Dream of a Spring Night (Hollow Reed series) (18 page)

“Thank you, Father,” Sadamu whispered.
 
“If you like, I’ll help you make some fragrant pills.”

At that moment the doctor felt almost replete with happiness.

His satisfaction did not last long.
 
When they walked back to the house for their evening rice, they heard someone screaming.
 
They ran around the corner of the house and found the servant Togoro on the ground near the veranda steps.
 
He was clutching his groin with both hands while tears ran down his disfigured face.

“What happened, Togoro?” asked the doctor.
 
“Did you hurt yourself?”

“Oh.
 
Oh.
 
Oh,” moaned Togoro.
 
“Boy kicked me.”
  

“Boy kicked you?
 
Why?”

“He said I must bow to him and call him Master Hachiro now.
 
I told him to piss off, and he kicked me in the balls.”

Everything men say about women is doubly true of them.
 
We are not the only ones who are frivolous,
fickle ,
foolish, weak, temperamental, and easily seduced.

I must say no more, except that my disappointment causes me great suffering.
 
I, too, can now say, “My love is one-sided like an abalone shell, pounded by waves on a rocky shore.”
 
It is too painful to think that a lady of birth and refinement, a woman of superior sensibility and the most faithful affection could so easily be cast aside for a crude provincial who flaunts her disgusting body along with her dirty songs.

For days I wept quietly into my sleeves at night and strove to put a good face on it during the day.
 
I showed everyone that I had no hard feelings and wished to help her in every way, but the ill-natured creature did not respond to my generous and repeated offers.
 
I could see that the others were excited by the developments and watched us.
 
I, at least, behaved like a lady.
 
She flaunted her triumph by dressing up every day to show that she expected another summons.

The summons did not always come, of course, but she always put on her costume.
 
Apparently His Majesty gave it to her.
 
I cannot say that I would wish to appear thus attired.
 
There is something very low about the costume of a shirabyoshi.
 
They dress like men!
 
But then they are mere prostitutes of the lowest order, selling their bodies at street corners all over the capital.
 
And now we have one of them in our midst!

After days of silent suffering, I realized that I was not the only one who was being hurt by this female.
 
The whole imperial household is suffering from the gossip.
 
Soon our verandas will be cluttered with young men, foolish youngsters from good families as well as rude warrior types from the palace guard.
 
They will pass poems under our grass shades and screens, and the ladies will be occupied day and night composing poetic answers.
 
They will whisper and giggle.
 
Then, at night, there will be soft steps, and silks will rustle, and little cries and male murmurs will disturb my rest, and then – well, I won’t go on.
 
I will
lie
there, behind my screens, kept awake by such sounds, sounds that go on and on, until the furtive visitor leaves.
 
And the next morning another lady will receive her letter and write her poem in return.

I, of course, will have to stay aloof and merely listen to men’s footsteps passing on the veranda, coming and going.
 

It came to me finally one night, as I lay there thinking about all this, that it was my duty to report the matter before the scandal could take hold and damage the reputations of Their Majesties.
 
So I wrote to my mistress, the Consort.

I serve Her Majesty even though
She
spends most of Her time in Her own palace these days.
 
When
She
left, She took some of Her ladies with Her, but I imagine She could not spare me here.
 
At least one reliable person must remain behind to keep an eye on things.

 
I made my letter short, but ended it with a poem of my own: “See how a gaudy blossom growing in the mud captivates the sun above the clouds.”
 
I thought the images rather appropriate.

To my immense gratification, Her Majesty arrived here the very next day, proof that I had not overestimated the danger.

I reported immediately.
 
Her Majesty, as always, looked incredibly beautiful, making me wonder why His Majesty has permitted
Her
to absent Herself.
 
It was indeed as if “Her radiance had hidden behind the clouds” all this time, and I said words to that effect.
 
Of course, even an imperial consort may feel that
Her
duty is heavy at times.
 
She must bear children and may die in childbirth.
 
I must say, though, that I would find it easy to make such a sacrifice.
 
Oh, why does He prefer that young slut?
 
Never mind!

Her Majesty spoke to me in the strictest confidence.
 
I told
Her
everything, and She sent for our ladies because She wanted to see what the girl looks like.
 

When they arrived to make their obeisances, I remained seated beside Her Majesty.
 
They could see that I occupied a position of the highest confidence, and that pleased me.
 
I felt so happy at that moment that I considered asking Her Majesty to take me with
Her
when She left us again.
 
Only my deep and forgiving devotion to His Majesty caused me to desist.
 
Ah, my foolish heart.
 
“Once I had gazed upon the sun above the clouds I was blinded to all else.”
 

Besides, I can serve Her Majesty better here.

The Oba girl kept to the
back,
as well she might under the circumstances.
 
When her name was called, she came forward.
 
Regrettably, she was not wearing her dancing costume.
 
Her Majesty looked at her clothes and figure and said, “I see you have recently come from one of the provinces.”
 
We all knew what that meant.
 
The girl was hopelessly out of place at court.

“Do you have any talents?” Her Majesty asked next.

