by Nogami Yaeko
Unlike those people, Rikyū’s service to Daitokuji Temple had nothing to do with religious devotion. His wish was to recover the beauty that had once existed in that spot. In the tiny cosmos of grass hut and garden, a Zen-like aesthetic consciousness was needed to judge the proper amount of ash in a sunken hearth. But regardless of whether or not one would equate that aesthetic consciousness with the practice of Zen, there was a qualitative difference between Rikyū, whose main concern was beauty, and Sōchō and Shirōzaemon, whose main concern was religious devotion. Kokei had suggested that placing Rikyū’s statue inside the gate’s altar room would be a good memorial, but to have such a statue had never been Rikyū’s intention.
Mulling over all of those things, Rikyū finally decided to leave the matter of the statue in the monk’s hands. He simply commented that he wanted to avoid depicting himself in a sitting position, as was typical for a memorial structure. Then he changed the subject. “There was another reason I came to visit you today.”
“What is it?” Kokei’s tone of voice was the same as Rikyū’s had been when Rikyū asked Kokei about the wooden statue.
“As you know, I don’t have the same resources as those wealthy merchants who trade with China and India.” Rikyū was referring to Owa Shirōzaemon and his donation of the ship’s mast. “If the construction costs for the gate get too high, I won’t be able to continue funding it. I know that if I ask, others will be willing to donate money to help, but it’s important to me to do this myself. And to be honest, the expenses are starting to exceed the budget.”
As he spoke, Rikyū transformed from Japan’s greatest tea master to the head of a long-established business in Sakai. Although he was smiling, his words showed his merchant instincts. Although he now let his head clerk handle the day-to-day operations of his family business, it used to be Rikyū himself who sat the counter and dealt with the fishermen’s bosses, boat owners, representatives of the wholesale merchants’ union, and even the salt dealers from the Wakasa and Chūgoku regions, who could have a major effect on his bottom line by imposing just a small change in the price of salt. That tough negotiator manifested now as he spoke to Kokei about the budget.
When Rikyū had started to plan the reconstruction, he had kept in mind the importance of picking the right people and watching the small details of each job. Artisans like Emon, Yoshitsugu, Hikosuke, Kyūbei, and Zengorō had worked on the construction of Ōsaka Castle and Jurakudai. Rikyū already knew their skills, personalities, and tastes, and they were flexible in their willingness to follow their patron’s taste and create either bright or subdued images as required. By hiring the right crew, Rikyū could have confidence in the quality of the reconstruction of the gate without wasting money. But what he couldn’t rely on was the head carpenter’s estimate of the cost. Although Zengorō more than lived up to Rikyū’s expectations, he had already exceeded the budget just halfway through the three-year job.
“I want to ask you something,” Rikyū told Kokei, revealing what he had been thinking. “Is there a record of the expenses from when the current gate was built?”
“Well, the value of money has changed quite a bit since those days.” Kokei tilted the side of his face that had the yellow stain. “Since we’re reconstructing the gate rather than building it from scratch, it will cost more. But I suppose if we knew the cost of the original, it would be a good reference. We still have our old records, except for the ones that were burned. However, you may recall that the monk Sōchō volunteered to collect the donations and coordinate the building of the gate. I’m not sure if there are any documents with detailed information.”
“I understand.”
Kokei stood up abruptly, as if he’d suddenly thought of something. Next to the low desk under the window, there was a lacquered box with mother-of-pearl inlay, used for storing letters; Kokei went there and opened it. “Although this isn’t what you asked me for, I’d like to show it to you.” He brought Rikyū two letters that were each folded into six-inch squares. Kokei opened one of them for Rikyū. It was a letter of donation from Hideyoshi for the building of a memorial altar at Sōkenin Temple, which listed in detail all the items required. It had been written by Hideyoshi’s secretary, and the characters were to Hideyoshi’s taste—thick and bold.
To Sōkenin Temple:
The following is a list of items to be donated in order to help build a place to house an altar in memory of the monk Taigan at Sōkenin Temple:
—A sword made by Fudō Kuniyuki, with wishes that it will be displayed forever
—One thousand silver ingots for general construction expenses
—Twenty-five silver ingots for the tomb
—Five sets of trays with legs. The trays have paulownia crests in gold and silver aventurine lacquer.
