“Yes, master. Right away, master.” The servant hurried to obey.
The fear in the man’s eyes restored Ogyu’s sense of power. Now he could picture himself emerging victorious from his clash with Lady Niu, just as he had from every difficult situation that had arisen in his long life. Smiling, he followed the stepping stones—which looked fine now—to the cottage. He slipped off his shoes and slid open the door to the kneeling entrance that stood at thigh height above the ground, designed to induce humility in tea ceremony guests. Ordinarily he would enter the cottage through the server’s door in the rear, which led to the kitchen. But he wanted to view the cottage from Lady Niu’s perspective. As he climbed inside, his smile widened. Today this entrance would serve another purpose. Lady Niu must kneel when she approached him, as she never would on any other occasion. The opening advantage would be his.
Inside the cottage, Ogyu cast an approving eye around the room. Flecks of straw gleamed in walls made of red-ochre earth. The central pillar was a slender tree trunk, irregularly shaped but polished to a subtle gloss. Rich woodgrain veined the unpainted rafters and columns. In the alcove, a scroll bearing a winter haiku hung above a crude black vase made by a primitive Korean potter. Yes, everything about the room met the highest standards of tea culture.
Ogyu had added one special touch, though, which he considered an improvement over traditional tea cottage design. Hidden beneath wooden grills, three sunken charcoal braziers burned. Ogyu saw no reason to sacrifice comfort for rusticity. In winter, the heat from the hearth, a square burner set in the floor by the host’s place, was hardly adequate.
He went into the tiny kitchen and took from the cabinet a tea whisk and bowl, a box of the finest powdered green tea, ladle, napkins, slop jar, and water vessel. He filled the water vessel from an urn that held his water supply, then carried it into the main room and set it on the hearth to boil. The other items he arranged on a lacquer tray on the serving mat by the hearth. Then he knelt to wait for Lady Niu. As he often did before a tea ceremony, he relived his odyssey from his parents’ country home to this cottage, just as rustic but far more costly.
He had been born Asashio Banzan, son of a minor vassal of a minor Tokugawa ally. In a province ravaged by civil war, he and his family had lived like peasants. As a precocious eight-year-old, he’d won the favor of his teacher at the fief’s samurai school, and ultimately of the lord, with his scholarly aptitude. The prize: a job as page at Edo Castle.
At Edo Castle, he’d been physically the weakest and smallest of the hundred-odd pages, but by far the cleverest. His natural instinct for exploiting the weaknesses and desires of both his elders and his peers served him well. He traded help with work for protection against bullies. He lent money, arranged liaisons with women, procured drink and drugs, and covered up his colleagues’ mistakes and misbehavior. In return, the other pages did his drudge work, and castle officials rewarded him with bonuses and choice assignments. He gave friendship in exchange for information he could use against his enemies. In this way, he’d perfected the political skills for which he was now famous. The years had seen him rise quickly to chief page, then clerk, secretary, administrator. But a man of his low origin could go no further.
Then came his marriage to the only child of one of the shogun’s chief retainers, achieved partly by flattering his prospective father-in-law, partly by conducting covert smear campaigns against his rivals. He’d taken his wife’s family name, Ogyu, and become his father-in-law’s adopted son and heir. He’d risen to the rank of councillor. When his father-in-law died, the family wealth came to Ogyu, along with the old man’s position: north magistrate of Edo.
With his spy network for eyes and ears, he’d run the city for thirty years, exercising an iron control that he hid under a guise of elegant nonchalance. Never had a hint of scandal stuck to him; he had always managed to hide the small acts of corruption he considered perquisites of his position.
Until recently, when one moment of carelessness and greed had brought him under Lady Niu’s power.
Two years ago, the shogun had issued the first Dog Protection Edicts. Violators had begun appearing in Ogyu’s courtroom. Most were poor peasants whose sentences he’d pronounced without a second thought. Then one day a well-dressed young man had come to see him.
“Magistrate Ogyu, I am the son of Kuheiji, the oil merchant,” the man said, bowing as he knelt on the floor of Ogyu’s office. “My father has been arrested for killing a dog. Tomorrow he will be brought before you for judgment and sentencing. I’m prepared to offer you a large sum in exchange for his release.”
