Текст книги "The Hell Screen"

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Next door the music ceased abruptly. A great stomping ensued, accompanied by hoarse cries and shouts. Akitada turned his head to stare at the wall. Whoever had disrupted his peace, it was neither monks nor pilgrims.

Just then a woman’s shrill laughter made Akitada sit up in dismay Females in the monks’ bathhouse?

He cast a worried glance at the young attendant and saw that he was standing up, his eyes grown round with shock and his wet skin flushed all the way to his shaven head. What would he do if naked females invaded his celibate male space? Akitada was annoyed himself. All he needed after his miserable wet journey and the nerve-racking tour of the monastery was for some uncouth men and women to burst in on him in his bath.

The attendant gathered his courage and went into the changing room, closing the door behind him. The noise stopped instantly, there was a brief exchange, then the young monk returned, looking agitated. “My apologies, sir. It’s the players. They must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. I told them that they were not permitted here, but they would not go away. I don’t think they will come in, but I shall run and fetch help.”

“Thank you.” Akitada closed his eyes again, wondering how long the players would linger. There was the matter of walking back out to get his clothes.

A door slammed behind the attendant. Then there were voices again, some sort of argument. A man kept saying, “Why?” A woman was pleading. Other male voices joined in. Akitada caught a few words. Her name appeared to be Ohisa and she had been dismissed. Ohisa sobbed, and someone shouted, “He can’t do that!” The voices grew louder and angrier. Akitada stood up and climbed out of the bath, his face thunderous.

Grabbing a towel from the rack, Akitada slung it around himself before flinging open the wooden door and glaring at the people in the undressing room.

He had a quick impression of startled eyes—four men and one woman, all fully dressed, the woman young and very pretty, the men of different ages—before they all gasped and rushed for the door in a panic, to disappear down the corridor. The scene was so funny that Akitada’s ill humor fled and he began to chuckle. His amusement increased when he was joined by four or five elderly monks and the attendant. The old monks were voluble in their outrage at having their privacy invaded by a woman and cast dubious glances at him. He became aware of his wetness and undid the towel to dry himself. After scandalized glances, all but the attendant withdrew rapidly.

Akitada hung the wet towel on one of the drying racks and put his clothes back on, then made his way, still smiling, back to his room.

Someone had come in his absence to leave a tray table with food and drink and to unroll his bedding. The fare was vegetarian—rice cakes stewed with wild mushrooms, fried bean curd, pickled eggplant, cucumber, and green soybeans, along with a dish of toasted millet mixed with honey. Akitada sampled cautiously. It was delicious, and he reflected gratefully on generations of monks who had devoted their ingenuity to making palatable the grains and plants they were allowed to eat. He was sitting near the open door to the small garden, breathing in the moist mountain air and eating everything on his tray. When the bowls were empty, he drank thirstily the fruit drink in the small flask. It tasted peculiar but not unpleasant. Outside, the rain slowed until there was only a soothing, steady, soft drip-drip from the gutters.

His body pleasantly relaxed and sated, Akitada’s eyes became heavy, and he crept into the quilts and went to sleep.

He slept very deeply, but soon he was troubled by a horrible dream. In it he was naked and pursued by blue demons who had flames spurting from their fangs and reached for him with curved claws. In his rush to escape them, he passed hundreds of other naked men and women, also running and screaming. He dashed toward a huge, steaming vat, thinking to hide behind it from his pursuers, but when he reached it, he found it filled with more screaming people. They were being boiled alive by two gigantic demons who were blowing their fiery breath against the sides of the vessel. The nearer demon scooped him up with a huge ladle, which he lifted over the bubbling cauldron. Akitada clutched the rim of the ladle, gauging his chances of jumping clear of the monstrous cauldron, and took a frantic leap into space. For a heart-stopping moment he hung suspended in the steam above the upturned faces of boiling souls; then he found himself landing on his feet in a courtroom.

The judge in gorgeous robes sat on a high throne. His large eyes flashed as he stroked his beard. Akitada fell to his knees and touched his head to the floor. But no one seemed to take notice of him. The guards, more blue demons, were dragging in an elderly woman, pale and aristocratic in her fine robes, her long white hair trailing behind her. To his horror, Akitada recognized his mother. Other demons stepped forward to lay charges against her, while she knelt in stoic silence. Akitada wanted to defend her, but his tongue was paralyzed. Slamming his baton on his knee with a loud thwack, the judge pronounced sentence, and the blue demons carried his mother away to hell. When Akitada raised his eyes to the judge to plead for mercy for her, he saw that he was looking at his own face.

