by Nogami Yaeko
Serving under Nobunaga, Hideyoshi had been so successful in battle that Nobunaga had promoted him and given him a new name—Hashiba Chikuzennokami—to signify his elevated status. The rumor was that the new name was intended to help him share in the luck of famed warriors like Shibata Katsuie and Niwa Nagahide, who also served Nobunaga. Later on, Hideyoshi had defeated Katsuie and Nagahide at the battle of Shizugatake.
The battle of Yamazaki, where Hideyoshi had defeated Akechi and avenged Nobunaga’s death, was the turning point of Hideyoshi’s life. Going into the battle, he had thought of his strategy as one grand roll of the dice, and when he had achieved victory, he’d felt like a gambler who had won more than he had ever dreamed. His prize was the highest status, power, and prosperity that any human being could possibly desire.
He had achieved everything he wanted. Nothing was beyond his reach; it was only a matter of deciding what to do next. Hideyoshi’s ambition drove him to attack Odawara in a bid to control all of Japan, and in four years he planned to extend his reach even further by sending troops to China. Dreaming of vast political and economic power, Hideyoshi found that Japan—a country consisting of a mere sixty provinces—had become very small. But there was one thing he couldn’t do anything about, and that was the circumstances of his birth.
Back when he was still a boy named Tōkichirō, before he even had a family name, he had taken on the name of Kinoshita. The surname Hashiba with the title Chikuzennokami, bestowed on him by Nobunaga, gave him an honorary place in the nobility of Kyūshū. Later, when he became imperial regent, he had changed his name to Toyotomi Hideyoshi. It was rare to reach the pinnacle of success, not by flying, but by climbing a ladder, rung by rung, to the roof. But despite it all, he was still the son of Yaemon, a foot soldier in Owari. As much as Hideyoshi wanted to leave his past behind, it would have been easier to claim that a bird isn’t really a bird than it was for Hideyoshi to claim that the son of a soldier could be a nobleman.
For Hideyoshi, being low-born was like a stain in a dark room that showed more clearly when the sun shone. The more brilliant he became, the more self-conscious he felt about his birth. So from a gambler he had turned into a storyteller, constructing a tale that wove truth and falsehoods and made the impossible possible. Over time, the story became a skillfully constructed proof that he soared up to his high rank because of his very special blood.
The story ran like this. Just as his mother’s second husband was not his own father, the foot soldier Yaemon, who served Nobunaga, was also not his true father. His mother was the daughter of Hagi Chūnagon, a noble who occasionally came to their village. When his mother was sent to Kyōto to serve the imperial court, she became pregnant, and came back to the village, where she married Yaemon.
Hideyoshi told this story to the retinue that accompanied him as if it were his true history, and then forbade them to repeat it. It implied clearly who his father was. If it were true, there was a possibility that he could have grown up in the Imperial Palace as an illegitimate son of the emperor.
Just as myths and legends are handed down from generation to generation, the “secret” of Hideyoshi’s birth immediately began to spread, becoming an interesting bit of gossip that was passed along in whispers.
Hideyoshi’s mother’s very appearance lent support to the story. Even in her old age, she still kept her dignified bearing. Her narrow face shared Hidenaga’s noble features. Although she had age spots that looked like thumbprints on her wrinkled cheeks, the wrinkles themselves were very fine, like crinkles in fine silk. Her mouth, although toothless, was still charming and her nose was graceful, and when she opened her eyes wide they were beautiful and black. When the servants helped her into her silk garments she had a noble air, and people could guess that when she was younger she must have been very pretty. All of this made Hideyoshi’s fiction seem true.
Hideyoshi had his wife, Nene, help to arrange for the clothing his mother wore. His mother always had beautiful embroidered kimonos sent to her, not just special clothing for festivals, but for ordinary days, too. When she was young she hadn’t even been able to touch that kind of silk and gold-woven fabric, and now it was her casual daily wear. She still felt as if those kimonos were too special to wear, but she didn’t have a choice. All she could do was choose to wear those kimonos her own way.
It was a custom for women to put thick oil in their hair at night. In order to protect their kimonos from the oil, the women wrapped their hair in cloth, and Hideyoshi’s mother had her servants make a slender black bag to encase her hair. Because her hair was only about eighteen inches long, it dangled like an old, black wisteria pod. Even in the daytime she didn’t take the bag off unless it was a formal occasion.
