The Last Concubine

by Lesley Downer

  She peeped shyly up at him and their eyes met and lingered. She tried to frown, to show her displeasure – but she couldn’t help smiling instead.

  He opened his mouth to say more, but she raised her hand. There were voices behind them. Taki and Haru were pattering along the path.

  The following day there were footsteps in the courtyard, the scuffle of straw sandals. Taki ran to the entrance hall. When she returned she was smiling so brightly it looked as if the sun had burst out in the gloomy chamber, lighting up the darkest corners. She paused in the doorway. She was holding a scroll aloft in both hands.

  Sachi unrolled it. There in his manly scrawl were the last two lines of the poem she had sent:

  Akatsuki shirade

  Yet I gave myself to you

  Hito o koikeri

  Forgetful of the coming dawn.

  And a single word: ‘Dounika . . . Somehow . . .’

  ‘Forgetful of the coming dawn . . .’ Dawn was when lovers were forced to part, that was what the poet had meant. But ‘forgetful’ – it sounded so like Shinzaemon. He didn’t care what anyone thought or expected. He ignored them, went his own way. Sachi was filled with joy. Dawn really was coming, the dawn of a new age. Perhaps, as Daisuké kept promising, it would be an age when people like them could be together. Maybe there would be a future for them after all. Somehow.

  Sachi read his words over and over again. Shinzaemon was alive and thinking of her. Her patience had been rewarded.

  But even as she thought of Shinzaemon she felt a pang of sadness, and of shame as she recalled her encounter with Edwards the previous day. For all his openness she could never know what he really thought or felt or see inside his foreign soul. He was probably just playing, she told herself. She had heard that foreigners liked to play with women. Yet he had been so gentle, so considerate. No one had ever treated her in such a way before. She had been wondering whether to tell Taki what had happened, but now she realized she couldn’t.

  A little later she heard the crunch of animal-skin boots in the courtyard. She steeled her heart. ‘Tell him I am unwell,’ she said to Taki.

  Dounika. Somehow. But ‘somehow’ could be a very long time. At first Sachi started every time she heard the tiniest noise in the courtyard and sent Taki running to see who it was. But the days went by and there was no further message, no sign of any wildhaired warrior with cat-like eyes. She realized she had forgotten what he looked like. The wild hair, the eyes – she remembered those, she had pictured them over and over again to herself – but apart from that she was not sure she would even recognize him any more. Perhaps Shinzaemon would have that blank-eyed look young Tatsuemon had had, as if he was seeing horrors, staring into the void. He had spent months fighting for what he must have known was a losing cause. He would be dog-tired, scrawny, ravenous, beaten down, miserable, maybe disillusioned and embittered.

  So much time had passed. Edwards had told her about other ways of seeing the world, other ways of life . . .

  Edwards. That was where all these misgivings were coming from. Like the southerners taking over Edo, he had changed her, filled her with uncertainty and doubt.

  She had assumed that Edwards would be so abashed at the forwardness of his behaviour that she would hear no more from him. A couple of rebuffs and that would be the end of it. The first day he visited she had sent a message that she was unwell. The second day she sent the same message. But no matter how sternly she refused to see him, she couldn’t help rerunning their encounter in her head, feeling the same delicious shiver that had tingled along her spine when he put his lips to her hand. Then Taki returned, carrying a huge bunch of autumn flowers and leaves – camellias, wild chrysanthemums, branches ablaze with sparkling red, orange and yellow maple leaves. Sachi exclaimed in delight. Taki ran to get a vase and they knelt down to arrange them.

  On the third day he sent her a mysterious object. It was small and round and made of metal. She turned it this way and that, then tried slipping it on her finger. It fitted perfectly. She took it off again quickly. It didn’t feel right to wear it.

  She had never come across such behaviour before. She told herself she should be angry but it was rather flattering. Shinzaemon had been gone for so long. When – if – he returned it would be like a stranger stepping back into her life. And Edwards was right there. It couldn’t do any harm to let him visit again, if only for Taki’s and Haru’s sake. They enjoyed his company too.

