by Nogami Yaeko
“His case and Rikyū’s are not the same,” Hideyoshi told her firmly.
“But if Rikyū really regrets what he has done, and apologizes for it, please forgive him. Your mother likes Riki very much, and she’s very worried about her.” She added that after petitioning for Kokei’s forgiveness, Hideyoshi’s mother now hesitated to ask him for more, which is why she hadn’t said anything about Rikyū.
Hideyoshi wrinkled his nose and twitched his eyebrows while holding the tip of his beard. It was his habit whenever he had to listen to something he didn’t want to hear. But it was more than that today. He was remembering the previous day when Mitsunari had attacked him about Rikyū.
Needless to say, Mitsunari and Maeda Gen’i were outraged that Kokei had been forgiven. They could not pursue it directly, but they were more alert now, and they were determined that Rikyū would not get off so easily. Because Mitsunari had been with Hideyoshi for so long, and because Hideyoshi knew of his unshakable loyalty, Mitsunari could say things to Hideyoshi that others could not.
After a meeting to discuss affairs of state, Mitsunari had asked Hideyoshi for a private audience. Once the secretaries had gone, he had started to talk about the invasion of China, reporting news that he had been too cautious to bring out at the meeting.
Mitsunari’s spies had quickly picked up on Maeda Toshiie— who was perceived as dragging his feet when it came to invading China—complaining about the timing of the invasion. It was too soon after Odawara to undertake an expedition so far away. “Tokugawa Ieyasu must have the same idea,” Mitsunari concluded.
“We don’t have to take the lords who are afraid to go,” Hideyoshi told him. “There are many things they can do here in Japan. Let them stay here, keep putting all their effort into that work, and deal with those problems.” In truth, Hideyoshi wasn’t going to give them a choice. When it came to the invasion of China, Hideyoshi merely gave orders. Just as an echo rebounds immediately when one shouts at a mountain, there was no option but to submit to a lord. Hideyoshi knew that Toshiie and Ieyasu were not stupid enough to refuse to go. Mitsunari knew that also, but while Hideyoshi boldly ignored what they thought, Mitsunari was bothered by it.
Even aside from the invasion of China, Mitsunari doubted Ieyasu’s loyalties. But now was not the time to bring that up. Instead, Mitsunari insisted that it was dangerous to encourage people to speak out against the invasion. “Humbly, Kampaku-sama,” he added, “we retainers are not sure about the way you handled Rikyū. It was too soft, and we have no doubt that you will order a more severe punishment soon. But with the situation as it is, if you don’t do something about Rikyū soon, it will affect your prestige.”
As he spoke, Mitsunari’s narrow, white face had grown pale, but his unnaturally protruding ears reddened from the earlobes around the outer edges, as if they’d been painted with a red rim. Hideyoshi noticed those red rims and knew that this was what Mitsunari really wanted to talk about. So he was careful not to say anything about Rikyū’s problem.
“I have an idea about what to do with Rikyū,” he told Mitsunari. “When it’s time, I’ll tell you.”
Now Hideyoshi’s wife had brought up the same subject, but with her, Hideyoshi didn’t have to watch his words. “I’m not sure that stupid old monk will come back and apologize obediently.” As he spoke, he let go of his beard. When Rikyū smiled, he looked very charming, but sometimes those eyes were like black stones, giving nothing away. On such occasions Hideyoshi found him hard to read. Rikyū was a much more difficult person to handle than one might think.
Rikyū’s big, double-layered eyelids and Mitsunari’s protruded red ears flitted through his thoughts.
“I have no doubt he’ll apologize, since he knows he’ll get a pardon,” his wife said.
“You saw Yura’s letter, right?”
“Yes. She wrote honestly. She’s very eloquent—her words are as beautiful as her handwriting.”
Hideyoshi didn’t have an answer to that. Suddenly, his pink tongue came out between his lips, and he joked, “Well, then, why don’t I ask her to write a love letter?”
His wife just looked at him with her long, beautiful, slightly slanted eyes and a faint smile. Since his mood had changed for the better, and she was confident in her ability to handle her husband in this type of conversation, she engaged in some restrained teasing. “But to whom do you want to write?”