Because Hideyoshi was a man, it was difficult for him to comment on her hair. Even when Nene, who had a very good relationship with Hideyoshi’s mother and shared both happiness and difficulty with her, suggested in a roundabout way that Hideyoshi’s mother might consider changing her hairstyle, Hideyoshi’s mother refused.
“If I spoil such beautiful kimonos, the gods will punish me,” she insisted. She was stubborn, like her son.
She had no idea of the story that was centered around her, or the reason Hideyoshi had created the fictional history in the first place.
Hideyoshi had been very young when his father died. Even though Hideyoshi didn’t remember Yaemon’s face, as a child he felt the loss of his father deeply. But lately it seemed to Hideyoshi’s mother that he didn’t remember Yaemon at all. Perhaps that wasn’t strange, since he had died fifty years ago, but she was troubled by the fact that they had never done any of the traditional memorial celebrations. “I’d like to have a fifty-year memorial service for your father,” she told him.
Hideyoshi disagreed. “If we have a memorial service, we should not only limit it to Yaemon. We have to think about Hidenaga and Princess Asahi.” His words implied a question: was his stepfather, Chikuami—his mother’s second husband, and the father of Hidenaga and Asahi—equal to the father of an imperial regent?
Hidenaga’s response was to tell his mother not to mention it again. He was normally a very gentle and obedient son, but this time his tone was forceful. Of course, their mother did not want to go against their wishes. The memorial service wasn’t something she thought about all the time. But whenever they talked about family relationships, the sadness that she felt inside welled over into tears.
Just then the door opened and the head servant came in, wearing a light blue kimono with a fan pattern. She was accompanied by three other servants with square trays.
“Ah, kusamochi!” said Hideyoshi with exaggerated delight. “It’s been such a long time.” As soon as the plate was in front of him, he picked it up and took a bite of the sweet dumpling. “It’s very tasty.”
“Your visit was well timed,” the servant replied. “Yesterday your mother picked the herbs to make this mochi.”
“Oh, is that so? I’d like to help gather the herbs. Why don’t you let me know next time?”
“Last time the cherry blossoms fell while we were waiting for you,” she quipped. Last spring he had promised to come and see the cherry blossoms with them, but he had not kept his promise. “And we were still waiting for you when the field horsetail and mugwort started to grow.”
Hideyoshi laughed. “All right, you’ve got me. But I was very busy this spring. It’s the flowers’ fault for not waiting for me.”
“Oh, you would say that, wouldn’t you?” she quipped, looking at Hideyoshi, Hidenaga, and their mother in turn. Although she was the senior servant, she was young, under fifty. Her skin was smooth and pretty, and her face was rather plump, with a slightly flat nose. Her lower lip protruded slightly like a section of mandarin orange, making her expression quite charming. Even though she had grown up in a merchant family, she had a good knowledge of poetry, and her quick wit and intelligence made her Hideyoshi’s favorite servant. Because she sensed his favor, she felt comfortable talking to him.
She
had originally been Nene’s servant. It had been Nene’s idea to send the servant to Hideyoshi’s mother to protect her from Hideyoshi’s advances. But today, her proximity to Hideyoshi had the beneficial effect of lifting the mood in the room.
Hideyoshi started to joke with her again as he ate his mochi. The sweet snack was covered in soybean flour, and his mustache was covered with it. As he drank traditional Chinese brick tea from a white Chinese bowl he noticed that his mother’s expression had returned to normal and she was smiling. He watched her eat her mochi with her toothless mouth for a moment, then looked at his brother. “Hidenaga, we should go soon.”
“Okay, I suppose so.”
“It must be past four o’clock.”
They could see the left side of the garden from the room where they were sitting, where half of the dark leaves on the big chinquapin tree were lit brightly by the setting sun. In front of the tree there were none of the artfully designed landscapes seen in the rest of Jurakudai. There were no ponds and no skillfully placed rocks, only azaleas, camellias, peonies, and bush clovers scattered naturally. The gardeners had arranged the stepping stones on the paths by taking into account the length of his mother’s stride. Although the garden gave the impression that it was casually laid out and easy to maintain, everything was carefully planned.
