“Bring a brazier,” Fujiwara ordered. “Lady Otori is cold.”
Mamoru disappeared briefly and came back with a much older man who carried a small brazier glowing with charcoal.
“Sit near it,” Fujiwara said. “It is easy to take a chill at this time of year.”
Mamoru left the room again, never speaking, his movements graceful, deferential, and soundless. When he returned he was carrying a small paulownia-wood chest, which he set down carefully on the floor. He left the room and returned three more times, each time bringing a chest or box. Each was of a different wood, zelkova, cypress, cherry, polished so that the color and grain spoke of the long life of the tree, the slope it had grown on, the seasons of hot and cold, rain and wind, that it had endured.
Fujiwara opened them one by one. Within lay bundles, objects wrapped in several layers of cloth. The wrapping cloths themselves were beautiful, although obviously very old—silks of the finest weave and the most subtle colors—but what lay within these cloths far surpassed anything Kaede had ever seen. He unwrapped each one, placed it on the floor in front of her, and invited her to take it up, caress it with her fingers, touch it to her lips, or brow, for often the feel and the scent of the object were as important as its look. He rewrapped and replaced each one before displaying the next.
“I look at them rarely,” he said, with love in his voice. “Each time an unworthy gaze falls on them it diminishes them. Just to unwrap them is an erotic act for me. To share them with another whose gaze enhances rather than diminishes is one of my greatest, but rarest, pleasures.”
Kaede said nothing, knowing little of the value or tradition of the objects before her: the tea bowl of the same pink-brown pottery, at once fragile and sturdy; the jade figure of the Enlightened One, seated within the lotus; the gold lacquered box that was both simple and intricate. She simply gazed, and it seemed to her that the beautiful things had their own eyes and gazed back at her.
Mamoru did not stay to look at the objects, but after what seemed a long time—for Kaede, time had stopped—he returned with a large, flat box. Fujiwara took out a painting: a winter landscape with two crows, black against the snow, in the foreground.
“Ah, Sesshu,” she whispered, speaking for the first time.
“Not Sesshu, in fact, but one of his masters,” he corrected her. “It’s said that the child cannot teach the parent, but in Sesshu’s case we must allow that the pupil surpassed the teacher.”
“Is there not a saying that the blue of the dye is deeper than the blue of the flower?” she replied.
“You approve of that, I expect.”
“If neither child nor pupil were ever wiser, nothing would ever change.”
“And most people would be very satisfied!”
“Only those who have power,” Kaede said. “They want to hold on to their power and position, while others see that same power and desire it. It’s within all men to be ambitious, and so they make change happen. The young overthrow the old.”
“And is it within women to be ambitious?”
“No one bothers to ask them.” Her eyes returned to the painting. “Two crows, the drake and the duck, the stag and the hind—they are always painted together, always in pairs.”
“That is the way nature intends it,” Fujiwara said. “It is one of K’ung Fu-Tzu’s five relationships, after all.”
“And the only one open to women. He only sees us as wives.”
“That is what women are.”
“But surely a woman could be a ruler or a friend?” Her eyes met his.
“You are very bold for a girl,” he replied, the nearest she had seen him come to laughing. She flushed and looked again at the painting.
“Terayama is famous for its Sesshus,” Fujiwara said. “Did you see them there?”
“Yes. Lord Otori wanted Lord Takeo to see them and copy them.”
“A younger brother?”
“His adopted son.” The last thing Kaede wanted to do was to talk to Fujiwara about Takeo. She tried to think of something else to say, but all thoughts deserted her, except for the memory of the painting Takeo had given her of the little mountain bird.
“I presume he carried out the revenge? He must be very courageous. I doubt my son would do as much for me.”
“He was always very silent,” she said, longing to talk about him, yet fearing to. “You would not think him particularly courageous. He liked drawing and painting. He turned out to be fearless.” She heard her own voice and stopped abruptly, sure she was transparent to him.
“Ah,” Fujiwara said, and looked at the painting again for a long time.
“I mustn’t intrude on your affairs,” he said finally, his eyes returning to her face. “But surely you will be married to Lord Shigeru’s son.”
“There are other considerations,” she said, trying to speak lightly. “I have land here and at Maruyama that I must lay claim to. If I go and skulk with the Otori in Hagi, I may lose all that.”
“I feel you have many secrets for someone so young,” he murmured. “I hope one day to hear them.”
The sun was slipping toward the mountains. The shadows from the huge cedars began to stretch out toward the house.
“It is growing late,” he said. “I am sorry to lose you but feel I must send you on your way. You will come again soon.” He wrapped up the painting and replaced it in its box. She could smell the faint fragrance of the wood and of the rue leaves placed inside to ward off insects.
“Thank you from my heart,” she said as they rose. Mamoru had returned silently to the room and now bowed deeply as she passed by him.
“Look at her, Mamoru,” Fujiwara said. “Watch how she walks, how she returns your bow. If you can capture that, you can call yourself an actor.”
They exchanged farewells, Lord Fujiwara himself coming out onto the veranda to see her into the palanquin and sending retainers to accompany her.
“You did well,” Shizuka told her when they were home. “You intrigued him.”
