by Nogami Yaeko
One thing that especially bothered Rikyū about Hideyoshi was his attitude toward tea utensils. Hideyoshi acted as if he knew the true value of utensils. In some ways, Nobunaga had been worse, because he was attracted only to famous utensils regardless of their artistic value. But Nobunaga had never shown off, because he hadn’t known much about the objects used in tea.
Hideyoshi was different. He ate delicacies and surrounded himself with beautiful women, and gradually he had acquired a taste for the best. In the same way, he had seen so many great tea objects that his quick perception allowed him to distinguish between good utensils and bad utensils. He had confidence in himself, and even if he made a mistake he wouldn’t admit it. Rikyū’s letter to Sōshitsu was audacious: it showed his contempt for Hideyoshi’s taste in tea utensils, because he underrated Hideyoshi’s ability to understand the true beauty and value of the tea jar Hannya.
“My brother has come to greet you,” Riki said. She had come out onto the veranda, and she bowed as she spoke.
Yahei always entered through the corridor that ran along the side of the house, as if he wanted to enjoy the beautiful moss garden. Today he was wearing a pale blue jacket with a big family crest that bore a stylized hawk’s feather, and formal trousers made of thick fabric. He looked like he was dressed for the stage. His facial features were fine and handsome, and his posture was ramrod straight and poised, as befitted an actor. The front part of his head was beautifully shaved, and his top-knot was neatly tied. He looked young and handsome.
“Welcome,” Rikyū said, without standing up. He always greeted Yahei that way.
Yahei bowed to Rikyū and sat down, adopting his usual cross-legged position as if he were on a Noh stage. “Welcome back, brother-in-law. I haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I think about coming home often, but it’s hard to leave Jurakudai.”
“‘I don’t have time for Omiyazukai,’” laughed Yahei, chanting a well-known line from the Noh play Kinuta. “If you’re going to stay here for a while, why don’t you start practicing Noh again? It’s too bad that you just quit like that.”
Rikyū smiled at Yahei’s suggestion. He had met Riki through Noh practice, but he had soon realized that, just as with tea, it would take a lifetime to truly master the art, so he had quit. “If you study something, you have to study when you are young. If you study something after you’re middle-aged you’ll never make it. That’s obvious.”
“Eki-san, you apply that philosophy to everything,” Yahei replied, with a wave of the hand and a nod of the head as he spoke his frank words. Some people called Rikyū by his Buddhist name, Sōeki, and among his friends he was called Eki-san. “What you said is really true. Most people don’t understand this—they don’t study Noh seriously. They want to learn how to stand before they truly master the singing. Well, that’s okay, but they wobble when they stand, and their movements with the fan are awkward, and the next thing you know those people want to learn how to dance. They say, ‘Oh, the first category of Noh is not that difficult. It’s just connecting pieces together.’ Thinking about those people makes me want to quit, but then how would I make a living?”
Yahei didn’t have the status of being hired by a wealthy lord. He attended his Grand Noh Master’s stage in Nara, and occasionally he acted a role on stage. But he mostly made his money from teaching wealthy merchants and others. He was the easygoing type, and teaching was not as hard as he complained it was. He had a habit of exaggerating his stories as he talked. Today, he started to laugh at his own exaggeration, so he didn’t notice Rikyū’s expression.
Rikyū had tried to join in Yahei’s mirth with a bitter smile, but it faded as Yahei kept talking. Yahei went on even when Rikyū lifted an eyebrow and wiped his forehead as if he were brushing off a strand of spider’s web, even when Rikyū turned his gaze to the mossy ground as if he were tired of listening to Yahei. Yahei wasn’t a malicious person, but he was indifferent to the concerns of others, and he didn’t realize now that his conversation hurt Rikyū. Rikyū’s mind had layers and layers of painful memories that even he himself did not want to touch, and Yahei’s story reminded him of the inner emotional turmoil that Hideyoshi caused him.
When Rikyū had first become Hideyoshi’s tea advisor, Hideyoshi had studied tea diligently. Before that, when Rikyū served Nobunaga, Rikyū had addressed Hideyoshi using the informal name “Chikushū,” and Hideyoshi had used the respectful term “Sōeki-kō” when writing letters to Rikyū. It must have been very satisfying for Hideyoshi to rise high enough in rank to hire Rikyū—formerly senior to him in social rank—as his own tea master and to practice tea with him.
