Dream of a Spring Night (Hollow Reed series) (30 page)

The alley opened into a road, and this road led to another where she could see lights and hear people.
 
She saw light came from the gently swaying lantern of a wine shop.
 
Customers were leaving.
 
Rain still misted the night air, and across the street several women sheltered under the eaves of a house.
 
When men left the wine shop, the women ran out to talk to them.
 
Their luck was not good.
 
One of the men pushed the nearest woman away so roughly that she fell into the mud.
 
The women went back, calling rude and dirty words after the men.
 

Toshiko was desperate and by now felt safer with women than with men.
 
Stepping from the shadow into the light, she started toward them, calling out, “Please, can you help me?”
 
At that moment a drunk stumbled from the wine shop and threw his arms around her for support.
 

“I’ll help you, my precious,” he promised thickly.
 

For a moment, they swayed together like a pair of wrestlers. Then Toshiko squealed and, with more luck than design, rammed a knee into the drunk’s groin.
 
He sat down hard, doubled over.

One of the women crossed the street, glaring at Toshiko.
 
“What do you want here, bitch?”

Toshiko looked at her, shocked by such anger.
 
The woman was no longer young and her face was plain and marked by smallpox.
 
She wore clothes that were even stranger than her own costume, and much dirtier.
 

“I am lost,” Toshiko said.
 
The woman balled her fist.
 
“Please,” Toshiko cried, “all I want is directions.”
 
Too late.
 
The fist struck her painfully in the middle of the chest and knocked her back against the wall of the wine shop.
 
Toshiko cried out and wrapped her arms around the pain.

The woman laughed.
 
It was an ugly sound.
 
“I know what you’re up to.
 
Get away from here and don’t come back!
 
Go on!
 
Run,
or we’ll teach you manners.”

Toshiko just looked at her.
 
She could barely stand, let alone run, so she did nothing, hoping dimly that the woman would disappear and the pain in her chest would fade and all would be well.
 

Only nothing was well.
 

The woman seemed to think she was defiant.
 
She called to her companions.

Thinking that they would surely kill her, Toshiko tried to take a step, but her feet would not obey.
 
She sank to her knees and waited hopelessly as the other women crossed the street.
 
The drunk staggered to his feet and looked on with interest.
 

One of the women came more quickly.
 
“No, Kosue,” she said, putting herself between Toshiko and the pock-marked one.
 
“She’s just a child.”
 
She asked Toshiko, “What are you doing here?
 
Where
d’you
live?”

The unexpected kindness brought tears to Toshiko’s eyes.
 
“Thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes.
 
“I was looking for Doctor Yamada’s house.”
 
Despairing of that purpose, she raised her eyes to the pagoda again.
 
“That temple.
 
I’ll go there in just a moment.
 
As soon as I have a little strength.”

“Doctor Yamada, is it?
 
You do look bad.
 
Are you sick, poor girl?”

“Yes.
 
No.”
 
Toshiko stopped, not sure which answer was correct or useful in this situation.

The woman bent and put an arm around her.
 
“Come, lean on me.
 
I know where he lives,” she said, and to the others, “She was just looking for the doctor, you stupid sluts.”

The women stepped away then, guiltily, and let them pass.

Toshiko was not sure where they were going or how far.
 
She concentrated on putting one foot before the other.
 
When they stopped, she looked around dazedly.
 
The dark shapes of trees and houses seemed to be doing a slow dance.

“We’re here,” her companion said, releasing her.
 

The ground began to sway and Toshiko saw it coming toward her.
 
The woman caught her and propped her against a wall, then went to knock on the door.
 
After a moment, she said, “Someone’s coming.
 
Good luck!” and disappeared into the night.

In her black haze, the thought that she had been led into a trap crossed Toshiko’s mind, but she was too weak to save herself.
 
When the door of the house opened, she did not bother to raise her head.
 

A man’s voice asked, “What is wrong?
 
Do you need help?”

She took a step away from the wall and fainted.

Oh, the injustice of it!
 

It’s all because of that demon of a girl.
 
Why did the fool have to run away?
 
And where was that idiot of a maid?
 
Asleep, she said.
 
Well, she won’t sleep well where she is headed.

We searched all day, every nook and corner of our own building and then the palace grounds.
 

Eventually, I sent the stupid maid to the gates.
 
When she came back, I could see the truth on her face.
 
The misbegotten wench had dressed up in those clothes His Majesty gave her, and the dolts at the gate had taken her for a hired harlot and let her out.
 
In the face of disaster, I was secretly amused: men always know.

But it anything but laughable, though I did not then, in my wildest imaginings
have
an inkling of the outcome.
 
That night, I had to go to inform His Majesty.
 

He turned perfectly white at the news and then red with anger.
 
“What?” He demanded in a terrible voice.
 
“Are you telling me that one of my ladies left the palace after dark and on foot?”

I thought His fury was directed at the girl and replied, “I am afraid, Sire, that she was a most unsuitable person.
 
A country-bred girl.
 
Such people have no idea how to behave among their betters.”

He just looked at me.
 
It occurred to me belatedly that my comment was thoughtless, given the fact that He had honored the wench with His favor.
 
But before I could apologize, He said, “Did you not report to me only yesterday that Lady Toshiko was ill?
 
How then could she walk away and leave the palace in the middle of the night?”

I had to confess that I did not know.
 
“That maid must have been drunk,” I suggested.

“And who,” He snapped, “is responsible for the welfare of the ladies serving me?
 
Who makes the arrangements for serving women and looks after the needs of every lady in my quarters?”

Ah, the unfairness of that!
 

I replied — by then in tears — that I had been busy with the move to the new quarters and could not be in two places at the same time.

