by Nogami Yaeko
Then Hideyoshi began to hurl accusations about Rikyū’s words against the invasion of China, and the quality of his anger changed. Everything Hideyoshi had done, all the battles he had won, were just a preliminary skirmish to the invasion of China. It would be his victory of victories, his crowning glory. Indignation filled him. Rikyū should have known how important this was to him. If there was some criticism of the invasion plan, Rikyū should have been the first one to condemn it. How dare he criticize the plan himself! He was insolent, ungrateful, not even worthy of being treated like a human being.
Just as water in a full jar does not flow easily, the force of Hideyoshi’s anger prevented him from speaking for a moment. Finally he said, voice caught in his throat, “I heard you said that invading China was not going to be like defeating Akechi. Is that so?”
Rikyū had given up making any excuses. What he had said was actually a casual expression of many people’s apprehensions. His words had come out thoughtlessly. He could have explained, said that Yahei had brought up China, and Rikyū had been provoked to say something about it. He hadn’t meant it any more seriously than talking about the weather. But Rikyū knew that none of these excuses would help him escape Hideyoshi’s wrath.
When Rikyū stayed silent, Hideyoshi took it as a sign of defiance. His eyes flashed with fury, as if they’d suddenly switched places in their sockets. “Do you think I’m powerless here?” he shouted gruffly.
“I never intended to—”
“Shut up. I can see very clearly what you intended.” With those words, the inferiority complex that he had pushed so far down inside himself came gushing to the surface. He held the title of Tenka-sama, the man who governs all of Japan, and there should have been nobody in all the sixty provinces who made him feel inferior. But there was someone, and it was Rikyū. When Hideyoshi sat in the tearoom, all his power and authority did not help him handle a tea bowl or tea scoop any more easily. They did not help him make a delicious bowl of tea. In front of Rikyū, Hideyoshi was only an inexperienced disciple. The more he valued Rikyū as a superior tea master, the more he felt inferior himself.
At the same time, his satisfaction at being able to use Rikyū became deeper because of this inferiority complex. These contradictory emotions existed in a strange harmony. But when Hideyoshi got angry, the balance shifted, and the sense of inferiority took hold. These emotions, sunk so deep that they were secret even from Hideyoshi, rose up like a fishing line tangled with algae that appears on the surface in unexpected waters. Sometimes Hideyoshi was surprised at his own reactions.
“You want to say that defeating Akechi is more on my level,” he growled at Rikyū, anger building even higher as he spoke.
“No, I don’t mean that at all.”
“I said, shut up! I know that’s it. But if so, who attacked Shimazu and conquered Kyūshū? Who destroyed Hōjō and suppressed Kantō? Who is the master of sixty provinces, from Ōu in the north to Osumi and Satsuma in the south?”
As he spoke, he clenched his right hand into a fist and shook it. Although he was small, he had big hands and wrists. Even though he now lived far from the battlefield and his hands were as white as his face, Hideyoshi’s wrists were still gnarled and covered with thick, rough hair. If he jumped down from his dais and sprang upon Rikyū, Rikyū would be knocked out in a moment.
Although Rikyū had not seen Sōji’s death firsthand, as he bent his head and closed his eyes, he had a vivid vision of the moment when Sōji was kicked into the garden outside Hideyoshi’s room at Mount Ishigaki Castle.
Fortunately, Hidyoshi’s fist reminded him of his own authority, and his inferiority complex transformed to arrogance. He continued talking, saying proudly that in his mind there was no distinction between Japan and China. His fist loosened and became a thick palm, patting the collar of his kimono and his purple-blue jacket, which had paulownia flowers embroidered in gold thread.
“You spew this idea that attacking China is not going to be as easy as defeating Akechi, but I think they’ll be exactly the same. If you want to talk about danger, that battle was really a tightrope. The news of the coup at Honnōji Temple hit me like a thunderbolt. If things went wrong, I knew for sure that Mōri’s troops would attack me. Even our allies might betray us. Win or lose, I had to be ready for anything. Compared to that, this attack is going to be like sitting down for a nice, relaxing meal. And if you, Sōeki, you ungrateful old dotard, you ogre—if you want to say that this is not going to be like defeating Akechi, you can eat shit.”
