by I. J. Parker
“Yes. I know some imayo.”
Shojo-ben leaned forward to peer at Toshiko’s face. “Is that what you have been humming?”
“Yes.” Toshiko volunteered nothing.
Shojo-ben sighed and ate a little more. Then she said sadly, “I envy you. I wish I had a talent that might please Him.”
These artless words undid Toshiko’s resistance. She put down her food. “Oh, Shojo-ben,” she said, “you are very charming and much more elegant than I am. Surely He takes notice of you.”
But Shojo-ben shook her head. “You are the only one He has sent for in years. Except, of course, Lady Sanjo, and her only because she makes her reports.” She giggled behind her hand. “She tries harder than any of us. I have never been near him. Sometimes at night I wonder what it would be like.” She covered her face, and cried, “Oh, please forget I said that.”
Toshiko had also lain awake dreaming at night, but not of the emperor. She said firmly, “It wasn’t like that, Shojo-ben. There was an old nun there. They talked about imayo and shirabyoshi.”
Shojo-ben brightened a little. “He is so handsome,” she murmured, adding wistfully, “and you are so pretty. He will soon send for you again and then you will be alone together.”
Toshiko felt the blush under her stiff make-up. She said quickly, “His Majesty is nearly as old as my father.”
Her friend choked on some gruel and started coughing. When Toshiko looked up, she saw that several of the others were watching them avidly. The thought struck her that they had sent Shojo-ben to question her. This suspicion stiffened her resolve. She raised her chin defiantly and said, “Well, perhaps not quite so old . . . and perhaps . . .” She let her voice trail off.
Shojo-ben dabbed at her lips. “What does age matter? Of course He will like you,” she said enviously. “How could He not?”
Toshiko smiled and got up to take back her tray. “We shall see,” she said lightly.
At this point, Lady Sanjo arrived for her morning inspection. She stared hard at Toshiko’s elaborate costume and asked in an acerbic tone, “Do you consider those colors suitable?”
Toshiko bowed. “I think so, Lady Sanjo. I believe His Majesty is fond of this shade.”
Lady Sanjo flushed and moved on to someone else. But later, when Toshiko was reading quietly in her corner, she returned and sat down beside her. “What happened last night after I left?” she asked bluntly.
Toshiko gave her a startled look, then lowered her head. “I had rather not say.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Sanjo said firmly. “I am in charge of His Majesty’s ladies. They have no secrets from me.”
Toshiko remained silent.
Lady Sanjo cleared her throat and tried again in a softer voice. “My dear girl,” she said, “please realize that I am your friend. Put your trust in me. I stand in your own dear mother’s place now. Surely you would wish to discuss certain matters with your mother.”
Still Toshiko did not speak.
“A young woman at court encounters many difficulties,” Lady Sanjo said after a moment. “You saw what happened last night. If you had confided in me that His Majesty wished you to sing for him, I could so easily have spared you that shameful exposure.”
Toshiko bowed her head a little more and thought of the deceitful ways of fox spirits who tempted humans only to devour them later.
Lady Sanjo sighed. “Well, no harm was done, I think. In fact, His Majesty seemed to enjoy your song. Am I right?”
Toshiko murmured, “His Majesty was very kind.”
Lady Sanjo’s eyes widened a little. She studied the slight figure before her. “He is a very kind man. What exactly did He say . . . or do?”
“I . . . don’t remember much.”
“I am sure you were quite overwhelmed by the honor. His Majesty’s visitor left, I assume?”
Something that the nun had said suddenly came back to Toshiko, and she looked up into the avid eyes. “Her name is Otomae. She told me that His Majesty particularly likes imayo and that I dance very well. She said many years ago she herself used to dance for His Majesty but that she is too old now.”
Lady Sanjo was not interested in the old nun. She smiled a little and nodded. “And then?” she asked. “She left you alone with Him?”
Toshiko knew what the woman wanted to hear. She dropped her eyes. “His Majesty honored me greatly,” she whispered so softly that Lady Sanjo had to ask her to repeat it.
“His Majesty honored me greatly,” said Toshiko a little louder, and not entirely truthfully.
Lady Sanjo gave a gasp. “You mean . . .?” She stopped and tried again, “My dear Toshiko, I wish to be of assistance in every way. Only ask, I pray.”
“Thank you, Lady Sanjo. You are very good, but I have no questions.”
“Surely if a very young woman, and you are barely past your childhood, were to receive the attentions, I mean the very particular attentions, of His Majesty, she might find the experience overwhelming at first. I think you may have found last night confusing. As a married woman, I can help you understand and guide you so that you will prove worthy of the distinction. Do you understand?”
Turning her face away, her embarrassment now quite real, Toshiko nodded her head. Lady Sanjo moved closer and put an arm around her shoulders. “Come, my dear,” she said, “was it so very frightening? Did His Majesty hurt you?”
