Hideyoshi and Rikyū

by Nogami Yaeko

  Finally she said, in a trembling voice, “I wonder if my brother’s done something terrible to make you so worried.”

  Rikyū’s tightly shut lips didn’t move right away, but he poked the metal chopsticks into the ash bed a little harder.

  “Well, it might be all right,” he said finally. He arranged the possibilities in his mind like pieces on a Go board, going over them again and again, trying to find a positive outcome.

  18

  Torigai Yahei did not return to Sakai. He wasn’t just out for the night when Kisaku came to inquire after him; he had vanished completely.

  Where was he? The only people who knew for sure were the parents of Yahei’s new woman, Otane. They were astounded when he came to them and said that he needed to find a place to hide or a great misfortune would befall him. They sent Yahei and Otane to Ōmi to stay with their relatives, who kept their ancestors’ graves.

  Otane whispered that at the beginning of the leap year, Yahei had been ordered to see Ishida Mitsunari. He had never seen Mitsunari’s residence before, and he was very excited about the opportunity. But as happy as he had been when he had left, he had returned dejected. Since then, the normally easygoing Yahei was weighed down with worry, and he began to talk about leaving Kyōto. When he mentioned the name of Hideyoshi’s most intelligent and cunning retainer, it made Otane’s parents feel the danger.

  Yahei refused to give them any details, but he swore by God and the Buddha that he would not be punished and there would be no trouble for their family.

  Certainly what Yahei said was true. It wasn’t like his usual babble, when even he didn’t know if what he was saying was true or not. He had been called to Mitsunari’s residence to talk about what Rikyū had said.

  Like Rikyū, Mitsunari lived in Jurakudai, but his home was on the other side, near Nijō Castle. Yahei sat in the waiting room, his mind racing.

  I wonder what Mitsunari-sama wants with me, he thought. Maybe he wants to study Noh. Kurematsu Shinkurō will only teach Kampaku-sama, no one else, so that could be it. He passed the time happily imagining himself on Jurakudai’s Noh stage.

  At the beginning of the meeting, Mitsunari seemed very relaxed. In the alcove behind him was a hanging scroll, and below it were sweet-smelling white and red plum blossoms in a blue celadon vase.

  The two sat face to face. Mitsunari started with a conversation about the Noh play that had been performed last December. Shinkurō’s youngest son had played the role of Shōjō—a legendary ape who liked to drink and dance—in a red jacket with a silver wave design and red riding pants. “He was excellent when he was dancing on stage. You must have put a lot of effort into training him.”

  The praise was only a preface, however. What Mitsunari really wanted to hear was what Yahei had said about Rikyū during the banquet after the play.

  At the party, Yahei had been a bit intoxicated, as if he’d drunk from Shōjō’s wine jar. Of course the conversation had turned to China, and he accidentally let slip what Rikyū had said to him.

  “Just about then, the banquet went wild, so I couldn’t hear you clearly,” Mitsunari said smoothly. He usually spoke quickly, but now his face was as calm and relaxed as it had been when he was praising Shinkurō’s son. “Did he say that attacking China will not be as easy as avenging Akechi?”

  When Rikyū had first said the words, Yahei hadn’t perceived any special meaning in them. Even as Mitsunari asked him about it again, he couldn’t see the point. But now Mitsunari started to shower him with questions. When did Rikyū say that? What was the reason? Mitsunari threatened him with trouble if he hid the truth.

  Finally, the gravity of the situation dawned on Yahei. The fear and surprise made him grovel before Mitsunari, who was sitting three green tatami mats away.

  “I would never think of hiding this matter from you,” Yahei told him. He recited the whole story from the beginning, starting with the moment he entered Rikyū’s house for his year-end visit. He told Mitsunari that after China was defeated for sure there would be teahouses and theaters built there. He babbled on about the crane meat that Hideyoshi had given to Rikyū. Even though he had some fear about speaking to such an important figure, his talkative nature didn’t desert him completely. The meeting with Mitsunari was unexpected, and if it had been an ordinary conversation he could have spoken in a more relaxed manner, but in this case he restrained himself, careful not to answer any question that wasn’t asked.

