Rashomon Gate

by I. J. Parker

  "What about men friends?"

  "Omaki had no men friends!" He was emphatic. "She was not a loose woman. I don't care what they say! There were no other men after we met."

  They looked at each other. Hiroshi held the gaze defiantly, but Akitada did not know whether the agony so eloquent on the homely face was due to better knowledge, to grief, or to rejection. He sighed and rose. "Very well. It is not much to go on, but I shall try to find out more. Meanwhile, if you can recall anything else, something she said or any gossip about her which might point to other relationships, send me a message."

  "This useless person is deeply grateful, sir," said Hiroshi fervently, prostrating himself with a great clatter of chains and knocking his forehead on the ground.

  Akitada stood for a moment longer, staring down at the ungainly figure. The deep sadness which filled his own heart seemed to spill over, flooding the small cell and drowning its unhappy occupant and himself. With a shudder, he turned and walked out.

  Ten

  Kites

  Tora collected the young lord, and together they walked companionably into the city to buy paper and string. The boy's drawn face brightened and his eyes went everywhere when they reached the shopping district. Only his sense of his own importance kept him from stopping in front of every shop to gape at all the goods on display. Eventually, to cover up his unseemly curiosity, he began a conversation with Tora.

  "They certainly have a lot of fans in this shop," he would say, and pause to look.

  Tora would shoot a careless glance towards the fans, agree, and walk on.

  "Do people really eat all those rice cakes that the baker has stacked up on that shelf?"

  "Mostly," said Tora. "What he can't sell, he eats himself or donates to a temple for gifts to the deities."

  The boy stopped to eye the cakes hungrily. "Isn't that a big waste?" he asked. "Especially when they are jam-filled cakes? Surely the gods don't care much about jam-filled cakes. Do you suppose the monks eat them and pretend the gods have done so?"

  Tora, who had perforce stopped also, looked down at the young lord in surprise. "Don't you believe in the gods?" he asked.

  The boy turned away after giving the cakes another longing look. "I don't know. I have never seen one eat, or do anything useful." They walked on. "How much do those jam-filled cakes cost?"

  "Three coppers. And you can't see gods, because they are spirits." A thought struck Tora. "It's really strange to hear you talk that way about the gods. Is it because they took your grandfather away from you?"

  The boy flung around and glared at him. "It was not the gods who took my grandfather!" he cried.

  Tora raised his hands. "Sorry! Forget I asked." He did not know what to make of this outburst, but felt guilty for having touched on a painful subject. Belatedly he realized why the boy had asked about the cakes. "Come," he said. "Let's go back to that baker's shop. I'm hungry all of a sudden, and those cakes did smell real good. I like the ones with jam myself. How about you?"

  The boy put on an indifferent face and said, "I don't care. You may suit yourself."

  Tora went inside, purchased two fragrant cakes, and returned, offering one to the boy.

  The little lord accepted the offering without comment or thanks, and bit into it with a good appetite.

  "Mmm," muttered Tora through rice crumbs and bean jam. "They are good. That jam . . ." he took another huge bite, making the jam spurt out and dribble down his chin, "is delicious."

  The boy stared at him and began to giggle. "It's on your nose!" he pointed out, almost choking on his next bite.

  Tora cleaned his face. "It's delicious anyplace," he said firmly, licking his fingers. But the boy's eyes had already become fixed on a display of painted paper umbrellas.

  "Look," he said. "Aren't they colorful? I have never seen paper parasols before. The only ones I have seen were made of silk. The emperor is carried under a very large one. And they have them in the temples for the abbots. Sometimes my great-uncle gets to walk under one. But these have flowers and birds painted on them. Could we make kites out of them? They are made of paper and wood ribs. All we would need is some silk cord."

  "Silk cord?" Tora looked down at the boy with raised brows. "Hemp will do much better and is cheaper. Unless you plan to pay for our stuff, we'll make do with plain paper and hempen cord. We'll pick up the bamboo sticks on the way back. I know where there's a bunch on an empty lot." He shook his head. "The very idea! To make a kite from an umbrella! Why, there's not a whole sheet of paper in the whole thing. It would rip apart in a moment. And think of the money! Don't you know anything?" Seeing the sudden hurt in the boy's eyes, Tora reached out and squeezed the small shoulder gently. "Never mind. You'll learn in no time!"

