Hideyoshi and Rikyū

by Nogami Yaeko

  Sometimes Yahei would get so caught up in his stories that he would start to invent things on the spot, so the listener could never be sure what was true and what wasn’t. Just like bright, trendy fabrics in which it was hard to tell where one color blended into another, one could not tell what was true and what was not. In Yahei’s own mind, he believed every word he said, whether it was true or not. If he slipped and contradicted himself with the truth, he pretended nothing had happened. Even his sister Riki could only click her tongue in embarrassment at his behavior. Sometimes she would complain about it to Rikyū, but he would reply that it was just Yahei’s way.

  Today, Rikyū’s perception cut through Yahei’s chatter. He could tell that there was something Yahei wasn’t saying.

  Kurematsu Shinkurō was descended from the noble Maeda family. If he wanted, he could have been a lord with a castle of his own, but he was happy being Hideyoshi’s Noh teacher. He had a good personality, and he wasn’t ambitious. But he was also one of Ishida Mitsunari’s closest friends, and so Yahei’s friendship with Shinkurō could become a friendship with Mitsunari by extension.

  Even the easygoing Yahei sensed the awkwardness. Rikyū didn’t think twice about Yahei’s womanizing habits, but this new relationship with Shinkurō worried him. It had been Shinkurō who made sure Yahei was invited to join the chorus in Vengeance on Akechi. Even if it was a minor role, it was still a supreme honor to be on the stage at Jurakudai, and Yahei was ecstatic. Before, Yahei had a tendency to talk about Shinkurō like a fellow apprentice behind Shinkurō’s back, but now Yahei had begun to treat Shinkurō like a benefactor.

  Shinkurō, too, took advantage of the relationship. When Shinkurō went to Odawara with Hideyoshi, he entrusted Yahei with teaching his son. Shinkurō knew that while Yahei’s personal habits were questionable, when it came to skill in Noh, Yahei was second to none. And it was easier to ask a favor of Yahei than of the grand master of the Konparu school of Noh. But even that favor turned into a bit of luck for Yahei; by spending so much time in Kyōto, he was able to teach more, and his income grew until it rivaled the wealthiest merchants, promising a bright future.

  Aside from the financial bonus, the lessons gave Yahei an excuse to spend time in Kyōto. Only a month before, he had met a new woman, a coquettish and fickle divorcee. He convinced her to move in with her parents in Kyōto so that he could see her once a month away from Ochika’s watchful eyes. Yahei told his new woman that he was planning to leave Ochika anyway, and that he would marry her as soon as he could establish himself in Kyōto.

  Even her parents believed his excuses. They didn’t want to lose this second chance for their daughter, who had brought them so much embarrassment by being unfaithful to her first husband. They even rented a house for Yahei near their own.

  In that way, Yahei was away from Sakai for more than half of every month. Kisaburō, on the other hand, went to Daikumachi at every opportunity. These changes were a result of the battle in Odawara.

  For Riki, however, this was one more source of stress. Besides going to have tea with Hideyoshi’s wife and his mother, she had to return to Sakai to take care of the family business. She was used to Rikyū being away from home, but this time was different. He was on the battlefield, even if he wasn’t fighting himself. Riki felt even more responsible for keeping the house in order, and Kisaburō, who was over twenty but still went out carousing, grated on her frayed nerves. Mother and son fought more than ever.

  Kisaburō didn’t bother trying to hide where he was going anymore. He didn’t quite have the courage to say it to his mother’s face, but he would tell the clerk at the store quite openly.

  “Gisuke, if you need me, send someone over. I’ll have a lesson there.” He wasn’t talking about Noh—that would have been too transparent, with Yahei away—but rather the jabisen master who often came to Daikumachi.

  “Have a good day,” Gisuke would say politely. He never lost respect for his young master, even if he wasn’t a very good son. If Gisuke asked Kisaburō about the business, he was willing to give advice, and he was good at getting the right supplies to send to Odawara. It was better than the situation with Rikyū, who had become a tea master and no longer took part in the day-to-day running of the business. Because of that, Gisuke dutifully paid the bills that came from social clubs where Kisaburō spent his time with women. He even tried to give Kisaburō advice sometimes, but the young man was too independent, and he wouldn’t listen.

