Текст книги "The Hell Screen"

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Toshikage tsk-tsked. “The western city is getting so bad you cannot walk the streets any longer without being in fear for your life. Takenori is right. You had better take an armed servant with you. I cannot imagine why a successful painter would live among such riffraff.”

“Oh,” said Takenori, “his house is quite substantial, if a bit overgrown. I suppose it is his family home, but he lives there alone.”

“Well, it is time I were on my way.” Akitada got up, still frustrated by his suspicions about the figurine in Akiko’s room. After a moment’s hesitation, he said to Toshikage, “I think my sister might benefit from your explanations about the origin and meaning of some of the charming objects which decorate her room. I am sure knowing their history will increase her enjoyment greatly.”

Toshikage looked pleased. “Certainly, certainly. What a very good idea! It will give me great pleasure to do so. Please convey my regards and hopes for improvement to your lady mother.”

An empty wish, that, and they both knew it. Akitada bowed and took his leave.

After the pleasant warmth of Toshikage’s rooms, the cold air outside took his breath away, and he strode out briskly to let the physical exertion warm his blood. He intended to take care of the matter of Tamako’s screen as soon as possible. Takenori’s warning he ignored. The suggestion that he could not handle himself at least as well as that young man had been offensive and he ascribed the slight to the fact that young Takenori not only resented his father’s young wife, but by extension her brother also. He might have realized that Akitada had dealt single-handedly with far greater dangers than a couple of hungry beggars.

More irritating than the imputation of faintheartedness or a walk through a bad neighborhood were the painter’s prices. But this time he would not let money stand in his way. Tamako should have her screen, come what may.

Little did he know the price he would ultimately have to pay.

SEVEN

The Bamboo Hermitage

Two days later Akitada went to see the painter. He had not set foot in the western city since his return. It was here that almost five years ago he had suffered soul-wrenching grief when his wife’s family home had been burned down with her father inside it. Since then, he had avoided this part of the capital.

It was another bitterly cold day. Winter here arrived not with the heavy snowfalls of the north country, but with an icy wind which bit more keenly, and the prevailing gray and brown hues of bare trees and dried grasses looked dirty and dismal in contrast to the sparkling snow cover in Echigo.

There were fewer people in this part of the capital and they seemed to hurry along with their chins tucked into the collars of their padded robes. A few women, with thick scarves draped around their heads and shoulders, walked clutching their baskets or small children with one hand, while the other held the scarf in place.

When he passed Konoe Avenue, he glanced down it toward the imperial flags flying over the prison. The capital had two of these, just as it had two city administrations and two markets. The division of the capital into an eastern or left half and a western or right half, with Suzaku Avenue the central dividing line, had created two worlds, for the two halves could not be more different. The eastern city was crowded, bustling, affluent, and mostly law-abiding; the western half had sunk into a rapid decline and now was inhabited mostly by the poor and desperate. The prison on this side of town was always crowded and the court docket full.

Nagaoka’s brother was in the other prison, but was suffering, no doubt, the same daily beatings until he signed his confession. Akitada’s stomach twisted at the thought of it and he drew up his shoulders with a shiver.

The artist’s studio lay in the westernmost quarter of the city. He walked quickly to keep warm in the cold air, tucking his chin into the collar of his quilted robe. But there was little he could do to keep his ears warm, and they began to hurt unpleasantly.

Once there had been fine private homes in large gardens here, but they had fallen into ruin or burned to the ground. The “good people” had moved away to the other side of town, leaving behind a tangled wilderness. Squatters occupied the empty spaces now, and here and there thin spirals of smoke rose from huts and abandoned pavilions.

Poorly dressed people gave him a wide berth after a brief glance at his silk robe and black hat. He was one of the “good people,” an oddity like a piece of brocade among hemp, or—as he soon realized when he could not get close enough to anyone to ask for directions—a fish out of water.

He began to regret his good clothing even more when he attracted a following of about six or seven ragged young men who seemed to wait for him to turn down one of the narrow side streets where there would be no witnesses to a quick robbery.

He got directions eventually from a laborer carrying a load of roof tiles on his back, no doubt salvage from another abandoned villa. He gave them grudgingly enough, along with an astonished glance at Akitada’s formal silk robe. The farther Akitada walked, the more uneasy he became. His clothes shamed him among the poor and ragged creatures who inhabited the makeshift shacks by the side of the weed-grown and rutted roads. When his surroundings became more densely populated, the character of the quarter became even worse. Workers’ tenements crowded together, interspersed with poor shops and leaning stalls. Now and then he passed a shrine or small temple, and once a somewhat more substantial house which bore the insignia of the local warden, but in most blocks cheap wine shops alternated with eateries stinking of rancid fish oil and rotted vegetables.