“No, I want it to be addressed to me.”
“Oh, you womanizer!” His wife laughed, leaning back in her spring-green kimono embroidered with big, colorful flowers and a stylized mist pattern woven in silver thread. Hideyoshi laughed loudly with her. Women who worked for Hideyoshi’s wife were not allowed to be more beautiful than his concubines, but nor were they ugly. Among them, Yura was exceptionally ugly, and close to fifty.
Hideyoshi’s good mood lasted through dinner, which included Japanese parsley blanched and mixed with sesame; it was crispy and had smelled of freshly ground sesame. He was also served deep-fried bean curd mixed with burdock root and taro, and miso soup with chopped green onions and tofu.
Eating this country-style food was one of his favorite things about visiting his wife. He drank more sake than usual. Typically, a young maid would serve the food, but tonight he asked Yura to serve him. He didn’t mention the letter to Riki, or the joke about the love letter. He was not scheduled to stay the night with his wife, but he did not leave.
Later that night, in bed, Hideyoshi turned to his wife and said, “That woman really is unattractive, isn’t she?”
“I feel sorry for her.”
But it wasn’t Yura he was thinking about; it was the letter, and the beautiful handwriting that did not suit her face.
Rikyū must be sorry by now, Hideyoshi thought. As his wife had said, if he knew that he would be forgiven if he apologized, there’s nothing else he could do. Then everything would be fine.
I need that old monk, Hideyoshi thought to himself. There are things I want him to do. Even though he spoke out against attacking China, when I think about it, his words didn’t cause any problems. It’s not Mitsunari’s business to talk about it. That’s his personality—he wants to do everything logically, or he can’t accept it. It’s because of his nature that he finds fault with Rikyū, but … I really need that old monk. There are so many things that need to be done, and he wants to do them. He knows I won’t let anyone else do that work. He’ll come back. He should come back.
Ever since that night at his wife’s, Hideyoshi’s mind had been like a spinning top, always revolving around the point where it touches the floor. Whenever he discussed important affairs of state, whenever he met with his retainers, whenever he entertained his servants with stories, whenever he practiced Noh with Shinkurō, his secret point never left the floor.
In his mind, Rikyū had already come to him to apologize and groveled before him. Hideyoshi was possessed by the illusion that the thing he was waiting for was not the letter, but Rikyū himself. He was already making plans to take Rikyū to Yodo and the famous spring at Matsuyama that Hideyoshi had never seen. In Hideyoshi’s mind, they were already on a European carpet under those pine trees, with Rikyū making tea for him. The thought gave him pleasure.
The letter he was waiting for came two and a half days later. It passed quickly from Yura to Hideyoshi’s wife to Hideyoshi himself in his front room.
But the important words that should have been right at the beginning were not there. Rather, it was only a personal letter between the two women. Riki had told Yura that she grieved that this rift had been caused by incompetence, and she apologized for causing it, but said that she and her husband appreciated that Hideyoshi still cared about them. “We can do nothing but shed tears,” Riki concluded.
Besides that, Hideyoshi could not find a word, or even half a word, of apology from Rikyū. He felt thoroughly deceived. In his mind, he repeated every evil thing he’d said about Rikyū and threw the letter away. He had been looking forward to seeing Rikyū aga
in, to having him back, and now he was deeply disappointed. Rikyū was not coming back to apologize.
It was his own fantasies that had set him up for this disappointment, but once he got upset, there was no holding him back. When he had been lower class, he had had to restrain such passions, but now he was Tenka-sama, the Most High One.
It wasn’t just that. As Rikyū himself had noticed during the battle of Odawara, Hideyoshi was getting older. Even if he didn’t look aged, even if he still talked and laughed like a young lord or warrior, his middle-age emaciation was lurking within and his self-discipline was weakened. He had become much moodier, much quicker to flare up in love or anger. Hidenaga’s death, Tsurumatsu’s lingering illness, the preparations for invading China—all of those took their toll.