After the battle of Yamazaki, in which Hideyoshi had avenged Nobunaga’s death, Hideyoshi had been consumed with grief for his lost lord. He had also mourned the loss of Azuchi Castle, which was a symbol of both Nobunaga’s past glory and the desolation of his defeat and death. Recalling those past days made his heart open to truly learning the way of tea as Rikyū’s disciple. It was in those days that Hideyoshi had asked Rikyū to design Taian, the twomat tearoom. It can be said that Taian was created by the two of them, a combination of Rikyū’s design and Hideyoshi’s desire to build a living embodiment of wabi tea. The rough walls and the humility of crawling through the tiny entrance were a new pleasure for Hideyoshi.
Later on, after his brilliant victories at Shizugatake, Komatsu, and Nagakute, Hideyoshi’s tea gatherings had become more elaborate. His famous tea gathering at Kitano Shrine, where tea practitioners of all social classes from across Japan gathered to perform tea for each other, had astounded the public. People had murmured that only Hideyoshi could do such a thing. But it was in fact Rikyū, who disliked stagnation and inflexibility, who had been behind Hideyoshi’s radical planning. It was this exact type of intelligence and executive ability that made Rikyū’s political advice so important to Hideyoshi. Rikyū may have needed Hideyoshi to succeed, but Hideyoshi needed Rikyū even more.
Although they cooperated up until the gathering at Kitano, the seeds of division had begun to sprout. As Hideyoshi continued to consolidate his power, he lost his taste for humility and the wabi aesthetic of tea ceremony. It was only three or four years before that Hideyoshi called Rikyū Sōeki-kō and Rikyū called Hideyoshi Chikushū, and now Rikyū was made to use Hideyoshi’s official title—Kampaku-sama, chief advisor to the emperor—whenever he talked to him. But there was one thing that Rikyū never wanted to change, and that was the relationship he had with Hideyoshi when it came to tea matters.
Hideyoshi seldom practiced tea like he had in the months following Nobunaga’s death. When he asked Rikyū to teach, whether the place was Fushinan or Jurakudai, Hideyoshi always wanted to act as the host. He chose every tea utensil according to his taste, from the tea container, tea bowl, tea kettle, cold water jar, waste-water jar, ladle and ladle-holder to the lid-rest, and it was he who decided whether to hang a painting or some Zen calligraphy, or place a jar in the alcove. Of course, everything that he used had to be a famous item. During the winter season, he wore a pale purple and yellow-green kimono or a white brocade kimono with a paulownia design, a jacket of intricately woven fabric, short formal trousers, and gold split-toed socks. Although the color was appropriate for the season, it seemed too bright for the tearoom. When he put the folded white cloth, tea whisk, and tea scoop into the tea bowl, put the bowl in front of his knees, and started wiping the tea scoop with his silk cloth, he looked very confident. But when he tried to make his movements big and bold, the whole procedure was rendered empty and tasteless.
During these sessions, Rikyū would be the only guest. In contrast to Hideyoshi’s bright costume, Rikyū would wear a simple black jacket. His big eyes would watch each movement carefully, while a crooked smile twisted his lips. His large, distinctively wrinkled hands would sit curved on his lap. He never blinked. He never corrected Hideyoshi, or gave him any direction. The steam rising from the kettle sounded like it was coming from a faraway mountain, and within t
hat sound Rikyū would sit tranquilly, like a wooden statue. Whenever Rikyū passed into this enigmatic state, Hideyoshi would suddenly lose his confidence, feeling like a thin, miserable shadow, overpowered by the irresistible dignity that Rikyū possessed just sitting there. He would make the tea and bring it to Rikyū. Rikyū would drink all of the tea and then bring the bowl back to Hideyoshi. As Hideyoshi proceeded to clean up, his confidence would return.
Rikyū would quickly get up and put a small brocade cushion out for Hideyoshi. Hideyoshi would already be smiling. Since he had been away from the battlefield, his forehead was no longer tanned by the sun. The lower part of his face had filled out, so that the nickname Nobunaga had given him, “bald rat,” no longer applied. He had had deep, double-layered eyelids since he was young, but now wrinkles were appearing around the edges of his eyes. The roots of the hair in his top-knot were still black. The higher his rank, the more Hideyoshi paid attention to his clothes, and he liked bright clothing. Every time he saw a gray hair, he pulled it out. He was small, but of medium weight, and he was lively for his age—especially compared to Rikyū in his monk’s garment. There was only a fourteen-year difference between the two, but they could have been an elderly uncle and his younger nephew.
