by Nogami Yaeko
Mitsunari didn’t jump on the speculation right away, but rather mulled it over with his usual cold caution. The first thing he needed to do was to make sure the statue really was at the temple. But if a visit was announced, the monks might hide the statue before anyone could get there. Mitsunari told the old magistrate authoritatively that they would have to take secret action to prevent any misstep. He always spoke this way when he became involved in a serious matter.
Eagerly, he laid out his plan. He would consult with other magistrates while he waited for Hideyoshi to return from Yodo Castle, where he would stay for a while. The magistrates would form a plan together, and then put it into action when the time was right.
Rikyū had not gone to Yodo Castle with Hideyoshi. He had gotten a touch of the flu and was bedridden with fever and coughing. After the fever passed he felt better, and began to get up and move around. Riki made him wear two thick cotton kimonos, warning him to guard against a relapse. “Yes, yes,” Rikyū told her obediently, and also put on a brown European velvet jacket. Between his tall, sturdy build and his other layers, he looked like a straw rice bag.
“It will be hard for me to get through the kneeling entrance in the tearoom like this,” he quipped, making his wife laugh. Rikyū hadn’t made many jokes since Yahei’s unusual disappearance. But as time went on, Rikyū gradually returned to his old self. He decided that being insubstantial, the rumor would die as quickly as it was born. He now coughed only a little in the morning, when it was very cold, but he was fine during the daytime, and enjoyed his time to relax at home. There was a reason why Rikyū was in an especially good mood. The day after next, the twenty-fourth, Tokugawa Ieyasu was coming for tea, and Rikyū was very much looking forward to it.
About ten days before, Rikyū had met with Mōri Terumoto and Maeda Toshiie. He had served them tea at gatherings hosted by Hideyoshi, but had never had any sort of private relationship with them. It was only after Hidenaga’s death that he ventured to become friendly with them. Other tea masters, like Tsuda Sōgyū and Imai Sōkyū, had close relationships with other lords even though they served Hideyoshi, but Rikyū could not. Hideyoshi’s favoritism made Rikyū special, but it also gave Hideyoshi a monopoly. When Hideyoshi felt something was precious, he wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. And with Dainagon-sama there, Rikyū didn’t need political support from anybody else. But now the circumstances had changed.
He didn’t need Imai Sōkyū to tell him that he needed to watch his step more than ever before. Connecting with a powerful lord had taken on a new meaning for him. He invited Ieyasu to tea to try to make a closer relationship with him.
After the battle in Odawara, Ieyasu had moved to Edo, but he happened to come to Kyōto on business. It had been a long time since he and Rikyū had had tea together. Since Hideyoshi was not at Jurakudai, it was easier for Rikyū to invite Ieyasu as the only guest.
“I hope the weather on the twenty-fourth will be as fine as today,” he told Riki over lunch. It was a matter of great personal importance for him. The bad weather at the beginning of the year had finally broken, and the sunlight was as warm as it would be when the flowers bloomed. In the afternoon, when Rikyū was in the living room, he opened the screen doors, and thought about taking off the second kimono. Two or three days before, he had stopped wearing the velvet jacket. The garden off his study had the atmosphere of a natural backyard. The leaves of the evergreens had taken on a shiny quality, and the trees that did not have leaves now had round buds on their crossed branches.
In the garden, there was a distinctive old magnolia with white flowers near the board fence in the back. When it was cold, the buds were covered in hairy yellow-and-black sacs. Now they had clearly become white buds, about the size of the tip of a calligraphy brush. Every year, Rikyū felt spring had arrived when he saw that old tree full of spindly buds and leaves. Somewhere nearby, a warbler was singing a sweet tune.