  So Edwards resumed his visits.

  Meanwhile the emperor’s entry into the city was approaching.

  ‘We must have new clothes when we go to greet him,’ said Taki. She was in a great state of excitement.

  It was hard to know what to wear. They couldn’t dress in the robes of ladies of the shogun’s court, that was obvious. The shogun and his household were enemies of the state and Sachi was afraid that if the three of them were recognized, they might end up in prisoners’ cages and be bundled off down to Suruga. In the end they decided to dress like well-off townsfolk. When the merchants came, Haru ordered rolls of silk in colours and designs appropriate for townswomen and she and Taki set to work with their needles.

  It was equally obvious to Sachi that they couldn’t go with Edwards. To parade in public with a towering huge-nosed foreigner and his troop of bodyguards would be madness. They would go on their own.

  The day before the procession was due to arrive, a message came from Daisuké: he was coming back to Edo and would escort them.

  II

  Early the following morning Taki helped Sachi prepare. She blackened her teeth, shaved her eyebrows and dressed her hair in an ornate townswoman’s style, coiling it into a lustrous knot and studding it with hairpins and combs. Then she helped her into kimonos. The new silk felt cool and crisp against her body. The top one, warmly lined, was in a fashionable shade of red with a design of maple leaves across the hem. Taki had laid it over an incense burner overnight and it gave off an elegant musky scent. Taki and Haru also had gorgeous new clothes for the occasion.

  Daisuké was waiting in the courtyard. In the pale morning sunlight he exuded dignity and power. He was in formal dress, in black pleated hakama trousers and an over-jacket with starched shoulders jutting out like wings. He had grown heavier, Sachi noticed, and his belly swelled impressively above his obi. He had two swords tucked into his belt. He was a man of rank and influence.

  He had said he had wanted to be a father she could be proud of, and he had succeeded in that. Sachi greeted him with quiet joy. She felt, as she always did whenever he looked at her, that he saw someone else as well.

  ‘Daughter,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Father,’ she said, with a bow.

  As they left the mansion, Sachi could see that everything had been tidied up. The walls of the moat had been shored up, the parts of the bridge that had tumbled down had been rebuilt. The roads had been weeded too, and swept and sprinkled with water to lay the dust. There was a smell of damp earth like the clean fresh smell after rain.

  The great boulevards that ran between the daimyos’ palaces were silent and empty no longer. They were full of people hurrying in a never-ending stream towards the castle. The plaza in front of the castle was already packed with men and women in their holiday best, in silk kimonos in brilliant reds and golds.

  Daisuké led the way through the crush towards Wadakura Gate, the gate the emperor would pass through. Sachi followed close on his heels, edging between hard and soft bodies, tall and short bodies, rich and poor bodies, bodies that resisted and bodies that moved aside. There were men, women, old, young, children and people with babies on their backs. Her eyes flickered across the sea of faces. She half wondered if she would see a familiar face framed with wild hair, with slanting cat’s eyes. Every now and then she saw someone that for a moment she thought was him, then she would look again and realize with a pang that it was not.

  They had reached a line of soldiers when Sachi noticed a woman in the crowd. Her gaudy kimonos hung low
at the back of her neck, revealing a suggestive expanse of unpainted skin, like a geisha or a prostitute. Everyone was peering intently in the direction the emperor was due to approach from, but she was looking the other way, chewing her underlip. She stared distractedly at the castle, gazing with a look of stony disbelief at the ramparts and turrets and towering white walls. A tear trickled down her painted face.

  ‘Fuyu,’ Sachi cried. Fuyu’s face expressed everything she herself felt. She reached between the massed bodies jammed together, and grabbed her sleeve. She caught a whiff of cheap perfume as she tugged her gently out of the crowd.

  ‘Those times were not so wonderful,’ Sachi said softly. But even as she said it she knew it was a lie. Those gates were closed to her too. That fragile, beautiful world was gone for ever, like a priceless porcelain vase which has been smashed to the ground.