  But Lord Minamoto hung his head and scraped a toe through the dust of the street. "It is very good of you to show me how to build a kite," he muttered. "Naturally I shall recompense you for your expenditures as soon as I receive my allowance."

  "Forget it," laughed Tora. "I'm going to enjoy this. Besides, my master'll give me the money if I ask. He's the one that suggested you and I build kites together."

  The boy looked up, startled. "Why would he do that?" he asked.

  Tora grinned at him. "He likes little kids, I guess. And maybe he wishes someone had taught him when he was your age."

  This information preoccupied Lord Minamoto until they found the shop they were looking for. Tora quickly purchased two large sheets of cheap mulberry paper and two rolls of hemp line on wooden spools. Then they walked to an open area where a stand of bamboo in the first fresh green of spring swayed gracefully in the breeze. Tora quickly gathered a bundle of dry, broken canes and added them to their bundle, explaining the proper sizes and varieties for kite building.

  They walked back happily discussing Tora's kite flying recollections. Then the boy suddenly said, "Your master is a nice man, but do you like working for him?"

  "Of course I like it. I wouldn't be doing it, if I didn't like it. Though there was a time when I thought he was one of those perfumed lordlings that think common hard-working folk are nothing but stinking dung. I would not have worked for one of those worthless bastards for a bag of gold. Worthless and evil is what they are! Devils!"

  The boy's eyes flew to Tora's face. "What do you mean?" he cried, his eyes wide and angry and his fists clenched.

  Tora glanced down at the outraged little lord. "Oh, sorry." He grinned, not at all intimidated by the boy's ferocious expression. "I forgot you're one of them. Anyway, that's what I thought then. My master turned out to be a good man. In fact, he's not really much different from us ordinary people. Maybe you, too, will grow up to be like him."

  The boy opened his mouth to protest, but decided to think this over. After a moment, he asked, "What makes you hate the good people so much?"

  "The 'good' people, you call them?" Tora gave a derisive laugh. "The 'good' people took my parents' farm and my parents starved to death, while I was away fighting the 'good' people's wars for them."

  "That must have been terrible," said the young lord, "and I am very sorry for you. But surely such things rarely happen in this country. I know all of our own peasants are very happy on our lands."

  "And how would you know that? You're just a kid and live in the capital. You have never lived like one of your peasants. Where I come from back east, a lot of farmers have had the same kind of thing happen to them that happened to us. They work the fields from sunrise to sunset, planting, tending and reaping. They grow rice, millet, hemp and beans, and just when they think they got enough to make it through the winter, the tax man comes and takes half of it for the lord. And when they go back to the fields to grow some winter vegetables to ease their hunger, the lord needs a pond in his garden, and he sends for the poor farmer to dig it. Then he wants a mountain moved to the pond, and guess who'll do it? Then roads must be built, and the lord wants a fine temple erected to honor his ancestors. All the while the farmer is working for the lord, his
wife and children starve and tend the fields. And when the farmer finally gets home, the lord starts a war and the farmer has to report for duty with a halberd and whatever armor he can afford to buy. And while he's away fighting, another lord's soldiers come and kill his family and burn down his house." Tora broke off, breathing heavily. Belatedly he recalled his companion and looked at him anxiously. But young Lord Minamoto was staring into the distance.

  The boy was silent for a long while. Then he said solemnly, "You do not understand. Someone has to look out for the common people. We are raised to take care of the peasants, just as the peasants work for us. It is a fair exchange. We fight wars to protect you people, and we die for you in battle. We also plan for your future by storing grain for bad years, and we administer the law, catch criminals and keep good order among you. And building a temple is for the good of all people, as are the roads."

  Tora stopped, placed his large hands on the child's frail shoulders and said, "A fair exchange, is it? Look around you! Whose life is better? Who has plenty of food? Who rides the horses and carriages instead of walking? Who wears the silken clothes? Who can afford many wives and concubines? Who has time for hunting and games and silly poems?"

