, Mariko watched the fire critically, the coals a glowing mountain on a sea of stark white sand below the tripod, her ears listening to the hissing sound of the fire melding with the sighing of the barely simmering kettle above, and, from the unseen kitchen, the sibilance of cloth on porcelain and water cleaning the already clean. In time her eyes wandered to the raw twisted rafters and to the bamboos and the reeds that formed the thatch. The shadows cast by the few lamps he had placed seemingly at random made the small large and the insignificant rare, and the
whole a perfect harmony. After she had seen everything and measured her soul against it, she went again into the garden, to the shallow basin that, over eons, nature had formed in the rock. Once more she purified her hands and mouth with the cool, fresh water, drying them on a new towel.

  When she had settled back into her place he said, “Perhaps now you would take cha?”

  “It would be my honor. But please do not put yourself to so much trouble on my account.”

  “It is my honor. You are my guest.”

  So he had served her. And now there was the ending.

  In the silence, Mariko did not move for a moment, but stayed in her tranquillity, not wishing yet to acknowledge the ending or disturb the peace surrounding her. But she felt the growing strength of his eyes. The cha-no-yu was ended. Now life must begin again.

  “You did it perfectly,” she whispered, her sadness overwhelming her. A tear slid from her eyes and the falling ripped the heart from his chest.

  “No—no. Please excuse me … you are perfect … it was ordinary,” he said, startled by such unexpected praise.

  “It was the best I’ve ever seen,” she said, moved by the stark honesty in his voice.

  “No. No, please excuse me, if it was fair it was because of you, Mariko-san. It was only fair—you made it better.”

  “For me it was flawless. Everything. How sad that others, more worthy than I, couldn’t have witnessed it also!” Her eyes glistened in the flickering light.

  “You witnessed it. That is everything. It was only for you. Others wouldn’t have understood.”

  She felt the hot tears now on her cheeks. Normally she would have been ashamed of them but now they did not trouble her. “Thank you, how can I thank you?”

  He picked up a sprig of wild thyme and, his fingers trembling, leaned over and gently caught one of her tears. Silently he looked down at the tear and the branchlet dwarfed by his huge fist. “My work—any work—is inadequate against the beauty of this. Thank you.”

  He watched the tear on the leaf. A piece of charcoal fell down the mountain and, without thinking, he picked up the tongs and replaced it. A few sparks danced into the air from the mountaintop and it became an erupting volcano.

  Both drifted into a sweet melancholia, joined by the simplicity of the single tear, content together in the quiet, joined in humility, knowing that what had been given had been returned in purity.

  Later he said, “If our duty did not forbid it, I would ask you to join me in death. Now.”

  “I would go with you. Gladly,” she answered at once. “Let us go to death. Now.”

  “We can’t. Our duty is to Lord Toranaga.”

  She took out the stiletto that was in her obi and reverently placed it on the tatami. “Then please allow me to prepare the way.”

  “No. That would be failing in our duty.”

  “What is to be, will be. You and I cannot turn the scale.”

  “Yes. But we may not go before our Master. Neither you nor I. He needs every trustworthy vassal for a little longer. Please excuse me, I must forbid it.”

  “I would be pleased to go tonight. I’m prepared. More than that, I totally desire to go beyond. Yes. My soul is brimming with joy.” A hesitant smile. “Please excuse me for being selfish. You’re perfectly right about our duty.”

  The razor-sharp blade glistened in the candlelight. They watched it, lost in contemplation. Then he broke the spell.

  “Why Osaka, Mariko-san?”

  “There are things to be done there which only I can do.”

  His frown deepened as he watched the light from a guttering wick catch the tear and become refracted into a billion colors.

  “What things?”

  “Things that concern the future of our house which must be done by me.”

  “In that case you must go.” He looked at her searchingly. “But you alone?”

  “Yes. I wish to make sure all family arrangements are perfect between us and Lord Kiyama for Saruji’s marriage. Money and dowry and lands and so on. There’s his increased fief to formalize. Lord Hiro-matsu and Lord Toranaga require it done. I am responsible for the house.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “that’s your duty.” His eyes held hers. “If Lord Toranaga says you can go, then go, but it’s not likely you’ll be permitted there. Even so … you must return quickly. Very quickly. It would be unwise to stay in Osaka a moment longer than necessary.”

  “Yes.”

  “By sea would be quicker than by road. But you’ve always hated the sea.”

  “I still hate the sea.”

  “Do you have to be there quickly?”

  “I don’t think half a month or a month would matter. Perhaps, I don’t know. I just feel I should go at once.”