  Mitsunari’s distinctive, wide ears heard more than Yahei’s words. The way they protruded made the rest of his face look narrower, accentuating the brief trace of rising temper. The temper subsided once Yahei stopped talking, and his casual expression returned. “I remember that Sōeki-dono’s wife is your—”

  “She’s my sister.” Nothing made Yahei so proud as to say that his sister was married to Rikyū—so proud that he forgot himself and the situation to interrupt Mitsunari with the answer.

  “I see. But the conversation we had today is private. If you should visit Rikyū, you should never say a word about this to him, his wife, his family, or anyone else. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yahei, if you betray me, I will not forgive you.”

  “Yes, lord. I understand.”

  But he had already been dismissed.

  The houses in Jurakudai all looked much the same; each had a tiled, double-roofed gate—except for Rikyū’s house, which looked like a temple. It was hard to tell whose house was whose. On the east, west, south, and north the gates were all decorated with the same sculptures, and even the same red and blue paint with gold leaf. The insides were the same, too, from the gate to the guard station. To Yahei, who left Mitsunari’s house absorbed in his own thoughts, it seemed as though no matter how quickly he walked, he was only moving his feet and not his body. The yellow-white earthen walls that ran along both sides of the street were exactly like the house he’d just left, as if it was somehow following him.

  He wished he could run to Rikyū’s house and confess what he’d done. He felt he had a duty to tell Rikyū why he had been invited to visit Mitsunari. He thought about it, but he wasn’t brave enough to defy Mitsunari’s orders. When dealing with women, he was impudent. With everyone else, he was a coward.

  The more he thought about it, the more his fear grew. What would happen to him if he slipped and told someone about the meeting with Mitsunari? The fear grew until it was worse than when he had actually been facing Mitsunari.

  He remembered Mitsunari’s threatening glare that accompanied the words “If you betray me …” Even the enormous, shell-like ears grew in Yahei’s memory until they were like a whirlpool, pulling him downward. He didn’t know what to do. He had never thought this would become so serious. He was like a child who sets fire to a pile of straw while playing and begins to cry when he sees the fire has spread all over. Still, he didn’t make the decision to go into hiding right away.

  When he got home, Otane noticed that he looked different. As she explained to her parents later, he had left the house cheerfully in his new formal kimono with a silver-gray jacket. He returned dejected, and he had been caught in the rain, and the new kimono he’d had made for this day looked as if he had fallen in the mud. But when she asked what had happened, he just made some offhand comment.

  Since that day, Yahei had been constantly distracted, even forgetting the days when he had lessons. He was normally so conscientious with his students. Even though he seldom spent time in Sakai anymore, when he did return he spent a lot of time in practice to compensate.

  Otane thought his absentmindedness was because of Ochika, and they quarreled. He snapped at her, which was unusual for him. “You don’t know how I really feel.”

  Occasionally, he rushed into the house and said that someone had been watching him. He was very pale. After that, when he practiced with his students—or with a student who also acted as a servant, as was the custom in Sakai—he sang in an exaggerated, loud voice in a room where the wi
ndow faced the outside. He wanted to show to anyone watching that he was not trying to hide or escape. The fear of being watched grew until it was intolerable. He could not squash the thought that he should tell Rikyū everything.

  Finally, he confessed—to Kurematsu Shinkurō.

  Shinkurō moved his chin and said, “Mmm, mmm,” as he listened, as if he already knew the whole story. Once the story was finished, he immediately suggested that Yahei leave town. “That’s your great talent, Torigai,” he told Yahei, knowing very well how timid his friend could be. “Look, you don’t have to suffer because of this. Why don’t you and Otane go away for a while? Officially, you tell people that you have to go to the country for your health. You’ll be out of Mitsunari’s sight, and this whole thing will clear up soon.”

  Shinkurō had abandoned his status as a lord to become Kampaku-sama’s Noh teacher. But he had a much freer and easier attitude than most Noh masters. He liked women the way Yahei did. He openly went to the entertainment district in a merchant-like kimono with a big, bold design on it.

  Because of his noble background, he was Mitsunari’s friend. Shinkurō’s word in this matter had special weight, and Yahei appreciated the advice. Yahei’s mind was too occupied with his own affairs to think about what might happen to Rikyū. His flight to Ōmi was an act of desperation, like clinging to a vine when falling off a cliff.

