Dream of a Spring Night (Hollow Reed series)

by I. J. Parker

  Otomae chuckled. “You mean she is not a streetwalker?”

  He was not amused, though the image was fitting. “I mean that I bought the girl because of extravagant promises made by her seller, and the merchandise is not as represented. I have been cheated. The girl’s father is richer by ten shoen of good rice fields and his son by a lucrative post in the outer palace guards.”

  The door at the end of the room opened and Lady Sanjo peered in.

  Otomae hissed softly, then said, “Please excuse me now, sire.” She bowed, murmuring, “You may yet find some use for your purchase,” and rose to leave.

  The Emperor watched the frail gray figure disappear through another door before turning his attention to Lady Sanjo, who tiptoed in and knelt.

  “What?” he demanded impatiently, eyeing her with distaste. She looked worn in this light. What possessed some women to paint their faces and drag their thinning hair behind them like young girls? Women ought to become nuns when they lost their beauty.

  “I wondered if the young woman had offended Your Majesty,” Lady Sanjo lisped in the girlish voice she reserved for him alone. Her expression was hopeful.

  He knew that this woman felt some perverse lust for him. Her efforts at seduction amused him in the way that grotesque scroll paintings of diseased people or of hungry ghosts amused him.

  Now he saw the hunger in her eyes as she simpered, fluttering a bony hand before her thin lips, and he suppressed a laugh. He considered her question. There had been offense, yes, but one could not quite blame the girl. She had obeyed her father, that was all. In this deception, she alone had been honest, making it clear that she had no wish to be near him.

  “Not at all,” he said, and added spitefully, “She is quite charming and only needs some time to feel at home.”

  He watched Lady Sanjo’s face fall. She touched her forehead to the floor and prepared to withdraw.

  “You will take charge of her and report to me when she is ready,” he said. “And I particularly wish to know if she has any talents.”

  “Talents?” Lady Sanjo was so crushed she could barely speak.

  “Yes. She is said to have a charming voice. As you know, I have a great desire to hear charming voices about me.”

  “I have been told I have an attractive voice,” Lady Sanjo cried and flushed unattractively. “I would not wish to sound boastful but—”

  He interrupted quickly, “Ah, you are a woman of many talents.” He laughed, but when she crept a little closer, he said quite coldly, “Thank you. That is all.”

  She bowed again and backed out on her knees.

  He watched her creep away, pushing her full skirts out of the way. The girl in her graceful flight had forgotten that you do not turn your back on an emperor, not even a retired one.

  Alone again, the Emperor contemplated his retirement.

  His father had been only twenty-one when he had turned over the throne to the five-year-old Sutoko. At that age, a man had his life before him and enjoys all the benefits of wealth and power without any of the chores and restrictions of actually occupying the throne.

  His own fate had been a darker one. Poor, foolish Prince Masahito, a poet and a dreamer, had had a short and troubled reign. Bloodshed and rebellion had marked it. An since then, he had rarely been at peace from those near him. Sometimes he found it convenient to play the fool around Kiyomori. There was safety in foolishness. People rarely regarded you as a serious obstacle in their path to power.

  No, there was little pleasure in his life. His consorts wanted his embraces only to conceive. They were brief and loveless couplings. Sometimes he doubted his children’s paternity. The galleries of the palace teemed with male attendants, and even a consort’s curtained dais might be invaded stealthily at night while her ladies-in-waiting slept with their robes thrown over their faces.

  He had done it himself in his younger days. Perhaps, like the cuckoo, he left his sons and daughters in other men’s nests. The thought cheered him a little. He hummed:

  “None rests her head on my arm anymore

  Where long ago my sweetheart’s lay;

  We two made love hungrily,

  Knowing that happiness is short.”

  Too bad the girl did not know imayo. They could have spent such pleasant evenings together, he and the girl and Otomae. Under those layers of shimmering silk gauze had been a young body. Why not forget for the span of a few moments of hot lust that he was no longer Prince Masahito, no longer an Emperor, and soon perhaps a priest? Why not teach someone so young the ways of the bedchamber?

  With a smile he opened a document box and took out a sheet of fine paper. Reaching for his ink stone and the water bottle carved from a piece of translucent jade, he rubbed fresh ink, dipped his brush, and wrote quickly:

  My head grows white as snow,

  But my heart still follows the white goose in flight,

  Across the mountains to the distant sea.

  Wherever it roams, wherever it nests,

  In time it will return to me.

  From Lady Sanjo’s Pillow Book

  Today the new girl arrived -- a rustic from a military family. Need one say more? We worked for hours to make her presentable, and throughout the fool had not a word to say for herself. I was secretly pleased.

  I suppose if His Majesty had not graciously sent a palm leaf carriage for her, she would have arrived in a sedan chair. Or worse: on a horse! Apparently provincial warriors bring up their daughters much the same as their sons. I overheard His Majesty telling the imperial adviser of the third rank – amazing how military men rise in this world – that He was charmed when He saw her ride a horse. I thought He was joking. But alas – He sent for her.