The Temple of Boundless Mercy was a surprise when he finally reached it. It occupied a large area and was dominated by a towering main hall and a three-story pagoda. These and other, smaller buildings stood inside a vast courtyard surrounded by the remnants of tall plaster walls which had lost most of their plaster and had collapsed altogether in some sections. The temple grounds lay in a haze of thin gray smoke and, from what he could see through the gaping holes in the wall, appeared to be a sort of local market.

He stopped to look at the temple, wondering how to find the painter’s house, when he felt a violent push to his back and stumbled forward. Hands pulled at his sash and felt his sleeves. Reacting by instinct, he whirled, his fists clenched and lashing out at his attackers. His right made sharp contact with a body. There was a yelp, and a slight figure scurried away. But he had no time to waste on that one, for he had grabbed hold of a second attacker with his left and flung him face down on the ground. Falling on his prostrate opponent with his knees, he knocked the breath out of him and caught the flailing hands by the wrists, pinning them into the dirt. His prisoner screamed in a high, thin voice, and Akitada realized that he had caught a youngster, about fourteen or fifteen years old. Pickpockets, he thought disgustedly, and shifted his knees from the boy’s back, wondering what to do with his captive.

The answer became quickly obvious. A small hostile crowd gathered around him. Kneeling on the street, Akitada saw their feet and legs first, mostly naked or in ragged straw sandals, except for one pair of massive leather boots right before his eyes. Large as the boots were, the wearer had had to cut them open to make room for some enormous dirty toes. Akitada’s eyes traveled upward and found that their owner matched them in size and uncleanliness. A bearded giant glared down at him. Worse, on either side of him stood no fewer than ten or fifteen burly, hostile males. Akitada swallowed. The bearded giant alone easily outweighed him by a third.

“Let him go!” the giant growled down to him.

Akitada rose to his feet but jerked the youngster up with him, his fist firmly grasping the boy’s flimsy shirt by the neck. The young thief had stopped wailing and struggling and was awaiting the outcome of the confrontation with renewed confidence.

At eye level, or near eye level, for the big man was almost a head taller than Akitada, the bearded giant did not improve. The part of his face which was not covered by the unkempt bristly beard was badly pockmarked, and a fleshy nose and thick lips did nothing for his appearance. They eyed each other in mutual disgust for a moment; then Akitada said matter-of-factly, “This boy and his companion tried to steal from me. I’d like a word with his father if you can tell me where he lives.”

The big man’s jaw dropped a little, but he recovered quickly. “I said to let him go. It’s none of your business. We don’t need your kind here, giving our kids a bad name, calling them thieves.” The others muttered their agreement and shuffled up a little more closely.

Akitada pushed the boy forward without loosening his grip. “You claim to care about your children. Open your eyes!” he challenged the big man. “Look at him! Today he tried to grab a few coppers from my sash, but in another year or two he’ll be pulling knives on helpless old men and women. Do you want him to turn to murder or be killed himself ? How many of your boys are running wild now? How many of your sons end up dead or in chains?”

The other men’s muttering turned angry, but the big man stared at the youngster, and Akitada could see his conviction waver. “Kinjiro’s a good kid, one of eight,” the man said defensively. “I know his folks. They’re poor like the rest of us. His father’s been sick and his mother’s just had another kid. Maybe he just bumped into you. Hey, Kinjiro? Did you try to take the gentleman’s money?”

The boy burst into tears and sobbed explanations in a dialect which Akitada could not make out. But as the big man listened, his face lengthened. When the boy stopped with a sniffle and a swipe at his running nose, he put a big paw on the thin shoulder for a moment. “All right,” he said. “Don’t worry! I’ll take care of it. You go home now.” He looked at Akitada. “You can let him go. I’m Hayata, the warden of this quarter, and I’ll go talk to them. The new babe died this morning and they have no money for a funeral.”

“Oh.” Akitada released the boy instantly. “I am sorry,” he said, helpless in the face of such sadness and so extreme a want. His hand went to his sash for money, but he changed his mind. He had no proof if what he had been told was true or merely a trick to get his money.

The bearded giant nodded to the youngster. “Off you go! And don’t ever let me catch you and Yoshi again.” Then he waved away the other men, who dispersed quickly. When they were alone, he gestured to Akitada’s clothes and remarked, “It is easy to see that this is not your kind of place, sir. Best go home now.” Having said this, he turned and walked quickly after the boy.

The message was clear: he was not welcome. Angered by this reception into stubborn persistence, Akitada brushed off his robe and crossed the street to the temple.