  Mitsunari’s antipathy toward Rikyū wasn’t personal. They weren’t the same age—Rikyū was old enough to be Mitsunari’s father—and they weren’t rivals for the same position, so they should never have come into conflict. Mitsunari didn’t envy Rikyū either, or if he did, it was only a faint shadow. Mitsunari simply regarded Rikyū’s very existence as a problem. The issue was that Rikyū’s involvement in court politics went way beyond what was appropriate for a tea master. It wasn’t personal.

  Mitsunari had been under Hideyoshi’s care since he was a young boy. He became a typical bureaucratic politician and an outstanding administrator. He believed that only absolute centralization made Hideyoshi’s rule stable. That was the logic behind the battles with Tsushima and Hōjō, the sword-hunting, and the land-serving. Tight control had to be maintained, with everyone following the procedures, rules, and orders, especially at Jurakudai, which was the seat of government as well as Hideyoshi’s private residence. Just as it was forbidden for a farmer to abandon his land and status, everyone in Jurakudai must be forbidden to extend beyond their appointed rank, be he a page, a magistrate, a storyteller, a secretary—or a tea master. Like the scales on a fish, all the parts must be aligned in order for the whole to be healthy.

  But there was one scale that was out of place, which separated from the rest to reflect its own particular light. That was Rikyū. For Mitsunari, it was a violation of the natural order, and Rikyū became like a repulsive eyesore to him.

  Hideyoshi—who still called Mitsunari by his childhood name, Sakichi—had often complained to Hidenaga about this tendency of Mitsunari’s. “He has been like that since he was a child. He attacks every task with zeal and honesty. He would never cheat, but he tends to make things very straightforward and rigid. He won’t hesitate to manipulate people or use one of his allies to stop an enemy. When that happens, he gets out of control. He can never compromise.”

  Hidenaga had been concerned about this weakness of Mitsunari’s. It was for exactly that reason that Hidenaga wanted Rikyū to be his brother’s advisor. On the other hand, Hideyoshi was a flexible, tactically minded leader. He made connections with his political allies that extended his reach far beyond what anyone suspected. He believed that was the wisest policy for pursuing politics and wars. Before any battle, he tried to manipulate the situation secretly. He had done exactly that when fighting against Shimazu in Kyūshū, where he used the relationship between Rikyū and one of Shimazu’s retainers, Ōkubo Tadamune, who was a student of Rikyū’s.

  Rikyū was better than anyone at those secret machinations, and Mitsunari hated it. If Rikyū’s involvement made the information unclear, or certain information went to Hideyoshi directly without the other retainer knowing about it, order might not be followed, or plans might have to change. For Mitsunari, this hurt the retainers’ credibility, and also made the Toyotomi government look unregulated. Mitsunari didn’t care if Rikyū was favored by Hideyoshi as long as he stuck to designing tea gardens or houses. But he didn’t want Rikyū to be involved in policy decisions.

  As Japan’s highest-ranking tea master, Rikyū had been recognized as more than a retainer. It made Mitsunari boil inside, but he hadn’t known what to do about it—until today.

  Before, Hidenaga had supported Rikyū, like a board that kept the branches of an old pine tree from sinking to the ground. But Hidenaga was gone, and now, with a stroke of good luck, Mitsunari might be about to finish Rikyū once and for all.

  It was natural for Mitsunari to plot this way, as natural as it was for one to think of spring when one sees a swallow flying through the air. But there was another incident that pushed Mitsunari to move now: the affair at Ōu.

  When the trouble began, Hideyoshi was able to get information directly from Rikyū by way of his correspondence with Matsui on the battlefield. This satisfied Hideyoshi, but it was a bitter pill for Mitsunari. Even worse, news of Hideyoshi’s plan to join the battle went back via the same channel. It was never announced officially. Even though the information was contained in a private letter, it was outrageous that Rikyū had taken it upon himself to convey the information at all.

  Hideyoshi often described his conquest of Japan as a huge gamble, one which by luck had given him the title of Kampaku-sama. Now, he was preparing to cast his dice on attacking China, which would make his previous battles look like child’s play. Normally, the lords who sent troops were also responsible for supplying funds for the war. This time, Hideyoshi would need vast sums of money to pay for it, and as the general in charge of the invasion, he would be expected to fund half of it himself. Ikuno and other mines produced a good amount of gold and silver, but even so, it was an enormous investment.

