Rashomon Gate – A Mystery of Ancient Japan

by Ingrid J Parker

  "Nakatoshi!" said the old man sharply.

  "You don't mean you make book on the examinations!" Tora exclaimed, putting an arm around Nakatoshi's shoulders.

  Nakatoshi giggled. "Not the term I would use, my friend, my very good friend," he babbled, "but similar. Say, would you like to see some odds for the upcoming poetry contest? Maybe wager a little? It's between Oe and Fujiwara on our team, and Okura and Asano for the government. What do you say?"

  Tora grinned broadly. "This is my lucky day, and you're a man after my own heart!" he cried. "I can tell I shall like it here. Tell me more!"

  But the old man who had grumbled all along now snapped, "Better watch your tongue, Nakatoshi! You remember what happened last spring."

  "Nothing happened, you old fool!" Nakatoshi muttered.

  "Who's an old fool?" The old man glared. "You nearly got killed when you sold the name of the favorite in the examinations for two strings of coppers a piece, and then another fellow won."

  "That wasn't my fault," cried Nakatoshi. "We went over the grades of all the candidates carefully, and there was only one possibility. But then they picked a fellow who never got above a 'satisfactory' on anything except calligraphy! It was a fluke, I tell you. Anyway, that can't happen again now that we handle the bets ourselves."

  Tora laughed and patted Nakatoshi's shoulder. "Mistakes happen in the best business. As for me, I look forward to placing a small wager with you as soon as I check out who's who."

  They parted on friendly terms. On his way out, Tora walked past the poor student, who was just putting away his broom. For a moment he considered leaving him a few coppers as a tip, but then he remembered that, for all his politeness, the youngster had not addressed him as "sir," and went in search of a new quarry. Eventually he strayed into the large enclosure which contained the student dormitories. At this hour these were empty except for a couple of slovenly women with brooms and pails. Tora ignored them and crossed an open area dotted with pine trees and small shrubs, heading towards the service buildings. The largest of these was the kitchen: empty, filthy and filled with the rancid stench of moldy grain and rotting fish.

  The cook and his helpers were taking their ease under a large paulownia tree behind the building. They were seated in a circle around a cracked bowl, pitching coppers towards it. A set of dice made the rounds and small heaps of copper coins lay before each man. There were four rough-looking adults and a handful of scruffy youngsters. When they saw Tora, they snatched up the money and jumped up.

  "Don't disturb yourselves on my account," grinned Tora. "I'd be the last man to begrudge a working man his well-earned rest. For that matter, I like a good game myself."

  The cook, recognizable by his girth and the many food stains on his clothes, was a cross-eyed brute who pursed his thick lips and looked Tora up and down suspiciously. The others settled back down and waited. Tora hitched up his gown, saying, "Better not get this new outfit dirty. My master'll have it out of my wages," and sat down cross-legged amongst them. "What're the rules?"

  "You in service then?" asked the fat cook.

  Tora nodded and began to count his coppers into neat little piles. The others watched avidly.

  "Do a bit of gambling, do you?" the cook wanted to know.

  "Not for a while. I was a soldier once and a buddy showed me how to roll the dice, but it was against the rules then."

  The cook grunted and flopped down with the dull thud of a sack of rice. "Glad to have you," he growled. "Here, you can check the dice! To make sure we're on the up and up. You roll for the number of tries at the bowl. Hit the bowl with a copper and all the misses are yours."

  "What do you mean?" Tora received the wooden objects and stared at them with a frown. They were crude but had not been tampered with. He handed them back. "They look like dice to me." He eyed the bowl, which was quite small and about ten paces away. The dirty ground around it was covered with copper coins. "I've never seen the game played like that, though."

  Someone snickered, but the cook snapped, "Enough talking! Let's play!"

  They were avid gamblers, but not particularly skilled at tossing for the bowl. Tora played judiciously, gauging the distance and the weight of the coins, slowly losing his pile of coppers before beginning to win steadily.

  "Hey, you're getting good at this!" cried one of the men.