“But you, Lady Sanjo,” He said in a tone that cut me to the heart, “left a sick young girl behind, alone and in the care of an unreliable servant.”

I murmured an apology.
 
I don’t recall my words.
 
The moment was too painful.
 
And then He uttered the terrible words:
 
“Out of my sight!”

I crawled away and hid myself in the darkest corner of the women’s quarters where I prayed to Buddha and all his helpers.
 
I made vows to copy the Lotus Sutra five hundred times if only I were forgiven.
 
I wept until all my sleeves were soaked.
 
And I wrote to His Majesty.

Sometimes Doctor Yamada’s patients forced their way into his thoughts and traveled home with him, clamoring for his attention and his pity, begging him not to rest until he had made them better, tormenting him with silent pleas to save their lives.

That night it had been a young girl with a raging fever after giving birth to a puny child that died soon after.
 
He had sat with her for long hours, fretting at his helplessness, changing cold compresses on her head, watching for signs that her young body would win the battle.
 
But toward sunset the familiar veiling had begun to dull her eyes and told him that he could not stop the coming of death.
 
He had seen its approach often in the past, but this time it had touched him especially, because this young mother was Toshiko’s age and, while she was not very beautiful, she had had the same smile for him before the coming darkness wiped away all trace of trust.
 
He had to leave her finally, bone-weary and afraid of seeing her die.
 

Later he lay on his bed, staring into the fathomless darkness, wondering if he was really any use to anyone.
 
Even those he thought he was helping might regain their health without him, and too many of his patients died.
 

Sleep does not come when a man struggles with the darkness in his heart.
 
He lay awake, probing his doubts like a festering wound, and counted the times the temple bells called out the hour.

Shortly before dawn, there was a faint knocking at the street door.
 
He got up more wearily than he had lain down.
 
It was probably the father of the dying girl or some other desperate case.
 
They never knocked at this hour unless there was no hope.

The night was still very dark.
 
A faint smell of rain and moist soil filled the air — a scent of spring and growing things.
 
The beginnings of life in the middle of death, he thought bitterly.
 
His visitor was leaning against the wall of his house.
 
It was too dark to see more than a vague shape, lighter than the surrounding night or the plaster of the wall.
 
He was not sure if it was a man or a woman; the clothes look elaborate and formal, a white jacket over full trousers.
 
Dully, he wiped his eyes and realized that it must be one of the street entertainers who sang and danced in the markets in men’s clothes.

“What is wrong?” he asked.
 
“Do you need help?”

She raised her head, her face with its garish make-up luminous in the darkness.
 
“Yes,” she said softly — just that — and took a step toward him.
 
Before he could catch her, she crumpled to the stone path.

He picked her up.
 
She was light in his arms, but her clothes got in his way, as did the long hair.
 
Its length astonished him.
 
He stumbled with his burden to his room and laid her down on his bedding.
 
Then he located the flint and lit the wick of his oil lamp, using that to light the candle near his desk, and carried both across the room to examine his patient.

She was struggling to sit up, looking dazedly around the room.
 
“I’m sorry,” she said.
 
“I did not know where else to go.”

He knew the voice but could not quite believe it.
 
Toshiko?
 
At this time of night?
 
In his room?

He must have said her name aloud, standing there frozen in the utter surprise and joy of it, because she looked up at him and nodded.
 
And began to cry.

He almost dropped the oil lamp in his haste to kneel and take her cold hands, to look in her face, searching for the familiar features under the thick paint.
 
The black paint that ringed her eyes had made streaks down the white cheeks.
 
He melted with love.

“Oh my dearest,” he said.
 
His voice trembled.
 
“What happened to you?
 
What can I do?”
 
He remembered her fainting on his door step and asked anxiously, “Are you ill?”

She wiped at the tears with her sleeve, leaving smudges on the white silk, and smiled at him, shaking her head.
 
His heart nearly overturned at that smile.
 
She said, “No.
 
Not now,” and squeezed his hands gently.
 
“Not now,” she said again and removed her hands from his to reach out for him.

They held each other without speaking.
 
He thought he could feel her heart beating against his and stroked her hair.
 
She was wet, her hair heavy with rain.
 
At some point, he told her that he loved her and made her cry again and clutch him more tightly.

When the first faint gray light of dawn intruded, they were lying naked in each others arms.
 
They had got there without conscious thought and without volition but with the urgency of an act long overdue.

Afterward they talked.
 
She told him of the poisoned gruel and the dead cat, about dressing in her costume in the middle of the night and slipping past the snoring maid, past a gate guards, of walking through the night, across the river and along the dark streets, asking the people of the night for his house, the one he had written on the slip of paper, and of being shown the way by a real prostitute.

Later he got
up,
throwing on some clothes, and went to the kitchen for warm water.
 
He knelt and cleaned her face with great tenderness, finding under the mask again the girl he remembered, paler, thinner, and more beautiful.

Only then did she tell him about the emperor, bowing her head, ashamed.

But he had known, had known it when they lay together and their bodies joined — had not wanted to think about it then because of his own responsibility in the matter.
 
It did not affect his love for her, but it would affect their future together.

Otori walked in, having been woken by his excursion into her kitchen.
 
She carried his gruel on a tray and stopped in surprise at seeing a woman in his bed, wearing nothing but her thin under robe.
 
Her sharp eyes took in the disordered bedding and noted
his own
undress, the embarrassment that was surely on their faces.
 
She stood, at a loss whether to be scandalized or pleased, frowning and smiling and then frowning again.

He was suddenly filled with great joy and took Toshiko’s hand.
 
“My dear,” he said, “this is Otori, our housekeeper.”
 
To Otori, he said, “Otori, you should have brought moon cakes for my bride.”

Outside the temple bells began to ring again, and Otori dropped her tray.