Listening to the bird’s twitter, he opened the calligraphy box on the small desk. He took out a piece of paper, folded it, and placed it on his lap. Soaking a thick brush in ink, he started to write out his planned menu and utensils for his tea with Ieyasu. Rikyū, who was known for his teaching that “chanoyu is only boiling water and making tea,” kept the menu simple and chose everyday utensils that he used often instead of pulling out rare and valuable items. Even though the gathering with Ieyasu was important to him, he wouldn’t change his ways. In the past, Rikyū hadn’t kept records of his tea gatherings; he had started only after he had invited Yajima Kyūemon and Kusabeya Dōsetsu for a tea gathering just after he had returned from Odawara. In each case, if the tea gathering came off as expected, he added notes and comments to his original plan. Thus the record book had become long and horizontal.
“Soon I’ll have my hundredth tea gathering,” he said to himself. He put the ink brush down and thought about it, and suddenly a new idea occurred to him. He would hold a tea gathering with Dōan, Shōan and Kisaburō, but only if his youngest son would come.
He seldom made tea for any members of his family. The sudden idea made him very happy.
“Let’s have Kisaburō, too,” Rikyū thought to himself. “He looks like he’s just fooling around, but he must be more skillful in tea now. When the cherry trees blossom, Jurakudai will be very busy. So if I hold a gathering, I should do it when those magnolias bloom.”
He listened to the warbler’s twitter and thought pleasant thoughts of having his family together in one place. He forgot about the rumor he’d started about attacking China, which had bothered him day and night. He forgot about the mysterious and lonely feeling that had come over him like a cloud casts a shadow over a mountain. He bathed in the spring sunlight and relaxed as if he were going to doze off.
His moment of warmth was interrupted by an urgent letter from Kokei at Daitokuji Temple, saying simply, “Something has just happened, and I need to speak with you. I’m sorry, but please come as soon as possible.”
Rikyū’s relaxation deserted him as if someone had put a soaking wet kimono on him. What happened that Kokei couldn’t write in the letter? Kokei’s handwriting was neat as usual, but distress showed through in his unusually bold strokes. Rikyū hadn’t missed it; it made his chest tighten as if someone had pulled a buckle on his armor. He could think of nothing else but the words he’d said to Yahei. But that was old news. Even Kokei had heard it already. This must be something else. Was it about Kokei or Daitokuji Temple? Every possible scenario flew through his mind. There must have been some blunder. Maybe Kokei wanted to ask Rikyū for advice about throwing himself on Kampaku-sama’s mercy. It was a natural thought; he knew that the relationship between Kokei and Maeda Gen’i was the same as between himself and Mitsunari. On the surface they were polite and respectful, but Hidenaga’s funeral had created new friction. Still, that was a month ago. The more Rikyū thought about it, the more puzzled he became about the serious problem indicated in the letter.
In less than an hour, a kago with Rikyū inside was speeding toward the temple. From the kago, Rikyū saw the outskirts of Kyōto. The mountains and fields looked soft and serene in the spring. The Kurama and Kifune mountains in the distance were covered by the spring mist, and in the field the farmers, including some young women, were planting wheat. On another day he would have enjoyed the scenery, but not today.
Soon, the earthen wall of Daitokuji Temple appeared. Before Rikyū even got to the gate, one of Kokei’s monks, who had been waiting under a tree, came over to intercept him. He told Kisaku, who had come with Rikyū instead of Unai, not to go in the front gate, but to come around to the back. The servants did as directed and carried Rikyū down a small road along the back of the temple grounds where there were still old cedar and pine trees growing. This had never happened before. Things must be more serious than Rikyū had anticipated. His heart was choked with anxiety. The doubts and fears rose in his mind to race in circles again.
As soon as they sat face to face in Kokei’s greeting room, Rikyū que
stioned him. The news he heard left him speechless. Even when he was finally able to open his mouth, he could only utter one or two words at a time, like a mute who by some miracle had recovered his speech.
“The gate? That wooden statue?”
“Yes. They’re going to use it as an excuse to create a problem.”
