As he jumped to avoid the downward slashing sword, Akitada crashed into the clothes stand, which toppled, covering him with a pile of scented silk garments. A woman screamed piercingly, “No!” Momentarily blinded and helpless, he knew his attacker was striking again. He attempted to roll out of the way of the blade, but was tangled in the garments. This time, miraculously, the blade caught the wooden frame of the stand, and he only felt a sharp blow to his shoulder. The woman screamed again.
Heaving up clothes and stand with a single violent movement, Akitada regained his feet and vision. Even in the semidarkness, he took in the scene quickly. Two women were in the room, one cowering on the floor and sobbing hysterically, the other, massive as a figure carved from rock, standing protectively in front of her, her broad face a mask of snarling determination. The woman on the floor was his “nun,” though she was no longer wearing the veil and habit. Her protector was a servant, a peasant woman of extraordinary size.
The sword lay on the floor between him and the two women. Akitada bent to take it up, seeing with surprise that it was very beautiful. The hilt was gold inlaid with colored enamel and pearls, and the blade was incised with patterns filled with gold and silver. He touched his thumb to it. It was as dull as a wooden practice sword.
“Very pretty,” he said, “but since swords like this are meant for ceremonial wear only, it’s not very useful as a weapon. Still, you might have killed me. Do you always attack visitors who have announced themselves outside your door?”
The maid still simmered with hostility. “You have no business here,” she said. “I was protecting my lady. Go away or I’ll call the constables.”
Akitada ignored this. “This is Lady Yasugi then, I assume? She can tell you that calling for constables does little good in this neighborhood. We met yesterday in the street outside.”
The woman on the floor got to her knees and bowed. “This foolish person apologizes for the mistake. We thought you were a robber.”
She had a lovely, cultured voice. Akitada returned the bow. “A reasonable mistake. I was passing your house when I saw a man climbing over the back wall. I scared him off, but decided to have a look in case someone else lurked about. My name is Sugawara Akitada, by the way. I serve in the Ministry of Justice.”
The maid could no longer contain herself. “You met my lady in the street? And someone was climbing our wall? Amida! What is going on?”
Her mistress said sharply, “Be quiet, Anju,” and told Akitada, “I am Hiroko, my Lord Yasugi’s third wife.”
“Ah. I was told that Lord Yasugi had left with his entire family days ago. Why are you here alone?”
Her eyes flickered to her maid before she answered. “I fell ill. My lord left me until I would be well enough to travel. I shall join him soon. We are expecting an escort any day.”
Akitada did not bother to keep the disbelief from his voice. “Lord Yasugi left two women here alone?”
She flushed and lowered her eyes. Akitada saw now that she was a remarkable beauty. The nun’s habit had hidden her best features: an oval face framed by thick, long hair; large eyes and sweetly shaped lips enhanced by touches of paint; a graceful body flattered by the thinnest of silks in many layers and in exquisite shades of rose and lilac. No man in his right mind would let such a treasure out of his sight for long.
She spoke again, in a pleasant soft voice that nevertheless put him in his place for implying criticism of her husband. “We could not be certain that I had not contracted smallpox. My lord left two male servants, but one has gone to nurse his sick mother, and we have sent the other after my husband to tell him I am now well enough to travel.”
Smallpox again. Apparently it seized people’s imaginations to such a degree that they abandoned their loved ones. Akitada was shocked at the husband’s inhumanity. He looked from her to the servant, who stood stolidly beside her mistress, watching and daring him to doubt what he was being told. Then he laid the sword on a clothes chest, bent to pick up the rack, and set it upright again.
“Oh, please do not trouble,” cried Lady Yasugi. “I have forgotten my manners. Forgive me. Anju will do that. Anju, a pillow for Lord Sugawara and see if there is some wine.”
Akitada found the cosmetics box under the pile of silk robes and picked it up. “This is very beautiful,” he said. “The design of a master. There cannot be very many like it.”