Toshiko turned her head and looked at Lady Sanjo in surprise. “Oh, no, Lady Sanjo. His Majesty was very gentle.”
They were so close now that she could see the hot color under Lady Sanjo’s make-up. The other woman moistened her lips. “He was?” she asked, looking at her hungrily.
Toshiko nodded.
“I’m glad,” Lady Sanjo gasped -- her breathing was becoming quite rapid. “In the case of His Majesty you may feel awkward speaking of such things but . . .” She faltered and looked almost faint.
“Are you ill, Lady Sanjo?” Toshiko asked solicitously. “Please do not upset yourself so. You are very kind, but my mother has explained. And as you say, it is not proper to speak of such things.”
“Yes. That is very true,” said Lady Sanjo, gulping for air. “I only offer advice if it should be needed.” She took another breath. “Those pretty songs of yours. Perhaps you could teach me a few? People say I have a pleasant voice.”
Toshiko made a vague promise, then claimed that she had to write to her family – an excuse which Lady Sanjo received with no surprise – and departed for her eave chamber.
When she was finally alone, in the room which would always be that of her love, he started to tremble. That she could have said or implied the things she had now struck her as incredible and most reprehensible. They were lies, all lies, to make them think that she had found favor when He had looked at her in disgust, and had not spoken to her until He sent her away. Her shame and the knowledge that they would gloat at her ruin had made her pretend what was not true.
After a while, she calmed down and went to sit near the shutter, opening it a little, to peer out. The veranda was, as always, empty. A light dusting of snow had dulled everything, and gray clouds covered the sky. It was a sad day, and Toshiko took out her mother’s letter again.
“Dear daughter,” Lady Oba had written. “It is good that you are well. I pray every day for your success. As you know, both your father and Lord Kiyomori wish this. We believe that it is your fate to bring greatness to your family for generations to come.
“As for your future: a woman’s life is in the hands of the gods. If your path brings you suffering, then it is your karma that it be thus. You must accept it, as I have done, and as your sister will in due time. Pray to find the strength to forget yourself and serve the future generations. And may the gods then bless you with the joy of having prevailed in adversity.”
Toshiko had hidden this letter next to her skin for weeks now. Every time she took it out she remembered him who had brought it — carrying it next to his heart as she did now — and she was again
filled with a wild longing. But as soon as she unfolded it to read her mother’s words, she knew that this was the suffering her mother was speaking of. She must bear it and strive to forget.
Today she thought about her parents’ wish and how she had failed them even when she was trying to obey. She did not believe that there could be joy in prevailing in this particular adversity but she knew that she must have the courage to try again. She needed the daring of a warrior about to go into a battle to the death. In families like hers, the women grew up absorbing the lessons taught to the men. Toshiko used to be angry with fate for making her a mere girl. In all of her brothers’ undertakings — except for Takehira’s pursuit of bed partners — she had attempted to equal or perhaps even outdo them, much to their father’s amusement. She knew she was a better rider; she could even stand on the back of a galloping horse. In archery, she equaled Takehira, though she could not manage to draw a large bow the way he could. She had learned to wield both a sword and a halberd. But none of those things mattered now because she was a woman. It seemed to her that men had the easier part. In her battle, the woman must die in order to prevail.
She felt like weeping for the Toshiko who would be no more but put away such childishness along with the letter.
Every Day is a Good Day
Otori was not immediately aware of the loss of another promising patient. The cook had sent a whole sea bream to the doctor’s house — which was only as it should be in her opinion — and nothing else happened. Her master tended to the poor now that the frost had killed most of the plants. He said little and looked unhappy.
“So,” she asked one day when she came to take away his morning gruel bowl, “when will you go back to the palace?”
He did not raise his head. “Kosugi is well again. There is no need for me to go back.”
She gave him a sharp look. He sounded melancholy. This, along with the half-eaten gruel, meant something was still wrong. “He sent the bream,” she said. “It was excellent, but you ate only a little. Why is that?”
He looked at her then in that distracted way he had lately. “What bream?” he asked.
She gave a disgusted snort and left the room.
That afternoon, a ragged child came to the door. He was no more than five or six years old, shivered with cold, and looked half starved. Otori muttered something, dove back into her kitchen, and returned with a bowl of warm rice. The boy hesitated a moment, then took it, and ran away.
“Wait, you thieving little rascal,” she shouted after him. “Bring back my bowl.” Too late. The child was gone.
To her surprise, the little thief returned the next morning, without the bowl.
“Where’s my bowl?” she demanded.
The child backed away a little and looked at her with frightened eyes.
She glowered at him. “Well, you won’t get anything else until you bring back the bowl. Do you hear?”