“He despises me,” Kaede said. She felt exhausted from the encounter.
“He despises women, but he sees you as something different.”
“Something unnatural.”
“Maybe,” Shizuka said, laughing. “Or something unique and rare that no one else possesses.”
·5·
The following day Fujiwara sent presents for her, with an invitation to attend a performance of a play at the full moon. Kaede unwrapped two robes: one old and restrained, beautifully embroidered with pheasants and autumn grasses in gold and green on ivory-colored silk; the other new, it seemed, and more flamboyant, with deep purple and blue peonies on pale pink.
Hana and Ai came to admire them. Lord Fujiwara had also sent food, quail and sweetfish, persimmons and bean cakes. Hana, like all of them always on the edge of hunger, was deeply impressed.
“Don’t touch,” Kaede scolded her. “Your hands are dirty.”
Hana’s hands were stained from gathering chestnuts, but she hated anyone reprimanding her. She pulled them behind her back and stared angrily at her older sister.
“Hana,” Kaede said, trying to be gentle, “let Ayame wash your hands, then you may look.”
Kaede’s relationship with her younger sister was still uneasy. Privately she thought Hana had been spoiled by Ayame and Ai. She wished she could persuade her father to teach Hana, too, feeling the girl needed discipline and challenges in her life. She wanted to instill them herself, but lacked the time and the patience to do so. It was something else she would have to think about during the long winter months. Now Hana ran off to the kitchen, crying.
“I’ll go to her,” Ai said.
“She is so self-willed,” Kaede said to Shizuka. “What is to become of her when she is so beautiful and so stubborn?”
Shizuka gave her a mocking look, but said nothing.
“What?” Kaede said. “What do you mean?”
“She is like you, lady,” Shizuka murmured.
&nb
sp; “So you said before. She is luckier than I am, though.” Kaede fell silent, thinking of the difference between them. When she was Hana’s age she had been alone in Noguchi Castle for over two years. Perhaps she was jealous of her sister and it was this that made her impatient. But Hana really was running wild beyond control.
She sighed, gazing on the beautiful robes, longing to feel the softness of the silk against her skin. She told Shizuka to bring a mirror and held the older robe up to her face to see the colors against her hair. She was more impressed than she revealed by the gifts. Lord Fujiwara’s interest flattered her. He had said that she intrigued him; he intrigued her no less.
She wore the older robe, for it seemed more suitable for late autumn, when she and her father, Shizuka, and Ai went to visit Lord Fujiwara for the performance. They were to stay overnight, since the drama would go on until late, under the full moon. Hana, desperate to be invited, too, sulked when they left and would not come out to say good-bye. Kaede wished she could have left her father behind too. His unpredictable behavior worried her, and she was afraid he might shame himself further in company. But he, immensely flattered by the invitation, would not be dissuaded.
Several actors, Mamoru among them, presented The Fulling Block. The play disturbed Kaede deeply. During her brief visit, Mamoru had studied her more than she had realized. Now she saw herself portrayed before her eyes, saw her movements, heard her own voice sigh, The autumn wind tells of love grown cold, as the wife went slowly mad, waiting for her husband’s return.
Brilliance of the moon, touch of the wind. The words of the chorus pierced her like a needle in her flesh. Frost gleaming in pale light, chill the heart as the block beats and night winds moan.
Her eyes filled with tears. All the loneliness and the longing of the woman on the stage, a woman modeled on her, seemed indeed to be hers. She had even that week helped Ayame beat their silken robes with the fulling block to soften and restore them. Her father had commented on it, saying the repetitive beat of the block was one of the most evocative sounds of autumn. The drama stripped her of her defenses. She longed for Takeo completely, achingly. If she could not have him she would die. Yet, even while her heart cracked, she remembered that she must live for the child’s sake. And it seemed she felt the first tiny flutter of its watery movement within her.
Above the stage the brilliant moon of the tenth month shone coldly down. Smoke from the charcoal braziers drifted skyward. The soft beat of the drums fell into the silence. The small group watching were rapt, possessed by the beauty of the moon and the power of emotion displayed before them.
Afterward Shizuka and Ai returned to their room, but, to Kaede’s surprise, Lord Fujiwara asked her to remain in the company of the men as they drank wine and ate a series of exotic dishes, mushrooms, land crabs, pickled chestnuts, and tiny squid transported in ice and straw from the coast. The actors joined them, their masks laid aside. Lord Fujiwara praised them and gave them gifts. Later, when the wine had loosened tongues and raised the level of noise, he addressed Kaede quietly.
“I am glad your father came with you. I believe he has not been well?”
“You are very kind to him,” she replied. “Your understanding and consideration mean a great deal to us.” She did not think it was seemly to discuss her father’s state of mind with the nobleman, but Fujiwara persisted.
“Does he fall into gloomy states often?”
“He is a little unstable from time to time. My mother’s death, the war. . .” Kaede looked at her father, who was talking excitedly with one of the older actors. His eyes glittered, and he did indeed look a little mad.
“I hope you will turn to me if you need help at any time.”