He was the infernal judge, stroking his beard, hearing charges against poor sinners brought before him. Akitada heard himself pronouncing sentence after sentence: the burning hell for the coldhearted, the frozen hell for the lustful, the realm of the hungry ghosts for gluttons, and the torture of swords and knives for the violent. He gave sentence after sentence, thwacking his baton, watching the blue demons in their armor carrying the wailing souls out, his eyes following them to an execution ground, where the demons cut off limbs and heads with smooth strokes of their flaming swords, until the dismembered bodies piled up into mountains, and the blood flowed between them like a river. Then the mountains began to topple and the river of blood to rise, and Akitada was crushed by an avalanche of death and drowned in a torrent of blood.

Akitada came upright with a strangled shout. It was dark and he gasped for breath, flinging out his arms against the nightmare. Realization came slowly. He wiped the sweat from his face and pushed back his bedclothes. The cool night air felt good on his perspiration-drenched skin. He could not recall ever feeling a greater sense of horror and blamed the dream on his exhaustion and fear for his mother. The extraordinary sights he had seen the previous evening had then produced the particular phantasms which still haunted his mind, their very sounds lingering vividly in his memory. He listened.

But all was quiet and peaceful in his room. Outside, only an occasional drop of water broke the stillness.

Then, suddenly: a single high-pitched scream—stifled instantly.

TWO

Scattered Leaves

Akitada rushed into the corridor and from there to the nearest courtyard. It was empty. He had no idea where he was or where the scream had come from, but he listened for several minutes. The night remained dark and silent. All around him rose the temple halls, mysterious shapes looming against the night. Galleries led off to other courtyards and more halls. After walking briefly this way and that, Akitada gave up. He felt a little foolish now, no longer certain of what he had heard. Perhaps it had been an owl. Or a couple of lovers, the girl teasing an overeager admirer, and both long since gone, afraid of being caught.

With some difficulty he found his way to his own room and crept back into his bedding. After a long time he fell asleep again, dreamlessly this time, until faint bells calling to morning service woke him before dawn.

He dressed quickly and walked out into the courtyard. It was barely light. Heavy fog shrouded the temple buildings, muffling the tinkling of bells and somber chants. Akitada looked at the fog with dismay. It was common in the mountains, especially after a rain, and would stay until midmorning, slowing him down on the steep and hazardous mountain track.

After collecting his horse at the stables, he rode to the main gate. A different gatekeeper greeted him. They exchanged comments on the fog and the road down the mountain, and Akitada presented the monk with some silver, a donation to the temple in return for its hospitality. The gatekeeper hoped that the gentleman had had a restful night. Akitada said, “I was woken by some brief noise once. Did anyone else report a disturbance?”

“No, sir. Oh, I do hope it wasn’t those noisy actors.”

Akitada recalled the scene in the bathhouse the evening before, but shook his head. “No. But I thought I heard someone cry out in an adjoining courtyard.” A thought occurred to him. The gatehouses of most major temples kept simple diagrams of the location of various buildings handy for visitors. He asked, “Do you have a plan of the temple here?”

The monk opened a cupboard and produced a wrinkled piece of paper. Together they bent over it and located Akitada’s room.

“Whoever cried out must have been just there,” Akitada said, pointing to an area between several long, narrow buildings.

The monk pondered. “It can’t have been there. That’s a storage yard,” he said. “Only the monks assigned to kitchen or housekeeping use it, and never at night. Visitors’ quarters are in this courtyard.” He pointed to the opposite corner of the compound.

“Oh, well,” said Akitada. “It probably was nothing. I’ll be on my way.”

The road was drier than the day before, but the downward slope made the journey difficult for horse and rider. Every rock and loose pebble seemed bent on starting a small avalanche. Fog shrouded all but the closest trees, and it was impossible to see the next turn ahead of time. They moved at a snail’s pace.