  They had her togged out in silk, but the colors were all wrong and the silk so wrinkled from travel that I let one of the maids have everything she wore. There was no time to unpack her single trunk (!), but fortunately His Majesty had sent some gowns for her. I had instructions that I was to make a selection. This proves how highly He regards me, but I must confess it put me in a quandary. I meant to have her appear as uncouth as possible to open His eyes to her unsuitability. As it was, I was forced to demonstrate my good taste instead. Her youth and the season required the colors of blossoming: a three-layered dress of varying shades of plum-red beaten silk and a pale green over robe. Her costume, in any case, was charming.

  As for the girl herself: a heavy application of lead-white on her face, neck, and those rough red hands – honestly, they must have had her cutting reeds -- pretty well hid those dark features more commonly seen in peasant women. Her hair is thick and long enough, but crimped around her temples. We had to apply hot oil and stretch it. No doubt that hurt – a true warrior’s daughter, she did not flinch once. With a great deal of effort and some discreet pinning of the more unmanageable portions, her hair looked passable.

  It is very strange that His Majesty should have chosen so poorly. He is in every other way a man of such exquisite taste. One can only assume that he did not get a good look at her.

  The other ladies laughed. Very improper, of course, but the young fool was too stupid to know. I held the mirror for her when we were done, but she barely looked in it.

  Reminder: My own mirror must be replaced. It has warped so badly that my cheeks look sunken, which adds a very unattractive sharpness to my features. When I first noticed it, I became so concerned that I placed a pickled plum in each cheek before presenting myself before His Majesty. To my surprise this gave my speech a rather attractive, youthful lilt. He looked at me very attentively and smiled. The dear man. I am convinced he is secretly captivated and only maintains his reserve out of respect for my husband. Perhaps in time he will come to see that a woman whose husband has been stationed in distant provinces for more than a decade is free to take a lover. To paraphrase a poetic line: “Though my pain is cruel, I cannot put him from my mind.”

  There was that night two months ago when I thought he had decided to visit me under
cover of darkness. I was lying awake, wishing for just such a thing to happen when I recognized his step approaching my door. My heart beat so I thought he must hear it through the shutters. But Lady Dainagon’s miserable cat had taken to sleeping there and he must have stepped on the creature’s tail. There was a great deal of noise, which woke up the other ladies and, when I opened the door to pull him inside, He had fled.

  The next morning I paid one of the groundskeepers to take care of the cat, but His Majesty did not come back, though I often wonder if he is waiting somewhere in the corridor, wishing he could hold me in his arms.

  Sadly I have been “waiting in vain night after night.”

  Lady Dainagon wailed for weeks for her lost pet, and we all went on rather amusing searches, crying, “Here, kitty. Here, kitty,” to the great entertainment of the young gentlemen, until Her Majesty forbade it.

  And I, after “waiting in vain” for a whole month, went to see His Majesty. Plums in place, I presented him with a poem and whispered, “I am entirely at your Majesty’s service.”

  He looked surprised and very moved at my fervor. I thought I saw tears of gratitude in his eyes, but matters of state interfered with our happiness once again — as in those terrible days when both Their Majesties, father and son were attacked. The sacrilege of that! I was never so frightened. Soldiers everywhere. Ladies screaming. No doubt they were being raped, though none would admit to it later. And His Majesty kidnapped from our midst, along with his son, who was only seventeen then. Of course, they did this while our protector Kiyomori was on a pilgrimage. I’ll give him this: he rushed back and rescued their majesties.

  And now, just when we are settling down after Her Majesty’s departure, His Majesty has brought this young girl into the palace and instructed me to keep an eye on her and report to him. I must think what to do.

  Tooth Blackening

  Toshiko was shown a place to sleep. At home she had her own room and privacy. Here was surrounded by other women. When she returned from her interview with the emperor, they looked at her, then turned away.

  Lady Sanjo, who had taken her to His Majesty, pointed vaguely toward a dark corner, and Toshiko went there. She found several neck rests, took one, and lay down as she was, placing her head on the unfamiliar support and pulling her outer gown over her for warmth. She was so tired that the humming voices of the others lulled her to sleep.

  The sounds of steady, thrumming rain on the roof and the splashing on the stones outside woke her. For a moment, the darkness was puzzling, then she remembered where she was, and desolation swallowed her again. At home this would have been a delicious sort of waking, that moment of fusion of dream and reality when she hovered between both, half tempted to slip back into sleep, half curious about the new day. But now reality brought only despair. She opened her eyes to the grey obscurity of the hall and, like a frightened mouse, listened for human sounds. When she heard none, she sat up.

  Here and there on the dark glossy planks lay silken figures. Their long hair writhed like black snakes across gowns whose colors looked faded in the faint light leaking through the shutters. They seemed like dead people, as if she alone had been spared by some demon who had come in the night and killed the others.

  Spared for what? To be at the ogre’s mercy, captive and tormented until she died?

  She thought of flight, of leaving this dark world of death and returning to her home — to life, to a world of sunshine and swaying grasses, of horses and falcons, and the freedom to ride with her brothers.

  But she could not leave, not ever. She, too, was dead -- dead to her family, as they were dead to her.