“I sing a little, Your Majesty,” she answered.
 
When Her Majesty merely raised
Her
brows, she added in a small voice, “And I can dance a little.”

“Hmm,” said Her Majesty and raised
Her
fan, turning away.
 
The girl backed off on her knees and hid behind the others.

And that was it.
 
It had been easy after all.
 
In Her truly elegant manner, Her Majesty has indicated what
She
thinks of song-and-dance girls.
 
I have no doubt that this one will soon be dismissed from service.

The incident between Hachiro and Togoro caused Doctor Yamada to have a talk with his new son.
 
The meeting was painful for both.
 
The doctor was in his pharmacy and watched the boy slink in.
 
He had the same furtive look on his pasty face but seemed less interested in herbs and medicine than in the objects inside the house.
  
His expression reminded the doctor of a young gang member he once saw being punished in the market, and he wondered if he had adopted a criminal.
 
The same mix of fear and resentment flared in Hachiro’s eyes when the youngster saw what lay on the counter among the doctor’s pharmaceutical tools.
  

For a long time, the doctor looked at him silently, hoping that his wordless anger would have more effect than the bamboo rod he had cut in the snowy garden.
 
But his new son tried to brazen it out.

“You wanted to see me, Father?” he asked blandly, putting a slight emphasis on the word “father.”
 

This angered Doctor Yamada more and his hand crept toward the rod.
 
“Why did you kick Togoro?” he asked coldly.

“Oh.
 
Is that what this is about?”
 
The pretense of surprise was not convincing.
 
Yamada saw the flash of fury in the boy’s eyes.
 
“He was insolent, Father,” he said, adding, “You know, you really should speak to the servants.
 
They don’t show any respect.
 
Why, Otori
— ”

“Silence!” the doctor thundered, clutching the rod.
 
The boy backed away a step toward the open doorway.
 
With an effort, the doctor controlled his temper.
 

Hachiro had been brought to him a year ago, beaten, bloody, and unconscious.
 
Someone had found him lying in one of the dirtier alleys near the market.
 
Yamada had cleaned and treated his wounds, fed him, and — when the boy had told him that he was without family or a roof over his head — he had allowed him to stay, offering food and shelter in return for small chores.
 
Since the youngster had claimed not to know his real name, they ended up calling him “Boy,” mostly in anger, for he proved to be unreliable at work and took whatever food he pleased.
 
As a result, neither Togoro nor Otori showed him much kindness.
 

One could not expect miracles.

“Hachiro,” the doctor said more calmly, “I will not tolerate physical abuse of my servants.
 
Otori has served my family since I was younger than you are, and Togoro has been faithful and a hard worker.
 
He, too, has been with me longer than you.
 
Both deserve respect from you.
 
Meanwhile, your own behavior in the past has left much to be desired.
 
Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Hachiro watched the rod nervously.
 
A look of anger crossed his face.
 
“They hate me and tell lies about me.
 
Togoro makes me do his work.
 
It’s not proper, when he’s the servant.
 
Otori wants a man in her bed.
 
She should be ashamed of herself at her age.
 
And now that you’ve adopted me they’re jealous.”

The doctor was speechless.
 
He knew both of his servants well.
 
Hachiro’s lies were gross and repulsive.

 
His silence encouraged Hachiro.
 
“How can you take their word against me?” he demanded.
 
“Have you not made me your son?
 
What good is that unless you treat me as your son and make the servants respect me?”

The doctor bit his lip.
 
“Very well,” he said, taking up the rod.
 
“You leave me no choice but to do as you ask.
 
I shall treat you as a father treats a lying, disobedient son.
 
Come here.”

Hachiro paled.
 
“If you beat me like a slave,” he cried, “the servants will find out and spit on me.”

Yamada stepped forward and seized Hachiro by the arm.
 
“And so they shall,” he growled, pulling the boy out of the studio and into the bright winter sun.
 
His call brought both Togoro and Otori running.
 
When they saw Hachiro in his grasp and the bamboo cane in his other hand, they stopped, open-mouthed with surprise.

“You are to witness Hachiro’s punishment,” the doctor informed them.

He was still angry when he used the rod on Hachiro’s buttocks and thighs. The boy’s single cry sickened him and he stopped rather quickly.
 
Breathing hard, he said, “I trust your pain reminds you of the pain you inflicted on Togoro.
 
You will taste more of it if I hear of other examples of cruelty to someone less fortunate than you.
 
And beware of telling lies about others.
 
Now you will apologize to Togoro and Otori.”

Hachiro was very pale.
 
He obeyed sullenly and slunk away, while the two servants gaped after him.
 
Togoro was embarrassed.
 
He gave the doctor a lopsided grin, scratched his head, and trotted off.
 
Otori snapped, “The child of a devil is also a devil.
 
Beating him just makes him worse.”
 

The doctor tried to return to his work but he could not concentrate.
 
To clear his mind and rid himself of his self-disgust, he decided to visit squatters’ field.
 

Snow hid ugliness as a rule, but squatter’s field was the exception.
 
Here even snow looked dirty.
 