Ogyu studied the merchant’s son, noting the signs of fear that the man’s businesslike manner couldn’t hide: restless shifting one moment, followed by unnatural stillness the next. “And what makes you think I would be open to such an offer?” he asked.
He’d accepted bribes before, but only when an offense was minor and the offender’s guilt questionable. The shogun had informed him—in person, yet—that the Dog Protection Edicts were to be enforced rigorously, with no exceptions. Ogyu could lose his position, or even his life for doing otherwise.
“I meant no insult, Magistrate.” The merchant’s son was trembling visibly now. “As a dutiful son, I am pleading with you for my father’s life and freedom. Here—I give you three hundred koban. And I swear on my own life that I will tell no one.”
Ogyu had started to wave his hand in dismissal. The hand stopped in midair as he stared at the gold coins the man spilled out of a bag and onto the floor. With this much money, he could build a summer villa in the hills. But woe on him if the shogun learned of the bargain! Then he thought: how would His Excellency ever know? The glitter of the coins helped him think of more reasons why he should accept the bribe. He began to rationalize. The dog was already dead; punishing the merchant wouldn’t bring it back to life. One small infraction of the law on Ogyu’s part wouldn’t jeopardize Tokugawa Tsunayoshi’s chances of producing an heir.
“Very well,” Ogyu said, gathering up the coins.
He’d freed the merchant, built his villa, and almost forgotten the matter. Then, last spring, he’d called on Lord Niu. Lady Niu waylaid him in the corridor as he was leaving.
After an exchange of pleasantries, she said, “A fine oil adds much to the taste of food. Even the dogs whom the shogun protects would agree, I think. Would you not pay three hundred koban for the best oil a merchant has to offer?”
To anyone else, her comment would have sounded idiotic. But Ogyu realized with horror that it meant she knew about the bribe. He’d lived in fear ever since. Now that fear prevented him from enjoying the memory of all his achievements. He couldn’t think of his spectacular rise to power without fearing that he’d reached the pinnacle of a mountain, only to find himself poised to tumble down its other side. Was this the day Lady Niu would finally use her dangerous knowledge?
The sound of voices outside interrupted his thoughts. Lady Niu had arrived; the servant was ushering her into the tea garden. His mouth dry with anxiety, Ogyu went to meet her. He reassured himself that Lady Niu simply wanted a discussion, as her letter had said. He would talk her out of making trouble for him. Everything would be fine.
When he saw her sitting on the bench, he experienced another qualm. She was dressed with impeccable correctness for the ceremony, as if she, too, saw an advantage in coming prepared to this meeting. Her black outer garment, worn fashionably off the shoulders, covered a black silk kimono patterned with the traditional winter combination of plum blossoms, pine boughs, and bamboo. Regal and beautiful as always, she rose when she saw him.
Ogyu greeted her in the prescribed manner, fighting uneasiness as he bowed. “My lady, welcome to my humble residence. Your acceptance of my invitation to take tea does me a great honor.”
Lady Niu bowed, too. Although she, as a daimyo’s wife, outranked Ogyu, he was a man, a magistrate, and some twenty years her senior. Their bows reflected these considerations, with neither bending lowe
r than the other. They’d begun their sparring as approximate equals, a fact that pleased Ogyu.
“On the contrary, Ogyu-san. It is your hospitality that does me the honor.” Lady Niu’s greeting also followed the conventional pattern. “The tea ceremony offers us a haven from worldly cares. But havens can be temporary, or even illusory. Is this not so?” Her lips curved in a smile. The cosmetically blackened teeth, meant to enhance her beauty, made her mouth look like a fount of death.
“Uh, yes. Quite.”
Her remark had no special significance, Ogyu decided as he left her at the cottage’s kneeling entrance and went around to the server’s door. She wasn’t warning him that this peaceful moment must give way to conflict, if it hadn’t already. With increasing trepidation, he passed through the kitchen and knelt in his place at the hearth.
He heard the splash of water as Lady Niu rinsed her hands and mouth at the basin outside, and a rustle of silk as she removed her shoes. Then the door slid open, and she entered on her knees. The humble posture failed to detract from her dignity, as Ogyu had hoped. Nor did her next comment relieve his nervousness.