  Tora boasted that he would not miss for the next ten tosses. They proposed a bet. Tora lost, but proposed other bets, which he won more often than not, until he sat before a small mountain of coppers, while his companions were dropping out of the game.

  They sat with long faces. The cook glowered at Tora and muttered. Finally he snarled, "The bastard lied to us!"

  Tora looked up from counting his coppers. "What did you say?"

  The cook blustered, "You said you had no skill at the game."

  "Did I not tell you that a buddy taught me how to play? Of course I know how to roll the dice," Tora said scornfully. "And I learned to toss pebbles when I was a kid."

  "Well, you made it sound like you were green," whined another fellow. "We were just having a friendly game, and now you cleaned us out. What'll we tell our wives?"

  Tora saw no reason why he could not succeed with the same method twice. "I tell you what," he said. "Just among friends and to show my appreciation for a pleasant game, why don't I use some of the winnings to treat you fellows to some really good wine?"

  Their faces brightened instantly. "Here, runt!" shouted the cook to the smallest boy. "Run to the wine shop by the Left City Hall! They've got the strong stuff."

  Tora scooped up his winnings, carefully counted out a generous amount and turned it over to the boy. "Get plenty!" he instructed, "and some tasty pickled radish to go with it."

  There was a murmur of appreciation. The cook remarked that there were still some true gentlemen left in the world.

  While they were waiting, Tora introduced himself as the new professor's servant and received, in return, information about the university, its staff, its professors and its students. The point of view on this occasion differed markedly from that held by the clerks. The kitchen staff and the groundskeepers and sweepers regarded students and faculty as inconsiderate nuisances who made their lives a constant misery. As soon as the wine, a very strong brew indeed, had made the rounds, their tongues loosened in the most helpful manner.

  "I can see," Tora remarked to one of the sweepers, "that those youngsters are a lot of trouble to clean up after."

  The man responded with a long list of abominations, but the cook snorted. "You think he's got trouble? The lazy rascal goes home at sundown. If you want to hear about trouble, it's me and my old woman you got to talk to. We're kept awake all night with the tricks those cursed students get up to."

  "What sorts of tricks?" Tora asked, filling cups all around, but skipping his own.

  "Oh, climbing the walls to get out. Smuggling in loose women. Breaking into the pantry and stealing food. Burning candles at night and setting the place on fire. You name it, they do it. Every night my old woman has to do a bed check, looking for their doxies."

  "Doesn't trust you to do it, does she?" Tora remarked, grinning broadly.

  This caused raucous mirth. One of the workers cried, "Him? He's so lazy, he wouldn't know what to do with a girl in his bed 'cept sleep. His old woman does the checking 'cause he's sacked out before the rest of us ever go home."

  The cook glared, rolling his crossed eyes terribly. "Liar," he growled. "All day long I'm cooking to keep the little bastards' bowls filled! They eat like starved rats and beg for leftovers. Most of 'em don't have two coppers to rub together. Makes you wonder how they get the women! There's always a couple hungry enough to help out in the kitchen for a bit of extra food or a couple of coppers. It's my kindness! They steal more food than they're worth."

  Tora thought this another example of how dubious a thing an education was. "If they are so poor, how come they get treated like gentlemen?" he asked.

&nbs
p; The cook and the others looked at each other blankly. "Well," said the cook, "now that you mention it, it is funny. One day a starved kid comes begging to me for the scrapings of the stew pot, or offers to sell his gown for some rice. Out of the goodness of my heart, I give him a job. Then, a little while later, the same fellow is dressed like a prince in brand new clothes and looks down his nose at me like I was some slug under a rock when I ask him why he hasn't come to work."

  "Yeah!" cried one of the boys. "I know the one you mean! Ishikawa! He used to fetch water from the well along with me last year. Now he wants me to call him Mr. Ishikawa."

  "How'd he get rich all of a sudden?" asked Tora. "Some relative died and left him a fortune?"

  "Naw," grunted the cook. The fat man's broad face was turning alarmingly red and glistening with sweat and he slurred his words. "Tha's what I thought at first. But tha' wasn't it. Eh, guys?"