In spite of his frustrations, Akitada thought the scenery quite beautiful. It was already the Frost Month and in the north winter would already have smothered the world in blankets of snow, but here autumn lingered. The unseen sun gradually illuminated wisps of mist until they looked like fairies dancing in silver and gold veils among the trees. The whole forest resembled something seen in a dream of the Western Paradise. Lit from within, its graceful branches released rainbow-sparkling jewels which fell soundlessly on cushions of green moss. Here and there the path was strewn with rich blankets of fallen leaves: orange, red, pale yellow, and deep russet. Above Akitada’s head, a few crimson maple leaves mingled with the cobalt green of Sawara cypress and the deep emerald of cryptomerias.

The only sounds were made by the horse, hooves clinking against rocks, an occasional snort and puff of breath, the creaking of the saddle leather, and the soft slapping of the reins against his neck when he shook his head. But there were birds in the forest. Akitada saw them flitting across the path ahead of him, indistinct like silent moths. Once a rabbit appeared, sat up to eye them, and dove back into the undergrowth. Horse and man moved companionably through a misty cloud forest.

In time, imperceptibly almost, the fog lifted, the road leveled, sights and sounds became clearer, and Akitada caught glimpses of hazy mountaintops covered with a patchwork of fading autumn colors.

When he reached the place where the road to the temple branched off from the highway and an abandoned shack stood deserted near some pines, the world was as still and empty as the mountain had been.

But he turned his horse toward home, and soon the smell of wood fires announced small hamlets where cheerful men and women smiled at him and bowed.

He was making better time now and with the speed he felt a renewed sense of urgency. Every moment brought him closer to the real world of the living—or dying, as the case might be. For days now the specter of his mother’s imminent death had driven him. Riding hard and long, changing horses at road stations when they went lame or flagged, he had been sore, hungry, and fearful of what he was rushing toward. Even now the enforced stay at the temple filled him with guilt. His nightmare of the hellish trial stayed with him, though common sense told him that it had been the result of an overactive and sickly imagination brought about by anxiety, exhaustion, and the sight of that extraordinary screen.

Then Akitada caught the first view of the capital. With the fog gone, the day turned out to be one of those perfect early winter days, with a limpid, cloudless sky and a brisk freshness in the air. In the clear morning light, Heian Kyo, the seat of government and residence of the emperor, lay spread across the wide plain, along the sparkling Kamo River. It welcomed him home after four long years of absence. Akitada stopped his horse and looked his fill, tears slowly running down his cheeks. How beautiful it was, his city, the heart of his country, the place he had dreamed of in the long winter months of the far north. Heian Kyo was the golden jewel in the palm of Buddha, the promised end of the dark journey, his home.

But he entered it almost shyly, by Rashomon, the two-storied red-pillared gateway with its curving blue tile roofs ending in gilded dolphin finials. As a provisional governor returning from official assignment, Akitada was entitled to travel with an impressive retinue of servants and bearers. Such an arrival attracted crowds and turned into something of a progress, even in a city like Heian Kyo, which saw such events on a regular basis. Not a man who had ever bothered much with consequence or protocol, Akitada had nevertheless pictured such a homecoming fondly. But his mother’s illness had spoiled the thrill, and he crept in through Rashomon as unnoticed as any ordinary farmer or hunter.

Making his way quickly along Suzaku Avenue, the broad main street crossing the city from north to south, he saw that it was paved in molten gold with the scattered leaves of its willow trees. He paused at its end in front of the gate to the Imperial Palace. Normally he would enter to report his return before going on to his home. But today was different. He must see his mother first.

Their street was, like the rest, covered with decaying leaves. Mournful sights and sounds greeted him. The gate to the Sugawara mansion was closed, and solemn chanting could be heard all the way down the street.

Akitada pounded on the gate. It was opened slowly by a bent old man. Akitada recognized Saburo, his wife’s old servant, whom he had left in charge all those years ago. The old man stood in the opening, peering up at him in surprise. Akitada rode past him into the courtyard and slid stiffly from the saddle. A group of saffron-robed monks sat on the veranda of the main building, chanting away, undisturbed by his arrival.

“Master!” cried Saburo, slamming the gate shut and hobbling his way. “You’re back! Welcome home!”

Akitada stretched his sore limbs. “Thank you, Saburo. How is my mother?”

The old man’s smile faded. He shook his head. “Not well, my lord. Not at all well, I’m afraid.” He cast a glance over his shoulder toward the gate. “Her ladyship? She’s not with you?”