  Among Hideyoshi’s six official retainers, Natsuka Masaie was very good at mathematics. Hideyoshi had the appearance of a rough warrior, but since he had grown up as a member of the lower classes, he had learned to be very frugal, never wasting money on wars or even ordinary architecture or civil engineering projects. Thus he valued Natsuka’s skill. Mitsunari also trusted him deeply, and left the economic preparations for battle up to him.

  Shipbuilding had progressed according to plan, and purchase of munitions was going smoothly. As the calculations for the number of drafted soldiers that could be expected from each province took definite form, Mitsunari wanted to accomplish the mission of stabilizing the national government. He could not allow anyone to criticize the plan to attack China.

  He knew that among the daimyō, Tokugawa and Maeda were not as enthusiastic about the plan of attack as the daimyō of Kyūshū. But they were not so foolish as to complain about it. For the warriors, especially the wandering former samurai, the wars could be a chance to redeem themselves and find a home. For the merchants, it was an opportunity to make a great deal of money.

  The problem was the farmers who would be drafted to become foot soldiers. They could expect neither fame nor money from this war, but their lives were in as much danger as those of the other warriors. If they were drafted, they would be forced to abandon their lands. This contradicted the strict principles of social order, which dictated that farmers couldn’t leave their fields. This meant that other farmers would have to plow the lands of the drafted farmers while they were away.

  Mitsunari, like any high-ranking person, was used to thinking of these farmers as ignorant, but they were more sensitive than they looked. Even before the draft order was issued, they smelled it coming and began to escape from their villages, vanishing into other regions. An avalanche begins with invisible snow slipping from the bottom of a deep drift. In the same way, those worried farmers could start an un
dercurrent of complaint that led to a popular resistance to attacking China.

  This is what worried Mitsunari the most. He knew that the rumor that was heard but not heard was secretly spreading, just as a shimmer of heat appears and disappears in the spring daylight. He himself had heard it whispered that attacking China would not be as easy as defeating Akechi. And that whisper was Rikyū’s word.

  Kurematsu Shinkurō was a stylish person, and he didn’t like to find fault with anybody. In this regard he was Mitsunari’s opposite, despite the fact that they were good friends. He thought that Mitsunari made trouble through his inflexibility and devotion to order. But in this case, Kurematsu understood Mitsunari’s attitude. Mitsunari couldn’t let this go.

  “Attacking China will not be as easy as defeating Akechi. Hm. That has a nice ring to it,” he said. It didn’t matter who said it originally. Once the rumor was released, it would fly through the air like a whizzing arrow.

  While Mitsunari’s hatred of Rikyū was purely political, Maeda Gen’i had more private issues.

  It started with Maeda’s hostility toward Kokei for organizing Nobunaga’s funeral at Daitokuji. He saw Kokei and Rikyū as usurpers, undermining his authority as the magistrate of shrines and temples. Maeda should have been the one in charge, the one who received the praise and attention, not those two upstarts. That was an insult Mitsunari could understand, and it made them natural allies.

  A few days after Torigai Yahei visited Mitsunari, Maeda Gen’i sat in the same room, discussing the situation. It was Maeda who suggested that Rikyū’s wooden statue at Daitokuji might be a problem—and therefore the solution. Mitsunari knew nothing about it. Maeda himself had never seen it, only heard about it.

  “As you know,” Maeda explained, “Sōeki defrayed the cost of reconstructing the gate. But during the battle of Odawara, when the gate was dedicated, he refrained from having an official Buddhist service, and the celebration was done privately. When the chief magistrate went there, the statue wasn’t up yet. It must have been placed after that. But in any case, even though the reconstruction wouldn’t have been possible without Rikyū’s donation, that doesn’t mean the gate is his. It was built on the order of Emperor Hanazono, and that makes it venerable. If the statue really is there, then whenever someone from the court enters the temple, they will have to go underneath Rikyū’s feet. That should be good evidence that he’s trying to exceed his rank—forcing Kampaku-sama to walk beneath him.”