Hideyoshi’s courtly life had taught him to change his speech to be more elegant. He only used his native Owari dialect with his mother, his wife, or the late Hidenaga, or among his retainers or women in waiting when he wanted to show friendliness. With his quick perception, he understood how to speak to nobles properly without revealing his upbringing. But when he truly lost his composure, he spoke like a peasant, cursing and abusing people.
Rikyū had been raised like most residents of the urban Sakai, and was sensitive to such language. He secretly held contempt for Hideyoshi and his lower-class speech. And today, hearing Hideyoshi’s vulgar rant—the likes of which Rikyū had never received before—his contempt spilled over and made him fearless.
He raised his head and looked up at the dais calmly. Hideyoshi’s face, with its slanted, upturned eyes, its pale complexion, and the vertical lines between his eyes, made him look like the one who was cursed and shamed. “You are right to rebuke me, because I’m the one who caused this whole problem. I can do nothing but give you my deepest apologies.” His voice was as calm as his face. “However, this battle is very different from other battles. The enemy is the Chinese, and the battlefields are in a foreign country. When you finally cross the wild ocean, depending on the weather and the season, it won’t be like crossing a pond.”
“Only women and children worry about such things.”
“Even though you say so, this is not limited to women and children.”
“What?”
“Your mother is already eighty years old. Tsurumatsu-sama has just turned two. Your body is very important to Japan and to your family. I said something that made you angry, but it is because I’m very concerned about you going across the ocean.”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Hideyoshi cut Rikyū off with an impatient reprimand.
The truth was that Hideyoshi had the same worries. Although he often confided in his wife and discussed politics with her, he avoided talking about what happened on the battlefield. Likewise, Hideyoshi’s wars were a deep concern for his mother, who was often too worried to eat even when the reports from the front were good. Hideyoshi, who was equally worried about his mother, knew it very well.
Rikyū’s words, being true, only made Hideyoshi angrier. He was frustrated because his mother constantly nagged him about the same thing, but he couldn’t tell her to be quiet. He sometimes felt as if he was doing nothing but appeasing her. His frustration transferred to Rikyū.
“I didn’t know you were so concerned about my body,” Hideyoshi sneered. “Don’t bother yourself unnecessarily. In fact, you, old man, can mind your own business, and not intrude where you’re not wanted. You’re trying my patience, and presuming too much upon my favor. Hold your tongue!”
Was he so angry because Rikyū criticized the attack on China, or because Rikyū had brought up his mother? Even Hideyoshi didn’t know as he opened his clenched mouth like a dog and shouted, “Insolence! I don’t want to see your face anymore. Go to hell!”
When Rikyū returned home from Jurakudai, two messengers from Hideyoshi were waiting for him with an order to leave for Sakai.
It was an unexpectedly light rebuke.
Rikyū conducted his departure in an orderly way. Expecting exile, he had already begun the preparations. He took only his own belongings and a few tea utensils. He rode on the evening boat from Fushimi to the Yodo River, purposely taking a different boat from the women of his household. He wanted to show humility, accepting that h
e was no longer what he used to be, staying in the formal men’s world of the court rather than being with his family.
Needless to say, the punishment that had surprised even Rikyū was regarded as too generous by Ishida Mitsunari and Maeda Gen’i. For them, the problem of Rikyū could not be resolved with such a mild sentence. It required something more severe. They let the guards spread the rumor that sending Rikyū back to Sakai was only a temporary measure, and that soon he would receive a more serious punishment. At the same time, although they didn’t say it publicly, they knew thoroughly that the reason Hideyoshi had been so lenient was because of his deep attachment to Rikyū.
Even though he had shouted and cursed at Rikyū, as soon as his tea master was gone, Hideyoshi realized that he had lost something significant. But in a way, Rikyū was closer to him in his exile than he had been when he was still in Kyōto. In the morning, before Hideyoshi went to receive greetings from his closest associates, he imagined that he saw Rikyū’s well-shaped head and big, smiling eyes among his courtiers. He told himself that he didn’t see Rikyū because the tea master was late. If Hideyoshi sent a messenger, Rikyū would appear for sure.
