by Nogami Yaeko
He wanted to escape from his father, his family, everything related to his father’s fame. But like a jail door, one thing always stopped him: money. As Gisuke was fond of saying, what could he do? If he didn’t want to be a merchant, and he didn’t want to practice tea, what other options did he have? Ever since Hideyoshi had come to power, it was hard for commoners to change their status. Farmers couldn’t leave their lands; merchants couldn’t go find a new line of work. Many years ago, there had been a merchant from Sakai named Konishi Yukinaga who distinguished himself in battle and became a member of the warrior class. But that story was a legend now, and Yukinaga wasn’t spoken well of in Kisaburō’s social circles. Deep in their hearts, the nayashū thought of Hideyoshi as an upstart.
The merchants in Sakai looked at Yukinaga coldly because he was the son of a lower-class leather merchant. Just as Yukinaga’s father had crossed social boundaries to profit from the silk trade with China, he also helped Konishi to climb the social ladder to become a warrior. The merchants’ low opinion of Yukinaga wasn’t just jealousy. In their minds, even though warriors had social status, they were, after all, still cold-blooded killers. Even though Yukinaga was a Christian warrior just as Takayama Ukon was, Kisaburō knew that Rikyū did not take Yukinaga seriously. Besides, Yukinaga had a close relationship with Mitsunari, which made it more difficult for Rikyū to accept him.
Kisaburō didn’t really want to be a warrior, either. He felt like a tray on a shelf—he had just been placed there, with no apparent purpose. He didn’t have any special skills, no way to support himself other than to depend on his father. He tortured himself with self-loathing for not being able to decide what to do with his life. But if he could swallow his bile, there was another road he could take.
He hadn’t been joking when he told Ochika that he would soon have a wife. A well-known family with a good pedigree from the Kawaguchi region wanted to arrange his marriage to their sixteen-year-old daughter. If one of Kisaburō’s friends had been in his place, Kisaburō would have told him to take the offer as a rare opportunity. But he didn’t want it for himself.
14
Kisaburō’s hesitation about the marriage may have been because of the person involved in making the arrangements, his middle sister’s husband. He was a monk from Honnōji Temple who had returned to the secular world and married into his wife’s family. Kisaburō had been a young boy at the time, but he had been vaguely aware of the gossip.
Kisaburō didn’t have a good feeling about his brother-in-law. He was skilled in tea ceremony, and at Honnōji Temple he’d had the reputation of being a handsome monk, skilled in speaking since he was trained to recite the sutra. Kisaburō didn’t trust such a polished person.
Besides, Kisaburō knew nothing about this girl. She could be ugly. And if he was only marrying her so that he could keep his carefree lifestyle, was he any different from the young woman who had been bought by Miguel? Maybe the girl was even better than Kisaburō, because she’d escaped from life as a prostitute.
He never would have thought this way if it weren’t for Ochika. She pretended not to be bothered by Yahei’s affairs. After all, he slept with other women even when he stayed in Sakai. Every time an affair was discovered, Yahei felt a new attachment to Ochika, realizing that she could give him joy no other woman could, and that increased the passion between them. But this time was not the same. Since he did not want to lose his students, he left the house early in the morning to teach, and even when he stayed at home he had many Noh dance and music rehearsals. When he wasn’t occupied with Noh, he visited his relatives and friends. His whole life was condensed into a half-month, and it was normal now for him to come home late at night and go straight to sleep. He was busy, yes, but he also wanted to show Ochika that he didn’t need her. She might be the woman of the house, but she could easily be replaced.
Not that he said so. Instead, he complained about how lonely he was in Kyōto, and insisted that he only went there because of his obligation to Kurematsu Shinkurō. Otherwise, how could he possibly be separated from Ochika for half a month, or even half a day?
“If you won’t try to understand what I’m going through, and if you believe all that gossip about me having a woman in Kyōto, then I’m the one who should complain,” he told her, shedding tears in big drops. In his mind, his lie had become real, and he truly believed that he still loved Ochika and lived in Kyōto alone.
Ochika didn’t buy it, not this time. The more he protested his innocence, the more she knew the truth, and finally she confronted him in an explosion of anger.