Kokei looked resolved and ready to face the crisis. He patiently relayed all the details. That morning, a representative of Maeda Gen’i, Murakami Gyōbu, had entered the gate with a dozen soldiers. They said they wanted to inspect Rikyū’s statue, and insisted on climbing to the top. Kokei had run to them as quickly as he could, telling the soldiers they couldn’t intrude on a Zen temple built by the command of Emperor Hanazono. But even that protest had not been able to stand against Maeda Gen’i’s orders. Still, the sight of the monk Kokei putting on his warrior’s face made them flinch. In the end, they had compromised by saying that only Kokei, Gyōbu, and two soldiers would go up.
Kokei himself had unlocked the heavy door and guided them up the narrow, carved, winding staircase. On the top of the gate there was a Buddha hall. A statue of Shakamuni Buddha was placed in the center, with a statue of his disciple Ananda on one side and Mahakasyapa on the other. There were statues of the sixteen arhats, bigger than life size, arranged around them.
Kokei had forced the soldiers to show their respect, but after that he had had to answer questions about Rikyū’s statue, on the left corner of the entrance. Murakami Gyōbu had come to the inauguration of the gate two years ago as the representative of the magistrate of temples and shrines, but at that time, he hadn’t seen Rikyū’s statue there. He demanded to know when it had been placed in the gate. At the very least, he insisted, the statue shouldn’t have been placed with the other Buddhas. It was an act of arrogance. Why had they done it, and who had given them permission?
Kokei had explained Rikyū’s role in rebuilding the gate, showing them the letter from Shunoku Zenji that described the contribution Rikyū had made. It was mounted on the left-side beam connected to the large ceiling, which had a vivid painting by Hasegawa Tōhaku of a dragon among white waves. The large letters provided clearer proof than Kokei’s explanations. Rikyū had wanted to reconstruct the gate, Kokei said, because he felt the old gate was ugly and needed to be fixed. Although Rikyū’s aesthetic sense was stronger than his Buddhist faith, Rikyū had told Kokei that he wanted the gate to be his memorial after he passed. So, following custom, Kokei had had the wooden statue made. But the celebration of the completion of the new gate two years ago had also involved moving some Buddha statues from Hishoji Temple to the gate, so Rikyū’s statue could not be placed until afterward.
Even that explanation did not impress the officials.
“Today they left without doing anything,” Kokei concluded. “But they left some soldiers to guard the gate. That’s why I had the monk bring you down the back road, so they wouldn’t see you and cause trouble. But I wonder, why the sudden fuss? Do you have any ideas?”
All Rikyū could do was listen in astonishment. But as he recovered from the unexpected shock, he told Kokei about his blunder in talking to Yahei, and the anxiety he’d felt since then. “Depending on how the rumor spreads, the situation could get worse. I was worried about that, but I think that this problem and that problem are different.”
“Tea master, smoke does not always come from where the fire is.”
“It depends on the wind.”
“These plumes of smoke look different, but maybe they come from the same fire.”
“I see,” Rikyū said, and was quiet.
They spoke as if they were discussing a Zen kōan, which made things clearer than if they had spent ten million words trying to describe the situation.
“If so, this will not blow over quickly,” Kokei said. “I suspect that very soon the magistrate of shrines and temples will investigate us officially. When the trouble comes, I’m ready to take responsibility as the head of the temple so that no blame falls on you. I was the one who suggested that Ankei carve the statue, and I was the one who put the statue in the gate. If there is a rebuke, I should be the one to receive it.”
“Oh no, no. You were already exiled once. This time you should not be involved.”
“Your problem is more serious than mine was. You have to be very careful.” Kokei was worried about the words that Rikyū had said to Yahei. Finally, he suggested that Rikyū should go to Hideyoshi and confess everything. “Those retainers cannot do anything until Hideyoshi comes back. It would be better if Kampaku-sama hears it from you first.”
Rikyū watched Kokei shine with purpose, like a warrior. The stain on Kokei’s left cheek got thicker, as it often did when he was excited. But Rikyū did not agree to go to Yodo Castle. “What you said about Kampaku-sama used to be true. If you asked him for mercy, the punishment was reduced. But lately he’s been quite difficult. His son’s health is unpredictable. Even though the child may look fine, he may suddenly have a high fever and a seizure. Because of this, Kampaku-sama has been staying there longer. I have to be careful and wait for the right time to talk to him. Everything depends on his mood.” The last sentence made him think about Sōji, who had died so miserably in Odawara because of Rikyū.
