Rashomon Gate

by I. J. Parker

  Touched, Tora reached into his sleeve and handed her the sash with the crane pattern. "Here," he said. "It's not much, but it's for you if you like it."

  She spread it out on her lap. "Oh Tora!" she whispered, touching the fabric reverently. "It is so beautiful. I had no idea you bought me a present. Did you know I'd come back to you?"

  Tora had the grace to blush, but thought that, on the whole, it would be kinder not to confess the truth. "I told you I had made a wish," he said.

  Michiko flung her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his. "I'm so glad," she cried. Then she jumped up and started putting away the dishes. Tora got up to help.

  "Do you happen to know a girl called Omaki?" he asked, handing her one of the shrimp bowls.

  "Oh, yes. She used to be my friend."

  "Used to?"

  Michiko knelt, poured some water into a large bowl and rinsed the dishes. "She got snooty. Taking lessons from a professor who comes to the Willow a lot. He made her think she was better than the rest of us. Then she got sick to her stomach a lot, and when I asked her if there was something wrong, she snapped at me to mind my own business." She pointed to a neatly folded length of cheap cotton. "Do you mind drying?"

  Tora obliged. "That wasn't very nice of her."

  "No, and of course it made me think. She must be pregnant. And I bet that's why she wasn't working today. The auntie probably told her nobody wants to look at a pregnant musician."

  "Any idea who the father is?" asked Tora, stacking the clean dishes on the chest.

  "My guess is it's the professor's," said Michiko, pouring the dirty water out the window, and putting away the bowl. Then she turned, giving Tora a thoughtful look. "Why are you asking? Don't tell me you've fallen for her?"

  "Never, my sweet!" Tora said fervently, stepping closer to stroke her cheek with his finger. "I don't even know the girl. Someone said she was a good lute player, and I thought Madame Sakaki was her. What a charming neck you have."

  Michiko giggled and caught his hand in hers. "Omaki can't touch Madame's playing. She's the best. And she hates Omaki." She nuzzled Tora's hand, and said wistfully, "I'm sorry I can't play the lute, Tora, but I know lots of other games."

  "Really?" Tora pretended ignorance. "Like what?"

  "Like 'bamboo bridge to the pavilion,'" she whispered, tracing Tora's jaw with her finger and fluttering her eyes at him, "or 'cicadas clinging to a tree,' or 'monkey swinging from a branch' or 'bouncing the infant.'"

  Tora's eyebrows shot up. " 'Monkey swinging from a branch'?" he asked, astonished. "What sort of game might that be?"

  She moved quite close to him. "Silly! Don't you know anything? Haven't you ever visited the ladies of the Willow Quarter?"

  Tora made a grab for her and pulled her down onto the mat. "No, you hussy," he muttered, fumbling for her sash. "And you shouldn't know such things either."

  She giggled, twisting in his arms. "The girls tell us all about their work. They make good money, but I prefer to take my pick of the handsome fellows."

  "Do you now?" asked Tora with a broad smile, tossing aside the sash and pushing her gown off her shoulders.

  "Wait," she cried. "Let me make up a bed first!"

  Tora stumbled up, cursing under his breath. He was taking off his robe, while she brought out her bedding and unrolled it on the floor. Her loose gown gaped enticingly, revealing glimpses of bare skin— a slender thigh, high breasts, a flash of well-rounded hip and . . . She slipped off the gown, folding it neatly away. Tora gasped and began to tear at his loincloth.

  In a flash she was by his side to help. "Oh," she cried, "how large! It is truly like a tree for monkeys to climb." She gave a little screech. "This little monkey is afraid," she cried and jumped under the covers, giggling.

  Tora dove under himself. "Forget the monkeys," he groaned. "This tree must be planted quickly before it dies."

  Michiko was not only a compassionate girl, but also a very good teacher. Tora learned all about swinging monkeys and other entertaining games that night.

