‘I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘You know what a weakling he was. You haven’t forgotten how I took care of him that time we caught the two of you together.’
Taka chose to ignore that remark. ‘And you think he was trying to work himself back into our favour? That can’t be true. He was good and honest.’
‘Though I’m surprised to hear he was in the Yoshiwara – him, of all people,’ Fujino added.
Eijiro gave an arch smile, as if he knew he held the winning hand. ‘He’s working for Mori-sama, that’s why,’ he said.
Fujino raised her caterpillar eyebrows. ‘Mori Ichinosuke, the Tosa fellow, that miserable jumped-up clerk you’re so fond of? Poor Nobu. He was such a serious boy. He must be having a hard time of it. He’s the last person I’d expect to hear of in the Yoshiwara.’
Fujino and Eijiro started arguing about Tsukasa again. Taka stared at the tatami, their words washing over her.
Her thoughts drifted back to a sunny day a couple of summers ago. She’d been sitting with Nobu, helping him with his reading, as she always did. He was stumbling his way through a passage about Kusunoki Masashige and his son Masatsura, the loyal warriors who had sacrificed their lives for the emperor in ancient times, when he suddenly stopped and looked up, his eyes shining. ‘I know this passage,’ he had said.
He had gazed into the distance and recited it perfectly, his voice rising and falling so beautifully that it brought tears to her eyes. All along she’d thought she was teaching him but now she saw that he was teaching her, too. She had asked him where he’d learned that passage and he’d said, so quietly she could hardly catch the words, ‘At my mother’s knee.’ Her own mother had never recited the classics to her; she doubted if she even knew them. Geisha songs were her great love. Taka had suddenly realized then that she knew nothing about Nobu – who he was, where he came from. He had never said a single word about himself or his past.
After that Taka often begged him to recite for her. But when she asked him about his mother he always said quietly, ‘She’s far away.’ And that was all he would say.
He deserved better than to be a servant, she thought, better than to run around doing someone else’s bidding. And now she knew where he was. She smiled. Maybe she’d send him a letter. Nothing unsuitable, nothing embarrassing or personal, something simple, just a note.
‘Nobu-sama,’ she began, imagining what she might write. It seemed strange to use a respectful term like -sama to address a servant but in her mind he wasn’t a servant. He was a lot more than that. ‘Nobu-sama. I was glad to have news of you from my older brother. Two years have passed since you left our house. I trust you are keeping well. Taka.’ Something like that.
The servants would know where Mori-sama lived; they took messages there. Okatsu only had to enquire and Taka could trust her to be discreet. Then Okatsu could deliver it. Between them they would think up a good reason why Okatsu needed to go past Mori-sama’s house – on the way to the house of one of her relatives, perhaps, or somewhere she had to go on an errand.
Taka sighed. Okatsu was the maid, she the mistress, yet Okatsu was far freer than she was. Okatsu was always out and about, going here and there, doing errands, but Taka could only go out with a chaperone. And soon she would be married and the prison doors would close for ever. It was totally clear now. She had to find a way to escape – and the key was Nobu.
10
‘AND THERE ’E stands, arms akimbo, like the giant Benkei ’imself facin’ up to the twenty thousand!’ crowed Bunkichi for the third time that day, smirking obsequiously as Mori-sama guffawed. ‘And these gangsters – if you could a’ seen ’em, sir. Big burly fellas with arms the size a’ tree trunks, jus’ covered in tattoos from head to foot. Takes one look at our Nobu and turns tail, the lot a’ them, and flees!’
‘Quite the hero, what?’ said Mori-sama, leering at Nobu out of half-closed eyes. He had a pouchy face and his kimono smelt of tobacco. He was a Tosa, from one of the four outlying clans which had bonded together and marched on Edo less than ten years earlier and taken over the city, the country and the government. He didn’t talk like a potato samurai but to Nobu’s ears his dialect was just as ugly, full of outlandish words and with the harsh twang of some distant mountain province.
As a southerner and one of the victors, he took particular delight in bullying Nobu and the fact Nobu was at the Military Academy gave him even more ammunition. ‘So what does our General Yoshida have to say?’ he’d jeer. ‘Surely the great general can come up with a solution!’ Bunkichi and Zenkichi had quickly caught on that Nobu was fair game and joined in with enthusiasm.