Beside the invasion of China, all of his past battles had been mere training exercises. Even though he believed that he would achieve victory and glory overseas, and even though his dream uplifted him, the task was tremendous. He ridiculed Mitsunari for not wanting to trust anybody else with important tasks, but Hideyoshi was the same. He oversaw much of the preparations for attacking China personally, reading documents and checking everything. Sometimes he looked completely exhausted. When he got tired, he would vent his spleen on whoever happened to be nearby, whether it was a servant or an official advisor.
Why don’t we have a cup of tea? Hideyoshi used to suggest that often, knowing that the person who made the best tea in Japan would be there to make it. Now, the memory only reminded him that Rikyū was gone. Hideyoshi’s fatigue and frayed nerves made his rage at Rikyū boil over. Why won’t that old monk come to apologize? If he wanted to serve me again, he could easily have sent the apology through the letter to Yura. Why won’t he even give a hint of that intention? Doesn’t he want to come back?
Maybe he wants me to beg his pardon.
That sudden idea shot through his chest like a flaming arrow, driving him into a frenzy. His only thought was to bring an end to this situation immediately. “Call Mitsunari!” he growled at a page in the hallway.
The page scurried off to comply. Mitsunari, who had been ready for the summons, came quickly. By the time Hideyoshi had put the letter into a lacquer letterbox, Mitsunari had appeared in front of him.
“Do you need me?”
“It’s about Sōeki.”
“Ah.”
“Write up the order. He is to commit ritual suicide.”
Something stuck in Mitsunari’s white, thin throat, preventing him from speaking. Then his protruded ears turned red around the rims once more. Mitsunari’s plan had been to suggest that Hideyoshi send Rikyū to the northern country, or perhaps a remote island. He had never truly thought that his actions would lead to Rikyū’s death. In fact, he never doubted that, no matter what happened, eventually Hideyoshi would forgive Rikyū. This was totally unexpected.
Hideyoshi stared at Mitsunari, irritated at the hesitation. He knew everything that Mitsunari was thinking, everything that his retainer had planned, and it gave him a thrill to have outwitted everyone. “Do you think forced suicide is too lax a punishment?”
“Indeed, you are the only one who can make that judgment,” Mitsunari said. “I feel justice has been served.”
“Hm. You’re looking down on me. But when I decide to do something, you’ll see how I do it.”
Those last words echoed within Hideyoshi even after Mitsunari left. He had spoken forcefully, but he was speaking more to himself than to Mitsunari. Ordering Rikyū to commit suicide wasn’t just about keeping his word. Like Mitsunari, he knew that sending Rikyū to the north or to a far island was the same as sending him to Sakai. Sooner or later, he would be recalled. The only way Hideyoshi could truly end the relationship with the hateful, annoying, precious Rikyū was to kill him.
The executioners who would be sent to Sakai were chosen. Hideyoshi paid little attention when Mitsunari came and reported their names: Maita Awajinokami and two others. The ruler looked pale, as if he were suffering from a fever. Was he thinking that he didn’t need to be bothered with the details of that old dotard’s death? Or was there some emotion toward Rikyū that he didn’t want to deal with locked deep in his heart?
Within two days, Rikyū had vanished from this world.
A secret messenger was dispatched from Rikyū’s allies in Kyōto to warn him, so he was expecting the three executioners. He chose a big room in the back as the place where he would sit to die. He wore an undyed kimono of raw silk with a thin sash tied in front. He looked feeble, almost like an old woman, as if his big frame had suddenly withered.
But as he sat on the green, cool, fresh tatami mats with half-opened eyes, in that room with no scroll or flower vase in the alcove, he looked as beautiful and spirited as he did in a tearoom.
Self-disembowelment was only another way to move.
Rikyū’s wrinkled hand was big, but when it moved it looked mysteriously thin and small. He pushed his sash down, opening his kimono wide. His right hand grasped the handle of the knife on the stand in front of him and, with no hesitation, thrashed at his pale, slackened left side.
At the same moment Maita Awajinokami’s raised sword shone briefly against the high ceiling, and a second later it hit Rikyū’s neckbone.