  The boy shook off Tora's hands angrily. "You are blind!" he raged. "You only see things your way! You've never been a lord. How would you know our troubles?"

  Tora nodded. "You got me there. You know, you're pretty smart for your age. By the way, how old are you?"

  "I am in my eleventh year, but age has nothing to with it," the boy snapped haughtily. "I know such things because, unlike you, I have been raised to use my intelligence."

  "Ah," said Tora, keeping his face straight, and looking thoughtfully up at the floating clouds. "In that case, you should have no trouble building your own kite, my lord." With an exaggerated bow, he presented the bundle of paper and string to his lordship. "I am supposed to take care of some other business anyway."

  The boy put his hands behind his back. "I do not carry bundles like a common person. You carry it. Besides, your master has ordered you to teach me."

  Tora laid the bundle on the ground between them. "You remember asking me if I liked my master?" When the boy nodded reluctantly, he said, "Well, the reason is that he treats me with respect. I can leave any time I want to, and if I decide to work for his mother— who is a terrible old woman, by the way— I do so because I want to. In the same way I agreed to help you build a kite because I wanted to. But it is clear you don't want me."

  "That is not true!" The boy's anguished protest hung between them for a moment. Then the little lord turned away and started walking, his shoulders drooping and his eyes on the ground. Tora watched him for a while, then snatched up the bundle and followed.

  At the gate to the university he lengthened his stride and caught up. "All right," he said. "This time I'll forget it, but don't do it again. Friends don't talk like that to their friends."

  The boy's pale skin turned a deep red. He nodded wordlessly. They proceeded towards the dormitories and sat down on the veranda. Tora undid the bundle and checked the contents. He frowned and said, "We forgot the knife. Got to have a knife. Come, let's go borrow one from the cook."

  "That fat, filthy animal?"

  Tora nodded. "I see you've met. Yes, him. Unless you happen to have a knife?"

  "No, but I have a sword." The boy disappeared into his room and returned carrying a long package wrapped in lustrous red silk and tied with gold-trimmed white silk cords. Unwrapping this carefully, he produced a beautiful sword in a wooden sheath covered with gold-dusted lacquer and inlaid with mother-of-pearl birds in flight. He drew the slender blade of blue-black steel by its hilt, which was heavily ornamented with silver and gold chrysanthemums and bees. This he extended to Tora. "Here!"

  Tora looked at the sword, then at the child. He knew the weapon was a family heirloom, something that is passed from father to eldest son, and kept enshrined on the family altar. He had never seen anything so beautiful, and jerked his hands behind his back. "I can't touch that," he said. "It is much too fine. You should not offer it to people to use for cutting bamboo and paper."

  The boy nodded. "I know that. But you said you were my friend. And . . . and I have nothing else to offer you. You may use my sword, Tora."

  Tora's face broke into a smile. "Thank you, my friend," he said with a bow.

  The little lord smiled shyly. "My friends call me Sadamu."

  "Thank you, Sadamu." Tora wiped his hands carefully on his robe and accepted the sword. "It is very beautiful, and I appreciate your allowing me to hold it and look at it." He turned it this way and that, tested the sharpness of the blade with his thumb, performed a few slashes at the air, and then replaced it in its sheath and returned it with another bow. "We will get a knife from the cook. Your ancestors would be upset if we misused this fine weapon."

  The cook, who was seated on the floor of the kitchen, resting his broad back against a barrel, greeted Tora with a grin which faded when he saw Lord Minamoto. "Thought you'd come for another game," he muttered. "I've been practicing."

  A bowl stood in the middle of the floor, surrounded by heaps of coins, pebbles, radish heads, beans, stale rice dumplings and other unidentifiable kitchen waste. The cook's assistants rushed about doing their chores, giving him and the bowl a wide berth.

  "Some other time," said Tora. "I came to borrow a knife. We're making kites."