—Seven nested containers, fifteen plates, a bowl, a ladle, and a pair of chopsticks
—One hundred and thirty-five silver ingots in order to buy fifty koku worth of land for the temple.
—Five hundred koku of rice. Please use thirty koku of rice for offerings every morning and evening. You will prepare five dishes and one bowl of soup for the main course and three dishes and one bowl of soup for the second tray. On each anniversary of the day Taigan died, you will prepare five trays in the morning and three trays in the evening.
—Nine shō of rice for everyday use. Three shō will be used for the morning and evening meal offerings, and the remaining six shō will be used for the monks’ morning and evening meals. Four gō of rice will be used in a day. It is calculated that you will get thirty days’ supply of rice for fifteen monks. The total will be twenty-seven to. Thirty-two gō and four to will be used for twelve months of offering trays.
—Twenty koku of rice will be used to pay for repairs to Sōkenin Temple
—The remainder of the ten thousand kan budgeted for this memorial will be used for maintaining tatami mats and other purposes. One thousand and four hundred kan will be used for decorative paintings at Sōkenin.
Let it be so.
Tenshō 10, October 17
Signed,
Toyotomi Hideyoshi
Rikyū read the letter as if he didn’t want to miss a single brush stroke. As he finished reading, he said, “Lord Hideyoshi is very precise.”
It wasn’t meant to be sarcastic, merely a statement of truth. There was a story about Hideyoshi dating back to his days serving under Nobunaga. As the magistrate in charge of supplying firewood to the troops, Hideyoshi himself had experimented with burning wood to see how much was actually needed for a month’s consumption. He found that the troops needed only one-third of their yearly allotment.
As imperial regent, his methods were the same. When he put huge sums into building Ōsaka Castle, Jurakudai, and the golden tearoom, and when he distributed gold to his nobles, it might seem as though he was being frivolous. But Rikyū knew that Hideyoshi thought of all these expenditures as investments that would yield a good return. Even for tea gatherings Rikyū had to inform him of the expenses for cooking and other preparations. Rikyū knew from personal experience how Hideyoshi valued money, and he respected Hideyoshi’s ability to manage financial matters. Hideyoshi had started as a lowly foot soldier and worked his way up through the ranks, and as a result he’d learned to make the most of everything. That ability, however, was hidden beneath his generosity. Nobunaga, who had grown up in a very different kind of family, lacked Hideyoshi’s skill at managing money.
Reading the budget, which listed everything from the number of plates for offerings to the amount of rice the monks were allowed daily, Rikyū could almost see Hideyoshi as a young man with his wood-burning experiments.
The prices had not changed since that budget was written. The value of a silver coin was equivalent to three hundred and sixty measures of rice, so one thousand silver coins were equivalent to three thousand koku, Rikyū’s salary. That amount would buy exactly one year and three months’ supply of rice; but the cost of building a memorial or a temple
gate could not be calculated so easily. Although the budget for rebuilding Daitokuji’s gate was in the red, Rikyū thought he saw a way he could make money to pay for the deficit.
Preparations for attacking Odawara were ramping up. Learning from the previous failures of warlords like Takeda and Uesugi, Hideyoshi planned to transport food and other supplies into the area in advance of the troop movements. Currently, they were shipping the munitions into place, and there was a rumor that between now and this time next year, two hundred thousand koku of rice—a year’s supply for two hundred thousand soldiers—would be shipped out of the port of Sunshū, Shimizu. No doubt, miso, soy sauce, and other preserved goods would also be sent. Up to this point, Rikyū had stood by and watched Imai Sōkyū and the other wealthy merchants profit by selling weapons and gunpowder to Hideyoshi as he prepared for attack. Now, it was his turn to make money by selling salted and dried goods for the coming battle in Odawara. He wanted to repair and expand his storehouse in order to be ready for the extra business and maximize his profits.
“This letter is related to Tenshōji Temple.” Kokei opened the other letter for Rikyū while Rikyū folded the first one back up.
To Kokei:
Shin Murasakino Tenshōji Temple will be comprised of two precincts. The first, the Murasakino Precinct, will be one hundred ken in length from east to west. The second, the Funaokayama Precinct, will be one hundred and twenty ken in length from north to south. I am donating this land in order for Buddhism to prosper and the world to enjoy the blessing of peace.