“ ‘Mountains and plains, all are taken by the snow—nothing remains,’ ” she recited, reading the haiku on the scroll. She bowed to the alcove and took the seat of honor in front of it. “Ah, such poetry refreshes me. I feel a great sense of leisure, as though I need not hurry back to the bustle of the world.” She tucked her robes comfortably around herself, as if indeed preparing to stay a good while.
The purpose of the tea ceremony was the ritual Zen purification of body and mind, in surroundings that affirmed man’s oneness with nature. But Ogyu had had another aim in mind when he’d invited Lady Niu. He’d hoped that the ceremony’s rigid confines would somehow defuse a volatile situation. Lady Niu, with her refined manners, wouldn’t speak of unpleasant matters within the sanctuary of the tea cottage. Now he realized that she was fully capable of using the ceremony for her own purposes. She’d already managed to gain an advantage over him by letting him know his scheme had backfired. Caught in a trap of his own making, he was now unable to get rid of her without rushing the ceremony and appearing an ungracious host.
Ogyu’s hands shook as he wiped the inside of the tea bowl with a napkin. “A very astute observation, my lady,” he said weakly.
Please, he thought, let something happen to end this farce of a tea ceremony! Ordinarily he would have taken his time wiping the bowl, enjoying its shape and texture; now, he gave it a few hasty swabs, barely conscious of his actions. Let an earthquake bring down the roof!
The roof didn’t fall. Instead Lady Niu said, “The poem reminds me of a scene from a play that featured Edo’s foremost onnagata.” She paused, letting him absorb her words. “The play may have also had a line about thunder and lightning. I expect you know it? If not, a certain member of your staff might.”
“Onnagata”: Kikunojo. “Thunder and lightning”: Raiden, the wrestler. “Member of your staff”: Sano Ichirō. Ogyu felt faint as he translated Lady Niu’s oblique references, automatically scooping tea into the bowl. She was telling him she knew that Sano had persisted in investigating the shinjū, and even the identities of those he’d interrogated.
“Yes. I mean no.” Ogyu ladled water from the simmering urn onto the tea, wondering how in heaven her spies had managed to glean that information. His only hope now was to placate her—fast. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for …”
For what? She hadn’t actually accused him of anything. He couldn’t come right out and say, “For failing to stop Sano like you asked me to.” Not with Lady Niu maintaining the pretense that this was an ordinary tea ceremony. Such a gauche and vulgar violation of tea convention would lose him whatever advantage he still had.
“For my miserable performance as a host,” he finished, hoping she would understand.
Lady Niu did not acknowledge his apology. She was watching the stream of water splash into the tea bowl. “Good water is crucial to preparation of good tea,” she remarked. “Do you get yours from the springs of Hakone?”
“No, no, from Mount Hiei,” Ogyu stammered. Was it sheer coincidence that she should mention Sano’s destination? Picking up the wooden whisk, he began to beat the tea and water into a green froth. He could feel nervous perspiration sticking his clothes to his skin. Now he wished he hadn’t had the braziers lit.
“My stepdaughter Midori recently entered the nunnery at the Temple of Kannon in Hakone,” Lady Niu continued. Then she shook her head, frowning. “Forgive me. Of course you—and at least one member of your staff—know this already.” Pause. “Why else make such a long journey, in spite of a tragedy at Totsuka?”
Bowl and whisk fell from Ogyu’s hands as he grasped Lady Niu’s meaning. Foamy green tea spattered the floor. Moaning, Ogyu dabbed at it with his napkin. Midori was at the Temple of Kannon. That was why Sano had gone there: to question her. His lie made sense now, ideal as it was for disguising the real purpose of his journey. Such outrageous insubordination! Not even Tsunehiko’s murder had stopped him. And how humiliating for Ogyu to learn of it this way. Why hadn’t his spies found out and told him? For what did he pay them?
“I didn’t know your stepdaughter had become a nun,” Ogyu babbled, clutching the fallen bowl. “Forgive me, I didn’t know she was in Hakone. My apologies for my clumsiness.”
Somehow he managed to clean up the mess. Under Lady Niu’s bland stare, he prepared a fresh bowl of tea. She was angry, although she didn’t show it. A fresh wave of nausea lapped at Ogyu’s stomach. She would destroy him. Clinging to the tea ceremony’s false semblance of normalcy, he passed Lady Niu the tea bowl.