She bowed silently, aware of the great honor he was paying her and confused by his attention. She had never sat like this in a room full of men, and felt that she should not be there, yet was unsure of how to leave. He changed the subject deftly.
“What was your opinion of Mamoru? He learned well from you, I think.”
She did not answer for a moment, turning her gaze from her father to the young man, who had divested himself of his female role yet still retained the vestiges of it, of her.
“What can I say?” she said finally. “He seemed brilliant to me.”
“But . . . ?” he questioned.
“You steal everything from us.” She had meant to say it lightly, but her voice sounded bitter to her own ears.
“ ‘You’?” he repeated, slightly surprised.
“Men. You take everything from women. Even our pain—the very pain that you cause us—you steal it and portray it as your own.”
His opaque eyes searched her face. “I have never seen a more convincing or moving portrayal than Mamoru’s.”
“Why are women’s roles not played by women?”
“What a curious idea,” he replied. “You think you would have more authenticity because you imagine these emotions are familiar to you. But it is the actor’s artifice in creating emotions that he cannot know intimately that displays his genius.”
“You leave us nothing,” Kaede said.
“We give you our children. Isn’t that a fair exchange?”
Again she felt his eyes could see right through her. I dislike him, she thought, even though he is intriguing. I will have nothing more to do with him, no matter what Shizuka says.
“I have offended you,” he said, as though he could read her thoughts.
“I am too insignificant for Lord Fujiwara to concern himself with,” she replied. “My feelings are of no importance.”
“I take great interest in your feelings: They are always so original and unexpected.”
Kaede made no response. After a second he went on, “You must come and see our next play. It is to be Atsumori. We await only our flute player. He is a friend of Mamoru’s, expected any day now. You are familiar with the story?”
“Yes,” she said, her mind turning to the tragedy. She was still thinking about it later when she lay in the guest room with Ai and Shizuka: the youth so beautiful and gifted at music, the rough warrior who slays him and takes his head and then in remorse becomes a monk, seeking the peace of the Enlightened One. She thought about Atsumori’s wraith, calling from the shadows: Pray for me. Let my spirit be released.
The unfamiliar excitement, the emotions aroused by the play, the lateness of the hour, all made her restless. Thinking about Atsumori, the flute player, she drifted between sleeping and waking, and seemed to hear the notes of a flute come from the garden. It reminded her of something. She was descending toward sleep, soothed by the music, when she remembered.
She woke instantly. It was the same music she had heard at Terayama. The young monk who had shown them the paintings—surely he had played the same notes, so laden with anguish and longing?
She pushed back the quilt and got up quietly, slid aside the paper screen, and listened. She heard a quiet knock, the scrape of the wooden door opening, Mamoru’s voice, the voice of the flute player. At the end of the passage a lamp in a servant’s hand briefly lit their faces. She was not dreaming. It was him.
Shizuka whispered from behind her. “Is everything all right?”
Kaede closed the screen and went to kneel beside her. “It is one of the monks from Terayama.”
“Here?”
“He is the flute player they have been waiting for.”
“Makoto,” Shizuka said.
“I never knew his name. Will he remember me?”
“How can he forget?” Shizuka replied. “We will leave early. You must plead illness. He must not see you unexpectedly. Try and sleep for a while. I will wake you at daybreak.”
Kaede lay down, but sleep was slow to come. Finally she dozed a little and woke to see daylight behind the shutters and Shizuka kneeling beside her.
She wondered if it was possible to steal away. The household was already stirring. She could hear the shutters being opened. Her father always woke early. She could not leave without at l
east informing him.
“Go to my father and tell him I am unwell and must go home. Ask him to make my apologies to Lord Fujiwara.”
Shizuka came back after several minutes. “Lord Shirakawa is most reluctant for you to leave. He wants to know if you are well enough to go to him.”
“Where is he?”
“He is in the room overlooking the garden. I have asked for tea to be brought to you. You look very pale.”
“Help me dress,” Kaede said. Indeed she felt faint and unwell. The tea revived her a little. Ai was awake now, lying under the quilt, her sweet-natured face pink cheeked and dark eyed from sleep, like a doll’s.
“Kaede, what is it? What’s the matter?”
“I am ill. I need to go home.”
“I’ll come with you.” Ai pushed back the quilt.
“It would be better if you stayed with father,” Kaede told her, “and apologize to Lord Fujiwara on my behalf.”
She knelt on an impulse and stroked her sister’s hair. “Stand in for me,” she begged.
“I don’t think Lord Fujiwara has even noticed my existence,” Ai said. “It is you who have entranced him.”
The caged birds in the garden were calling noisily. He will find out my deception and never want to see me again, Kaede thought, but it was not the nobleman’s reaction that she feared: It was her father’s.
“The servants told me Lord Fujiwara sleeps late,” Shizuka whispered. “Go and speak to your father. I have asked for the palanquin.”
Kaede nodded, saying nothing. She stepped onto the polished wood of the veranda. How beautifully the boards were laid. As she walked toward the room where her father was, scenes from the garden unfolded before her eyes; a stone lantern, framed by the last red leaves of the maple, the sun glittering on the still water of a pool, the flash of yellow and black from the long-tailed birds on their perches.