Outside, the sound of the waves was loud in the chilly spring air. Did Rikyū regret that he had not apologized? Or had he thought, as he told his wife, that if he lived longer as a famous monk it would be only to indulge Hideyoshi’s whims? By choosing death, was he also choosing relief? Perhaps he had thought of Sōji, whose pathetic death had proved that trying to please Hideyoshi was a dangerous and difficult tightrope to walk.
The headless corpse could no longer speak.
But the death poem he left behind showed what was boiling beneath the surface:
A life of seventy years,
Strength spent to the very last,
With this, my jeweled sword,
I kill both patriarchs and Buddhas.
I yet carry
One article I had gained,
The long sword
That now at this moment
I hurl to the heavens.
Rikyū may have been showing his inner fire to Hideyoshi, just as the letter without an apology had done—and had made Hideyoshi scream with rage. Rikyū never doubted, not even in his final moments, that there was nothing Hideyoshi could take away by killing him. Everything that he had created for Hideyoshi was actually made for himself. Only Rikyū could have made those tearooms a reality. Even the sliding paper screens in those rooms were a tribute to his life. Seeing the tearooms would bring Hideyoshi closer to what he had lost. The dignity on Rikyū’s silent, pale, dead face came from this confidence and pride.
After his neck was carefully cleaned, he looked rather beautiful. His smoothly shaped head was still round and glossy. The spine had been cut skillfully, the flat white bone surrounded by red flesh like the heart of a flower.
When Oda Nobunaga was alive, he had given Rikyū some very rare incense named Ranjyatai, which had once belonged to the emperor. Following Shōgun Ashikaga Yoshimasa’s example, Nobunaga had taken part of that incense and passed it on to Rikyū. Rikyū had kept it as a treasure, and seldom used it in Hideyoshi’s tea gatherings. Riki begged now, with tears in her eyes, to be allowed to put the last piece of it—smaller than the tip of the thinnest ink brush—in the bucket with Rikyū’s head. She was permitted to do this.
When the three executioners returned to Kyōto, Hideyoshi heard their report, but he didn’t want to see Rikyū’s head or to hear any of the details about the execution. That extreme neglect showed how strongly Rikyū still affected him.
23
“Why don’t you buy?”
“Big sea bream, small sea bream!”
“Large cuts of yellowtail!”
“Abalones!”
“Turbot!”
“Salted fish from Wakasa!”
“Flatfish!”
“Barracuda!”
&nbs
p; “Prime quality! Why don’t you buy?”
In the beginning, there were only a few shops in the empty space near Horikawa Ichijyōdōri. Today it was a full-scale market where the people of Kyōto could buy almost anything. Fish sellers hawked their wares with lively voices; there was a vegetable shop and a kitchenware shop with pots, kettles, baskets, and brooms. There was a general store that carried imitation European items like wool raincoats, hats with wide rims, embroidered handkerchiefs, and necklaces. There was a food shop, and next to that was a kimono shop with dyed fabrics, woven goods, twill, and several kinds of satin, arranged around the booth like a rainbow.
With the arrogance of upstarts, the shop owners were contemptuous of the Nishijin market on the other side of the river. The new market was in an excellent location, near the south entrance to Jurakudai and only blocks from the bridge. The residents who lived near the palace and had some connection to Jurakudai came to shop in the mornings and evenings. There were also tourists from other provinces who wanted to see this famous spot even more than the usual historical sites. The market became a nice resting spot with places to eat and drink and stores to buy souvenirs.
Recently, though, an unusual occurrence had brought a new flood of people to the market.
When Rikyū’s head was hung out for public view, his wooden statue was “executed” at the same time. It was nailed beneath one end of Ichijyō Modoribashi, the bridge that connected the two banks of the Horikawa River. Nearby, old pines mixed with willows whose branches drooped down to the water, and weeds grew all over the bank. In the daytime, turtledoves cried eerily. At night, it was rumored, robbers hid and waited to attack travelers. But the bridge—and its macabre new attraction—was also very close to the new market, so naturally the market became a rendezvous point for people who were curious about the executed statue. Such a thing was rare even in folk stories, and it drew more attention than the severed head, which had been placed below it.