How often had Sōji expressed his fears prior to meeting with Hideyoshi at Mount Ishigaki Castle? At the time, Rikyū had denied those fears and told him that there was no hope for Hōjō. Rikyū had told Sōji that Hideyoshi had received a congratulatory letter from the court, and that had put him in a good mood. But the tragedy had happened anyhow.
Hideyoshi hadn’t used to be so emotional, but since the battle in Odawara, his mood swings had become much more prominent. Hideyoshi was past fifty, and he was starting to show a lack of physical stamina. He openly showed his love—and his hate. He had gone to meet with the Korean envoys with his two-year-old son in his arms, to show that he did not need to show them any deference. His recent behavior had been just as unpredictable and off-kilter.
Their conversation changed to small talk, and Kokei asked Rikyū a plain question: “You don’t have any trouble with Kampaku-sama yourself, do you?”
“Not at all.”
“If so, then even if others are plotting behind your back, you don’t need to worry about it.”
“It’s all going to depend on his mood.” Again, he found himself uttering those words. This time he spat them out as if they tasted bad.
Suddenly, Rikyū’s own mood shifted and became more formal. He continued, “To tell the truth, I’m a bit tired of worrying about someone else’s mood.” He gave a lonely smile that vividly showed his repressed anger. But it lasted only a second, and then his face went back to normal. “I haven’t visited Nobunaga-sama’s shrine yet.”
He quietly opened the sliding door, decorated with an inkbrush painting by Hasegawa Tōhaku. Usually, that shrine was the first thing he visited when he came to Sōkenin Temple. He went and sat in front of Nobunaga’s memorial tablet, sitting statue, and altar, which were placed behind the brocade curtain. His joined palms did not part for a long time. Perhaps he was thinking about the time when he had served Nobunaga as a tea master, Nobunaga’s death at the hands of Akechi Mitsuhide, and Hideyoshi’s vengeance within only three days. Great warriors like Shibata and Asai had passed away one after the other. Hideoyshi had seen many violent battles, and yet he always survived. But now the country bumpkin who had become Kampaku-sama was increasingly volatile, and Rikyū’s life was controlled by his changing moods. Now Rikyū’s life depended on his mood. He may have been contemplating this uncertainty in a transient world.
Kokei deliberately left Rikyū alone. Although he was fifty and already an old monk, he had clear, sharp eyes, like a young man. He watched Rikyū’s big, well-shaped head touch the floor as he bowed. As soon as Rikyū finished his prayers and came back into the room, he looked Rikyū straight in the eyes. In a desperate voice, he asked, “What are you going to do now?”
Rikyū’s answer was quick. “Light
ning in the day with the blue sky.” He was quoting a famous Chinese Zen poem.
Neither of them said another word before he left.
19
It was early evening when Rikyū returned to his home. He looked as if his fever from a couple of days ago had returned with a vengeance. Kisaku had to help him into the house from the kago.
“Please put out a bed for me,” he said to Riki. Those were the first words she heard from him. She had worried about him all day, and hearing him speak so tersely only filled her heart with new fears.
Miwa quickly took the futon out of the closet, and Rikyū lay down in the living room, just as he had a few days before.
Riki suggested that he have some herb tea if he felt chilled, but he only shook his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. The roots of his eyebrows were tense with strain. But when Riki told him that Tadaoki’s messenger had come right after he’d left, Rikyū’s eyes sprang open.
“He would like to come and visit you,” Riki told him.
“Did you tell him that I went to the temple?”
“Yes.”
“Was there any message?”
“No, there wasn’t any.”
As he listened, Rikyū looked at the white paper door, his gaze unfocused. It looked even whiter in the reflection of the dusk light from the garden. Abruptly, he rolled over and told her that he wanted to sleep.