She turned it in her hands as she examined it in accordance with the ritual. “What a beautiful bowl,” she said, stroking the rough glaze with a fingertip. “When I drink, I shall think of the potter who made it and those illustrious persons who have drunk from it before me.”
Hearing her meaningless, conventional words, Ogyu went limp with relief. She’d finished what she’d come to say. She was satisfied with conveying her displeasure and wouldn’t harm him.
“You are too kind, my lady,” he said gratefully.
Released from fear and uncertainty, he began to enjoy the ceremony. Lady Niu drank and complimented the tea. She wiped the bowl where her lips had touched and passed it back to him, reciting a poem she had written. Ogyu drank and capped her poem with one of his own. He poured the dregs into the slop jar, and they repeated the process again, then again. Ogyu’s giddy relief raised him to new heights of eloquence. His conversation had never sparkled so. Surely he’d never before hosted the ceremony with such elegance. And Lady Niu was the perfect companion: beautiful, literate, her manners unimpeachably proper. Ogyu could almost like her.
Seeing her out the gate, he gushed, “Thank you, my lady, for honoring my poor cottage with your exalted presence. It would be more than I could hope for to have you come again. How can I secure your promise? Just name your request.”
“The pleasure and honor are all mine,” Lady Niu answered, inclining her head. “There is one thing you can do for me. If you will permit me to speak plainly?”
A pang of fear hit Ogyu’s stomach. “Of course,” he said, involuntarily hunching his shoulders and trying to smile. Nausea returned as he realized that she’d merely postponed the real purpose of her visit to avoid spoiling the tea ceremony. What a fool he must have seemed to her, exuberant in his false sense of security! And now he’d played right into her hands.
Lady Niu’s gaze turned cold and hard. All pretense at graciousness fell away as she said, “Sano Ichirō’s inquiries have aroused the interest of the metsuke.” The last word issued from her mouth like a drop of poison.
“The shogun’s spies?” Ogyu blurted, aghast. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to the workings of his department. Who knew what might come to light? “Are you sure?”
“I have it from a very reliable source,” Lady Niu said. “What is more, they are
entertaining the thought that my stepdaughter Yukiko and that man Noriyoshi were murdered, as your yoriki so obviously believes.”
“Then it was murder,” Ogyu whispered, clasping his hands to still their trembling. How awful if the shogun should think he’d tried to cover up such an important crime! It would mean a reprimand at best; demotion at worst. Now he wished he had listened to Sano. But he had truly believed the deaths a shinjū. Who could blame him for agreeing to spare the Nius the trouble of an inquiry? No one knew the hold Lady Niu had upon him.
Lady Niu shook her head impatiently. “Do not be ridiculous,” she said. “It was suicide. The metsuke, those despicable schemers, allow themselves to be carried away by the idea of a scandal in Lord Niu’s house, and all the opportunities such a scandal would create. Why, imagine the wealth that would pour into the Tokugawa coffers if they could strip my husband of his fief!” Her voice harshened with passion. “But they are about to begin their own investigation. This we must prevent.”
“Prevent,” Ogyu repeated, amazed that a mere woman should presume to match wits with the shogun’s men. “But how?”
Lady Niu gave a flat, humorless laugh. “That is for you to decide, Magistrate Ogyu-san,” she said, emphasizing his title.
“Me? Why? How?” Ogyu’s queasy stomach churned at the thought of entering such a dangerous conspiracy. Imagining the ruin of his career and possibly even exile or death, he feared he would complete his disgrace by vomiting in front of her.
“Why should be obvious.” Lady Niu opened the gate. “And how is for you to decide.” She stepped outside. A maid came forward to help her into her waiting palanquin. Over her shoulder, she said, “Just remember the oil merchant, and I am sure you will think of something.” Then she was gone.
Ogyu closed the gate and leaned against it, eyes shut, as sour waves of panic and sickness weakened him. He took deep breaths through his mouth, fighting for control of his body and emotions. Remember who you are, he told himself. You have triumphed before; you will again. He remembered his rival for the position of chief page all those years ago; he’d framed the boy for thievery and secured the job himself. During his tenure as magistrate, he’d survived periodic attempts to unseat him; he’d used his connections and influence to have his detractors transferred to posts far from Edo. Now he tried to deny that Lady Niu’s was a more serious threat than any other he’d faced.
Shinju Page 20