Lady Yasugi glanced at the box. Twisting her hands in her lap, she murmured, “Thank you. It is nothing. A gift from a relation. Bring the wine, Anju.”
The maid gave her mistress a look of reproach but left the tumbled clothing she had been replacing and went out. They were alone, a situation that was not merely unorthodox but quite improper between a married woman and a strange male visitor. Akitada wondered about the relationship between this beautiful creature and her wealthy lord and master.
She leaned forward a little and said urgently, “I have not thanked you for saving me yesterday. You injured your eye?”
Suddenly Akitada felt self-conscious about his appearance. “It’s nothing. I’m glad you are safe.” He cast another glance around the luxurious furnishings of the large room and then went to sit on the cushion the maid had placed for him. The cosmetics box he set on the floor between them, where the slanting rays of the sun made the gold inlay shine and the mother-of-pearl glimmer in a rainbow of colors.
She glanced at it nervously, and then at him, but did not comment. Instead, she made an effort at polite conversation. She smiled and said softly, “Forgive me for not thanking you earlier, my lord, but I did not want Anju to know what happened. She worries so.”
Akitada raised his eyebrows. “She’s quite right to worry. This is no longer a safe neighborhood and you should never go out alone. Why didn’t you take your maid with you?”
Turning her head away, she said pettishly, “Oh, I am so tired of being watched all the time. I thought it would be safe to walk to the palace in the middle of the day. And I put on the nun’s habit so nobody would bother me.”
She was lying. Akitada firmed his resolve. “I see. You disguised yourself because you thought it would be safer?” She nodded, giving him a quick glance to see if he believed her. “Why was it so important for you to attend the hearing on the murder of the blind woman?”
Her eyes widened at his directness, but she must have expected the question, and that meant she knew he had been at the hearing and had followed her. “What? Oh, you know about that? No particular reason. I meant to go to the palace and watch the guards at their practice. When I passed police headquarters, people were going in and I decided to find out what was happening.”
“Come,” he said, “you can do better than that. I was there and watched you during the proceedings. You either came because of the victim or the accused, and as the accused is my retainer Tora, I know you weren’t there on his account.”
She flushed, with anger this time, and burst into defiant speech. “You are wrong. Why shouldn’t I go to a hearing out of interest? I have seen too little of the outside world. Women of our class rarely have an opportunity to see life the way men see it. We are kept like prisoners in our fathers’ houses, and when they die, we are under our brothers’ control, or that of our husbands. And when we finally become old and have neither husbands nor brothers left, our sons keep us locked away unless we cut our hair and take the veil. Only nuns and peasant women escape their prison.” Her eyes flashed with emotion. “Not a day passes when I don’t wish I were a nun. I keep the habit for the moment I can cut my hair and escape this cage.”
The maid, returning, overheard her words. She said sternly, “The master does not like you talking that way. You have a good life here. Why trouble yourself with ugly things when you have fine clothes, good food, your books, and your toys? You can play your zither, paint, or walk in the garden whenever you please.”
Her mistress buried her face in her sleeve.
Akitada looked at Lady Yasugi and wondered. He had gathered that her desire for a religious life had nothing to do with spirituality and a great deal with spirit. He did not approve altogether of too much spirit in a female. It was true that noble women spent most of their lives inside their homes. Most preferred it, because going out would bring them into contact with the ragged, diseased, and unsavory poor. They would be accosted by beggars, prostitutes, thieves, and robbers. Lady Yasugi had certainly learned that much on her recent excursion. But of course she had lied. It had all been an elaborate lie. A casual stroll to satisfy her curiosity was not the real reason she had left the dubious safety of this house. He turned to the maid. “Anju, did you know Tomoe was murdered?”
The woman’s large chin sagged. “Amida.” She stared at him. “That’s why you’re here?” Turning on her mistress, she cried,
“There. I told you. Now see what’s happened. What will the master say when he finds out the police are asking questions?”
This was not quite the reaction Akitada had expected, but he settled for it. “Do I take it that Lord Yasugi is unaware of your relationship with the blind street singer?” he asked the mistress.