Nobu bowed, trying to shape his mouth into a patient smile. No matter what he thought of Mori-sama and everything he stood for, he needed this job; and he knew all too well, as Eijiro had reminded him time and time again, that you hardly had to take a step to tread on a servant.
‘You took such excellent care of my good friend Kitaoka yesterday,’ said Mori, his voice heavy with irony. ‘Perhaps you can do the same for me. Come with me to the bath today.’ He took out his timepiece, a big gold mechanism on a chain, and studied it, frowning. These days anyone of any consequence seemed to have one. Nobu had no idea what the marks on the glass face meant. The temple bells still rang out to mark the beginning and end of each working day and that was enough for him and the rest of the servants. He’d worked out that the best strategy was to be ready at all times. ‘We’ll leave in half an hour,’ Mori-sama added, tucking the timepiece carefully back in his breast pocket.
In all his previous postings, Nobu had never had to accompany anyone to the bath. Still dressed in his formal hakama skirts and crisp black jacket with the Mori crest on it, he took a basket and a pile of thin cotton towels and waited in the front entrance, smarting from the teasing he had to endure. ‘A coeur vaillant rien d’impossible,’ he repeated to himself; but the magic syllables had lost their soothing power. He squatted on his heels, took some tobacco from his pouch and kneaded it into a shiny brown ball, then packed his pipe, struck a flint and heaved a sigh as he drew in a lungful of fragrant smoke.
Mori-sama was not particularly rich, certainly not rich enough to have his own bath, though that didn’t mean he couldn’t afford several servants. Now the fighting was over he’d received a posting as a clerical officer for the Tosa domain and lived in one of the small houses beside what had been the daimyo’s mansion, in the shadow of Edo Castle, near Kaji Bridge, which crossed one of the outer moats.
These days the Tosa domain no longer officially existed. The domains had all been replaced by prefectures named after the capital city of each, and the daimyo were no longer warrior princes ruling their own domain, with their own army, but ‘governors’ doing the bidding of the new regime. The Tosa domain was now Kochi Prefecture and the mansion was being torn down and replaced by cumbersome stone buildings in the modern ‘western’ style, where government officials were to work. There was hammering and banging morning to night and dust swirling about, prickling everyone’s nostrils. The gate and fortifications at Kaji Bridge had already been demolished. Nevertheless, Mori still lived and worked here.
There were footsteps in the hallway and Mori appeared and strutted off down the road. Nobu was sliding the door closed when he glimpsed a woman under the trees at the end of the long street, dressed in an indigo kimono, like a maid. There was something familiar about her. The sight of her sent a prickle down the back of his neck and he wondered if she was a ghost, if his past was coming back to haunt him. It was just his imagination, he told himself impatiently; his eyes were playing tricks on him. When he turned to take another look she had disappeared into the shadows and he had to hurry after Mori-sama.
He followed Mori along streets festooned with brilliantly coloured banners and streamers, crowded with promenading holidaymakers. People were singing and dancing, and octopus and squid sizzled on roadside stalls, giving off mouth-watering smells. Nobu felt as if he was the only person in t
he whole world who had to work.
The bathhouse was a large building beside Kaji Bridge. As they pushed through the curtains into the men’s side, steam swirled from the open doors. Men slapped the sides of the tub and voices echoed around the wooden walls. Nobu sniffed the pungent smell of soap powder and heard splashing and singing and raucous laughter, shouts of ‘Bucket boy, over ’ere! Cold enough to freeze your balls off. Hot water, quick!’ Other voices yelled, ‘No, cold water, bring cold water. It’s too ’ot!’
Mori’s bony backside was disappearing up the steep staircase towards the changing room for the wealthier customers. Nobu hurried after him. There was a large tatami-matted room there, full of men removing their clothes or tying them in place, gossiping and laughing over the latest political developments. A few old fellows sprawled on the tatami, snoring gently, and a couple of youths were engrossed in a game of go. Pretty young women with smooth cheeks and glossy black hair scurried around with trays of tea and cakes, ignoring the ogling eyes and fending off hands that grabbed at them as they passed.