  Eight

  The Poetry Contest

  It was the hour of the cock, about two hours before sunset, when Akitada entered the Divine Spring Garden again. For the occasion of the contest the gate had been festively decorated with banners, and two foot soldiers from the imperial guard stood at attention on either side. Akitada presented his invitation and was waved through. Ahead of him he saw Nishioka walking side by side with the student Ishikawa, but he made no effort to catch up to them.

  He had been downcast all day, and his depression deepened as he passed the spot where they had found the girl's body. When the imperial pavilion burst upon his eyes, filled with hundreds of elegant guests in colorful robes, the scene was almost painfully bright in the afternoon sunlight, a shocking contrast to his dark mood. Vermilion columns and balustrades, emerald roof tiles, gilded ornaments, many-hued silk cushions and colorful robes of contestants and guests, painted boats on the white sand of the lake which lay like molten gold in the setting sun— it all seemed for a moment completely unreal. Akitada felt that he had walked into a place quite separate and distant from the work-day world of normal people. It was certainly a world which was remote from that of the dead girl and the old beggar, and both had intruded into it at a cost.

  Filled with an irrational anger at those who lived "above the clouds" like the very gods, Akitada climbed the steps to the veranda. It was already nearly filled with chattering and laughing guests. None of them, he thought, would care that a young woman had died only a short walk away.

  At the top of the steps he paused briefly before the dais of the presiding judges to make his bow to Prince Atsuakira and the other imperial personages. Then he turned towards the left where he saw other members of the faculty and found his place somewhere in the back. After a moment, Hirata appeared by his side. He looked tired but smiled.

  "I have not been home all day," he said, sitting down. "Did the ladies enjoy the procession?"

  "I believe so." Akitada had to make an effort to smile back. "My mother invited Tamako to share their midday rice. I had to leave— a matter having to do with the murdered girl— but Tora was to take your daughter home in the hired carriage."

  "That was most kind of you and your lady mother," said Hirata warmly. "Please express to her my deep gratitude for the honor she has done my insignificant daughter."

  Insignificant? Honor? Kindness? The words of polite convention were as false as the ridiculous affair he was about to witness. Akitada nodded and turned away to look at the nobles and ranking members of the government seated to the right of the stairs. It suddenly struck him that even the cushions people sat on distinguished them by rank, as if a noble behind must not be insulted by an inappropriate support. The princes sat on purple brocade; the nobles had deep red, green or blue silk cushions; and he, along with the rest of the faculty and students, was provided with a gray cotton one. Never once forget your place in the hierarchy!

  Strange, he thought, in the dusk last night the stacked cushions had all appeared the same. A trick of light, or of darkness rather. The thought teased him, as if this trivial matter had some hidden significance, but he did not pursue it. The ceremony was beginning.

  Prince Atsuakira rose and stepped forward on the dais, and silence fell. His brief opening address was followed by others, last but not least by Oe, who made the most of his opportunity to shine before such an eminent audience.

  Oe was wearing another splendid blue brocade robe, and his white hair gleamed under the formal black court hat. After bidding the guests welcome in the name of the combined faculties of the university, he explained the rules and sequence of the competition.

  Akitada knew already that there would be four segments, compositions celebrating special occasions, travel poems, drinking songs and love lyrics. Each segment would be separated from the next by musical interludes and dance performances, after which each winner would be declared.

  As Oe's voice droned on, Aki
tada looked out over the lake. A group of ducks came paddling around a bend, paused, seemingly astonished at the brilliant congregation of humans at the pavilion, then burst into disgusted quacking and rose from the lake in a clatter of wings and sparkling drops of water.

  "The beauty of this day," said Oe, "will give birth to genius and affirm the greatness of His Majesty's reign." The nobles across the way applauded, and Akitada, idly glancing, recognized a face.

  There, if he was not mistaken, sat the fellow Okura, the weak-chinned dandy who had quarreled with Tora and who had, against all probability, placed first during the recent examinations. He was one of the contestants. Akitada began to take some slight interest in the proceedings.

  When Oe finished to general relieved applause, Hirata leaned over and whispered, "Did you notice anything strange about Oe's manner?"

  "No. Why?"