Lady Yasugi’s hands were clenched so tightly that the knuckles showed white against her creamy skin, and her eyes looked frightened. But she said calmly enough, “I have no idea what you are talking about. Anju is confused.”
Akitada turned back to the maid. “You understood very well, didn’t you, Anju?”
The maid flushed. “No, no. I must have misheard you, sir.” Seeing his disbelief, she stammered, “I… I thought… you said Tonomo. Yes, Tonomo. He’s one of the children. Always in trouble… er… we didn’t want the master to find out. That’s all.”
Akitada greeted that feeble explanation with a derisive laugh, but the maid’s foolish attempt at a lie was not funny, at least not to Lady Yasugi, who was quite pale and on the verge of tears. He was more confused than ever about the connection between this wealthy, elegant woman and a poor singer from the slums. After a moment’s hesitation, he tried appealing to her conscience.
“Lady Yasugi, I’m not with the police, but I’m helping them on this case. This poor woman was brutally murdered in a small room she rented. Being blind, she had no way to protect herself against her killer. I have seen the room. There must have been a terrible, bloody struggle.” He noted with satisfaction that she gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry to upset you, but I need your help. My retainer Tora knew Tomoe and was worried about her safety. He found her dead and was arrested for a murder he did not commit.” Akitada decided to play his hunch. “He told me that Tomoe used to come here to perform and that you befriended her.” When she only stared at him without making a protest, he knew he had guessed correctly. “I beseech you, both for Tomoe’s sake and for Tora’s, tell me what you know about her. The motive for the crime may lie in her past and nobody seems to know about that.”
Was it his imagination or had she relaxed? She opened and closed her mouth, but finally said only, “How terrible!”
Exasperated, Akitada asked, “Do you know Tomoe or not?”
She glanced at the maid, then nodded. “Yes. She did come here. To sing to me, as you said. Anju did not approve because my husband would have objected to having a street singer in our quarters, but I felt sorry for her and thought a little extra money would help someone so sadly afflicted. The servants told me about her murder. So sad! When I saw her name on the board in front of police headquarters and read about the hearing, I went in to find out more. Out of pity and curiosity, that’s all.”
The maid cried, “You went into police headquarters yesterday? A place full of criminals and rough men? Only a prostitute would go there unattended. The master won’t like that at all.”
Lady Yasugi gave an exasperated sigh. “I only wanted to find out what happened to the singer, Anju. Nobody knew who I was. There is no need to trouble my lord with such a trivial thing. He will only blame you.”
The maid clamped her mouth shut and folded her arms across her chest. “I should have told him from the start and none of this would’ve happened,” she grumbled, but her mistress had won her point.
Akitada gave Lady Yasugi a long look, which she met calmly enough, but he saw that her fingers were locked tightly and was convinced that she was still lying. Why? Because the maid was present? He picked up the cosmetics case and opened it. It was filled with salves and paints as Tomoe’s had been, and the designs inside and out were as exquisite as those on hers, though not quite the same-different plants and flowers, he thought. But he was certain it had been made by the same artist. He was about to ask his name, when Lady Yasugi said sharply, “Anju, don’t just stand around doing nothing. This wine is quite cold. Go and heat a fresh flask. And try to find some pickled vegetables or plums. There must be something left.” Her voice was tight with impatience and the pretty forehead wore a frown. The maid took up the flask and left the room.
They were alone again. The sun had moved and taken with it the broad band of golden light that had made the box sparkle and cast a soft radiance over the room and its occupants. It must be getting late. Akitada attempted to separate his admiration for this beautiful and troubled woman from his suspicions.
She listened to the receding steps for a moment, then said urgently, “Please do not pursue this matter, sir. Anju must not know any more. Everything depends on it.”
Astonished, Akitada protested, “I regret but I cannot do this. A crime has been committed and Tora may lose his life over it. If you know anything, you must speak.”