Deep, thick eaves in the roof blocked part of the sky, but the beaming sun was still visible from where they sat. The garden of Hideyoshi’s mother’s house spread out in front of them like a beautiful white fan, with every plant growing to the same height. Behind them, far in the distance—visible only when one walked in the garden—the rich, green peaks of Mount Atago and Mount Kinugasa served as the fan’s hinge point.
Suddenly, Hideyoshi stood up in his navy-blue velvet short kimono trousers and left the room with big strides, walking along a hallway that overlooked the garden. At one point, the corridor opened onto the garden like a balcony, and there was a stone basin surrounded with scouring rushes. Hideyoshi stood there and enjoyed the view as if he had not seen it in a long time. The garden reminded him of Rikyū’s extraordinary talent: this garden was just one example of his skills. “Rikyū must be sailing up the Yodo River right now,” he thought. “He will have an idea of how we can use Sōji’s position in Odawara.”
“The chinquapin tree smells so good,” he said to Hidenaga, who had come out to stand beside him. “The flowers are starting to bloom.” He stuck out his chin and widened his nostrils, taking a long, exaggerated sniff of the faint, sweet fragrance on the breeze. His mood was suddenly bright, not because he wanted to show a cheerful face to his mother before he went home; rather, it was the thought of outmaneuvering Lord Hōjō that had lifted his spirits. On a whim, he suggested to Hidenaga that they walk around the garden.
The head servant had arranged two pairs of sandals woven out of palm leaves on the stone where they could step down into the garden. Hideyoshi went first, followed by Hidenaga. As soon as they started to walk along the narrow stone path, Hideyoshi began talking, as if he had been waiting for this chance for the two of them to be alone.
“Hidenaga, as soon as Sōeki comes back you should see him right away.”
“Yes, I will ask him about the situation. After all, we are dealing with Sōji. You know how stubborn he is.”
“And if Sōeki and Sōji are corresponding with each other, as Mitsunari speculates, things will be easier.”
“I don’t believe they can be,” Hidenaga asserted with unusual strength. He genuinely trusted Rikyū, more than Hideyoshi did, and he was critical of Mitsunari, who wanted to create a dark vortex of resentment against Rikyū among the others in Hideyoshi’s retinue.
Hideyoshi didn’t respond. Hidenaga guessed he wanted to avoid discussing the delicate issue of politics among his advisors.
As they stopped talking, Hideyoshi suddenly turned to look toward the house. Hidenaga looked back too. Their mother, who had been seeing them off with her servants, was moving to go back inside. Her back looked more hunched than it had when she was sitting. The black bag containing her hair was dangling from her neck like a wisteria pod.
Hideyoshi took his last look at her and turned back to Hidenaga. “Today I made my mother cry. But as a gambler whose ambition is to unite all of Japan, I have to be good at changing my face to fit the occasion.”
It was hard to know if he was trying to convince Hidenaga or himself.
Hidenaga didn’t give any sign as to whether he’d heard or not; he was watching Hideyoshi’s back, lost in thought. Hideyoshi wore a white silk jacket with a large paulownia crest embroidered on it in gold, and around his waist was a small sword, given to him by Oda Nobunaga, which had been made by the famous swordmaker Kuniyuki more than three centuries before. Those symbols of his power reminded Hidenaga of the risks Hideyoshi had taken to get to his current position; the white hair in Hideyoshi’s neatly tied top knot spoke of the fate Hideyoshi couldn’t avoid—either grand success or great failure.
Hidenaga kept silent. From behind, he felt he could see Hideyoshi’s current position, his duties, his ambition, and the fate that would hand him either success or failure, the fate from which there was no escape. Hidenaga felt more compassion for Hideyoshi’s fictional story of his birth than for their mother’s tears.
3
On the third morning after his arrival in Kyōto following Hideyoshi’s order to return, Rikyū set out to visit his friend Kokei, the founder of Sōkenin Temple, a sub-temple at the large Daitokuji Temple complex. For this kind of visit, it was his custom to take an old servant named Unai along. They walked north from Jurakudai along Suzaku Ōji Street, Imadegawa Street, and then Ōmiya Street, leaving behind the samurai district for a merchant district of shabby, scattered houses whose slanted wooden roofs were held down with stones.
