by I. J. Parker
Their palaces and villas had burned down or fallen into decay. Many of the humbler homes had been abandoned to squatters and cutthroats. Only the trees and shrubs had thrived, and a last few respectable families, like the Hiratas, lived quiet, isolated lives there.
As Akitada passed down street after street, some of them bisected by canals and crossed by simple wooden bridges, he saw that several more homes had become empty since he had last walked this way. He wondered how safe Tamako was when her father was teaching at the university.
To his relief, the Hirata villa appeared unchanged. Its wall had been kept in good repair, and the same gigantic willows flanked its wooden gate. The scent of wisteria blew over the wall on a soft breeze. With a sense of homecoming Akitada raised his eyes to the elegantly brushed inscription over the gate: "Willow Hermitage."
A white-haired servant, bent with age, opened the gate and greeted him with a wide, toothless smile. "Master Akitada! Welcome! Come in! Come in!"
"Saburo! It is good to see you again. How is your health these days?"
"Well, there's a pain in my back and my knees are stiff. And my hearing's going, too. "The old man touched each defective part in turn and then broke again into his big grin. "But it will have to get much worse than this before I'm ready to go. No man could ask for a better life than mine. And now here you are, come back a famous man!"
"Hardly famous, Saburo, but I thank you for the welcome. How is the professor?"
"Pretty well. He's waiting in his study for you, Master Akitada. But the young lady asked to speak to you first. She's in the garden."
As he made his way along the moss-covered stepping stones, Akitada basked in the warmth of the old servant's welcome. To be called "Master Akitada" again, just as if he were the son of the family, brought back the happy year he had spent here as a youngster.
When he rounded the corner of the house and saw a slender young woman among the flowering shrubs, he called out cheerfully, "Good evening to you, little sister!"
Tamako turned and looked at him wide-eyed. For a moment an expression of sadness passed over her pretty face, but then she smiled charmingly and ran towards him, hands outstretched in greeting.
"Dear friend! Welcome home! You make us very happy. And you look so distinguished and very handsome in that fine robe." She stopped before him, her hands in his, and smiled up at him.
Akitada was lost in surprise. She had become quite lovely, with that slender face and neck and an elegant figure.
"How is it that you are not married yet?" he blurted out.
She released his hands and looked away. "Perhaps the right person has not asked yet," she said lightly. "But then I hear you, too, are still single." Smiling up at him again, she added, "Shall we walk to the arbor? I have a particular favor to ask of you before you see Father. And then I must go see about dinner and change into a more proper gown."
He saw, as he walked with her, that she wore a plain blue cotton robe with a white-patterned cotton sash about her small waist. It seemed impossible to improve on the picture she made and he told her so.
She turned her head slightly and thanked him with a blush and a smile. "Here we are," she said, pointing to a wooden platform under a trellis covered with flowering wisteria. The purple blooms hung in thick clusters suspended from a leafy roof.
Akitada looked around him. Everywhere plants seemed to be in flower or bud. The air was heavy with their mingled fragrances and the humming of bees. When they sat down on two mats which had been spread on the platform, he was enveloped by the sweet scent of the wisteria blossoms and felt that he had walked into another, more perfect world, one which was far more intensely alive with colors, scents and the sounds of birds and bees than any existence on this earth had any right to be.
"Something is terribly wrong with Father," said Tamako, breaking into his fancy.
"What?"
She took his exclamation literally. "I do not know. He won't tell me. About two weeks ago he came back late from the university. He went directly to his study and spent a whole night pacing. The next morning he looked pale and drawn and he hardly ate anything. He left for work without any kind of explanation, and has done the same every day since then. Whenever I try to question him, he either maintains that nothing is wrong, or he snaps at me to mind my own business. You know this is not like him in the least." She looked at Akitada beseechingly.
"What do you want me to do?"
"I have been hoping that he invited you to dinner to confide in you. If he does, perhaps you can tell me what has happened. The uncertainty is very upsetting."
She looked pale and tense, but Akitada shook his head doubtfully. "If he has refused to tell you, he will hardly speak to me, and even if he did, he may ask that I keep his confidence."
"Oh," she cried, jumping up in frustration, "men are impossible! Well, if he does not speak, you must find out somehow, and if he swears you to secrecy, you must find a way! If you are my friend, that is!"
Alarmed, Akitada rose also. He took her hands in his and looked down at her lovely, intense face. "You must be patient, little sister!" he said earnestly. "Of course I shall do my best to help your father."
Their eyes met, and he felt as if he were drowning in her gaze. Then she looked away, blushing rosily, and withdrew her hands. "Yes, of course. Forgive me. I know I can trust you. But now I must see about our dinner, and Father expects you." She made him a formal bow and walked away quickly.
Akitada stood and watched her graceful figure disappear around a bend in the path. He felt perplexed and troubled by the encounter. Slowly he walked towards the house.