She wrung her hands. “My husband… you do not understand… please… there are children and I cannot risk their lives and happiness. Besides, it is a family secret that cannot have anything to do with the murder.”
Satisfaction washed over Akitada. Finally they were coming to it. He leaned forward. “If this has nothing to do with the murder, I shall not reveal your secret, but you must speak.”
She shook her head. “You cannot know… I beg you, have pity.”
Feeling heartless, he said, “My dear lady, there is too much evidence of a very close connection between you and Tomoe to support your allegation that she merely came here to sing. For one thing,” he raised the cosmetics box, “there is this. Tomoe’s box is a twin to yours. Such an expensive and beautifully made article should not, by rights, have been in the possession of a poor blind woman.”
She began to weep softly, raising a silk sleeve to hide her tears. “Oh, dear heaven.” she moaned, “if my husband finds out, it will destroy me.”
“I have given you my word that I will keep your secret if it doesn’t affect the case.”
She lowered her sleeve. Even tear-stained and reddened, her face was still lovely, her eyes awash with pain. Increasingly distracted by her anguish, he made a conscious effort to remain in control, but before he could speak again, she shocked him utterly.
“Tomoe was my sister,” she said, new tears welling over and spilling down her face. “My older sister. Now are you satisfied?”
He was dumfounded. “Your sister?” This beautiful and elegant creature and the ragged, pockmarked blind woman from the market could not be sisters. “How did such a thing come to pass?”
She dabbed at her face and looked toward the door. Her fear of the maid was palpable. When she spoke again, she did not look at him, but the words tumbled from her lips. “My sister made a bad marriage. When our parents did not approve of the man, she went to be with him, and they disowned her. Then she got smallpox and lost her eyesight, and her husband divorced her. I knew nothing of this until I went shopping for silk one day and found her working in the market like a beggar. Anju was with me and we could not talk freely. I offered her money, but she was too proud to accept charity. Tomoe was always proud. And stubborn. There was little else I could do because my husband would not have allowed it-he is… very strict about the company I keep-but she came to visit several times. We pretended it was to sing to me. She sang, and we talked little, hardly like sisters, because we were never alone. I’d give her some money for the… for her work, and she would leave again.” She raised tragic eyes to his. “So you see
… it cannot have anything to do with her murder.”
It was a tragic story, but such things happened when daughters rebelled against their parents’ wishes and made their own choices. Wisdom resides in the soul, not the mind or the body. The parents, no doubt, had felt that their daughter had proven unworthy of family membership. Perhaps they had even lost her without feeling much regret-not so much as they might have felt for a lost ox or chicken. Akitada felt very sorry for the two women, but he knew that Tomoe had chosen her fate. Tomoe had committed the ultimate sin; she had defied her parents and run away.
Akitada looked into the melting eyes of the beautiful woman across from him and decided that rebellion must be something of a family trait, for Lady Yasugi disobeyed her husband and had expressed strong feelings about her lack of freedom as a woman; only a day earlier she had almost paid a high price for her lack of decorum.
Truly, women were difficult to understand. Tamako had always shown a proper respect both for her father and for her husband. Tomoe, and perhaps to a lesser degree her sister, were excellent examples of the suffering women brought upon themselves when they did not subordinate their foolish notions to the wiser counsel of men. Seimei would quote the Great Sage on that subject: “If retainers obey their lords, children their parents, and wives their husbands, peace and tranquility will reign.” And yet, there was something very attractive about a spirited woman.
Lady Yasugi broke into his thoughts. “You won’t mention this to anyone, my lord?”
He started to tell her that he must find Tomoe’s killer and for that reason needed to know more about Tomoe’s family and her husband, but she drew in her breath sharply. “Shh! Anju is coming.”
The maid gave them a suspicious glance, then poured more wine for Akitada. She offered him a small bowl of pickled plums. To justify her errand, Akitada drank and took one of the plums. Both wine and plums were excellent. He recalled Tomoe’s poor room and the few bits of coarse food she had subsisted on.