“Who are you sleeping with over there?” She knew by the way he made love to her that it was only to fulfill his physical desire, and that there was a woman lying next to him in Kyōto. It was a gross insult to Ochika. She’d never thought about leaving him before, not through their many fights, but she would rather leave him now than be abandoned for another woman later. In her world, that was the greatest wisdom.
Once she had decided to do it, she could vanish from her current life. The house was empty with no master in it, and she could empty Yahei’s wallet before he came home. Like a migratory bird, she had a comfortable nest waiting for her. But why couldn’t she do it? Was it a lingering attachment to Yahei? Or was it something else?
“Hey, Kī-san.” Watching Kisaburō’s young, beautiful profile with open affection, she spoke casually, as if a thought had just crossed her mind. “Why don’t we go someplace together? If we go to Hakata or Hirado in Kyūshū, the European ships will take us away. I can ask Miguel about it. He’ll do anything for money. Kyōto and Sakai aren’t the only places to live, you know. If you were able to travel the world, you wouldn’t want to live in such boring places. We can pretend to be married. Nobody on the boats will touch me if they think I’m your wife. And once we get to Macao or Luzon or anyplace we want to go, we can do whatever we want. I don’t even have to come with you. I can go make my own way and leave you to do whatever you like. Don’t you think that would be fun?”
For Ochika, it was the perfect solution. She could leave Yahei and get revenge on Riki—who in a way was her sister-in-law—for all the cold looks she’d given Ochika over the years. Not only Riki, but all the other women in Rikyū’s house who had followed Riki’s lead during Ochika’s five years with Yahei. There were many uncertainties, to be sure. But Ochika’s experience living abroad had taught her that, indeed, Kyōto and Sakai weren’t the only places to live. Her words were convincing enough to make Kisaburō contemplate the offer.
A west wind must be in the offing, he thought. It was one of the characteristics of Sakai that when a strong wind blew from the west, the whole city was immersed in the sound of the tide as if it had become a big boat. The wind was especially prominent in this season. In the distance, a long, black line of pine trees extending from Hamadera Temple to Kishiwada was streaming in the wind like a horse’s mane, thundering as if hundreds of horses were neighing at once. The clouds blew quickly across the sky. Until now the clouds had formed a solid sheet of fog-colored gray, but now they divided into a mass of whitish gray clouds. As they drifted like icebergs through the current, the moon appeared and disappeared. When it was behind a cloud, that cloud glowed like a pearl, and when it moved between the clouds it shone brightly, giving them silver rims.
The clouds gradually faded to a black film, like the placenta after childbirth, and disappeared. Sometimes when the sky flickered it was a sign that there would be a rainstorm before dawn. Because the black pines were blocking Kisaburō’s view of the ocean, he couldn’t see the fishermen’s boats with their fires set to lure nearby fish. The previous fall, about this time, the fishermen’s boats had sunk along with the food-laden supply boats bound for Odawara, and that had caused trouble.
Kisaburō didn’t remember any of that. He wasn’t even aware that his sleeves and the bottom of his kimono had become damp in the ocean breeze, trembling like torn sails in the wind. He stood there empty as a cast-off skin, so numb f
rom his overwhelming flood of thoughts that he couldn’t think anymore.
A few days later, Rikyū returned to Sakai on horseback. Ordinarily he would have been coming from Ōsaka, but this time Hidenaga had invited him to Kōriyama Castle. After having lunch and performing a tea ceremony for Hidenaga, Rikyū had left, hoping to make it home before nightfall. The days were short in the late fall. But once he was on the road, he relaxed a bit, enjoying the beautiful shades of the changing maple leaves.
Riki listened with a smile as Rikyū described his journey. She was happy to see him in such a good mood.
“It was such a beautiful day today,” she said.
“I was lucky. If there had been rain, especially riding on horseback, I could have gotten a cold.”
“Is Hidenaga-sama getting any better?”
“I wish he was. But he is the same. His illness is getting worse.” Hidenaga, who had been forced to miss the battle in Odawara because of his health, spit up blood often now. It was painful to see him so weak. But he gave Rikyū his usual smile and spoke eloquently about many things. He told Rikyū that even though he had lain around the house all winter like a lazy man, when spring came he hoped that he would get better.