The professor received him warmly in his study, a separate pavilion which was lined with books and looked out on a stand of bamboo, an arrangement of picturesque rocks and patterned gravel outside a small veranda. This room, where Akitada had worked on lessons with the professor, was as familiar to Akitada as any room in his own home. But the kindly man who had been a second father to him had changed shockingly. He looked prematurely old.
"My dear boy," Hirata began as soon as they had exchanged greetings and seated themselves, "forgive me for summoning you so abruptly when you must be very busy with official duties."
"I was very glad you invited me. This has always been a happy place for me and I have missed Tamako. She looks all grown-up and quite lovely."
"Ah, yes. I see she has already spoken to you." Hirata sighed, and Akitada thought again how tired he looked. The professor had always been tall and gaunt, with prominent facial bones made more severe by a long nose and goatee, but today there seemed more gray than black in his hair and beard, and deep lines ran from his nose to the corners of his thin lips. He said, "I am afraid I have been very unkind to the poor child, but I could not bring myself to burden her with the matter. Well, it seems it is beyond me to solve it, so I have presumed on our friendship to ask your advice."
"You honor me with your confidence, sir."
"Here is what happened. You may remember that one evening every month we gather for devotions in the Temple of Confucius? All the faculty wear formal dress on the occasion. Since we spend the day lecturing and teaching, we leave our formal gowns and headdresses on pegs in the anteroom of the hall in the morning and change into them just before the ceremony. Do you know the room I mean?"
Akitada nodded.
"I was in a hurry that evening, having been kept by a student, and simply tossed on my gown and hat and found my place in the hall. About halfway through the service I became aware of a rustling in my sleeve. I found a note tucked into the lining. Because it was too dark to read it there, I took it home with me."
Hirata got up and walked to one of the shelves. From a lacquer box he extracted a slip of paper and brought it to Akitada, his hand shaking a little.
Akitada unfolded the crumpled paper. The note was brief, on ordinary paper, and the handwriting was good but unremarkable. It read: "While men like you enjoy life, others do not have enough to fill their bellies. If
you wish to keep your culpability a secret, pay your debts! I suggest an initial sum of 1000 cash."
Akitada looked up and said, "I gather one of your colleagues is being blackmailed."
"Thank you for that, my boy." Hirata smiled a little tremulously. "Yes. It is the only conclusion I could arrive at. I am afraid someone on the faculty has committed a serious . . . wrong, and another is extorting money in exchange for his silence. Apart from the shocking fact that two of my colleagues appear to be signally lacking in the very morals they are expected to inculcate into our students, it would be a disaster if the matter became public. The university is already in danger."
"You surprise me."
Hirata shifted uncomfortably. "Yes. We have been losing students to the private colleges, and our funds have been cut severely. A scandal could mean the closing of the university." He looked down at his clenched hands and sighed deeply. "I have spent every minute since the incident trying to think what to do. Now I have to pin my hopes on you. You are clever at solving puzzles. If you could identify the blackmailer and his victim, I might be able to deal with them in such a way that the university's reputation won't suffer."
"You may overestimate my poor abilities." Akitada spread the note out on the floor between them. "You did not recognize the handwriting?"
Hirata shook his head.
"No. I suppose not. It is not particularly distinguished. Yet the note is hardly an illiterate effort. 'Culpability' is a rather learned word. Could a student have written it?"
"I cannot say. Students never go into the anteroom. And it is true that the writing looks ordinary, but some of my colleagues are hardly great calligraphers. Besides, handwriting can be disguised."
"Yes. Hmm. One thousand cash is an impressive sum to the average person, and this is to be only the first payment. Whatever malfeasance is involved must be serious to be worth that price to the guilty man. What could be so damaging to one of your colleagues, and who could pay that much?"
The professor made a face. "I cannot imagine. It is certainly more than I can raise easily."
"What have you done so far?"
"Very little. I could hardly ask any of them if they have laid themselves open to blackmail." He passed a hand over his lined face. "It is terrible. I found myself looking at all of them with suspicious eyes and dreading every workday. Then, just when I was becoming completely distracted, I thought of you. I have known these men too long to see them with unbiased eyes. You, as an outsider, may have a clearer vision."
"But I can hardly start hanging about the university asking aimless questions."
"No, no! But there is a way. Of course you may not be able to take off the time, but we have an opening for an assistant professor of law. The incumbent, poor fellow, died three months ago, and the position has not been filled. The best part is that you would be my associate and we could meet on a regular basis without arousing suspicion. Could you take a short leave of absence and become a visiting lecturer? You would be paid, of course."
The image of his office at the ministry with its stack of bone-dry dossiers, and of the sour face of his superior, Minister Soga, flashed before Akitada's inward eye. Here was escape from the hateful archives, and an escape which promised the added incentive of a tantalizing puzzle. "Yes," he said, "provided the minister approves it."
Hirata's tired face lit up. "I think I can almost guarantee it. Oh, my dear boy, I cannot tell you how relieved I am. I was at my wits' end. If we can stop the blackmail, the university may limp along for another few generations."