There was little more he could do under Anju’s watchful eye. An idea occurred to him: If he could bring Lady Yasugi to his own home, it would be much easier to separate her from her maid. He said, “You’re not safe here. I chased off the thug who climbed the wall, but he may return. If you consent, my wife will make you welcome in my house until your husband sends for you.”
The maid snapped, “The master wouldn’t allow it.” She looked belligerent, her arms folded again and her chin thrust out. “I’ll keep watch. She’ll be all right.”
Lady Yasugi nodded. “Yes, it is better so. Thank you for your offer, but I should like to stay here.”
Foiled, Akitada said, “In that case, I shall send you one of my men to keep watch until your own people come. Genba is a gentle giant who used to be a wrestling master before he came into my service. You may trust him completely.”
There was a short hesitation as mistress and maid exchanged glances. Then Lady Yasugi bowed. “Thank you, Lord Sugawara. We are very much indebted to you for your warning and your kind offer. I trust we won’t deprive you of your man for very long.”
It was a signal that the visit had come to an end.
She rose to accompany him to the veranda. The setting sun had dipped behind the trees and left a soft radiance behind which flattered both inanimate objects and living beings. For a moment they stood looking out across the garden as Anju hovered behind them.
The third Lady Yasugi’s private garden was enclosed by the outer wall, two other pavilions, and a covered gallery leading to the main house. The scent of the flowering wisteria growing against her veranda hung heavy in the warm evening air, and late bees still buzzed about the long, pendant white blooms. It seemed very peaceful here, but beyond the wall lay the violence of the western city, and even in the buildings around them evil might lurk.
Akitada glanced down at the zither. “I heard you playing earlier, a very charming sound. The street is just beyond that wall. I knew the house must be occupied and wondered why no one answered my knocking at the gate.”
She blushed a little. “We heard your knocking. Forgive me, but two women alone cannot receive visitors. And we were afraid. I should not have played my zither, but time passes very slowly here.”
He could imagine her loneliness in this deserted villa and understood her frustration with a life that tied her to an autocratic husband who had deserted her at the first suspicion of smallpox. Her beauty was more pronounced here than in the half light of her room, though Akitada saw that she was not as young as Lady Kose had suggested. He guessed her to be Tamako’s age. On an impulse he asked, “Do you have children, Lady Yasugi?”
She went very still for a moment. Then she said tonelessly, “No. I have disappointed my lord in this also.”
“I’m sorry.” Producing a number of male heirs was a wife’s primary responsibility. On this rested her standing in the household. If Lady Yasugi had proved infertile, it might account for her husband’s neglect and her own unhappiness in her marriage. Many a man divorced a barren wife because of the overriding duty to ensure the survival of his family. Still, she was a very desirable woman. Akitada glanced at that pure profile with the gently curving eyebrows and the elegant hairline. Few women of her class dared to be seen in the bright light of day. He said, “Surely fortune will soon bless you.”
“Thank you.” She gave a shiver and changed the subject. “It seems strange to feel fear in this beautiful place.”
“Genba will take care of that when he gets here.”
“You are very good.”
A brief silence fell. No doubt she wished him gone, but Akitada still hoped for something more, some small piece of information he might use to find Tomoe’s killer. “May I ask your father’s name?” he asked.
She stiffened. “It cannot matter. I bear the Yasugi name now.”
So she still tried to protect her secret. He could not probe further and bowed to her. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said formally. “If you permit it, I shall take another stroll about the garden to make sure all is well. Genba should arrive at your front gate within the hour. He’s a big man with a large smile.”
She murmured her thanks, and he stepped off the veranda and onto the garden path. The events of the day had finally managed to give him a headache. He looked forward to a hot bath, food, and bed. Retracing his steps, he checked the gardens and service buildings, visited the back gate again, finding it securely locked, and explored the shrubbery underneath the troublesome pine branch. Eventually he made his way to the front gate, where he found Anju waiting for him.
She said ungraciously, “I have to let you out. The gate can only be locked from the inside.”