Hideyoshi would give Rikyū an affectionate look, the way a nephew might look at his uncle. By now, Rikyū would have moved to the doorway that led into the kitchen area in preparation for making tea.
“Was it all right?” Hideyoshi would ask, as if it weren’t important.
Rikyū would smile at Hideyoshi with his big eyes, his face much warmer than it had been when he was watching Hideyoshi make tea. But his answer was only ever one syllable: “Hmmmm.”
No matter how well or poorly Hideyoshi did, the answer was always “hmmmm.” Rikyū never gave more praise or criticism than that. Hideyoshi always knew what Rikyū would say, but he still wanted to ask his opinion.
The other teachers, like Tsuda Sōgyū and Imai Sōkyū, always praised Hideyoshi’s tea-making technique. He knew that this was only flattery. Rikyū’s assessment would be genuine, so, like a vulnerable child in front of a teacher, Hideyoshi wanted to hear a little bit of praise from Rikyū.
The two would switch places then, and Rikyū would begin to make tea. They did it that way not only so Hideyoshi could learn something from Rikyū, but because Hideyoshi was secretly hoping to find some fault with Rikyū’s technique. Rikyū would pretend not to notice.
Rikyū always made tea using the same procedure as Hideyoshi, with the same utensils. The difference was that the kettle, ladle, tea bowl, tea container, and tea scoop were not simply sitting on the floor: every item waited for Rikyū to touch it. And when he did, it was as if he wasn’t touching the utensils, pouring water in the bowl, or rinsing and wiping the bowl, but as if each item moved of its own will. When someone points at running water, it’s difficult to pick out the individual drops. In the same way, no matter how carefully you watched Rikyū make tea, it was very difficult to know how each movement happened and one followed the other.
When Rikyū made tea, he was like a small boat floating on top of the water, moving with the flow. He let every movement happen without conscious effort. Rikyū always used a tea bowl that Hideyoshi favored, and even though he made the tea according to Hideyoshi’s preference, the tea inside was not just a green liquid; it had a warm and lively natural fragrance that rose from the bottom of the bowl. Compared to Rikyū, other tea teachers were only going through the motions.
Hideyoshi would watch Rikyū’s tea making with admiration, and then pure satisfaction. His pride grew whenever he realized that he owned this skillful tea person. For him, the joy of having Rikyū as a tea advisor was almost as great as owning the most famous utensils.
Hideyoshi had a tea container with the poetic name Hatsuhana, “First Flower,” which was said to have originally been used as an incense oil container by Yōkihi in China. He also had a tea storage jar worth forty koku, and a flower vase named Kaburanashi—“Slender”—and many other such treasures. Each of these famous utensils captured Hideyoshi with their beauty and rarity, but they were only slaves. Rikyū was a different kind of treasure.
A strong ruler cannot bear it when his subjects have knowledge, skill, courage or other noble traits greater than his own. Hideyoshi loved Rikyū and honored him, and that affection only grew stronger with the passing of time. In spite of that, sometimes he hated Rikyū. Rikyū knew that, and Hideyoshi was aware that he knew it.
Riki opened the door to the room where Rikyū and Yahei sat. Seeing her smiling face, looking like a portrait framed by the black edges of the sliding doors, Rikyū’s worries vanished. He said that he had been just about to tell her to serve the wine that Matsui Yūkan had sent as a gift.
“Oh, that is too valuable,” she said. “It’s not our usual sake.”
“Well, we’ll have to drink it sometime. If Yahei can stay longer, we’ll have him to dinner and serve it then.”
“Oh no, I have a Noh class at six today,” Yahei said, touching the fan at his waist. He added casually, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but since you are offering, I’d like to have a taste.”
“It looks like we have a guest,” Riki said.
“Why don’t you bring the wine now?”
“I will.”