Rikyū knew better. In his mind, the visions of red maple leaves were replaced with the image of Hidenaga’s pale face. It was so thin now that it almost didn’t look human, more like a composition of skin and lines without any flesh beneath. Rikyū felt Hidenaga’s fragility as they were talking, like a bubble on a pond that could burst at any moment. Hidenaga’s voice was still strong and he sounded optimistic, but even he must have sensed that his time was near.
As soon as his brother had returned from battle, Hidenaga had finalized the marriage arrangements for his thirteen-year-old daughter. The match was no surprise. The groom, who had been living in Kōriyama Castle since he was young, was a nephew of both Hidenaga and Hideyoshi. The celebration was going to be held within a year. Rikyū had been invited to the castle to discuss the arrangements.
“If Hidenaga-sama were fine, he might have said that the wedding could be held sometime in the spring,” Rikyū continued. “Now he’s decided to rush things, as if he were being chased by something.”
“I wonder if he’s worrying that soon he may not be able to get out of bed.”
Rikyū made a noise of agreement. He didn’t talk about court politics often. The fact that he did so today showed how concerned he was about Hidenaga’s illness. Although Rikyū’s feelings toward Hideyoshi were complex, he never hid his reverence for Hidenaga, whom he valued much more highly than Hideyoshi.
For his part, Hidenaga’s confidence in Rikyū was known even among the lords of the far provinces. Hidenaga had confidence in all of Hideyoshi’s retainers, but he was aware of the rumor that Mitsunari and Rikyū did not get along. Hideyoshi had favored Mitsunari since he was very young. Indeed, Mitsunari was as honorable as any of his fellow retainers, and was considered a very honest, responsible man who paid attention to detail. But he had his weak points, too: he didn’t compromise, which made him narrow-minded and judgmental of others. If Mitsunari was a young tree, Rikyū was an old one, more mature and much more broad-minded. Mitsunari could never match Rikyū’s quality. For that reason, Hidenaga thought of Rikyū as an indispensable advisor, not just an entertainer for the lords who came to visit Jurakudai. But he was afraid of what Mitsunari might do. Mitsunari was fastidious and direct, and saw the world in black and white, enemy or ally.
Hidenaga remembered an incident on the way to Odawara. Hideyoshi had wanted to stop in Kiyosu, one of Ieyasu’s territories, for a visit. Mitsunari opposed it, saying that even though Ieyasu pretended to show loyalty, he was not Hideyoshi’s ally. Hidenaga knew that if Hideyoshi was going to keep control of the lands he’d won, the most important thing was to keep harmony. Ever since the incident at Honnōji Temple, Hideyoshi had followed one battle after another in order to unite Japan and secure the Toyotomi family’s position. Hidenaga earnestly wished that Hideyoshi would understand that the most important thing was to maintain harmony within Japan. That meant that although Hideyoshi should keep an eye on Ieyasu and the other lords, he should not cause any conflicts among them. That was Hidenaga’s guiding principle when he and Hideyoshi honestly discussed the differences between Mitsunari and Ieyasu.
Hideyoshi’s philosophy, however, was that it was foolish to let a horse run wild if it can be tamed in a stable with food. On a previous occasion, he had generously given Ieyasu control of eight provinces in the Kantō region as a reward for his excellent work at the battle of Odawara, meaning that he must have put Hidenaga’s advice into action. Hidenaga hoped that Hideyoshi would not be deceived by Mitsunari’s secret plot, and Mitsunari’s plans would never come to fruition.
To counter Mitsunari, Hidenaga relied on Rikyū. Whether the tearoom was a standard nine feet by nine feet or even smaller than that, when Rikyū was in the tearoom the atmosphere of the room changed, and it became a special place. He created that same feeling around Hideyoshi, in a way that none of the other retainers could. It wasn’t just the stories about tea gatherings, famous scrolls, and famous utensils. It was a quiet confidence that made Hideyoshi turn to Rikyū when confronted with unpleasant news and say, “Sōeki, what do you think?” Rikyū always had a solution.