  “Gisuke, just keep your mind on your work and don’t worry about it. If my father complains, let him do the bookkeeping.” As if realizing how petty he sounded, he added, “Merchants’ whole lives are just deceiving people, buying a product as cheaply as possible and then selling it at a huge profit. It’s not work for decent people.”

  “You can say that because you were born on a lucky day, and you’ve never had to face the troubles of living.”

  “I see.” The troubles of living. His beautiful black eyes, which so resembled Rikyū’s, blinked like small fish jumping out of the water. Then they turned sharp. Gisuke was the one who didn’t know about living. It was Kisaburō who had been facing the troubles of living, trying to sort out the best thing to do. The question led his mind into a maze that left him in an agony of confusion.

  Kisaburō stood in the hallway, watching Ochika. “Is the old woman coming today?” he asked, referring to the jabisen teacher, a woman over fifty from Ryūkyū Island.

  Ochika raised her face from the jabisen that was sitting on her lap, moving only her chin and one eye. She ignored the question and asked Kisaburō to guess what she was playing. “If you can guess it, I’ll give you a prize.”

  The surface of the instrument was made from the skin of some reptile. As she touched the three strings to the rather mysterious small box with her thumb and the nail of her index finger, it created plaintive notes, like a koto. She lowered her rich voice and sang a love song.

  “That’s Tōei, isn’t it?”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “I know music.”

  They both had a good sense of music. The songs they learned from the Ryūkyū woman were interesting to listen to, but the classical lyrics were too hard to understand. So they combined what they’d learned with trendy, popular music.

  The tune that Ochika played was new. It summoned a memory of a drunken Yahei, leaning on a pillar and beating a rhythm with his fan, humming a verse of Tōei. For Noh chanting, it was unusually stylish.

  Kisaburo’s uncle was still in Kyōto. Ochika knew all about the other woman, of course. She spoke of it as if it was of no concern. To her, it was the same as having the flu in the wintertime—a temporary sickness.

  But the song she was playing was one of Yahei’s favorites. Kisaburō felt a sudden surge of pity for her. “When is he coming back?”

  “I don’t know.” She put the instrument down, still casual. As she spoke, one of her thin, shaved eyebrows moved in a slight frown. Was it because her index finger was too tight on the pick that she could not pull the string easily?

  “In any case, it’s too bad Yahei has abandoned our Noh lessons.”

  “Toku is going to substitute.”

  “Oh, Toku. If he’s good enough.” It was a blunt statement. Toku had been Yahei’s disciple since he was small. He’d started to teach Yahei’s students after Yahei went to Kyōto. Toku was artistic, but sometimes dense. Even though he was over thirty now, people still called him by his childhood name, and he cleaned the garden like a servant. Kisaburō had a mysterious jealousy of Toku that even he didn’t understand, and as soon as he noticed it in himself the emotion changed to self-scorn. He blushed at his own words.

  Ochika didn’t notice. She told him that Yahei’s students in Sakai thought their master was busy teaching Noh at Jurakudai. “They’re happy for his success. That’s why they don’t complain about him being away.”

  “Is it really true that he’s going to do more performances on stage at Jurakudai?”

 
Performing for Kampaku-sama was a dream for anyone who practiced Noh. Ever since Vengeance on Akechi, Yahei had longed to return to the stage. He fantasized about not just performing on stage, but singing a solo for Hideyoshi himself and receiving his lord’s praise. As soon as the possibility occurred to him, his imagination built on it, the same way that seeds planted in the spring soil grow to become flowers.

  “There may be such rumors in Sakai,” Ochika responded carelessly.

  “Uncle’s habit of dreaming.”

  “I wish that was all it was.” Ochika laughed, tilting her neck and arching her thin eyebrows. “Let’s not talk about such boring things. Kī-san, I haven’t told you the story I heard from the old woman from Ryūkyū.”

  “What is it?”

  “She also teaches lessons to a relative of Yamanoue Sōji. His family has a grudge against your father because they believe he was responsible for Sōji being executed.”