He nodded. “Keep an eye on your mistress. If you can find a sharper weapon than your master’s sword, use it. As soon as Genba arrives, you can relax.”
She bowed. “I’m sure the master will be much obliged.”
The two wings of the big double gate were barred by a ponderous beam that it would take two sturdy men to lift. But a smaller gate was cut into one of the panels. This was bolted by two sliding bars. A short chain led from this gate to a bamboo rattle. Nobody could pass in or out without alerting the household. He waited for her to open this gate, but she stared at him, almost as if she were still trying to decide if he was friend or foe. Then she made a strange sound, something between a grunt and a chuckle, and slipped the bars back. The small gate flew open with a loud rattle of the bamboo sticks, and he stepped through.
“It’s Murata,” she said.
He turned, but the gate slammed shut with another rattle, and he heard the bolts slide into place and her footsteps recede.
For a moment he was confused. Murata? Had he misheard? What had she meant by it? Then it came to him that she must have given him Lady Yasugi’s family name. Most helpful, of course, but why had she done so in defiance of her mistress’s wishes?
Perhaps Anju had a purpose of her own. Her mistress had made it clear that, far from being her devoted servant, Anju was her watchdog, loyal only to Lord Yasugi. But this was surely not in her master’s interest. Akitada wondered again about the relationship between the wealthy lord and his third wife. Perhaps, being elderly and uncertain of his power to attract a pretty young woman, Yasugi was filled with jealous suspicions.
Lady Kose had said he had taken pity on her because she had been a poor widow. Strange, he had almost forgotten that. As she had not given Yasugi any children, her position was especially weak. It lent some credence to her claim that she was afraid to have Yasugi find out about Tomoe. But was any husband so unreasonable as to hold a harmless meeting between sisters against his wife? No, it was more likely that she feared the connection because of some past indiscretion. And Anju? Why was she making trouble for her mistress?
He was suddenly exhausted. Rubbing his throbbing head, he cast another glance at the Yasugi villa’s imposing gates, many tiled roofs, and well-kept walls, and went home through the evening dusk.
Genba admitted him with the news that Tora had not returned yet. He was chewing, and Akitada was tired and irritated. He said sharply, “Why are you always eating? For heaven’s sake, at least put the food away and empty your mouth when you answer the gate.”
Genba hung his head. “Sorry, sir. My supper. Your lady is sending me out on errands and I grabbed a bite while I could.”
“Hmm… I’m afraid I have another, more important assignment for you.”
Genba looked nervous. “Her ladyship needs ink, paper, and brushes to teach the young master. And cook wants more rice and some dried fish.”
“I don’t care what they told you,” Akitada snapped. “You have no time for silly errands. You’re to go to a villa in the western city. I found two women there alone and had to chase a ruffian away who had climbed into their garden. Heaven knows what would have happened if I hadn’t come along. He was one of the men who attacked us yesterday.”
Genba broke in, “You found the nun?”
“Yes, but she’s no nun. She is Lady Yasugi, wife of a wealthy provincial lord, and she has only a maid with her. They expect an escort to take them to their country estate, but meanwhile they’re in desperate danger. Take your bow and arrows and a short sword. And hurry. It’s growing dark already, and those thugs will probably return at nightfall.” He gave Genba directions and then went into the house.
Tamako and his son were in her room, sitting close together, looking at a scroll of pictures and poems by the light of a tall candle. Yori scrambled up, crying, “Come and see the fine book Mother found. There are pictures of rabbits and foxes, and of frogs and birds. And all of them are dressed like people.”
Akitada swung his small son up into his arm and went to look. Tamako greeted him with a smile. “Welcome home. Your eye looks much better.”
He doubted that, but nodded. “You make a charming picture reading together. How is Yori’s reading coming along?”
“Oh, exceedingly well,” she said brightly.
“I hate reading,” Yori informed his father. “I’d much rather practice with my sword.”
His mother flushed and shook her head at Yori. Something about that small message between mother and son irritated Akitada.