Rikyū had enjoyed a good relationship with Ieyasu dating back to the days when Rikyū served Nobunaga. Nowadays, because Rikyū was the chief master of tea ceremony and therefore tied to Kyōto, and because the Kantō region was so far away, they rarely had any contact. But one time, when Ieyasu came to Kyōto to marry Hideyoshi’s sister Asahi-hime after the difficult peace negotiations of the battle of Komaki, Hideyoshi rode to see Ieyasu on horseback at the inn at Shinmachi-Dōri Sanjyō. He was overjoyed to welcome Ieyasu as his brother-in-law, and didn’t want to wait until Ieyasu came to Jurakudai. He did not forget to bring Rikyū, riding on a horse and carrying a tea container around his neck. As soon as Ieyasu had finished eating lunch, Hideyoshi had asked Rikyū to make tea for Ieyasu as part of the entertainment.
Rikyū had connections to many lords, and sometimes a private conversation between him and a powerful warrior accomplished more than a formal negotiation. There were many skillful retainers in Hideyoshi’s employ, but for Hidenaga, Rikyū was the only one who was irreplaceable. Hidenaga had been Rikyū’s protector in the court, and he worried about what might happen to Rikyū after he died.
It has been said that we human beings are so enmeshed in earthly desires that we have ten thousand rambling thoughts during the course of a day and night. In Rikyū’s mind, the subtle, complicated calculations of court politics were tangled up with his deep personal anxiety about Hidenaga’s sickness. Lost in thought, he turned his eyes away from his wife and saw the golden screen in the corner.
The screen was small for its type, only fourteen inches high, but it was imported from China, where it was said to have been copied from a famous work. On one side, there was a painting of a jewel and a golden palace in Chōan; the other depicted the story of Yang Kuei Fei. In the painting, the consort of the Emperor Zuanzong looked lonely, shedding tears as white pear blossoms shed drops during the rain. The painting was done in a classical style, and there was no painter’s signature. The colors were faded, but this only made the painting more beautiful. The artist who had made the copy must have been very skilled. The screen was part of Rikyū’s special collection, to be used only when they had a special guest, or during a festival. But this time, just as the screen was being taken out of storage to air out, the family had received word that Rikyū was returning home.
Riki told her husband that Kisaburō, who tended to express his love bluntly, had told Gisuke not to put it away yet, since his father hadn’t seen it for a while. But instead of waiting for his father to come home, he went out to go to a youth meeting.
“Sometimes what he does is so affectionate, and sometimes he so selfish,” she told Rikyū. “I don’t know what to do with him.”
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Rikyū was happy to have seen his favorite screen, and even happier that it had been Kisaburō who had told Gisuke not to put it away. “What is happening with the marriage arrangement?” Rikyū asked Riki in a jovial tone.
“Kisaburō is still being stubborn. This marriage is a rare opportunity, but he won’t listen. He’s really starting to cause trouble.”
“If he doesn’t want to get married, it can’t be helped.”
“But I don’t want him to continue his lifestyle any longer. People are talking.” Riki didn’t say more than that, but Rikyū knew she was referring to Kisaburō’s frequent visits to Daikumachi. She wanted Rikyū to talk to Kisaburō about it, and try to convince him to finally settle down.
“If he has a meeting tonight, he’ll be home late.”
“I told him that you’ll have to leave again soon, and that he should explain that to the other boys in the group and come home early. So maybe he won’t be as late as usual.”
Kisaburō’s meetings usually lasted beyond midnight, and often the participants didn’t come home until morning. But that night, Kisaburō obeyed his mother and didn’t make his parents wait. As Rikyū was adding a piece of charcoal to the brazier, Kisaburō came up the paved walkway between the store and the house. His fashionable sandals had bamboo on top of leather soles and iron heels that clicked against the stones. The footsteps were loud and fast, typical for young men from Sakai.
“That must be him,” Riki said, hearing the sound. She went to the entrance to greet him. Soon, Rikyū heard the high, lively tones of Kisaburō speaking to his mother. He was drunk, Rikyū could tell. When he was sober, his voice was crisp and clear, like his father’s. Now he came into the room.