Flimsy shelters made from salvaged boards and ragged straw mats clustered together like piles of a giant’s garbage, and black acrid smoke rose from smoldering fires.
 
Shivering creatures huddled around them, cooking whatever scraps they had been able to scrounge.
 
Disease and festering wounds were the norm here, and the doctor was greeted eagerly and kept busy until nightfall.

When he got home, depressed again by the thought of Hachiro, he found that a messenger from the palace had come during the afternoon.
 
The man had waited nearly an hour before leaving again.

Otori glowered.
 
“I might have known that you’d be out the very moment good fortune finally calls.”
 
She gave a sniff and added, “It’s a good thing the fine gentleman left.
 
You stink.
 
Best take a bath and change before you touch the letter he brought.”

Yamada ignored this and opened the carefully rolled and tied sheet of fine paper.
 
It was not from Toshiko.
 
The writing was a man’s — elegant, concise, and marked with a crimson seal.
 
He did not recognize the signature, but the content was clear.
 
He was to present himself in the attendants’ office of the cloister palace the next day at the start of the hour of the snake.

Frowning at the letter, Yamada asked, “Did the messenger explain what is wanted?”

“No.
 
And don’t look like that.
 
You should’ve been here yourself.
 
What does it say?”

“I am to report to the attendants’ office tomorrow.”

Otori’s face broke into a wide smile.
 
“There.
 
You see?
 
They finally take notice of you.
 
I bet that cook got you another patient.”

“I doubt it.
 
When someone is ill, they want me immediately.
 
Besides both letter and messenger are a little too formal for a mere sick call.”

“Well, you will go, won’t you?” Otori asked belligerently.

“Oh, yes.
 
I’ll go.”

*

In his heart, the he still hoped that the summons would somehow bring him to the lady Toshiko.
 
He bathed and dressed with special care the next morning and set out with a spring in his step that not even the sight of Hachiro, lurking about with a resentful expression, could spoil.

In winter, city sounds are muffled by snow.
 
Carriages and wagons stay home and horsemen move more slowly, huddled into their clothing.
 
Yamada knew from experience that nothing is colder than metal armor on a winter’s day.
 
Those who are walking are luckier, even when their cold-weather garb only consists of layered rags and straw capes and boots.
 
He was luckier still in his wadded and quilted robe and sturdy, lined leather boots.

The palace was a beautiful sight this morning.
 
Sunlight reflected from a million places: The large roofs were of an immaculate and glittering whiteness against the shiny red columns and the gilded dragons at the eaves.
 
By asking directions, the doctor found the attendants’ bureau where he was passed from white-clad servants to black-robed officials.
 
His hopes of seeing Toshiko evaporated.
 
This was where the business of government took place, a world of officials.
 
Eventually he was left to wait in a chilly passage which seemed to lead to an important office.
 
The passage was full of waiting men, and very important-looking officials passed in and out of the distant double doors.
 
They wore rank colors on their formal hats and did not glance at those who humbly waited, shivering and with hopeless expressions on their faces.

At some point in his long wait, it occurred to the doctor that a mistake must have been made, and he approached an attendant to ask.
 
By now, he did not feel humble and was brusque because he thought of the time he had wasted that could have been spent looking after the sick.
 

But the attendant assured him that all was correct and that he would be admitted shortly.

Admitted?
 

Yamada began to suspect that he had been summoned by the emperor himself.
 
Since he had been waiting past his customary midday meal, his empty stomach was growling.
 
Besides, he remembered their previous meeting and how angry and rude he had been then, and nervousness now twisted his gut, making him queasy.

When they finally called him, he was sweating with the tension in spite of the cold.
 
This was going to be very different from that casual encounter in the cook’s room.
 
He would see the emperor officially.
 
Few men were allowed in his presence, and most of those held ranks far above his.

The great doors opened and closed behind him.
 
He saw a wide expanse of shining floor and in the distance the figure of the emperor bent over his desk.
 
An official sat at another desk.
 
The shutters were closed against the cold, but many braziers and lights stood about the two desks.
 
When Yamada hesitated at the door, the official waved a peremptory hand for him to come forward.
 
The doctor walked to the center of the room where he knelt and touched his forehead to the floor.

“This is the doctor, sire,” said the official.

“Doctor?
 
Oh, yes.
 
I remember.
 
Come closer, come closer.
 
And you may leave us, Tameyazu.”

Yamada rose and approached the emperor’s desk, wondering what he was to do next and if he was permitted to look into the emperor’s
face
.
 
He knelt and in his confusion he stared down at the documents that lay strewn across the desk until he saw the emperor’s hand reach out to cover them.
 
Afraid that His Majesty thought he had been reading them, he raised his eyes.

Yes, the face was that of the cook’s visitor, but today the emperor was not smiling.
 
Yamada touched the floor with his head again.

“Come, Doctor.
 
Sit up,” the emperor said.
 
“I wish to consult you about a medical problem.”

Yamada took a deep breath, sat up, and risked another glance.
 
Perhaps the emperor was ill.
 
He looked well enough, but many ailments remained hidden from the eye.
 
“Yes, sire?”