“Come, Yori,” he told the boy, “let’s sit down and you can read to me what it says next to these pictures.”
Tamako said quickly, “It is in grass writing and too difficult for a child of Yori’s age.”
Akitada glanced at the book. The writing looked pretty simple to him. “Why? He has been studying with Seimei for two years now. At least he can guess at some of the words. Here, Yori. What is it that the frog says to the rabbit?”
Yori bent over the page and giggled. “‘Why don’t you jump into the pond, silly rabbit?’ And the rabbit says, ‘I don’t like to get my fur coat wet!” He giggled again and rolled the scroll to the next picture.
Akitada firmly returned to the picture and said, “That’s not at all what is written here. Try again.”
Yori stuck out his lower lip. “I don’t want to. I like my story better.”
“Yori,” said his father sternly, “you cannot always have things the way you want them. We must learn to read and write so that we can carry out our duties to the gods and our emperor when we grow up. Now read!”
But Yori could not or would not. He ran to his mother and hid his face against her shoulder.
“Why is he refusing a simple request?” Akitada asked his wife.
Tamako sighed. “Yori is still practicing his Chinese characters and cannot read grass writing yet. He tries, but it’s very difficult. I well remember how I struggled and how ashamed I was when my father. ..” She stopped when she saw Akitada’s face and said, “He’s still very little.”
“He is nearly five. I could read when I was his age. Girls are not expected to learn as quickly.” A sharp pain shot through Akitada’s head. “It seems to me that you pamper Yori too much. Seimei tries to make him do his work, but you only sit and look at pictures with him and so, of course, he runs to you when he should be hard at work. I’m not pleased with his progress.” He glared at Yori in his mother’s protective embrace. The realization that Yori preferred her company rankled.
“Oh,” Tamako cried, “I do try. It seems to me if you make a child hate learning, he’ll never make an effort, but if you show him how entertaining it can be, he’ll be much more open to instruction.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Akitada. “Such an attitude merely turns him into a weakling and a dawdler. He can look at pictures after he has practiced his characters. This trifling must stop.”
“We would have practiced writing,” Tamako said, “but there was very little paper left, the ink cake is almost gone, and a brush broke. I have sent Genba to get more.”
“Genba has more important things to do. How can this household be out of paper and ink? Yori?” The child looked at him. “Did you waste the paper and ruin the brushes?”
Yori’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t mean to, Father.”
Tired and with a pounding head, Akitada suddenly felt overwhelmed. “Why must I keep an eye on the smallest details of this household?” he demanded. “And where’s Seimei? Why is he not teaching the child? Heaven knows I am too busy to do everything myself.”
Tamako pulled the sobbing Yori into her arms, irritating her husband further. “Seimei was not well today. He was feverish. I made him lie down in his room.”
“Oh. That’s another matter,” Akitada conceded, wondering just how ill Seimei was.
Encouraged, Tamako added, “I worry about smallpox. What if he has it? Yori must not go near him until we’re certain it’s not.”
Akitada finally lost his temper completely. “I have told you before that there’s no truth to this imaginary epidemic. Don’t you think I would take precautions if I feared for your safety? Do you doubt my word in everything?”
Turning his back on them, he lit a small pottery lamp and stalked along the dark corridor to Seimei’s room. To his surprise, this was in darkness also. The old man was dozing, his thin frame wrapped in a quilt, his elbow propped on an armrest, and his head supported in his hand. He had not heard the sound of the sliding door or noticed the flicker of the oil lamp. Akitada sat down beside him. The room seemed excessively warm and stuffy because someone had closed the shutters to the outside. No wonder, he thought, that he is feverish in this hot room, wrapped up in layers of wadding-stuffed blankets. He reached out and touched the wrinkled hand. The skin felt hot and dry, and Seimei jerked awake.
“Oh,” he said, his voice hoarse and cracking, “you are home, sir. Sorry, but I must have dozed off for a moment.” He began to peel back the quilt and tried to get up. “Your tea? Shall I make it for you?” he quavered.