Let it be so.
Tenshō 12, October 4
Signed,
Toyotomi Hideyoshi
“I was there watching when the head secretary, Ōmura, wrote this letter,” Rikyū said as if seeing it again in his mind. Those few lines had turned out to hold an empty promise. In the past four years, Hideyoshi had overseen construction of Ōsaka Castle, fought the battles of Komaki and Nagakute, conquered Kyūshū, and built Jurakudai. He may have been too busy to remember the letter he had written. Kokei did not presume to remind him, but when Hideyoshi announced that he was building Tenzuiji Temple, it became obvious that this promise would be forgotten.
Daitokuji Temple was close to Mount Kifune, Mount Kurama, and other mountains, and since the Muromachi period Daitokuji had controlled the lumber from that area. When Hideyoshi had promised Kokei the land to build Tenshōji Temple, Kokei had set aside some prized pieces of cypress. Since it had been decided that Tenzuiji Temple would be built, however, Maeda Gen’i had had his eyes on that lumber for Tenzuiji. Kokei had used Hideyoshi’s allotment letter to refuse his request. Since Tenzuiji Temple was being built in honor of Hideyoshi’s mother, it was important to Hideyoshi that it be completed on time and with the best materials. Maeda Gen’i could have caused Kokei a lot of trouble if Gen’i had reported Kokei’s refusal to Hideyoshi. But he hadn’t, possibly because he wanted to avoid reminding Hideyoshi of his neglected promise. Perhaps as a result of the conflict between Gen’i and Kokei, the monk Gyokuchū Sōshu had been chosen to be the founder of Tenzuiji Temple. Sōshu was from a different school from Kokei, who had come from Nanshūji Temple in Sakai, which also had produced Dairin Shōrei, the current abbot of Daitokuji Temple, and the well-known Zen master Ikkyū.
Not only that, but Maeda Gen’i had put all of his effort into building Tenzuiji Temple, ignoring the reconstruction of the gate. This was the root of the conflict between the people who were reconstructing the gate and the people who were building the temple. As Zengorō had complained, so many carpenters had been ordered to work on the new temple that it was slowing reconstruction of the gate.
“I was ready to face my punishment if Hideyoshi heard what happened between me and Maeda Gen’i,” Kokei told Rikyū. “Maeda Gen’i is in charge of the temples and shrines of Kyōto city, but he is also a monk. Just as he has two hands, he has two different faces—one face with a cheerful smile, and one that’s sly and wicked. He uses those two sides strategically, depending on what will benefit him the most.” Kokei visualized Gen’i’s features as he spoke. “Now that I think about it, Maeda Gen’i has been speaking very harshly about us since Nobunaga’s funeral. It started when you recommended that our temple should conduct the funeral services even though we didn’t have any relationship with Hideyoshi.”
“You shouldn’t have handled the funeral so successfully,” Rikyū said, laughter erupting from deep in his throat as if he was coughing. He often had a smile playing on his full lips or a sparkle in his expressive eyes, but he rarely laughed out loud. He had assimilated the silence and tranquility of the tearoom. He wasn’t laughing at his own comment, but at the memory of the complex drama surrounding the funeral six years ago.
The funeral had been held nearly five months after Nobunaga’s violent death. Because Hideyoshi had been entrusted with Nobunaga’s duties after his death, the funeral would put the official stamp on Hideyoshi’s ascension to power, and he had been determined to make it a success.
Immediately after Nobunaga’s death, Nobunaga’s chief retainers had met at Kiyosu in Owari province to determine his successor. Hideyoshi had ignored Nobunaga’s second and third sons, Nobuo and Nobutaka—who had already begun to fight over the inheritance—in favor of Nobunaga’s three-year-old grandson, Sanbōshi. Sanbōshi was the child of Nobunaga’s eldest son, who had died along with Nobunaga. Hideyoshi’s support for Sanbōshi was mere show. The brave warrior Shibata Katsuie, who was married to Nobunaga’s sister and was therefore Hideyoshi’s senior, had seen through the facade to Hideyoshi’s true intention, which was to legitimize his bid to become Nobunaga’s successor. In a way, the seven-day funeral, which started on October 11, had been the skirmish that preceded the battle of Shizugatake, in which Katsuie and his followers had challenged Hideyoshi’s bid for power. Perhaps sensing the conflict ahead, Hideyoshi had wanted the funeral to have the utmost grandeur.