  “A grudge.” He repeated it reluctantly, as if the word were pulled out of him.

  “That was no ordinary execution. I heard that both of his ears and his nose were cut off.”

  Kisaburō had no reply.

  “Didn’t you know that? Sōji’s family says that your father didn’t even try to help Sōji when he was being tortured.” When Kisaburō still didn’t answer, she continued, “Of course, we are dealing with Kampaku-sama. Nobody can stop him if he decides to do something. But I can understand that Sōji’s family doesn’t want to accept that.”

  “You can’t trust what that old woman says,” Kisaburō snapped in a sudden fit of anger. An image of the jabisen master flitted through his mind. She wore her hair in a bun held together with a long, ornamental hairpin that looked like an antenna. Her face was small, and she had coquettish eyes for her age. She had followed a boatman from Hakata to Ryukyu, and from there to Sakai. Now she was supported by a moneylender who dealt in real estate. Nobody knew her whole history, not even where she was born.

  But Ochika invited all kinds of women to her home, including prostitutes and other women of ill repute, so to Ochika this old woman was not unusual. She immediately leaped to the woman’s defense. “There are a lot of people in this world who know what they’re talking about. They just don’t say anything in front of people like you. How could you not understand that?”

  But Kisaburō had lapsed into silence again, looking away to avoid her sharp words. His gaze fell on the Noh stage in the next room, which had a huge painting of a pine tree as a backdrop. He accepted her rebuke with a calm face, but inside him there was something hot and trembling. Kisaburō had heard the story of Sōji’s execution—it was one of the rumors that had been circulating out of Odawara for a time—but this was the first time he’d gotten so many details, the first time he’d heard that Sōji had been executed so brutally, and that his father might be connected to Sōji’s death.

  Rikyū had never talked about what happened to Sōji. That was natural, since it was a tragedy. But despite the rumors, Kisaburō knew in his heart that Rikyū would never bring it up.

  He understood what Ochika was saying. Of course nobody was going to repeat nasty rumors about his father to him. Nobody except Ochika, who never hesitated to say what she thought. She had told him openly that she believed Rikyū was going around Hideyoshi and making money from selling tea utensils, profiting from his position as Hideyoshi’s tea master. It was also true, as she said, that people who flatter you too much to your face tend to throw darts behind your back.

  Ochika’s revelations may have been in reaction to his mother, who treated her as one of “Yahei’s women.” Kisaburō felt the same as Ochika. He resented his father for so many things that sometimes he couldn’t help but believe the rumors, and part of him wanted to hear more. But it was his father, after all, and Kisaburō was smart enough to understand that rumors are neither true nor false. So he kept his expression calm and deliberately defended Rikyū.

  “Kī-san, you really are perverse,” Ochika told him.

  “Do you think so?”

  “Don’t lie. You know you’re obstinate. That’s why you can’t find a wife.”

  “I will soon.”

  “I’d like to meet her.” Ochika’s mouth twisted as she laughed and gave him a sidelong glance. Was that jealousy?

  Kisaburō sprawled on the floor with an exaggerated yawn and a sigh. Yahei’s long absence had drawn Kisaburō and Ochika closer, but today was different. The gossip about Sōji and his father flowed like hot wax into his ears, weighing him down so that he couldn’t move. There was nowhere for him to vanish. He couldn’t protect his father anymore. He was angry at Rikyū for that, but even more, he hated Ochika for bringing it up.

  Ochika pretended not to notice his anger and picked up another jabisen, offering it to Kisaburō to use.

  Ignoring it, Kisaburō told her that he was leaving.

  “Don’t you want to practice the song we did before?”

  “Not today.”

  “I thought you were planning to stay for dinner.”

  Without another word, he left.

  The late afternoon sun was covered by a thin October fog. Kisaburō tightened his mouth as if he had a toothache and occasionally took a deep breath. His heart was still hot with anger, but it made his cheeks pale. The cool, light, gray-purple air touched his cheeks like invisible hands.

