Hideyoshi and Rikyū

by Nogami Yaeko

  Rikyū had a strong constitution, but he always suffered from the summer heat whether he was in Kyōto or Sakai, and at Sōunji Temple he was affected even more than usual. The unfamiliar environment and the upheaval caused by the arrival of Yodo-dono’s party at the end of May probably had something to do with it. The diarrhea and fever, which had subsided, were back with a vengeance. Hideyoshi, sincerely worried about Rikyū’s health, asked the doctor to visit him, and ordered him to rest until he was fully recovered.

  Anyhow, he might be uncomfortable staying at Sōunji Temple with Tsuda Sōgyū and Imai Sōkyū, Hideyoshi thought. I’ll have him stay somewhere else. He gave the order to Kimura Yoshikiyo, who found a suitable house for Rikyū to stay in. It was a wealthy man’s retirement house built in Hatanotaira, which was between Mount Ishigaki and Sōunji Temple. The house had fallen into disrepair after a long vacancy, but Rikyū was able to live there while the repairs were going on, and his condition improved along with the house. The old building became a place of peace, away from his everyday stresses.

  The house had only an eight-mat room, a four-and-a-half-mat room, a three-mat room, and a kitchen. The design was typical for the region: the roof was made from boards that were secured by thick bamboo that was split in half. Rikyū loved the simple, rustic style.

  The house also had a partial view of Mount Fuji. Mount Fuji wasn’t visible from Sōunji Temple or even from the castle on Mount Ishigaki, where the view was blocked by the Hakone mountain range. From his new house, Rikyū could not see any part of Mount Fuji’s elegant slope, from the top where it met the summit down to the foot. All that was visible was Mount Fuji’s round top, which poked out like a camel’s hump from the right side of the mountain range that held Mount Ishigaki. The white snow that the poems said would fall on Mount Fuji regardless of the season seemed to exist only in the poems.

  The little house’s garden was filled with the smell of orange blossoms, and the black exposed earth of the fields extended all the way to the woods. Just beyond, glimpsed occasionally through the trees, was the white flash of light reflected off the Hayakawa River. There was nothing like that at Sōunji Temple.

  Contemplating the scenery, Rikyū felt as if his physical weakness was being gradually stripped from his body, as if someone were removing thin layers of bark. If he stayed there, he thought, he could transform the three-mat room into a tearoom preparation area. He thought about it often. He imagined using the big, leafy bamboo that was abundant in this area for the roof, with thinner stalks of bamboo for the walls. The new decor might be interesting and refreshing.

  He absorbed himself in imagining the arrangement of utensils in the new tearoom. The alcove that usually held the flowers and the scroll could be omitted. He would put the vase on a pillar, perhaps a light red bindweed flower in a Korean hanging vase. A narrow scroll with calligraphy of a Zen phrase would hang on the wall above a long, narrow board on the tatami mat. Next to that would be the iron kettle cast in a hail pattern, quietly singing. He felt as if he were already sitting in front of the brazier.

  The retirement house reminded Rikyū of the time he had accompanied Hideyoshi on the campaign to attack Shimazu, when the troops were camped in Hakata. Rikyū had built teahouses with thatched grass on the roof and walls, nestled among pine groves, and invited Kamiya Sotan and Shimazu Sōshitsu to a formal tea gathering. Later on, at the Kitano tea gathering, Rikyū had created the same kind of simple, spontaneous tea spaces—under a tree here, in the middle of a field there.

  His deep contemplation was interrupted by an endless swarm of flies. It wasn’t just that there were a lot of them. They were big, black, and fat, with lateral stripes, and they buzzed and flew into Rikyū constantly. They felt like tiny pebbles.

  Soon after he had moved into the house, a letter including a poem had arrived from his favorite disciple, Furuta Oribe, who was fighting at the battle of Oshi Castle in Musashi. It had been a while since Rikyū had heard from Oribe.

  Rikyū had sat down at once to compose a reply to Oribe. In the letter he said that he had completely recovered from his illness, and added that Mount Ishigaki Castle would be completed soon. He thanked Oribe for offering to send him a vase as a gift. Rikyū wrote that he would be pleased to have it, but that he had also found an interesting flower container near the house. Despite being in temporary quarters, he wished he could have been with Oribe to drink tea together. He congratulated Oribe on his victories in battle, and also for being able to enjoy the beautiful scenery in Kantō, such as the Sumida River, Mount Chikuma, Musashino, and Nippori. Rikyū, on the other hand, had to be satisfied with his view of Mount Fuji.