After concluding his government business, Hideyoshi liked to take a break and drink some tea. Before, whenever he had wanted a bowl of tea, Rikyū had always greeted him as if he had known he was coming, and made the best tea in Japan for him. Now, when Hideyoshi wanted to have tea, Rikyū wasn’t there, and this made Hideyoshi think of Rikyū more than ever.
It wasn’t just the tea. Whenever there was a difficult problem and magistrates couldn’t make a decision—especially if it was related to personal matters—Rikyū’s talents had always been useful.
“Sōeki, why don’t you figure it out?” had been Hideyoshi’s usual refrain. Many complex problems had been solved with a few words from Rikyū. Why couldn’t he do it now? Rikyū’s house in Jurakudai still had a black gate and black board fences, and it was standing quietly. The only difference now was that it was vacant, and Hideyoshi had made it that way.
But he had not sent Rikyū to the bottom of hell, as he had promised in the heat of anger, or even to a remote island in the north or an isolated area of Ōu, as Mitsunari had secretly wished. Sakai was only a short distance away from Hideyoshi. If he sent an express messenger, Rikyū could be back with him the same day.
But one important thing prevented him from doing this: Hideyoshi’s continuing attachment wasn’t a sense of friendliness or sentimentality toward the old tea master. On the contrary, Hideyoshi hated Rikyū. Recalling all the ways in which Rikyū was important to him only made the feeling more intense. Hideyoshi didn’t like having to rely on him, and that frustration tore at his respect, trust, and protective feelings toward Rikyū. There was nothing left but rage.
And in this way, Rikyū stayed closer to Hideyoshi than ever.
21
In contrast to Hideyoshi’s storm of emotions, Rikyū was relaxed. Being confined to his home in Sakai was no punishment for him. After all the fear and distress leading up to his confrontation with Hideyoshi, the light punishment had restored his self-confidence. He knew that Hideyoshi was quick to anger, but also quick to forgive, especially for his favored retainers.
Rikyū tried to convince himself that no matter what happened, Hideyoshi would never relinquish his hold on him. Although Rikyū disliked Hideyoshi’s peasant manners, he never doubted Hideyoshi’s superior personality, the one that had allowed Hideyoshi to become Kampaku-sama. And he remembered that he owed the success of his creative ideas to Hideyoshi.
As much as Hideyoshi needed Rikyū, Rikyū needed him. At the same time, he was tired of serving Hideyoshi. As he had told Kokei at Daitokuji Temple, he was tired of being controlled by Hideyoshi and Hideyoshi’s mood, rain or shine. It was bothersome. But just as a mirror can reflect either the face of the holder or a different angle depending on how it’s held, in the back of Rikyū’s mind there was another emotion that conflicted with his words and even his private thoughts.
There were so many projects he wanted to tackle. Three years ago, he had been planning to build a teahouse at Hōkōji Temple, at the foot of Mount Higashi. Rikyū had chosen the site and drawn up the plans for a new type of teahouse, a design he had never seen before. Then, at the last minute, the temple and its enormous Buddha statue, which had been cast from the swords taken from the farmers, were hit by an earthquake. The plans remained only plans. But Hideyoshi’s new castle at Fushimi had given him a new hope. He imagined using the ample springs of Matsuyama and creating something like the huts on the water depicted in Tang and Song Dynasty paintings. He knew Hideyoshi would love that plan.
Just as the earthquake before had prevented his temple tearoom from becoming reality, this dismissal from Jurakudai had stopped his dreams in their tracks before he even started. Sitting on his desk were many drawings outlining plans for a teahouse at Fushimi, designed from many different angles. If he were free, he would go to Fushimi and begin work on the tearoom and the spring area outside.
Hideyoshi needed him, and because of that, he had kept Rikyū in Sakai. Was Rikyū still so deeply absorbed in this plan because he believed that Hideyoshi would ask him to return? Did he have some vision of himself showing Hideyoshi the plans in order to please him? He couldn’t deny it. Every piece of the house, every window and pillar and wooden eave, were all for himself, as they had always been, and not for Hideyoshi.