  He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to see anybody he knew. Usually when he was in one of those moods, he went to Teramachi Street. He would wander down the line of temples and through back streets where there was nothing but the branches of old trees peeking over the walls, desperately hungry for something that would fill the bleak, empty hole in his soul, like a stray dog searching for scraps of food.

  Sometimes when he wandered, he would find himself in a familiar restaurant, someplace that would give refuge to travelers in the rain. He would drink sake, more than usual, and perhaps sleep with one of “those women.” But today he was afraid that would only make the empty space deeper, so he didn’t go to any of his usual haunts.

  He let his legs move, not caring where he went. The only thing he thought he understood about his father was that Rikyū never played a losing game. He understood that, just as the seas and flowers are different, the context of the rumors produced many variations. Some were true and some were false. The reason this particular rumor upset Kisaburō so much was that it reminded him of his father’s response to Kokei’s exile three years ago. He knew that his father had helped Kokei get a pardon, and had gone above and beyond what was expected of him. But if Rikyū had known that he couldn’t help Kokei, if he had been sure that all he would get was a rebuke from Hideyoshi, then would he still have done his duty as a friend and worked as hard as he could to help Kokei?

  Kisaburō remembered the day of the farewell tea for Kokei. Kisaburō was just back from Sakai, and hadn’t known anything about the gathering. All he remembered was his mother’s frightened face as she cleaned up the tearoom, and her piercing yell when Kisaburō looked at the scroll. It was a famous scroll by Ikushima Kidō, one that was temporarily in Rikyū’s possession while he had it repaired for Hideyoshi. The work had been done, but Kampaku-sama hadn’t seen the scroll yet. Was it his father’s small protest? As Kisaburō remembered the day, he felt a sense of irritable scorn for his father.

  There are cases where even someone in exile can be forgiven. As with Kokei, Sōji’s first exile hadn’t lasted for long. But when a person dies, that’s the end. Was the rumor true? How had Sōji died in Odawara, and had his father tried to save him?

  As these thoughts swirled endlessly, Kisaburō came to a street lined with temples. He wandered along like a foreigner and passed the houses of the courtesans at Chimori, where there were already customers coming and going. Abruptly the houses gave way to empty space dotted by sporadic farmers’ houses. He passed one farm where piles of rice from the harvest the month before covered the fields like round, yellow stains. As the light fog took on the color of dusk, h
e reached the end of town. He was at the southwest corner of the bulwark that had once surrounded Sakai, protecting it both from enemies and from the sea that formed its lifeline. In the past, the double waterways of the narrow stream and the canal had been lined with pine and willow trees. The trees blended with flowers in the springtime and red maple leaves in the autumn to create a beautiful frame around the city.

  When Nobunaga had first come to power and tried to bring Sakai under his control, this bulwark had protected the citizens of Sakai against him. Remembering this, Hideyoshi had ordered the bulwark destroyed. Sakai lost its distinctive outer fence, but beautiful pine and willow trees had grown up in its place. The large willow tree just ahead of Kisaburō was one of the remnants of that time. The moon hung between leafless branches, its reflection bobbing up and down on the surface of the ocean like a jellyfish when the wind stirred through the fog. A cold breeze that smelled of the tide and the fog blew past him into the woods.

  Kisaburō’s mood changed—as it often did when he started to brood about his father—from anger to deep depression. He was as helpless before it as if he had been bound up in straw mats and dropped into the dark water. No matter what he thought of his father, it was only because of his father’s name and position that Kisaburō could enjoy drinking and carousing and all the little luxuries of life. The thought cut his pride with a deep pain.

  None of his fellows who had grown up in the same nayashū felt like this. They all knew that one day they would inherit their family business, so they worked hard and tried not to denigrate their family name. Kisaburō understood this, but he couldn’t resign himself to that life. He had no intention of becoming a fish wholesaler, or of becoming a tea practitioner like his father and his brothers. In that sense, he was useless, a burden on his family. Sometimes he hated himself for it. On the other hand, he was taking advantage of his status as the son of a wealthy merchant, just as his friends were. He knew that behind his back people were calling him narrow-minded, and it angered him. But he knew the situation was one of his own making.