  He ended with two comical poems about the annoying flies, in which he revealed that he now found enjoyment in the sound of swatting them, which he used to dislike. “If it weren’t for the flies, I could even live here in Odawara.”

  His complaints about the flies and his expression of envy toward Oribe were half-joking, but his lament about Mount Fuji was serious. Mount Fuji was supposed to be the most beautiful, sacred mountain in all of Japan, not the figure of a monstrous, humpbacked old man. It was a shameful view of such a wonderful place.

  Even though Rikyū had not fully recovered from sickness, his quiet life at the house was very relaxing. It was a huge relief not to see Hideyoshi every day and deal with his constant demands. Compared to that, the flies and the view were not an issue. It was the first chance he’d had to write a leisurely reply to Oribe in a long time.

  The extra leisure time also allowed Rikyū to think about his home in Sakai, his wife, his sons, and the daughters who had left the house and had their own children. They were on his mind more often during his time at Sōunji Temple. Everyone was healthy, and that was good, but he still couldn’t help but worry about Kisaburō. He knew that Kisaburō didn’t want to abandon his leisurely bachelor lifestyle. That might be all right, but Rikyū knew Kisaburō’s intelligence and quick wits were superior to his older brothers’, and he was frustrated that Kisaburō didn’t devote his exceptional abilities to tea. Rikyū never complained or reproached Kisaburō about it, though. There were other things to worry about. The two of them had stopped talking as father and son a long time ago, although maybe lately, he conceded, it had been he himself who avoided opportunities for conversation. He couldn’t understand how the child who had had a natural keen intuition combined with an open mind, a talent for misbehaving, and a delicate but sociable nature had transformed into such a defiant man.

  Though he still had a father’s love for Kisaburō, Rikyū was developing a new view of his son. He began to understand that Kisaburō’s inner struggle went deep, and it would take more to resolve than either womanizing or a good marriage. Like an unexpected water stain on the wall after a heavy rain, Rikyū’s mild discomfort at Kisaburō’s questions deepened to fear as time went on. Kisaburō asked his father about personal matters that Rikyū never discussed with anyone. Even when he and his father were far apart, he kept an eye on Rikyū. He watched in a way that nobody else did, and Rikyū wished that he would stop. Even though Kisaburō concealed his doubts about his father, Rikyū felt pressured to respond to them as clearly as if Kisaburō had spoken. This impossibly tangled relationship between parent and child sometimes upset him, and he sometimes thought of his son as rebellious and hateful. But now, with the perspective of distance, he thought of him with love, and he reflected that his youngest son, who could make him so angry, needed more care than any of the others.

  Despite the disturbance of the buzzing flies, Rikyū dozed off. When he woke up, he lay with his head on his arms. He envisioned his son’s face floating in front of him. The face was slightly pale and slender, with big, black eyes that were so like his own. The visage was beautiful and contented, a Sakai-man to the core. But then another face rose in front of his vision, a swarthy, bearded man with pits in his skin. The two of them, Kisaburō and Sōji, were like two sides of a leaf in Rikyū’s thoughts. He wondered why. Their physical features and
social situations were as different as their ages. One side caused trouble for his father; the other side caused trouble for his teacher. They were like two different species of stone fruit with the same unbreakable core.

  But recently, Rikyū thought about Sōji more than his son. It may have been the influence of the letter from Oribe. Before the war, when Rikyū was in Kyōto, he had heard from one of the envoys who came to negotiate for Hōjō that Sōji was in Odawara. Although Sōji had been respected as a tea master, Rikyū didn’t believe he had been hired by Ujimasa. Rikyū had heard that in order to prepare for the war, Hōjō was drafting every able-bodied man from fifteen years old to seventy, even merchants and craftsmen. He wondered whether Sōji would be allowed to remain sitting in front of a kettle. Furthermore, because Sōji had once served Hideyoshi, he might be watched more closely than he would have otherwise. If that happened, he would be very unlucky.

  Behind all of Rikyū’s worry was a note of regret. He had written in his letter that he wished Oribe was there to have tea, but between the written lines were thoughts of Sōji. There was no way to invite Oribe to come from Musashi to this house in the midst of a battle. But Sōji lived very near, the distance of an echo. If not for the circumstances, Rikyū knew, Sōji would come to see him without hesitation.