  “Then we will leave the time and the matter of the going to Lord Toranaga—if he permits you to go at all. With Lord Zataki here, and the two scrolls, that can only mean war. It will be too dangerous to go.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Glad that that was now finished, he looked around the little room contentedly, unconcerned now that his ugly bulk dominated the space, each of his thighs broader than her waist, his arms thicker than her neck. “This has been a fine room, better than I’d dared to hope. I’ve enjoyed being here. I’m reminded again that a body’s nothing but a hut in the wilderness. Thank you for being here. I’m so glad you came to Yokosé, Mariko-san. If it hadn’t been for you I would never have given a cha-no-yu here and never felt so one with eternity.”

  She hesitated, then shyly picked up the T’ang cha caddy. It was a simple, covered jar without adornment. The orange-brown glaze had run just short, leaving an uneven rim of bare porcelain at the bottom, dramatizing the spontaneity of the potter and his unwillingness to disguise the simplicity of his materials. Buntaro had bought it from Sen-Nakada, the most famous cha-master who had ever lived, for twenty thousand koku. “It’s so beautiful,” she murmured, enjoying the touch of it. “So perfect for the ceremony.”

  “Yes.”

  “You were truly a master tonight, Buntaro-san. You gave me so much happiness.” Her voice was low and intent and she leaned forward a little. “Everything was perfect for me, the garden and how you used artistry to overcome the flaws with light and shadow. And this”—again she touched the cha caddy. “Everything perfect, even the character you’d written on the towel, ai—affection. For me tonight, affection was the perfect word.” Again tears spilled down her cheeks. “Please excuse me,” she said, brushing them away.

  He bowed, embarrassed by such praise. To hide it he began to wrap the caddy in its silken sheaths. When he had finished, he set it into its box and placed it carefully in front of her. “Mariko-san, if our house has money problems, take this. Sell it.”

  “Never!” It was the only possession, apart from his swords and longbow, that he prized in life. “That would be the last thing I would ever sell.”

  “Please excuse me, but if pay for my vassals is a problem, take it.”

  “There’s enough for all of them, with care. And the best weapons and the best horses. In that, our house is strong. No, Buntaro-san, the T’ang is yours.”

  “We’ve not much time left to us. Who should I will it to? Saruji?”

  She looked at the coals and the fire consuming the volcano, humbling it. “No. Not until he’s a worthy cha-master, equaling his father. I counsel you to leave the T’ang to Lord Toranaga, who’s worthy of it, and ask him before he dies to judge if our son will ever merit receiving it.”

  “And if Lord Toranaga loses and dies before winter, as I’m certain he’ll lose?”

  “What?”

  “Here in this privacy I can tell you quietly that truth, without pretense. Isn’t an important part of the cha-no-yu to be without pretense? Yes, he will lose, unless he gets Kiyama and Onoshi—and Zataki.”

  “In that case, set down in your will that the T’ang should be sent with a cortege to His Imperial Highness, petition him to accept it. Certainly the T
’ang merits divinity.”

  “Yes. That would be the perfect choice.” He studied the knife then added gloomily, “Ah, Mariko-san, there’s nothing to be done for Lord Toranaga. His karma’s written. He wins or he loses. And if he wins or loses there’ll be a great killing.”

  “Yes.”

  Brooding, he took his eyes off her knife and contemplated the wild thyme sprig, the tear still pure. Later he said, “If he loses, before I die—or if I’m dead—I or one of my men will kill the Anjin-san.”

  Her face was ethereal against the darkness. The soft breeze moved threads of her hair, making her seem even more statuelike. “Please excuse me, may I ask why?”

  “He’s too dangerous to leave alive. His knowledge, his ideas that I’ve heard even fifth hand … he’ll infect the realm, even Lord Yaemon. Lord Toranaga’s already under his spell, neh?”

  “Lord Toranaga enjoys his knowledge,” Mariko said.

  “The moment Lord Toranaga dies, that also is the Anjin-san’s death order. But I hope our Lord’s eyes are opened before that time.” The guttering lamp spluttered and went out. He glanced up at her. “Are you under his spell?”

  “He’s a fascinating man. But his mind’s so different from ours … his values … yes, so different in so many ways that it’s almost impossible to understand him at times. Once I tried to explain a cha-no-yu to him, but it was beyond him.”

  “It must be terrible to be born barbarian—terrible,” Buntaro said.

  “Yes.”

  His eyes dropped to the blade of her stiletto. “Some people think the Anjin-san was Japanese in a previous life. He’s not like other barbarians and he … he tries hard to speak and act like one of us though he fails, neh?”