Nobu looked them up and down appraisingly. Bathhouse girls were relatively inexpensive, certainly as compared with the proud ladies of the Yoshiwara. Some were scrubbing the backs of customers, some waving large fans, sending gusts of cooling air around the room. There’d be yet others in the bath, scrubbing backs and shampooing. He smiled to himself. A good soak – that would make him feel better.
He had started undoing his obi when there was a snort of laughter.
‘Quite the jester, what, General Yoshida!’ roared Mori. ‘Where d’ya think you’re off to? You gotta stay here and watch my clothes. Here, help me off with my obi and make sure you fold it carefully.’ Flushing with shame, Nobu tried to ignore the other customers’ sniggers as he helped Mori strip off. ‘You can rinse out my loincloth while you’re waiting. Get it good and clean and make sure you slap all the wrinkles out of it before you hang it up to dry. And none of your heroics while I’m away, mind,’ were Mori’s parting shots as he set off down the stairs towards the bath.
So there’d be no bath for him that day, Nobu thought gloomily as he picked up Mori’s soiled loincloth and looked around for the underwear bucket. Squatting beside the bucket, squeezing out the noxious garment, he closed his ears to the hubbub around him and the image of the woman he had seen in the distance came back to him.
Then he realized who she’d reminded him of: Okatsu, Taka’s merry, plump-faced maid. But of course it couldn’t have been her. What would Okatsu have been doing here, in Mori’s run-down neighbourhood? The Kitaoka residence was on the other side of the city. He must have thought of her because he’d seen Eijiro the previous day. The Kitaokas were on his mind.
Outside, pedlars hawked their wares. ‘Dumplings, sweet dumplings,’ sang one.
‘Tofu, tofu!’ cried another.
‘Grilled eel, best eel, freshly grilled, brushed with Kandagawa restaurant’s special sauce, following their secret recipe, passed down for generations …’ Nobu sniffed the succulent smell of grilling eel and remembered how hungry he was.
Much later Mori reappeared, red and glowing like a boiled octopus, steam rising from his head in little puffs. He lounged in the changing room for a while, languidly smoking pipe after pipe of tobacco and bantering with the other customers. The shadows were lengthening by the time he was ready to leave.
Nobu helped him dress and followed him along the street back to the house, trying not to think about how unwashed and sticky he felt. He was startled to see Shige, Mori’s mistress, at the door. She was a large, good-natured woman with big teeth, who wafted around in a cloud of face powder and hair oil.
‘There you are, young Nobu,’ she said, nodding excitedly. ‘You’ll never guess what happened. You had a visitor! A grand lady, a maid from one of those big government houses. She waited for a while but you didn’t come back and now she’s gone.’
Nobu stared at her. Who on earth could have come to see him? Surely it couldn’t have been Okatsu, with a message from Taka? No good putting a price on your badger skin before you’ve caught your badger, he told himself sternly.
‘I nearly forgot,’ said Shige. ‘She left something for you.’
She smiled and her teeth, polished to a dull black, turned her mouth into a dark chasm as she held out a small packet. It was a letter, not rolled into a scroll but folded and sealed. Nobu took it in both hands and raised it to his forehead as if it was a precious gift. His name was written on it. His heart missed a beat as he recognized the brushstrokes. It was from Taka. Trying not to show his excitement, he tucked it into his sleeve.
Mori scowled and opened his mouth. Shige swung round. ‘Now you stop bullying him,’ she snapped. He shut it again. ‘Young Nobu, you can have the rest of the day off. Go and read your note. I’d get back to the bathhouse if I were you.’ She pressed some coins into his hand.
Nobu sauntered outside as slowly as he could and found a quiet corner under a tree, where Bunkichi and Zenkichi would not be able to find him. He took the letter from his sleeve, broke the seal and unfolded it. He read the words slowly, letting his eyes linger on the familiar handwriting, the way the ink flowed from stroke to stroke, broad then tapering to a point, like blades of grass.
Nobu-sama. I was glad to have news of you from my older brother Eijiro. I trust that you are keeping well in this hot weather. I often think of you and wonder how you are and what you are doing. It must be two years now since you left our house. It was just at Tanabata, was it not? And now Tanabata has come round again. We must pray for fine weather. Taka.