  Rikyū remembered Sōji’s light and delicate style of making tea. In social settings, Rikyū’s unfortunate disciple was very narrow-minded and timid; somehow even his shadow was thinner than most. But the same man underwent a metamorphosis in the tearoom, becoming open and easygoing, not fussy at all despite his delicate taste. How long had it been since Rikyū had seen him make tea?

  10

  At that time, Yamanoue Sōji was living in the northern part of Odawara, in the village of Yatsu. There was a noble air about the women who walked around in working clothes and straw hats and the man who hummed a passage from the Noh play Kōwaka as he went through the fields. They were the remnants of the Takeda soldiers who had been defeated during a battle with the shōgun Oda Nobunaga. They had settled in this area to make a life for themselves, but these days no men could be found in the fields and houses. Hideyoshi’s attack gave them another chance to become warriors. They rallied around Hōjō, pulling out the swords, spears, and guns that had been passed down through generations and kept hidden after their defeat.

  As a tea practitioner, and a man who was close to fifty, Sōji wouldn’t be called upon to fight. No matter how grim the circumstances became, he had no choice but to continue with his life as it was. Because of his former status, he had attracted tea students almost as soon as he arrived in Odawara. But once the battle came, many of his students—warriors and wealthy merchants alike—had left their homes to join the fight. Now Sōji had more free time. Although his income had decreased, he still had an old peasant couple working for him, the man doing menial chores and his wife cooking food.

  “What? A messenger from my master has arrived?” Engrossed in his writing, enjoying the coolness of the room before noon, Sōji had not heard the voice of the messenger, Sōbei, outside. But when the old female servant came to tell him about the message, he immediately got up and went to the door. The master was a very important student of Sōji’s. His name was Hōjō Genan, the great-uncle of Hōjō Ujimasa and the third son of Hōjō Soun. The messenger stood at the narrow entrance as if the scabbard of his sword was stuck at the door and recited the message.

  “I would like to drink tea with you. It’s been a while. If you have the time, please come to visit.” That was the entire message. Genan was very polite. Unlike Hideyoshi, he never used his authority to give direct orders. That had confused Sōji at first.

  Usually Genan sent a low-ranking servant; it was rare that Sōbei came to Sōji’s door. Today, however, Sōbei had stopped by on his way into town. Sōji and Sōbei were close in age, and Sōbei was sometimes permitted to attend the old master’s tea gatherings. Whenever he visited Sōji, Sōbei enjoyed hearing stories of tea practice in the Kyōto area. Sōbei had an easygoing nature and liked to talk, but today he didn’t seem to have time to stay. His pink, childish face usually made him look almost tipsy, but now his expression was serious and stern. He was also traveling on horseback, which was unusual.

  Sōji saw the messenger to the gate and watched him spring nimbly into the saddle. He had the sudden realization that Sōbei was taking some important information to the castle. Once again, Sōji was reminded that he was in the middle of a battle.

  Sōji did not return to his house right away. He went through a wicker gate into the garden. The narrow, rectangular space along the hedge was the path to the teahouse, and beyond it was the outdoor water basin. A tiny white piece of water grass had fallen to float like a bubble on the surface of the water. Sōji had spared no pain in setting up the three-and-three-quarter-mat tearoom. It faced the road, and it was easy to draw water from the far-off forest for the beautiful fountain in the garden.

  Sōji went past the outside of the teahouse, across the neighbor’s radish field, and came out on a small road. It was overgrown with weeds. Aside from two or three wild chestnuts with white blossoms, there was nothing growing but bushes. But when he stood on one corner and looked to the west, beyond the Yatsu mountain range, there was one isolated, pine-covered mountain that looked like the top of a helmet. It was Matsuyama, where Hosokawa Tadaoki’s army was camped. Beyond that, the mountain range curved off in two directions like a horseshoe; at one end of the horseshoe was Mount Ishigaki, and at the other end was Tokugawa Ieyasu’s camp.