He moved away then but squatted under a tree across the road. And there he stayed all day, in the cold, his eyes on the doctor’s house. Otori hardened her heart. She did not have any bowls to spare, not when the master had no more paying clients and didn’t go out to find any.
The next day, the child was there again. She left a stale rice cake by the gate, but the boy made no attempt to take it, and a stray dog found it instead.
*
Around midday, the doctor could not bear his own company any longer and decided to leave. Stepping carefully through the ruts in the road, he did not notice the waiting child, but the boy ran after him and pulled his sleeve.
“Yes, what is it?” the doctor asked. He did not recognize him. How could he? Theirs had been a brief meeting many days ago, mostly inside a dark hovel, and Doctor Yamada’s thoughts were on another matter.
The boy’s teeth chattered. He said urgently, “They’ve taken her away, sir.”
“What?” The doctor puzzled over this. “Does someone need a doctor? Did they send you for me?”
The boy shook his head.
“Come, child. It is cold. We cannot stand here all day. If you haven’t come about a sick person, what do you want?”
The boy shot him an uneasy glance and hung his head. Doctor Yamada sighed. Just another small beggar, sent out by his parents. There were countless miseries in this world, and every day brought new ones. He took a few coppers off the string he carried in his sash and offered them to the boy. To his surprise he put his hands behind his back, then turned and slowly walked away.
The doctor stood dumfounded for a moment, his hand still extended, when a dim memory surfaced. They’ve taken her away. “Wait,” he called, and hurried after the child.
The boy stopped but did not turn around or lift his head.
“You are the boy whose mother was ill? The woman who was spitting up . . .” — he almost said “blood,” but decided against it. “How is she?” But he knew what the answer would be. The boy’s demeanor told him.
“They’ve taken her away,” the boy said again, only this time he added, “They’ve thrown everything out and locked the door.”
Doctor Yamada crouched down so he could look into the child’s face. It was blue with cold and very dirty. Small pale streaks in the dirt showed that he had cried. “Did your mother die?” he asked gently.
The child looked away. His lower lip trembled a little. “They’ve taken her away and they’re not letting me in. The landlord said to go away.”
The doctor bit his lip and rose. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Your mother was very ill. But now that you have come, we’ll go back to my house and see if Otori can find you something to eat.” Food was the only comfort he could offer. That and warmth. “You can stay with me until we think what to do.” He took the child’s icy hand and started back toward his house.
The boy’s feet dragged a little as they got closer. “Your wife is angry,” he said shyly. “I lost her bowl.”
“I have no wife,” said the doctor. More was the pity.
Just then the door flew open, and Otori stood there, her hands on her hips. “So,” she said, “the little thief’s found someone else to rob. You’d better watch out. He steals, just like the other young rascal you brought home.”
The boy crept behind the doctor and peered around him with frightened eyes.
“Nonsense,” said Yamada, giving Otori a fierce look. “He’s the son of a patient. I told him to come to me. And he is much too young to be a thief.”
“Hah, he ran away with my bowl only two days ago,” Otori snapped. But she stepped aside and let them come into the house. “Ask him where my bowl is. It was a good one.”
“Get some hot food,” said the doctor, “and bring it to my room.” He took the child through the house and into his own room where he stirred up the brazier and added some charcoal. Then he made the boy sit next to it and took off his wet, ragged socks and rubbed some warmth back into the small feet.
The child let it happen without comment, but when he was covered with the doctor’s own quilted bedding, he began to look around curiously at everything.
“What’s out there?” he asked, pointing to the closed shutters.
The doctor went and cracked the shutter open a little. “My garden,” he said, “and my fishpond. Only it is much prettier in the summer time when the sun dapples the shrubs and birds sing and spiders spin webs, and the daylilies nod over the fish pond. Sometimes there’s a green dragonfly. He doesn’t come very often, and I’m always honored by his visit.” He was aware that he was talking too much, but the child’s condition and his grievous loss left him feeling helpless.
The boy looked earnestly at him, then crept out of his covers and came to look at the garden. His hand curled around the doctor’s fingers, and he moved a little closer to him.
“What is your name?” the doctor asked.
“Sadamu.”
“Sadamu? Mine is Sadahira,” said the doctor, surprised. “Imagine that! It is surely auspicious.”
The boy looked up,
puzzled.
“‘Auspicious’ means good luck,” the doctor explained, smiling. “I think you are good luck for me.”
Sadamu glanced back at the room, out at the garden and the fish pond, and then up at the doctor again. “Why do you need good luck?” he asked. “You have everything.”
Not everything. Yamada squeezed the boy’s hand. “You are welcome in my house if you would like to stay,” he said, not knowing yet if the child had any relatives.
The boy nodded. Just that. His earnest expression did not change. Perhaps he was beyond grief or joy, beyond caring about the things of this world — like a disillusioned old man in a child’s body.