He smiled. How thoughtful of her to use such a respectful form of address – -sama – for him who, as far as she knew, was nothing but a servant. He too would pray for fine weather so that the magpies could form their bridge and the weaver princess and the cowherd could cross the River of Heaven and meet each other that night.
He thought of Taka with her brushes neatly rolled in a bamboo mat and remembered kneeling beside her as she patiently tried to teach him to make his brushstrokes beautiful, like hers. He thought of the sweet scent of her hair, the feel of her small cool fingers wrapped around his as she directed his brush, raising then lowering, helping him form the characters. She had been a stern teacher, not satisfied until every stroke was perfect.
Then had come the dreadful day when Eijiro had stormed in and found them together, writing Tanabata wishes. He remembered his own foolish wish – to stay at the Kitaoka house, near Taka, for ever. Even now the memory made him shudder. That had been the final straw that had given Eijiro the excuse he was waiting for to throw him out. Yet what he had written was true. Even though they were the family of General Kitaoka, even though Eijiro treated him like a dog, he’d been happy. He really could have stayed with them for ever.
He heaved a sigh. Taka was right. It was almost two years since then, though it felt more like a lifetime. And now, as she said, Tanabata had come round again.
He read the letter once more, folded it and put it in his sleeve. It was touching that Taka had thought of him and bothered to write to him, especially now when, as Eijiro had told him, she’d made this advantageous match. He remembered that the one thing she hadn’t wanted was to get married. Her mother must have insisted. He was surprised that Taka had managed to stay unwed for so long.
He picked up his towel and set off for the bathhouse.
Then it struck him. Supposing it wasn’t just a kind note? Supposing it was a message? Taka would be going to Sengaku Temple, the temple near her house, to tie her wishes on to a bamboo branch, as she did every year. Perhaps, like the weaver princess and the cowherd, this was their one chance to meet? Perhaps that was what she was telling him.
He told himself not to be foolish. But the idea had entered his mind and he couldn’t shake himself free of it. He remembered Taka had said she always went to the temple in the late afternoon when the heat of the day had passed.
He should be careful not to be impetuous, he told himself. It got
him into trouble every time. He should just go and relax with the bathhouse girls. She wouldn’t even be there. But it was too late. He had to find out.
He turned and headed off through the streets. It was a long walk, he knew. Then he saw a rickshaw and hailed it. He would spend the precious money Shige had given him on getting to Sengaku Temple as quickly as possible.
11
LATE IN THE afternoon, when the heat of the day had died down, Taka and Okatsu slipped past the gnarled old guards who stood on each side of the huge gates of the Kitaoka residence and hurried off down the lane. In their blue and white cotton yukatas and thonged wooden-soled geta clogs, whisking their fans and holding parasols over their heads, they could almost have been sisters.
It was only after wheedling and begging and lengthy arguments that Taka had persuaded Fujino to let them go out at all. She had pleaded that Tanabata only came once a year and sworn that they would go to Sengaku Temple, nowhere else. Now she pattered between the high walls that lined the lane, thrilled at the unaccustomed sense of freedom. Almost anything seemed possible. As they reached the Eastern Sea Road, a salty breeze blew up. Seagulls swooped and screamed and, between the bobbing heads and vivid streamers and banners of smoke that rose from little stalls along the road, she caught a glimpse of the sea. Fishing boats bobbed and masts rocked on the horizon.
She wanted so badly to know what had transpired when Okatsu had gone out with her precious note that she had had to struggle not to ask her the moment her maid got back to the house. Taka hadn’t dared say a single word there. She’d had the feeling there were listeners everywhere – in the walls, under the tatami, behind the paper screens, in the closets where the futons were stacked, in the creaky wooden chests with their rusty hasps, full of mouldering treasures, in the airless corners behind the staircase – secret listeners waiting to report back to her mother and Eijiro.
She knew that to send a note to a young man, let alone hint at a meeting, was unacceptable at any time. Fujino might once have overlooked it – after all, she herself had led a very unconventional life. But now Taka was to be married and would soon become the property of another family, who would certainly not take such an offence lightly. Okatsu, who was supposed to watch over her, would be severely punished if they were caught. She might be beaten, maybe dismissed. Taka glanced at her as she pattered cheerfully beside her. Okatsu was beaming with excitement. She knew she was taking a risk but that only made it more of an adventure.
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