Akitada restrained him. “No, Seimei. I came to see how you are. My wife told me that you felt ill.”
Seimei shook his head. “It was nothing. I’m quite all right. Just a touch of tiredness, that’s all.” He swallowed and started to shake. “How cold it is all of a sudden,” he said through trembling lips.
Akitada was beginning to feel concerned. He touched the old man’s forehead and found it burning with fever. “You’re ill, old friend. You treat all of us for the slightest complaints, and yet you do not treat yourself. How is it that you didn’t read the symptoms and prescribe the correct remedy?”
“It is nothing,” Seimei said again.
Akitada looked around the room. It was as neat as only a man with lifelong habits of tidying up after others could keep it, but there was not a single sign of anyone else having visited with tokens of concern. No small brazier heating water for his tea stood by his side, no flask of wine, not even a water pitcher to refresh the feverish tongue.
A sudden and violent anger seized Akitada. Apparently the panic about smallpox had seized Tamako to such a degree that she had neglected a sick old man whose devotion to the family deserved her loving care. At least Yasugi had left his wife a maid before deserting her. The shock of this discovery made him physically ill.
He leaned forward and, raising the lamp, gently undid the front of Seimei’s robe to look for telltale spots, but there was nothing.
Seimei croaked, “No, not smallpox. I would not have stayed.”
“Then I would have had to tie you down, old man,” snapped Akitada. “What utter nonsense. You belong here. I’m glad it’s not the disease, but you’re quite feverish.” He carefully covered the shivering old man again and got up to bring Seimei’s medicine box to him. “I want you to tell me what medicines are indicated and how to prepare them.”
Seimei revived a little as he fingered through his box, pulling forth this twist of paper and that container of salve. Eventually he instructed Akitada in the preparation of an infusion and the addition of other ingredients to a bowl of watery rice gruel. Then he attempted to get up for a trip to the privy. Akitada caught him before he could stagger out the door and supported him to the outdoor convenience and back again. The trip exhausted Seimei and he agreed to be put to bed.
With Seimei settled in his blankets, Akitada left for the kitchen. Tamako hovered in the corridor outside Seimei’s room.
“How is he?” she asked.
Akitada said coldly, “Very sick, but you can relax. It’s not your dreaded smallpox,” and brushed past her.
“I’m glad it’s not smallpox,” she cried after him. “Where shall you eat your evening rice?”
His stomach twisted again at the thought that she would have let the old man die rather than expose herself and the child to the disease. “I shall eat with Seimei,” he said over his shoulder.
In the kitchen, the cook greeted him with complaints about the lack of foodstuffs and the absence of both Tora and Genba. He ignored her and instead barked commands about hot water and gruel at her.
The rest of the evening he spent tending to the old man. When Seimei had drunk his hot infusion of herbs, claiming that he felt great relief, he ate some of the gruel. Akitada had tasted this in the kitchen and almost choked on the bitterness. They sat together after that and Akitada told him about Lady Yasugi, but speaking was painful for Seimei and eventually Akitada offered to read to him instead. Seimei demurred, but then pointed to the “Sayings of the Sage,” a ragged and much-thumbed scroll he kept nearby. Master Kung’s brilliance notwithstanding, Seimei eventually dozed off, and Akitada put away the book and went to his own room.
He could not remember when he had felt this miserable. He was dazed from the headache and tiredness and deeply distressed. As he lay under his quilts, the words of the Great Sage kept passing through his mind. “A man who does not plan against the future will find disaster on his doorstep.” Tonight he had found disaster, and tomorrow morning he must speak to Tamako, to make clear to his wife, before it was too late, what he expected of the mistress of his household and the mother of his son. But even though her heartlessness had deeply offended him, he must be mindful that angry words would arouse resentment. He thought of the beautiful Lady Yasugi, who lived in constant fear of her husband. “Severity,” Master Kung advised, “must only be directed at oneself.”