Akitada gave his old friend and mentor a searching look. "You know," he said hesitantly, "that I cannot agree to suppress evidence of a crime."
Hirata looked startled. "Oh, surely . . . yes, I see what you mean. No, of course not. You are quite right. That is awkward. Still, it is better to take action to stop it. You must do as you see fit. I certainly don't know what is going on."
A brief silence fell. Akitada wondered if the professor had perhaps agreed too quickly. And had there not been the slightest emphasis on the word "know"? Finally Akitada said with a slight chuckle, "Well, I shall certainly do my best, but I am afraid that I shall be a very poor teacher. You must send me only your dullest students or our scheme will quickly come to ruin."
Hirata cheered up. "Not at all, dear boy!" he cried heartily. "You were my best student and have since acquired more practical knowledge of official duties than I have ever possessed."
There was a soft scratching at the sliding door to the corridor.
"Father?" Tamako's soft voice was a welcome interruption. "Your dinner is ready. Will you come to the main hall?"
"Of course. Right away. We are quite finished reminiscing," Hirata called. They heard her footsteps receding.
"May I inform your daughter of this matter, sir, or will you?" Akitada inquired.
Hirata paused in the process of rising and straightening his robe. "Why? I would rather not involve her," he said doubtfully.
"She is so concerned about you that the truth will be a great relief to her," Akitada persisted.
They walked out into the corridor together. "You have always been very fond of my child, haven't you?" Hirata asked inconsequentially.
"Yes. Of course."
"Very well. We shall tell her together over dinner."
Two
The Imperial University
A week later Akitada entered, as one of its teachers, the grounds of the august university in which he had received his own education.
The imperial university, or daigaku, covered four city blocks just south of the greater imperial palace, or daidairi. Its main gate was on Mibu Road and directly across from the Shinsenen, the Divine Spring Garden, a large park where the emperor and his nobles often held summer parties.
On this sunny morning of the Blossoming Month, Akitada stood just inside this gate, looking at the familiar walls and gates, the tiled roofs of lecture halls, libraries and dormitories lying peacefully under a placid sky and swaying pine trees, and was seized by a familiar panic. Like an adult son who will never quite lose a feeling of inadequacy around a parent, Akitada was once again in the grip of that atmosphere of stem authority and intellectual superiority which had awed him as a youngster.
He forced down the lump of adolescent panic and took in subtle signs of neglect. Weeds were growing against walls which needed patching where pieces of whitewashed mud had fallen off, revealing the timbers, rubble, and woven branches which supported them; the dirt road was pitted and marred by puddles; and from the curved roofs of the halls and gates large sections of tile were missing.
A group of chattering students, nine or ten young men, all in their late teens and wearing the mandatory dark cotton robes, passed him, falling abruptly silent as they approached. Giving him nervous looks, they turned into the courtyard of the administration hall and took off running.
Not everything had changed, Akitada thought with a smile. The students were still up to their usual pranks.
He could not blame them. It promised to be a beautiful day, much better spent on a lark than in a musty classroom. The sky was pale blue silk and the dark green pines and pale-leafed willows rose against it like delicate embroidery. In the courtyard nearest him, a cuckoo suddenly burst into its characteristic ho-to-to.
Akitada had come early, because he wanted some time to look around and perhaps meet some of his new colleagues. Walking through the small gate into the courtyard of the Temple of Confucius, Akitada decided it was appropriate for him to pay his respects to the patron saint of education. Besides, it was here that Professor Hirata had discovered the blackmail note.
Coming into the temple hall from the sunlight, Akitada was surprised by its gloom, but his eyes soon adjusted and he could make out the life-sized wooden statues. The great master Confucius occupied the center of a dais, with his fellow sages lined up on either side. Akitada bowed deeply before "Master Kung," as Seimei called him, and asked for inspiration in his new duties.
Somewhere a door closed. He looked around but saw no one. The statue of the sage looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes, his hand stroking a long beard. One needed age to become wise. Who was he to pass himself off as a teacher? Such fraud was no part of the Confucian philosophy.
He reminded himself of the ministerial archives. To his surprise there had not been the slightest problem getting a temporary leave from his duties at the ministry. His Excellency, the Minister of Justice, had stared at him coldly and informed him that his presence was needed more urgently at the university than in his present sphere. Soga had somehow managed to convey that they could manage without Akitada on a permanent basis.
Sighing deeply, Akitada bowed to the master again, apologetically, and then walked through the hall to the small anteroom under the eaves. Here were the pegs where the professors had hung their formal robes for the rites. A door connected the room to the temple hall, and another door opposite led to the outside. Akitada opened the latter and looked out into the main courtyard. Shrubbery surrounding a stand of pines hid this entrance from general view. Anyone could have entered or left without being seen.
He turned and was staring at the row of pegs on the wall, when a slight cough startled him.
The door to the temple hall had opened a crack, and through it a long-faced man was watching him from under bushy eyebrows.