  "I hope I am mistaken, but I could swear the man was drunk already. He was slurring his words." Hirata shook his head. "I would have thought winning would be too important for him to risk embarrassment."

  Akitada said dryly, "If you are right, he will not last long. I see they are beginning to pass the wine around." It was customary to toast each composition with a cup of wine, and from the size of the program it was clear that it would be a long evening and night.

  The first presentations passed without great surprises. Occasional verses were the specialty of court officials who were forever dashing off lines in honor of imperial birthdays and esoteric ceremonials. Okura competed in this segment, and Akitada watched him with interest. He appeared composed, even complacent, reciting a short composition which seemed, to Akitada's untrained ear, surprisingly competent, certainly no worse than the rest. Could Hirata have misjudged his ability?

  Hirata grunted. "His style has improved amazingly."

  Okura retired to mild applause. Suddenly a voice hissed into Akitada's ear, "Well, well! Our esteemed colleague sells his talents to the highest bidder!"

  Akitada turned his head and looked into the hooded eyes of the turtle-headed Takahashi. "I am sorry, but I don't understand you," he said coldly.

  "Of course not. You are not as familiar with Oe's turn of phrase as the rest of us, to our misery. His style, if you can call it that, is quite unmistakable. He is the one who wrote Okura's poem. Okura could never do it himself."

  Akitada stared. "How can you be certain? A student often imitates his teacher's style."

  "Well, Hirata," Takahashi asked, "am I right?"

  Hirata nodded reluctantly. "It may be so," he said.

  "And what's more," continued Takahashi, "our 'great man' has been drinking all day, and wine does not make him amiable. He has already lost his temper twice with that poor fish Ono. I don't see how that man can show his face in public after today. The names Oe called him! And in front of any number of influential people. It was shocking!"

  New applause broke out, and Takahashi left to talk to Fujiwara who was arriving late, still wearing the same disreputable silk robe and unmatched sash Akitada remembered from the faculty meeting.

  Hirata put his hand on Akitada's arm and nodded towards the stage. Oe, his face flushed, had stepped forward again. He had developed a rather strange manner of rocking on the balls of his feet. Instead of facing the judges, he was looking across at the gathering of government and court officials. "Again you find us gathered so," he began in his mellifluous voice, "again the sun sets bright." He waved an expansive arm towards the bright lake, and received a smattering of applause. "The same that shone a year ago," he lowered his head sadly, "but, oh, how changed we are tonight."

  Akitada rather liked the sense of nostalgia and the appropriateness of the images, and waited expectantly for Oe's star performance.

  To his surprise, Oe's head jerked up to look again into the gathering of officials, and he concluded sharply: "Some break the rules by which the game is played, / And gain reward where none is due, / While others find their hopes betrayed. / For time and change please only few." He bowed jerkily and returned to his seat, leaving his audience dumb-founded. There was some dubious applause, but most people whispered, shaking their heads in confusion.

  "What can he have meant by that?" asked Hirata. "It's almost as if he had accused the judges of awarding the prize to the wrong poet."

  Akitada frowned. Surely Oe would not accuse the noble judges. Was he referring to another matter? The charges were uncomfortably apt for the compromised examination. The matter was completely puzzling, and Akitada promised himself a frank talk with the great Oe as soon as possible.

  A winner was declared— it was neither Oe nor Okura, but one of the officials— and the servants walked around with trays of wine cups. A gorgeously costumed child, the young son of one of the court nobles, now took the stage and performed an elaborate dance. It told the story of an ancient emperor who had won a battle against insurmountable odds by disguising himself as a fierce dragon warrior.

  There was a generous burst of applause when the child finished. Oe shot up from his seat and, before he could be stopped, recited another poem. To everyone's relief, it turned out to be in praise of the grace of this scion of a noble family and predicted greatness for his future. This time, Oe reaped generous applause. Most of the guests were under the impression that they had just witnessed a brilliant extemporaneous composition, but Akitada was convinced that Oe had come prepared. It made the previous poem even more puzzling.