  There were other camps in the area that he couldn’t see. Sōji knew almost all of those generals. But Hosokawa Tadaoki was one of Rikyū’s disciples, of the same rank as Furuta Oribe and Makimura Hyōgo. In that sense, despite the difference in their social status, they were fellows. Tadaoki especially had liked Sōji a lot, not only for his skill in making tea but for his honest, if stubborn, personality. When Rikyū was not available, sometimes Tadaoki would give him lessons.

  Tadaoki was here, right under his eyes, less than three miles away. When Sōji realized that, he was attacked by a sudden emotion that he had never felt before, not even during his exile. He moved until he had Tadaoki’s camp in his line of sight and stood there, jaw clenched. Suddenly the tears came, flowing down his cheeks, and he cried harder than he had even when he had lost his wife two years before.

  There were many places near his house with a view of Matsuyama besides the spot where he was standing. From his garden, he could see only the right foot of the mountain, but from the fields he could see the gentle, widening slope of the hill that came down to meet the edge of the village. The helmet-shaped top of Matsuyama, elevated above the rest of the ridge, could be seen from anywhere. Until this moment, the mountain had just been part of the scenery for Sōji, like the grass roof of a farmer’s house, a peasant’s laundry hanging in a yard, or the head of a lowing cow hanging out of a cow shed. But this one protuberance in the mountain range moved something inside him. The austerity and discipline he had practiced since his youth; his days serving as Hideyoshi’s tea master; being exiled not once, but twice; roaming from one place to the other—he had had many difficult times before he had settled in Odawara. Like the spokes of a wheel, all of his memories gathered around Matsuyama and turned.

  Sōji wondered where Tadaoki’s camp was. It must have been fortified like a small castle. He had a vision of a white flag with a kuyō-mon—a family crest with nine stars—waving vividly against a pine forest. Wherever the camp was, the war cries that preceded the battle didn’t reach him. But when the fighting started, the heavy gunfire from both sides mingled as bullets splashed into their targets, felt as swirls of air rather than heard. The few elderly women and children who remained at the farmers’ houses trembled and listened with all their might as they thought of the sons, husbands, and fathers who were out there, fighting with whatever weapons they could find.

  Sōji’s fear was equal to theirs. He did not doubt that Hideyoshi would win, a
nd it gave him a hopeless feeling. He imagined that he would have to wander again, abandon the place where he thought he could settle down, try to find another place to live. But his current feeling went beyond fear or sorrow. He longed to see Tadaoki. More than that, he had heard that Rikyū had come to the area with Hideyoshi, and the thought of running through spears and arrows, or even getting shot, didn’t dampen his desire to see his old tea master.

  Soon, there was a ceasefire. Even as stories from Odawara’s side leaked out to Hideyoshi, now Odawara was able to get news of Hideyoshi’s troops. They heard that Yodo-dono and the other mistresses had arrived in a beautiful procession, and that there was a magnificent castle being built on Mount Ishigaki that was more permanent than just a temporary camp headquarters. They heard that the feudal lords who had come to lead the battle had also brought their wives from home. But the talk of the town was the new trading center that had been built at the end of Yumoto, on the coast near the mouth of the Hayakawa. Merchants from all over Japan brought all types of goods and set up shop there. The streets were filled with famous products from different regions—silks that were rarely seen outside the capital, Chinese products from the trade to the southeast. There was even a red-light district. As the castle in Mount Ishigaki became more and more like a replica of Ōsaka Castle and Jurakudai, these luxuries were brought from Kyōto and Sakai to help boost morale among soldiers tired of the long battle.

  When Sōji had lived in Sakai, he would drop into stores and eat delicious food or enjoy browsing the imported foreign objects. Now, he was curious about the rumors of the marvelous new streets of Odawara. In his mind’s eye, he imagined roaming those streets as easily as he had in Sakai, and someone he knew tapping him on the shoulder.

  Before Rikyū had risen in status to become Hideyoshi’s advisor, he would take Sōji to such shops. There was one Chinese store in particular that he favored. It was on a back street close to the outskirts of the downtown area. The alley was filled with dog’s excrement. The store was run by a Chinese merchant who had married a woman from Sakai and had a big pet crow. He treated the crow as if it were his own child, and he himself was as dry and thin as a crow’s leg. Nobody knew anything about him, not even how long he had been in Japan. He would shake his white head and complain that he couldn’t get any valuable things since the trade with China had stopped. But he had a few precious things tucked away. Rikyū had gotten a scroll painted by Sō Joshi there, and he often bought fabric also.