  Gradually distant sounds of palace life penetrated the thrumming of the rain: a guard’s shout, quick footsteps passing on the covered veranda outside the shutters, subdued voices, a crash as something fell.

  And slowly in the room, the dead women began to stir, to sit up, stretch, and talk to each other. A shutter opened and a maid looked in. Their day had begun.

  Bemused, Toshiko watched from her corner as each of the ladies was greeted by her own maid who tended to her morning toilet while exchanging soft chatter. Everywhere there were elaborate preparations with much running and fetching. Someone called for more light, for food, and the shutters were raised, revealing an unrelenting gray sky and a slanting rain which made the world outside appear as if seen through silver gauze. Maids rushed about with bowls and water pitchers or small trays with the morning rice gruel. Here and there large round mirrors appeared, and candles were lit as the ladies applied cosmetics to their faces or fresh blackening to their teeth.

  Lady Sanjo arrived suddenly at Toshiko’s side. She cried, “Heavens, has no one seen to the new girl? She must be made presentable.”

  Toshiko, aware of her sleep-rumpled condition, got to her feet and looked about for her cosmetics box, her mirror, her combs.

  Lady Sanjo glared at her. “You have brought no maid,” she said accusingly.

  Toshiko bowed her head. “No. I was told—”

  “How stupid!” The other woman snapped her fingers irritably, looked around, and fixed on a young lady nearby who was almost ready. “Shojo-ben, do you mind sharing your maid until someone can be assigned?”

  Lady Shojo-ben smiled and bowed, and Toshiko blushed with embarrassment and bowed back, murmuring her thanks. A rather plain woman in a dark silk gown joined them and was told to get Toshiko’s boxes and hot water.

  Lady Shojo-ben was small and very pretty. Her hands were like fluttering butterflies as she asked if Toshiko had slept well.

  “Yes, thank you. I was tired. It was a long journey and then to be called into the August Presence . . . it was exhausting,” bubbled Toshiko, grateful for the other’s friendliness.

  Lady Sanjo made a hissing sound. “Guard your tongue, girl,” she murmured, and Lady Shojo-ben blushed and lowered her eyes.

  It became very quiet in the large room. Toshiko felt confused and then realized that they must think — oh, no — they must think that she and he —. She began to tremble with shame. “It was nothing,” she cried, looking around at the listening women and their maids. The room seemed to be full of ears, all avidly waiting for her next word. “He didn’t . . . nothing happened.” Lady Sanjo now looked as fierce as a demon and hissed again. “We only talked,” Toshiko finished lamely.

  Someone giggled, then immediately suppressed the sound.

  Lady Sanjo gripped Toshiko’s arm painfully and nearly jerked her off her feet, pulling her out of the room and onto the veranda where the rainwater rushed from the overhanging eaves and drowned out most sounds, away from the open door and the room full of ears.

  Pushing Toshiko hard against the wall, she brought her face close and said through gritted teeth, “You rude, disgusting girl! You will never — do you hear me, you stupid thing? — never mention His Majesty again. You will never discuss what passes between you, or tell what was said. If you cannot do this, you will be sent home in disgrace this very day. Do you understand me?” And she gave Toshiko a shake.

  Toshiko nodded. She tried not to breathe — the other woman’s breath stank — and felt hot tears springing from her eyes, and then she felt the sharp pain of a slap.

  “Stop that! No tears, do you hear?”

  Toshiko swallowed her tears and nodded again.

  “Well?”

  “I shall obey, Lady Sanjo.”

  “Remember it. You are in my charge, and I shall have my eye on you every moment. At the least impropriety . . .”

  And now Toshiko understood that this woman hated her and that she must submit to anything she demanded or dishonor her parents. She sank to her knees. “I swear,” she whispered. “I’ll be obedient. Please do not send me home, Lady Sanjo. Please.” And that act of submission took more courage than the defiance that tore at her heart.

  But the rest of the day was not altogether bad. She dressed, and Shojo-ben’s maid helped her with her toilet and praised the thickness and length of her hair. Toshik
o bent over her mirror in the half-light of the cloudy day, determined that Lady Sanjo should find nothing to criticize. She located her jar of tooth-blackening and applied another coat to be sure that not the least spot of white showed.

  White teeth are like the uncouth fangs of wild animals.

  Long ago, when she had still been alive, her mother had said this to her, explaining the need for tooth-blackening. Toshiko was thirteen then and had become a woman. “It is time to put away the wild and childish things and prepare to become a lady,” her mother had said. Applying the evil-smelling paste of metal filings and soured wine to her teeth marked her new status as much as did plucking her eyebrows and her hairline. She learned to cover her face with the paste of ground rice flour and to use burned oil of sesame to paint new eyebrows high up on her forehead and to outline her eyes. She reddened her lips with safflower juice. And she learned to wear her hair loose. It was all very unpleasant. Being a lady made it nearly impossible to engage in the things she loved so much. Ladies spent their day sitting or lying down, whereas men rode horses, hunted with falcons, played football, shot arrows at targets, and practiced sword-fighting.