  The second segment passed without incident. It featured, among others, Ishikawa, who won a prize. An interlude of flute music followed; Akitada gave it his full attention. He stretched to see if Sato was playing but found that the performer was a stranger. Sato's absence caused him to wonder about the police investigation. He hoped Kobe had not decided to arrest the music professor. Recalling the beating given to the old beggar, he felt uneasy about having mentioned Sato's name to the captain. When the flute player stopped, Akitada got up to stretch his legs. He strolled along the veranda to the rear of the pavilion.

  On the ground below was a great bustling of waiters who were heating flasks of wine in large braziers and running back and forth with trays of cups. Akitada leaned on the balustrade to watch. Directly below him, a group of servants unpacked large colored paper lanterns. It would not be long till night, for the brilliant sunlight had turned a muted gold and the deep blue of the sky was changing to the pale shade of wisteria blossoms. Soon in the darkness, hundreds of colored lanterns would gleam.

  Occasionally one of the guests passed below, perhaps to relieve himself after all the wine. Akitada stretched and decided to walk down, when he suddenly noticed the student Ishikawa. He stood near the corner of the pavilion, talking angrily to someone hidden by one of the lacquered columns. Suddenly Ishikawa lunged and pushed. A tall, broad figure in blue staggered out from behind the column. Oe. He had lost his hat and his face was nearly purple with rage. He roared something and attacked, slapping Ishikawa across the face so violently that Akitada could hear the sound above the noise of the waiters. Ishikawa recoiled, touching his face, then reached down and raised what looked like a broken oar. He looked absolutely murderous. Akitada leaned over the balustrade and shouted a warning. Ishikawa froze and looked up; his eyes met Akitada's. He dropped the oar, said something to Oe, and disappeared around the corner. Oe stood a moment longer, staring up at Akitada. Then he, too, turned and stumbled away.

  When Akitada returned to his seat, he asked Hirata, "Do you know of any reason why Oe and Ishikawa should get into a fight?"

  Hirata frowned. "A fight? You must be exaggerating."

  "No. I just saw them."

  "Remember, Oe has been drinking. Come, Akitada, it is a beautiful evening. Let's enjoy it while we can. Look! The Dengaku dancers are performing."

  Akitada glanced at a group of young women on the stage. He found Hirata's lack of interest irritating and said, "I thought you wanted me to get to the bottom of this matter. Here we may have a clue to your blackmailer and you don't want to dis
cuss it."

  Hirata flushed and looked over his shoulder. "Ssh! Not so loud." He leaned closer. "You are quite right to be angry. It is true that I have had second thoughts about the wisdom of involving you in this matter. I think it will be better for you not to pursue it further. Please forgive me for causing you all this trouble, especially now that . . ." He broke off delicately, but Akitada knew that he referred to the failed marriage plans.

  So Hirata had merely wanted a husband for his daughter. A cold fury seized Akitada and made his stomach churn. "Unless you have discovered the answer yourself," he snapped, "in which case you owe me at least an explanation, the situation remains as dangerous as before. Or are you telling me now that the letter was a mere subterfuge to invite me to your house?"

  Hirata paled. "No," he said stiffly. "I asked you because of the danger to the university." He paused and looked at his hands, which lay in his lap. "It is true that I had hoped our working together might lead you and Tamako to discover affection for each other again."

  And the plan had worked perfectly well in Akitada's case, though not for Tamako! Akitada felt a wave of nausea. Whether or not the note was real, Hirata had just admitted that he had really wanted something far more personal. Little did he know that his daughter had refused the bridegroom her father had chosen for her, the one man he could count on because of the debt he owed them. Akitada turned away.

  The older man sighed deeply. "Don't be angry, dear boy," he pleaded. "I was afraid you would misunderstand. Now I wish I had bitten off my tongue before mentioning the note to you."

  Akitada wished it too. He said through clenched teeth, "Never mind. I understand."

  There was a lull in the performance, and a certain stillness had fallen over the park. The last light was fading in the sky. Akitada searched in his mind for the right words so that he might leave.