It was a long time before Riki came back with the wine bottle and two glasses on a tray. Whenever they opened European wine, the kitchen went into chaos. The men who worked in the shop were asked to come to the kitchen to peel away the red sealing wax and remove the tight cork from the bottle with a carpenter’s tool without destroying it.
“Oh my! What a treat!” Yahei exclaimed with joy as soon as he saw the bottle and glasses on the tray. The bottle was shaped like a turnip and was twice as big. It was black with a grayish tint, with an oval red label around the middle. The name of the wine and the maker were written in gold in Portuguese across the label like a vine, with golden grape clusters hanging on either side. Chinese objects were common in Sakai, but European goods were still rare, especially wine glasses.
Riki poured the wine carefully until each glass was exactly seventy percent full. Yahei and Rikyū picked up the glasses, which were shaped like morning glories, and held them up in front of their faces to admire the wine’s red-purple color. Yahei brought his glass up to his nose and inhaled the light, sweet fragrance. “It’s been such a long time,” he said as he finally put his lips on the glass to drink.
“It’s delicious,” he said a moment later, licking his lips. “And such a different flavor from Japanese sake. How about another glass?”
Rikyū gave Riki a look that said she should refill the glass.
“Oh, just me then,” Yahei said to Rikyū, but he didn’t refuse the second serving. “As you say, this is not an ordinary wine,” he said to his sister.
When he was younger, Yahei had drunk a large amount of sake every morning, and he had built up a high tolerance for alcohol. He wouldn’t get drunk on the small glasses of wine he was sipping now, not even if he drank twenty glasses. But the alcohol lifted his mood, and he started to talk about the evening’s Noh program. As he mentioned the actors who would be on stage, a thought occurred to him.
“I’ve heard that lately Kampaku-sama is much more enthusiastic about Noh than tea,” he commented, using Hideyoshi’s official title.
“Is that the rumor?”
“Kurematsu is promoting his own interests.”
Kurematsu Shinkurō was Hideyoshi’s Noh teacher. Yahei laughed, throwing back his head to reveal his thick throat, and said that Kurematsu was a shrewd man. Kurematsu had studied Noh with the late Yoshikatsu Tayū before Konparu Hachirō Yasuaki had become the head of the Konparu school. He was a fellow student of Yahei’s, but was from a warrior family, so he was not merely a Noh actor. But since he was younger than Yahei, Yahei spoke of him as a junior behind his back.
“I saw him at the Grand Noh Master’s performance last month, and that’
s what he told me. There’s a plan to create a new Noh play based on the battle at Honnōji Temple where Hideyoshi avenged Nobunaga’s death.”
“Oh. I hadn’t heard that.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t know. It still hasn’t been decided who will write the script, and then the music must be added, so it might be a while before it’s ready to perform. But it already has a title: Vengeance on Akechi.”
“Vengeance on Akechi. I see. Did Kampaku-sama choose that title?”
“Yes, but it’s likely that Ishida Mitsunari-sama was very much involved with the plan. And Kurematsu has been ordered to proceed with putting the play together.”
At first, Rikyū did not show much interest in the new play, nodding politely at Yahei’s tipsy chatter. But as soon as he heard the name of Ishida Mitsunari, he pressed his thick lips tightly together, forming wrinkles on both sides of his mouth. He looked like a mussel sitting on the sand that had closed up tight against attack. Noticing the expression, Riki moved her charming black eyes from Yahei to Rikyū.
Indifferent, Yahei kept talking. “We cannot say so out loud, but Kampaku-sama’s dancing isn’t good enough. The musicians get annoyed, and the chorus and the prompter are on edge until his performance is done.”
Riki interrupted Yahei haughtily, wanting to put a stop to his endless gossip. “Brother, where are you practicing today?”
“At Ōmiya’s in Zaimokuchō.” Yahei didn’t seem to mind the interruption. Ōmiya was the name of Yahei’s disciple, a wealthy merchant.
“Won’t you be late if you don’t leave soon?”
“Oh, is it already time to go? The days have seemed longer lately. Time has been getting away from me.”
Yahei leaned back and looked at the sky, which was fading from blue to ripe yellow with the coming of sunset. The wide shadows of the bamboo covered the moss in the garden and part of the storage house roof. Suddenly he felt restless. He asked Riki if his young disciple had come back from running errands yet. As he raised his knee to stand up, he remembered something he wanted to tell Rikyū.