  Daisuké had arranged a place for them near the gate, in an inner area reserved for government officials, where they would be protected from the crush. Sachi looked out at the mob before her. She had never imagined there could be so many people in the world.

  ‘Look at them,’ said Fuyu, swabbing her eyes and nose with her sleeve. ‘First they’re ready to die for the shogun. The next thing you know, they’re bowing to the emperor. Then they’ll be cheering for the shogun again when the lads come back from Wakamatsu.’

  Sachi felt a lurch in her heart and her mouth was suddenly dry. The lads. Shinzaemon would surely be among them.

  ‘They’re coming back?’ she whispered.

  ‘Those that made it. Marching down. Be ‘ere in a few days. We know who the real ’eroes are. We’ll show ’em a good welcome.’

  It was approaching the hour of the horse, when thousands of fires would usually have been burning for the midday meal. But today all fires had been banned. Far in the distance wisps and shreds of sound could be heard. Everyone fell silent, trying to catch the floating harmonies. It was music, ancient otherworldly music. Sachi shivered. It was as if the gods were coming down to earth.

  Above the sea of heads, small in the distance, banners appeared, winding their way slowly through the crowd. They swayed from side to side, fluttering in the breeze. They were deep scarlet, marked with a golden roundel – the chrysanthemum crest of the emperor. Sunlight flashed from the tips of pikes and spears and halberds, shooting out dazzling shards of light. Screwing up her eyes, Sachi made out a mass of tall black shapes moving in stately procession – the towering black-lacquered hats of rank upon rank of courtiers. Flat helmets, peaked helmets, horned helmets, helmets of all different shapes and colours moved along in great blocks. In the distance the lacquered roofs of palanquins shone in the sun.

  Sachi thought of the daimyo processions she used to see passing through the village and of the princess’s magnificent procession that had swept her up and taken her to the castle. This was more splendid still. But there was also something different. In every procession she had ever seen there had always been guards singing out, ‘Shita ni iyo! Shita ni iyo! On your knees! On your knees!’ These troops marched in silence.

  The procession began to emerge from the crowd. From where Sachi stood she could see musicians banging drums and tootling flutes as they played their Shinto melodies. Behind them came pike and standard bearers, great banners flapping above their heads. Soldiers followed, regiment after regiment, dressed in foreign uniforms, as if to remind the conquered populace that the old era – of the shogun and the samurai – was over, and a new one beginning. Some had rifles slung over their shoulders; others swaggered along with swords at their hips. Porters humped lacquered trunks with attendants walking alongside.

  Then came lords and nobles. Some were hidden in palanquins, others on horseback or on foot, dressed in voluminous robes and high black hats such as Sachi had only ever seen in woodblock prints before – the ancient fashion of the imperial court. Marching before and behind them were ranks of courtiers and guards in brilliantly coloured court costume. There were hundreds of grooms leading hundreds of horses, bearers of parasols, bearers of shoes, bearers of the imperial bath, endless attendants of every sort. The whole court, it seemed, enough to populate the vast castle, had turned out to accompany the emperor.

  Everything was strange and alien – soldiers in foreign uniforms, courtiers in ancient costume which no one in Edo could have ever seen before. Even their faces were different from Edo faces, from the craggy southern looks of the soldiers to the pale etiolated features of the aristocrats with their long noses, small mouths and high foreheads.

  An army of Shinto priests followed, shuffling through the crowds, swishing mulberry-paper wands. The emperor was on his way. The people, the buildings, the trees, the ground, the air – everything had to be purified.

  Approaching very slowly was an ebony and gold palanquin larger and more splendid than any Sachi had ever seen in her life. It was hung with drapes, with red silken cords at each corner, and its roof gleamed in the sun. It was borne aloft by a great mob of bearers, all in voluminous robes of yellow silk with black hats on their heads.

  On the top was a gold phoenix of the most delicate filigree work. It shimmered and sparkled as it swayed along.

  As the phoenix car approached a profound hush fell over the crowd. The murmuring and movement, the hissing and whispering, the turning of heads as people tried to get a better view all stopped. No child spoke, no baby cried. The only sounds were the rustling of the sleeves and skirts of the bearers and the clack of their black-lacquered clogs.