“No. They are two weeks behind me.” Seeing the old man’s disappointment, Akitada added with a smile, “But she is very well, and so is our son. She has missed you.”

Saburo laughed out loud, baring toothless gums. “Missed me, has she? Ho, ho. And she’s bringing the young master. Ho, ho, ha! What a time we’ll have!” He clapped his hands, a tear of joy spilling over, and said again, “What a time we’ll have, yes. It’s been sadly quiet here all these years.”

Akitada patted his shoulder and went to the house. As Saburo helped him off with his boots, Akitada asked, “Are my sisters here?”

“Only Miss Yoshiko. Lady Toshikage resides in her husband’s home.”

The elder of Akitada’s sisters had married in his absence, a match arranged by his mother. Toshikage was in his early fifties, and Akitada had wondered how the headstrong Akiko had fared. He had hoped for a younger man for her, but she had been in her twenty-fifth year by then, well past her first youth or a time when she could expect many offers. And it had been his mother’s wish. Toshikage was, by all accounts, a respectable civil servant, holding a senior secretaryship in the Bureau of Palace Storehouses. His first wife had died, and Akiko had taken her place, apparently content.

Yoshiko, two years younger than her sister and ten years Akitada’s junior, had been left to take care of their bitter and sharp-tongued mother.

Akitada walked through dark hallways and rooms. All the shutters were closed because of his mother’s illness. Yoshiko must have heard his step, for she suddenly appeared in the doorway to his mother’s room, looking wan and worried. When she recognized Akitada, her face lit up with joy. She gave a little cry and ran to throw her arms around him.

“You came.” She laughed and cried, hugging him. “And how well you look. But you must be tired. Have you eaten? Oh, Akitada, how I have wished for you!”

“I know,” he said, holding her away a little. “You have had a hard time of it, Little Sister. Are you well?”

She brushed tears and a strand of hair away and nodded, smiling. “I am well. You know how healthy I am.”

“And Mother?”

She shook her head. “She has been ill for three weeks now. It started with an ache in her belly. We have tried everything: gruels made from herbs, powdered thistle, parsley, red clover, and teas of barberry bark and catmint. The pharmacist walks in and out of our house as if it were his own.”

Akitada glanced toward the closed shutters which could not shut out the chanting of the monks. “So you finally resorted to spiritual remedies?” he asked, raising his brows.

“Not for that reason,” Yoshiko said, shaking her head impatiently. “I know how you feel about it, but how would it look if we did not? Besides, it was Mother herself who made the arrangements. I don’t think she believes in the chanting, but she likes people to think that we do things properly. Oh, Akitada, she has changed so much, you will be shocked. She cannot keep her food down and is too weak to stand up. I do not know how she has lived this long, except to wait for you and her grandson to come home. You did bring Tamako and the boy?”

“When I got your letter, I rushed ahead. The others won’t be here for a while. I did not want to risk their health.”

Yoshiko’s face fell. “She will be disappointed. But never mind. Come in!”

She led the way into the gloom of his mother’s room. A large, rawboned maidservant quietly rose from her cushion beside the sick woman and moved aside. The elder Lady Sugawara lay on her bedding on the floor, her head propped on a porcelain headrest, her pitifully thin body covered by a silk quilt. The room was dimly lit by a single candle on a stand, and the air was thick with incense, which did little to disguise the smells of sickness and decay.

Akitada almost did not recognize his mother. The long beautiful hair, her special pride, was gone, cut off short just below the ears. What was left was thin and snow-white. The strong handsome face had shrunk and her skin was bluish gray, the pale lips restlessly pursing and unpursing, the eyes closed, receding into dark sockets. Of the rest of her, only the hands could be seen, lying on top of the cover, gnarled, spotted, and feebly plucking at the fabric.

“Mother?” said Akitada softly, frightened by her appearance.

She opened her eyes. They were still black and as sharp as ever. “You took your time!” she said. Her voice was strong, and its tone the familiar reprimand. It was almost reassuring. Akitada knelt down next to her.

“I came as soon as I heard. Yesterday’s rain slowed me down. I had to spend the night in the mountains,”

“Where is my grandson?”

“He follows with Tamako and the servants. They will be here soon.”

The eyes closed. “Not soon enough,” she murmured.

“Only a week or so. You must get better quickly now so that you can hold your grandson and play with him. He is nearly three years old, active and big for his age.”