  They all shook their heads. The source of Ishikawa's wealth was a mystery to them. Anyway, the consensus of the group was that one couldn't understand the ways of students. They were crazy. All that reading was bad for the brain. Tora grinned.

  "Take that Rabbit!" offered the cook.

  "What rabbit?" asked Tora, looking around.

  The cook saw a joke and began to giggle until tears ran down his fat cheeks. "Please!" he gasped, clasping his belly and wheezing with laughter. "He, he. Take the Rabbit! Har, har! You can have him." His companions joined in the laughter.

  Tora looked blank until someone explained that Rabbit was the nickname of one of the cook's student helpers.

  "Helper!" cried the cook, who had calmed himself somewhat with another draught of wine. "Useless as a blind man's lantern! Half the time I tell him sh… somethin' and he doesh shomethin' else. Jush las' night I tell him to put the rice on an' he forgets the rice and boils the empty steamers. Had to feed everybody leftover millet from breakfast. 'N when you talk to him, he shtands there with that shilly grin on his face an' his big ears flappin' or else a hangdog look like his mind is really shome other place an' you're no more'n a moshkito buzzing at him." He paused to peer up at the sun with his good eye. "Come to think, he's about due now. Musht be time to shtart up the fires again."

  He heaved his bulk up with the help of his companions and stood swaying. "Damn good wine!" he muttered with a nod to Tora. "You're a pleashant fellow! Whash your name again?"

  At that moment a terrible racket broke out inside the kitchen. Angry shouts rang out, followed by the crash of broken crockery. They ran to see what was going on.

  Inside the long low kitchen they found two young men on the hard dirt floor, rolling about among broken dishes, assorted vegetables and a slimy gray substance which the outraged cook identified as millet gruel. One of the youngsters, a tall gangly figure who looked strangely familiar to Tora, was belaboring the other, shorter but more muscular, with his fists. "You dirty dog!" he gasped between blows, totally oblivious to his audience, "How dare you read my letter? How dare you make filthy insinuations! I'll kill you if you say one word about this to anyone!" He grabbed the other's shoulders and pounded his head on the floor to make his point.

  "And I'll kill you, you worthless piece of dung!" roared the cook. He seized a broom and struck the gangly fellow furiously about the head and shoulders.

  The combatants parted and staggered to their feet. The skinny one cowered under the cook's blows, protecting his head with raised arms. Tora recognized him as the student who had been working for the clerks. His appearance had not improved; plain of face at the best of times, with his long nose, protruding teeth, receding chin, and overly large ears, he was now covered with gruel and dirt, his hair knot had come undone, and his mouth hung open. With a horrified glance at Tora and the cook, he made a sound somewhere between a squeal and a sob, and took to his heels.

  "An' don't bother to come back!" roared the cook after him, shaking his fist. "I'll have the damages outta your hide, you shnot-nosed, rabbitty bashtard!"

  The other student meanwhile had been brushing himself off. He was Rabbit's age and, in spite of the pummeling, in reasonably good shape. Turning his round face and button eyes on the cook, he whined, "I have done nothing, Cook. I swear it! Rabbit jumped me all of a sudden. You saw I wasn't even defending myself. There I was, cleaning the radishes as you told me, when he threw the whole pot of gruel at me! Thank the gods it was cold. I could've been scalded. I tell you, he's mad! They shouldn't allow mad people to live amongst the rest of us. It's dangerous. And look at the terrible mess he's made of your kitchen. I don't know how a nice man like you can put up with such people."

  Mollified the fat man collapsed on a stool, breathed hard for a while, then grunted, "Never mind, Haseo! One of the fellows'll give you a hand and we'll have it cleaned up in no time. Then you can start the soup. You're a good boy, and so I shall tell them in the paymashter's offish."

  ***

  Tora reported his discoveries with the greatest satisfaction. Akitada had just finished his noon rice (procured from the staff kitchen) and listened with flattering attention. He said, "Apparently, aside from the bed check by the cook's wife, there is no control of the comings and goings of the students or staff during the night hours. The gates are closed, but evidently anybody can climb over the walls or move about freely inside the grounds." He pondered this for a moment and frowned. "Of course that means that an outsider can get in also. It certainly widens the possibilities of potential blackmailers."