The day of cremation, the fifth day of the funeral, had been especially solemn. It was a clear fall day, and the bright sun shone on the gleaming golden coffin that contained Nobunaga’s wooden statue, which served as a replacement for Nobunaga’s charred remains. It was guarded by a couple of hundred soldiers in beautiful armor and noble lords in ritual clothing. The procession went to Rendaijino, where the funeral would take place, through a row of pine trees, with hints of bright and dark red maple leaves showing through the evergreen like threads in brocade fabric. It was like a scene from a painting.
The head priest for the funeral, seventy-year-old Abbot Shōrei, shook his long white beard and called Hideyoshi to offer incense first, an honor that should have been reserved for Nobunaga’s family. Katsuie’s family and followers watched, in quiet anger and hatred, as Hideyoshi carried Sanbōshi up to offer incense along with Otsugimaru Nobuhide, Nobunaga’s fourth son, whom Hideyoshi had adopted. The scene caused a sensation among the gathered nobles.
Kokei was one of the seven monks who had helped Abbot Shōrei conduct the funeral. They performed the required rituals: sealing the coffin, hanging Nobunaga’s portrait, carrying the coffin, chanting, and offering hot water and tea for the deceased’s soul. Kokei led the ritual of carrying the coffin. Although his role in the funeral ceremony was a minor one, the funeral itself was conducted by Daitokuji Temple, so it could be said that this majestic seven-day funeral had been controlled by Kokei.
For Hideyoshi, the act of being the first to offer incense at the funeral was a satisfying public demonstration of his new power. As naturally as the sun rises in the east, he began to favor Kokei, whose temple had supported Hideyoshi’s political ambitions and who had run the funeral so impeccably. Whereas previously Hideyoshi had regarded Kokei merely as a friend of Rikyū’s, now he was willing to give Kokei whatever he wanted. He made Kokei founder of Sōkenin Temple and promised to donate to him the land to build Tenshōji Temple. Whenever Hideyoshi favored someone, his fondness tended to deepen as time went on. He even asked Rikyū whether Kokei could return to the secular world and
serve as one of Hideyoshi’s retainers.
Although neither Hideyoshi nor Nobunaga had had any particular relationship to Daitokuji Temple in the past, Rikyū had recommended that they hold the funeral there because he believed in Kokei’s skill. But that close relationship between Rikyū, Hideyoshi, and Kokei made Maeda Gen’i uncomfortable. Important plans for the funeral had been decided without him, leaving him to coordinate arrangements for a thousand people for seven days. Despite his position as the person in charge of temples and shrines, he was given the unimportant duties while Kokei shone. In his dislike of Rikyū, Ishida Mitsunari fanned the flames of Maeda Gen’i’s anger and frustration at the situation.
Mitsunari’s bureaucratic personality led him to perform his duties meticulously and obediently, but he expected others to be just as disciplined. He believed that to form a new government under Hideyoshi, order had to be the foundation. He also detested Rikyū for going beyond his place in the scheme of things, even if in this case it meant his association with the success of the funeral. A tea master, in Mitsunari’s mind, should only be a tea master. And, like any aide whose master shows an interest in another, he was envious of Kokei’s sudden rise to favor. Mitsunari’s dislike of Rikyū fueled Maeda Gen’i’s dislike of Kokei.
The promise to build Tenshōji Temple had been made four years ago, but it still remained only a promise.
“If you get a new temple, you also get a new set of worries,” said Kokei. “I might as well use this letter to blow my nose for all that it will get me.” He casually picked up both letters and tossed them back in their box.
Rikyū watched the way Kokei got up and moved to the desk and back attentively, as though he was watching a host making tea in a tearoom. But in that moment he had a sense that something wasn’t right, as if the kettle over the fire had unexpectedly stopped singing. Kokei was open with Rikyū about his frustration over the promise of Tenshōji Temple, but Rikyū was afraid that one day Kokei would forget himself and say those things to Hideyoshi.