“He is like his father, then,” she sighed.

Akitada was deeply moved. He did not know what to say. Sudden tears rose to his eyes and he swallowed hard. “Oh, Mother!” he whispered, taking her hands in his.

His mother opened her eyes to glare at him and pulled her hands from his pettishly. “Well, what are you waiting for? I expected you to bring me my grandson. Go away now. I am tired.”

Akitada left the room, followed out by Yoshiko, who closed the door and murmured, “You must not mind her. She is in pain all the time.”

He leaned against the wall and sighed. “No. She was always the same. I should not have expected any softening. It grieves me that you have had to be at the mercy of her moods all these years.”

Yoshiko hung her head. “She cannot help it. It is her nature. Besides, there is no one else.”

“Akiko?”

“She has her own home and cannot come often. Never mind. It will be better now that you are here. But come, let’s have some tea or wine!”

Akitada thought of the sickroom and shuddered. “Wine, I think. And something to eat. I left the monastery before the morning rice and have had nothing since last night.”

Yoshiko cried out at that and made a fuss over him. She got him settled in his own room, which was spotlessly clean and adorned with a pot of fresh chrysanthemums. A maid brought warm wine and a plate of pickles. Soon after, bowls of rice, vegetables, and an excellent fish stew followed.

Akitada ate, while Yoshiko filled him in on recent events in the household.

“We have new servants,” she said. “Saburo, of course, you remember. He has been most kind and helpful, but the work is getting too much for him, so I employed a boy to help him with the outside chores. Mother’s old nurse died, as we wrote you, and her new maid has had to take much abuse. But she is a simple country girl, very strong and forgiving of Mother’s ill temper. I apologized to her one day, when Mother called her an idiot fit only to clean out stables, and she said, ‘Never mind, miss, she’s hurting and it takes away a bit of the pain.’ The cook is her cousin. I am afraid she knows nothing of elegant dishes, but we have had no occasion to entertain since you left. Is the food to your taste?”

“Delicious,” Akitada said, and meant it. “If this is peasant fare, we must give it a fancy name and serve it to company.” He lifted his bowl of fish stew and bamboo sprouts. “How does ‘silver carp playing among the reeds and grasses’ strike you?”

Yoshiko giggled. There was a little more color in her pale face now. Akitada put down the bowl and looked at her. Gone were the childlike innocence and gaiety, the soft prettiness of her face and body. She was paler, thinner, older, and much more fragile, but had gained an elegance which was quite attractive. In brighter clothes and with her hair loose she would be a different woman. Seeing her like this, in her dull cotton gown and with her hair pulled back and tied at her neck, he regretted bitterly that his younger sister’s chances at happiness had been sacrificed to his mother. And to his own career, he thought sadly, for if he had remained at home, she, too, could have married.

“Have you not met any young men?” he asked bluntly. “Your sister seems to have managed very well.”

Yoshiko flushed and turned her head away. “Someone had to stay with Mother,” she said. “When Akiko’s match was arranged, Mother said I was not to mind, that Akiko had a stronger character and was better able to put up with the sorrows of marriage. She implied I was lucky to be saved from all that.”

Akitada was speechless. If this was indeed his mother’s opinion, it provided a surprising glimpse of her own relationship with his father. For the first time he considered whether the bitter, autocratic woman who had made his life unpleasant all these years was in fact more to be pitied than blamed. Still, her treatment of Yoshiko showed selfishness rather than concern. He put softer emotions aside and said, “Well, I do not agree. You shall marry if you wish, and you shall have the same dower your sister had.” He had provided the silver for the marriage settlement– and Toshikage had not come cheaply—as well as boxes of silk and brocade, household furnishings, and enough rice to feed five servants for a year. Akiko’s good fortune had meant a year of deprivation for himself and his family in the far north. Now his finances were in better shape and he would gladly do the same for Yoshiko.

But his sister said bitterly, “It is too late. No one will want someone like me, no longer young and worn out from serving Mother as a maid.”

He flared up, “It is not too late. You are young still, and pretty. What you need is a rest, some happy people around you, and pretty clothes. I shall see to it that you will have them. Is there any man you like?”

She looked at him then, and slowly her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Akitada! You mustn’t!” She sniffled. “Really. It is so kind, but… it’s all over.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, upset by her grief.

