by I. J. Parker
Yamada saw that she was truly upset. What she had said about having raised him was true enough. The care of the youngest children in a noble household fell to a reliable maid, and she had raised him as if he were her own. She was entitled to her reaction. Servants took enormous pride in the status of their masters, and he had sadly disappointed her.
“Otori,” he tried to explain, “I have no children of my own and I shall never marry. I’m lonely and shall be lonelier still when I grow old. Let me do this for the boys and for myself. You will see, it will be good to have children’s laughter in this house.”
She wiped away her tears and stared at him. “Why won’t you take a wife?” she asked suspiciously.
“I . . . there is no one I want to live with,” he said lamely. Oh, dear heaven, the lie almost strangled him.
Otori’s eyes narrowed. “You prefer boys to women maybe?” she asked, pursing her lips in disapproval.
He did not understand immediately, then he laughed. “No, Otori.”
“But then why not take a wife? You’ll see how nice a woman can be. Your trouble is just that you haven’t tried it. You’re a good-looking man. Your wife will think herself lucky to warm your bed and bear your children.”
“No, Otori. I will never marry. Now bring the boys in.”
But Otori burst into fresh floods of tears. “I don’t understand,” she wailed. “Please make me understand. What is wrong?”
Her grief shamed him, and he decided to tell her the truth. “Hush,” he said. “It is a secret. You must never speak of it to anyone. Promise me?”
Her tear-drenched face filled with half-fearful curiosity. She paused her sobbing and nodded.
“I met someone, but I cannot ask her to be my wife. And I will not live with any other woman. It would not be fair to this other woman, for I should always think less of her because she was not the one I want. Do you understand now?”
Otori sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeve. Then she nodded. “Who is she? Does she already have a husband?”
“I cannot tell you. Now go bring the boys.”
When Otori returned with his “sons,” Yamada had a moment’s misgivings. Sadamu was all very well. He was only five and showed some promise of growing into a man who was at least ordinary looking. Otori’s ministrations had made enough of a change to hint even at handsomeness. But Boy was discouraging. As Otori had pointed out, his appearance matched his reputation for thievery and untrustworthiness. He was lean rather than skinny these days because he got enough to eat, but he had never lost his furtive look and manner. Boy was tall, with narrow shoulders, a long neck, a broken nose which gave his face its lopsided appearance, a long chin and a crooked grin. His eyes were deep-set and wild, and his hands and feet overly large. At the moment, his arms dangled at his sides, and he was casting quick appraising glances around the room and at Yamada’s face, as if he were gauging his chances of grabbing some item of value and making a run for it.
Yamada sighed. “Boy,” he said, “have you been happy here?”
Boy’s eyes sharpened. His head bobbed up and down eagerly. “Yes, Master. Very happy. Thank you, Master.” Boy’s voice had changed. This emphasized the unpleasant tone.
“How old are you now? About sixteen?”
A lifting of the shoulders.
“I cannot go on calling you ‘Boy.’ You’ll be a man soon. What name do you want to be called?”
That astonished the youth. His sharp eyes scanned Yamada’s face. Then he grinned more widely. The effect was that of a trickster trying to ingratiate himself, but he answered readily enough, “Sadahira, Master. Like you.”
Yamada was taken aback. He glanced at the smaller boy, who looked mildly puzzled. “That name is taken,” the doctor said stiffly. “Pick another one.”
A stubborn look came into the older boy’s face. “Why can’t I have that name? If he’s Sadamu, I want to be Sadahira.”
Here were already the first signs of jealousy between the boys. Yamada’s sudden decision appeared fraught with difficulties. Otori thought so, too. She grunted and snapped, “I told you he was worthless and ungrateful. You’re a fool if you go through with it.”
Her words had an interesting effect on Boy. He glanced quickly from Otori to Yamada. A calculating expression replaced the stubborn look. He said, “Sorry, Master. You must pick my name. I shall be proud to bear it.”
“Very well. Then you shall be Hachiro. It is an honorable name in my family, and I shall expect you not to bring shame to it.”
The newly named Hachiro bowed again. “Thank you, Master. It is a fine name.”
“The reason I have called you both,” Yamada continued, impatient now to get it over with before he lost his nerve at the older boy’s manner, “is that I have decided to adopt both of you. It means that this is now your home. You will receive an education suitable for sons of mine, and after my death you will inherit my property in the way I see fit to bestow it. In return, I expect obedience, filial behavior, earnest effort at the chores I set you, and honesty. Do you accept?”
Hachiro flushed, then said fervently, “Yes, Master, I will. Thank you.”
“You may call me ‘Father’ from now on, Hachiro.”
“Thank you, Father. May the Buddha and all his saints bless you.”
“And you, Sadamu?” asked Yamada, a little disappointed that the smaller boy had said nothing and was frowning.
“My father is dead,” Sadamu said flatly. “My mother is also dead. I have no home.”
Otori gave a small gasp.
Yamada sighed. “Yes, I know, Sadamu. That’s why you are here. I will be your father from now on.”
The boy said nothing and looked away.
“Sadamu,” whispered Otori. “You must thank the doctor. You’re a very lucky little boy, you know. Not many orphans with no family get taken in by such a fine gentleman as Doctor Yamada. Where are your manners?”
Sadamu thought about it, then bowed and said, “Thank you.”
More than anything the doctor wanted to be called ‘Father’ by this quiet thoughtful child, but he did not press him. Instead he sent the boys away and went into his garden.
Much later, as he was grinding dried herbs in his studio, Sadamu slipped in and stood beside him to watch.
“Would you like to help me?” Yamada asked.
The boy nodded, and the doctor showed him how to use the pestle to grind the powdered herbs together with sesame seeds so that he could mix them with honey into a thick paste and then roll small pills the size of orange seeds. He did the weighing himself and smiled to see the child put a finger into the honey and lick it. Still, Sadamu did not say much and made few replies to Yamada’s chatter.
“Did you know,” Yamada said, “that I can mix a medicine that will make a person become as fragrant as Prince Genji?”
The boy looked up at him. “Why?”
“Oh, there are people who wish for this. Prince Genji was much admired by beautiful ladies.”
“Do you want to be fragrant and have many beautiful women?” asked the boy.
Yamada laughed. “Yes, but I doubt it would help me much.”
Silence fell again as Sadamu pounded and Yamada measured. Then the boy asked, “Why don’t you have children?”
Remembering Otori’s reaction, the doctor said cautiously, “I’ve never had a wife.”
“Were you afraid she would die?”
Yamada set down the earthenware jar he had been filling with pills. “No. What makes you say a thing like that?”
“My father died. Then my mother cried and cried until she got sick and died, too. Maybe I’ll die next. And then you will die.”
“No, Sadamu. You will not die,” Yamada said quickly and took the child in his arms. “I’m a doctor, and I won’t let you die.” But as he said it, he thought that the boy would now believe he had let his mother die. Helplessly, he held the child until he felt the small arms slip around his neck and hug him.
“Th
ank 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.”
From Lady Sanjo’s Pillow Book
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 Audience
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 physi
cal 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?”