  "Ho, ho. Kites, is it? For a moment I thought you needed protection against murderous maniacs like that Rabbit. But they got him safely locked up. That'll be the end of him, strangling girls in the park! I always knew he'd come to a bad end. Why, remember the day you and I caught him beating up poor Haseo? He could have killed both of us, if you hadn't been along." He cocked his head and thought a moment. "You'll ruin my knife, cutting bamboo," he said, "but in gratitude for saving my life, I'll let you have one." After shouting an order to one of his men, he turned back to Tora. "I hear your master's been to see Rabbit in jail," he said. "Tell him he's wasting his time. Haseo's been to the police and told them all about Rabbit and the girl. Did you know they used to meet on the sly and they argued the very day he killed her?"

  Tora asked, "How do you know this Haseo wasn't lying? Looks to me like he'd use a chance to get back at Rabbit for his drubbing."

  The cook cackled. "How do I know? Well, let me tell you. That day I was fixing the noon rice, wondering where those lazy bums were, when Rabbit arrives, with this terrible look on his face and muttering to himself. I can see he's not going to do much work and am thinking of firing him, but Haseo comes in and tells me about Rabbit having a fight with his girl. Seems like she told him off— like what girl wouldn't? Rabbit hears us laughing about it and gets this wild look in his eyes. I tell you, I was afraid he'd strangle Haseo right then and there. So I made him go and clean out the storage shed, figuring that'd keep him busy all afternoon." The cook shook his head. "But did his face ever look horrible! Trust me. He killed that girl all right. He's a lunatic."

  Lord Minamoto stepped forward and stared down at the fat cook with disdain. "You are a lying piece of dung," he pronounced calmly. "I know the student you call Rabbit, and he is not like that at all. If you and that disgusting fellow Haseo don't stop slandering him, I'll have you both arrested and whipped."

  The cook's mouth fell open. Tora snatched the knife from the hands of the gaping worker and, taking the young lord by the arm, said to the cook, "Thanks. You'll get it back when we're done. "They hurried out.

  "Lesson number one, "Tora told the boy outside, "never insult a man you want a favor from. Insult him after you get what you want."

  "Sorry. He made me angry."

  "You liked the ugly student?"

  The boy nodded. "He's one of the few who talked to me. Besides, I watched him. He is a kind and gentle person."

  When they reached the veranda again, they settled down to the building of the kites. Tora showed the boy how to split bamboo into thin, flexible lengths and
tie them with hemp into an oddly shaped framework of lightweight, strong "bones." "For the spine, always point the bamboo downward so the heavy end is on top," he explained, "and the ribs at the top are heavier, too." Together, they built two bamboo skeletons. Next Tora cut sheets of the paper to cover the two frames, overlapping them slightly. The outlines now resembled those of soaring birds of prey.

  "Night hawks," said the boy, studying the shapes critically, "or rather kites. They are large but much too plain. Can't we paint the paper?"

  "We've got no paint! Besides I'm not much of an artist," said Tora. "Never mind! As long as they climb higher than anyone else's." He shot a pointed glance at a gaggle of boys who had gathered at a distance and were watching them.

  "I have paints and ink," said the boy. "And I can paint bird feathers. Wait!"

  He dashed off and returned with two brushes, water, ink and a box of paints. He rubbed the ink with a little water and mixed some red powder into a paste. Then he began to paint two round ferocious eyes and tinted them bright red. The small body feathers followed, scalelike, black on the brown paper, with a few red dots here and there. The wing and tail feathers were last, broad and boldly striped. After watching him for a while, Tora took up the other brush and began to paint, glancing over at the boy's paper from time to time to compare. He sighed with pleasure as he saw eyes, beak, wing and tail feathers take shape on his own kite. "Very realistic," he said. "I bet they'll scare the little birds away."

  "How did you meet your master?" the boy asked.

  Tora told of their encounter with highway robbers and how Akitada had subsequently rescued him from a murder charge. The boy stopped painting, engrossed in the story.

  "That's what I was talking about earlier," said Tora. "I thought my master was one of those tax-grabbing officials from the capital, but it turned out he was on the way to uncover a vicious crime. He's good at that. And now he's going to help Rabbit too."

  That, of course, raised more questions and produced more tales, and the sun was already low before the kites were finished, the ends of the framework inserted through the slots in the paper and secured with string, the wing tips and tail feathers cut out, the beaks sharpened and the bridles carefully measured, fastened and attached to the lines.