She shook her head wordlessly and buried her face in her sleeve.

“Yoshiko,” he begged, “please tell me. I think it is my fault you are so unhappy. Perhaps there is something I can do to set it right.”

“No,” she cried, her voice muffled. “It has nothing to do with you, or with Mother. I was foolish. There was someone once. I thought that he liked me… and I hoped he would ask Mother. But nothing came of it. He married someone else.” She paused to heave a shuddering sigh. Then she squared her shoulders and lifted her face. “When Akiko married Toshikage, it did not really matter what Mother said. You see, after that I really did not want to marry anymore.”

Akitada was taken aback. “This man,” he growled, “did he visit you privately?”

Yoshiko waved this aside as immaterial.

“Did he?” persisted Akitada, his voice tense with anger.

She nodded with downcast eyes.

“How often?”

“Please, Akitada. It does not matter. It is all over. As I said, I was foolish. I thought of you and Tamako. But I see now that that was different.”

“Do you mean that he came to you at night as a bridegroom and allowed you to think you had become his wife and then disappeared?”

“No,” she cried, wringing her hands. “Oh, Akitada, stop! It is long past and forgotten.”

Akitada bit his lips. Hardly forgotten! Something truly hurtful had happened to cause Yoshiko such unhappiness. He would get to the bottom of it but did not want to force the issue now. “I am sorry,” he said. “I should not have questioned you about such a private matter. Forgive me.”

She nodded, giving him a small, moist smile.

“You once spoke to me very bravely, when you were still a young girl and thought that I was making a mistake by staying away from Tamako. Do you remember?”

Her face brightened. She nodded. “And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, you were, and we both owe you a great deal. I mention it because nothing would make me happier than to repay that debt someday. Will you allow me to do so?”

She said sadly, “I know you want to help, Brother, but it is too late.”

“Very well,” he said, yawning. “We will talk about it some other time. Now I shall get some rest, and early tomorrow I shall meet the servants and take a look at the house.”

The next day, after Akitada had duly spoken to all his people, thanked them for their faithful service to his mother and sisters, and made a brief inspection of the property, he returned to the house. Yoshiko awaited him.

“Mother wants to see you again.”

He followed her to his mother’s room. If he had expected to find Lady Sugawara apologetic or in a more mellow mood, he was mistaken. She fixed her sunken eyes on him and asked in a peremptory tone, “Have you reported your return to the controller’s office?”

“No, not yet. I came directly here.”

“I thought so.” She spoke with difficulty, forcing out brief phrases between gasps of pain. “You have not changed. Always irresponsible! Go immediately.” She took a shuddering breath, and added, “You can ill afford to risk whatever little good will you may have gained with your last assignment.”

Akitada protested, “But Mother, I thought you would want me to see you first. Besides, my official robes and all the documents are traveling with Seimei in the convoy. I assure you, the controllers do not expect me for weeks.”

Rolling her head from side to side, she gasped, “Why are you arguing with me?” and pressed a hand to her chest, closing her eyes in pain. “Do you want me to die?”

Akitada bit his lips. “Of course not, Mother. I shall go immediately.” He turned to leave.

His mother’s voice pursued him to the door. “Hurry! How stupid of you not to think that the news of your arrival will be all over town by now!”

Akitada went to his room fighting depression. She had not changed at all. There was nothing he could do to please his mother. He flung open one of his old clothes chests. It contained robes which had been too worn to take along four years ago. He rummaged around and found an old suit of court robes. The gray silk robe was faded, mildew-stained, and threadbare, and the white trousers had yellowed and showed muddy splotches along the bottom. Both garments were badly wrinkled and smelled of mold. And the formal court cap, still trimmed with the colors of his former rank, had lost much of its lacquer and leaned limply toward one side. But he dressed in the costume that was compulsory for a visit to the palace, and left the house, walking the distance in the slanting rays of the winter sun.

The workday was nearing midday, and most officials, clerks, and scribes, hurrying to their homes for their noon rice, cast astonished glances at Akitada’s disreputable appearance. Admitted to the controller’s office only after long negotiations with a shocked clerk, he found one of the senior secretaries still in and explained his errand. The young nobleman, himself dressed impeccably in a freshly stiffened cap and gorgeous robe of figured silk over white silk trousers, wrinkled his nose, took in Akitada’s costume, and raised his eyebrows in astonishment.