  Sachi’s knees seemed to bend of their own accord. Hardly conscious of anything but an overwhelming awe, she knelt on the ground with her face to her hands. She was barely aware of the whisper of the bearers’ robes, the crunch of their clogs or the creaking of the silken cords that held the palanquin steady. A fragrance filled the air, an ancient hallowed scent that spoke not of the austere creed of the Buddhas but of the nature gods of Shinto, not of darkness but of light, not of death but of life.

  There was no doubt in Sachi’s mind that the being within the palanquin was the child of the gods, the son of the sun goddess. With the golden phoenix glittering above him and the yellow-clad bearers like a halo of the sun’s rays around him, it was as if the sun herself had descended to earth.

  It was only long after the palanquin had passed that anyone dared move their heads. Sachi glanced around. Taki and Haru still had their noses in the dust, while all around them people were beginning to clamber to their feet, looking bewildered as if they were wondering what had come over them. Down-to-earth Edoites that they were, they seemed annoyed that they could be so easily seduced. The grumbling about the southern barbarians would continue, but something had changed. As Edwards had put it, there was no turning back the clock.

  The palanquins, the lords, the officials, the courtiers, the horses, the grooms, the soldiers, the porters and trunks, the servants, the women, the maids and everyone else all disappeared into Edo Castle until the last person was gone. Only it was no longer Edo Castle, the seat of His Majesty the shogun, Sachi reminded herself. It was Tokyo Castle, the imperial palace, residence of His Grace the emperor.

  Finally the towering cedarwood gates began to move. Sachi watched spellbound, desperate for one last glimpse of the castle. A terrible sense of doom and finality swept over her. Peering through the heads of the crowd and the lines of soldiers on guard, she fixed her gaze on the narrowing gap, but all she could see was the guardhouse inside the inner enclosure. The massive stones of the wall behind it fell into shadow as the gates rumbled on and on at the same measured pace until they thundered together. The great walls shuddered. The boom echoed across the plaza.

  A cold wind whistled through the crowd, making kimono skirts flutter. It lifted the dead leaves and sent dust spinning in whorls. Sachi shivered and pulled her haori jacket closer around her.

  Daisuké’s eyes were shining. The gates were not closed to him. The southern soldiers, the pale aristocrats, the courtiers in their yellow silk robes were his pe
ople; he shared their glory. The emperor’s triumph was his too.

  ‘They can ‘ave the castle,’ snarled Fuyu. The white make-up on her face was blotched and runny, streaked with tears. ‘The streets are ours. Call it what y’ like. It’s still Edo.’

  People were shaking themselves as if they were coming out of a collective trance, glancing around, grinning at each other sheepishly. Voices began to speak, but quietly, as if no one dared talk about what they had seen. A child started to chatter as little by little people began to leave. Most pattered off in their clogs or straw sandals towards the east end of the city.

  Fuyu too lifted up her skirts, nodded a brusque farewell and hastily, as if she was afraid of incurring their pity if she stayed longer, hurried eastwards, teetering along on her high clogs. Sachi watched her back in its garish heavily patterned kimono disappearing into the crowds. She looked small and forlorn but proud. Sachi could see herself there too, in the set of Fuyu’s shoulders: that anger, that refusal to give up the past, that pride – maybe they all had it, all the palace women. Maybe they would carry it with them for the rest of their lives.

  Daisuké walked Sachi, Taki and Haru from the plaza in front of the castle, around the edge of the moat, as far as the bridge that led to the mansion. He stopped there.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I have business to attend to. I’m setting up house here in Tokyo. There’ll be room for all of us and maids and servants too. I’m going to make sure you all have the life you deserve.’

  Sachi bowed, suddenly feeling terribly sad and alone. When ‘the lads came back from Wakamatsu’, would Shinzaemon be among them? But Daisuké didn’t even know he existed. It was hard to imagine how he would fit into this idyllic life her father was planning for them. And Edwards, she thought, would fit in no better.