  "For my money," said Tora, helping himself to some leftover pickled plums, "it's one of the students. Those poor bastards are half-starved and working part-time jobs to feed themselves. What about that fellow Ishikawa?"

  "Ishikawa now has a job reading essays for one of the professors. That could explain why he no longer works for the cook, who is not, from your account, a nice man to work for. Also, Ishikawa is supposed to place first in the next examinations."

  Tora snorted. "He'd better not count on it. According to the clerks, strange things happen in those examinations. You wouldn't believe what goes on!" He chuckled and explained the clerks' bookmaking operation.

  Akitada's amused smile faded abruptly when Tora mentioned Nakatoshi's troubles after the last examination. He stiffened and cried, "What? Good Heavens! This goes far beyond a minor bookmaking operation by a few clerks! It sounds as if the examination results have been altered!" Jumping up, he started pacing. "It's shocking but nothing else fits. Nothing else explains the blackmail note so perfectly. And if it gets out… as it surely must with this abject poverty of students, staff and faculty… the emperor will have to take action. There will be a purge of the faculty at the very least."

  Tora looked puzzled. "I don't see the point. Who cares about an examination? Now about Prince Yoakira's grandson…"

  Akitada stopped his pacing. "What about him?"

  "The kid was brought here by his uncle the night after his grandfather popped off. The clerk said he looked like he was sick. He thought it was strange they'd make him stay here."

  "Yes, it is strange. I have the boy in one of my classes," said Akitada. "And I am worried about him. He really does not look healthy."

  "You want me to go ask more questions about the kid?"Tora offered eagerly.

  But Akitada's mind was again on the scandal involving the university and on vague suspicions that he did not yet dare admit to himself. "No," he muttered. "Go on home for now. I have to think about all this."

  Four. Scholars and Others

  Akitada sat for a long time wondering what to do. For all its stern lessons he loved this university, and he had loved and idolized most of his professors. Now he wondered if his youthful hero worship had not been a form of self-delusion. It made more sense that a few human beings should be flawed than that the whole university with its solid, ancient virtues should have changed so completely in so short a time.

  Clearly he should expose immediately the fact that university staff was engaged in making book on the outcome of the yearly examinations.
But this must reveal to the world that someone had altered the examination results, either to manipulate the odds or in response to a hefty bribe. How many innocent people would be hurt by the scandal? What about the suspicion that must fall on Hirata and his colleagues? On the other hand, what about the student who had been cheated of his just reward? What of the guilty individual? Only one of the faculty, an examiner, could have altered the outcome of the most important examination in the country. Could this be allowed to happen again? Akitada's spirit rebelled at the betrayal of trust.

  But the true cause of his distress was even more personal. If he was right, and the switch of winners was indeed the reason for the blackmail letter, then Hirata must have known, or at least guessed. Why had he withheld this fact from Akitada? If he had hoped to protect the reputation of the university, then Akitada must assume that Hirata had not trusted him. Why ask his help at all? Was he to find a cover-up for the scandal because he was in Hirata's debt? The thought was extraordinarily painful, and raised an even more dismal possibility. What if the blackmail note had been intended for Hirata all along?

  In his anger and distress, Akitada thought of withdrawing from the case. His duty to his family demanded that he guard his reputation carefully, and being involved in covering up a former professor's misdeeds would certainly ruin his own career. But in his heart, Akitada knew he could not take this step. The past would forever shape his present; his duty to his mother and sisters was surpassed by his long and deep gratitude to this man, and by his affection for Tamako.

  He recalled his first sight of her. Tamako had been a shy nine-year-old when he had walked into the Hirata household, a lost and confused boy on the verge of manhood. "I brought a house guest," her father had announced. "Make him welcome like a brother!" They had both made him welcome, and in time he had felt he was a part of them in a way he had never felt in his own family. He had been loved and comforted, a new sensation for him, who had been raised by servants, ignored by his beautiful and haughty mother, and systematically humiliated and thrashed by his father.