Sometimes the appearance of his desk changed dramatically. He stacked up the accounting books from his store on both sides of the desk, and checked the accounts precisely with an abacus. He had done the same before his banishment, but now it had a different meaning. Banishment from Jurakudai had not only cost Rikyū his three-thousand-koku salary, but also forced him to suspend his business.
Unlike Tsuda Sōgyū and Imai Sōkyū, who had flourishing businesses trading many types of goods, Rikyū had only his wholesale store. As his status grew, he had kept that business to a minimum, so closing it did not affect his income directly. But the occasional gift from various provinces and the profit that he made as a mediator in the buying and selling of tea utensils had been a handsome supplement to his income.
Hosokawa Tadaoki had told him that one of the charges against him was exactly that. Rikyū didn’t flinch from the accusation. As a merchant, he felt it was natural to charge for services rendered. Besides, his critics didn’t truly understand tea. They accused him of selling utensils for far more than they were worth, but to Rikyū that only showed they had no aesthetic judgment. Rikyū never sold any utensils unless he felt they had true beauty and value, be it an old tea bowl, a kettle that had been recast, or even a small piece of bamboo that had become a tea scoop. To him, all of those things had exactly the value he charged for them.
But now that he’d been removed from his position, that income was no longer available to him. So when the head clerk, Gisuke, came one day to collect the accounting books, Rikyū asked him detailed questions about recent price increases. Then he changed the subject to Kisaburō.
“Was it four hundred silver?”
“Yes, just as it’s written.”
When Rikyū’s employees bought salt, they could pay by draft, so Kisaburō and his buying party took only spending money with them. They had left for Wakasa just as Rikyū came back.
“The costs might be high, since there are three of them,” Rikyū said. But an unwelcome emotion thrust up in his chest. Kisaburō didn’t know anything about what was happening now. Katsu’s beautiful face sprang up in his mind, and in his memory she ridiculed the idea of Kisaburō’s trip as merely a whim.
Since Rikyū had brought up the topic of Kisaburō—unusually for him—Gisuke found the courage to speak out about what had been bothering him lately. He was concerned that if their business continued to be suspended, the salt that Kisaburō brought would go to waste.
He could not say that directly to Rikyū—it would be too disrespectful to bring up a topic as painful as the banishment
with his master. So he rounded his shoulders and said, “What about sending a note to tell them about our situation since they left?”
“Mmmmmmmmm.”
“It might be more convenient for them.”
“But it will be difficult to reach them while they are traveling.”
“It will take many more days to get to Banshū province. We might catch them if we send an express messenger to inns in Fukuchiyama or Sasayama.”
“You’re right, but the place is still the place.” In order to get to the salt-producing area in Wakasa, they had to go through the difficult mountain terrain of the Tango and Tamba regions. Rikyū couldn’t be sure how long it would take a messenger to find Kisaburō.
Besides, Kisaburō would find out soon enough once he came back. Since the news was unpleasant, Rikyū didn’t want to interrupt their trip with it. Salt wouldn’t spoil; it could be used once Rikyū found a way to solve the problem. Underlying all these plans, of course, was Rikyū’s confidence that his exile was only temporary.
But it was difficult to be calm at a time like this, and every messenger from Kyōto made Rikyū more agitated. Even the people who would still pass news along were cautious, so it was difficult for him to get clear information. The only two people who kept in open contact were Hosokawa Tadaoki and Furuta Oribe.
On the evening of February fourteenth, when Rikyū went down the Yodo River to start his exile in Sakai, the two of them had secretly come to see him off. Rikyū had happened to look up under the thatched eaves to the far bank as the boat left Kyōbashi in Fushimi and approached the Hashihime Shrine, and had recognized the two of them standing wistfully side by side, next to a white horse and a black horse in the dusk-shadowed pine woods. His big eyes had filled with tears. Even now, thinking about it brought moisture to his eyes again. He was thankful for their loyalty, but it made him miserable that circumstances had forced that on them: that had been the only way they could say farewell.