The streets became busier as they walked on. They passed women selling vegetables from the shallow baskets they carried on their heads; men pulling oxen laden with firewood; and lowly vendors with tall chests strapped to their backs containing moxa, fortune-telling cards, ointment for burns, cheap facial powder, red lip powder, and needles and thread. The merchants mingled with bearded mountain priests who rested broadaxes on their shoulders and held prayer beads in their hands, and blind women with lacquer hats shading lightly made-up faces, singing as they walked with their canes. The women made their living going door to door, singing or playing instruments for money. Varied in their attire and trades, all these people had the same goal: to make money in the city. They were all walking in the opposite direction to Rikyū.
At one point, a kago, a black lacquered palanquin, passed by. From the servants’ attire, Rikyū judged that it held the daughter of a wealthy family going to a temple or shrine. Palanquins were becoming popular, especially among women, and so they were often called “women’s vehicles.” But the kago was permitted for use only by magistrates, feudal lords, high-ranking monks, tea teachers, and doctors. They were easier to ride in than the koshi, the plainer palanquin that was open and exposed.
Rikyū preferred to walk, even for long distances. That day he was wearing his kimono, pulled up from his ankles to make it easier to move, a silk gauze hood on his head, and a thin jacket. Although he was using a cane, it seemed more decorative than functional for a man with such a sturdy build and broad shoulders.
Around ten o’clock in the morning, they passed out of the villages into the countryside. Very little had changed since the Heian period four hundred years before, when the nobles played traditional New Year’s games with pine branches in those fields. Among the trees they saw thatched farmers’ houses, wheat ripening, and clouds of yellow-green grass. Yellow rape blossoms and pink milk vetch surrounded the fields like a colorful frame.
The song of the skylarks echoed through the clear blue sky. In the distance, Mount Kurama and Mount Kifune soared over the pine trees along the Kamo River like a scene from a Yamato-e scroll painting.
Rikyū had once lived in this area, which was called Murasa
kino, and he loved seeing the scenery again. It gave him a sense of liberation from Jurakudai that he couldn’t achieve even in Sakai.
“I’m so busy,” he had written in a recent letter to Kokei. “I don’t have time to drink a cup of hot water or tea. I spend too much time on worldly concerns.”
When talking to Kokei, Rikyū could pour out his conflicting emotions about his current position and everything happening in his life, things he couldn’t even tell his wife and son. There was so much he wanted to tell his old friend in person today. He especially wanted to tell Kokei what he had heard from Hidenaga and Hideyoshi, and discover what Kokei knew about Sōji and the meeting with the monk at Nanshūji Temple. He was also looking forward to seeing the progress on the reconstruction of the temple gates, for which he’d donated the money a year and a half ago.
Soon they saw a thick, black forest ahead of them, a sudden contrast to the scattered stands of trees they had been passing before. The temple walls, made of yellow-gray earth and banded along the bottom with a layer of black tile, came clearly into view.
Rikyū stopped to rest. He felt the breeze on his cheeks, like the brush of cool leaves. “We’re finally at the temple, Unai. You must be tired.”
“Not at all. You’re the one who must be tired.”
“I could keep walking all the way to Mount Kurama.”
“It’s good to hear that you’re so strong,” Unai said.
Rikyū spoke to Unai casually, in a manner more befitting a fish wholesaler than a high-ranking tea master with a three-thousand-koku salary. On the road, they had chatted about the spring rain the night before that had helped to keep down the dust, and how the wheat crop had been affected by the frost that had struck around the time of the spring water-drawing ceremony at Nigatsudō Temple in the middle of March, but now was starting to revive.
As the pair approached Daitokuji Temple, conversation had turned naturally to the renovation of the temple gate. When Daitokuji Temple had originally been built, the gate was in traditional Zen style: a two-story building, sixty-six feet wide and thirty-six feet deep. The top floor of the gate extended over the porch in front of the entrance, supported by six large wooden pillars that created five openings. There were three doorways perfectly aligned with the middle three openings. That gate had burned down during the Ōnin War of 1467–1477, more than a hundred years before, along with the temple and the rest of Kyōto, reducing the city to a field where skylarks lived. Nothing had been left of Daitokuji Temple but ash.