He entered through the sagging gateway and wandered about the vast courtyard filled with people gathered around open fires or haggling with vendors. Children tumbled about among the adults, shouting and chasing each other. Near one of the fires, ragged men sat on the ground gambling with dice. On the temple steps, a storyteller held a group of gaping adults and children spellbound. And everywhere men and women were selling things: cheap wine, soup, amulets, vegetables, old clothes, chipped utensils, and medicinal drafts, potions, and balms for every imaginable ailment. And ailments there appeared to be many. One man was missing an eye, another hobbled on a crutch, one foot hanging mangled and deformed, while near the storyteller an old crone sat coughing weakly into a bloodstained rag.

In spite of these surroundings, Akitada became aware of a ravenous hunger. Following an appetizing smell, he made his way through a group of poor people, who fell back from him in silent awe, and found a young woman, cleaner than the rest, stirring a large pot of soup over a small fire. He held out some coppers, and she ladled a generous helping into an earthenware bowl.

Warming his cold hands on the bowl, Akitada wished he could do the same for his ears. The soup appeared to consist mostly of assorted vegetables and beans. He took a cautious swallow. It was as good as it smelled. He thought he could make out turnip and cabbage, but there was another leafy vegetable, deep green, which had a slightly bitter but pleasant flavor. He emptied the bowl quickly and asked for another. The woman smiled at him this time and watched him eat. He asked her what the green vegetable was. Dock, she said. It was plentiful hereabouts, especially in the old monks’ burial grounds behind the temple.

Akitada choked down the last bite and looked where she pointed. In a nearby open area some six or seven small boys were gathered near leaning wooden tablets where one of them was spinning a top. Akitada had played with tops himself as a youngster, and smiled. The boy with the top looked to be about five or six and was most adept. His top spun and danced, flew through the air, and returned. He made it dart in and out between his friends and kept it moving precisely where he wanted it.

Akitada chuckled. “He’s good, that little one,” he said.

The woman said proudly, “He’s my son. He loves his top. There’s not much else he can be good at, poor boy.”

Akitada handed back his empty bowl and said, “What do you mean? He looks like a fine boy.”

She cast a glance toward the children, and he saw that tears welled up in her eyes. “A fine cripple,” she said bitterly.

Stunned by her words, Akitada looked again and saw now that the small boy was not merely holding his right arm close to his body but seemed to lack his forearm altogether. The right arm ended just below the elbow. Among his people, who relied on the skill and strength of their hands to make a living, he would be unable to support himself by any useful trade and become dependent on alms tossed him by the more fortunate. This part of the city was full of crippled beggars sitting at street corners and on the steps of temples with their begging bowls. Any number of accidents could cut short a productive life and reduce a man to this sort of misery. But this was only a child.

Suddenly an unpleasant thought arose in his mind. Saburo had warned him that this temple had an unsavory reputation based on some gruesome local superstitions. It was said to be inhabited by flesh-eating demons who roamed its grounds after dark to attack unwary sinners on their way home from a debauch. The occasional discovery of a dismembered body testified to the truth of such stones, which were additionally embroidered by the warning that the unhappy souls of the dead had turned into hungry ghosts, forced to live near the temple, feeding on excrement and garbage while wailing for food. Akitada glanced around him with a shudder. Some of these poor living creatures looked hungry enough to be ghosts themselves.

To still such imaginary horrors, he asked the mother what had happened to the child.

“An accident, foolish boy. He won’t tell. A kind man brought him home. He said he found him by the road, bleeding, his severed arm gone, and a gold coin clutched in his other hand. Lucky this man found him and stopped the bleeding. He thinks my son saw the piece of gold in the road and was snatching it up just when a cartwheel caught his arm. Foolish child!” She sniffled and wiped her eyes.

“A terrible accident,” Akitada said sympathetically. “What will you do about his future?”

She cheered up a little. “Oh, he’ll be a monk. This same good person who found him got him a place at one of the big temples outside the city. May the Buddha bless him forever! It was a great relief to me.”

Akitada looked at the boy again, the young face rosy-cheeked in the cold air, teeth glistening as he burst into triumphant laughter at performing a skillful trick. So kindness was not dead in this slum. Perhaps it was even more alive here than among the wealthy—an irony when the need here was so much greater and the resources so pitifully slender. And Akitada admitted grudgingly to himself that for once the monks were performing a useful and generous act in taking in this poor child.

“I am glad,” he said. “He will do well. Look at how many friends he has made already.”

She smiled. “At first the boys wouldn’t come near him. They thought the demons had caught him and eaten his arm and were going to come back and eat the rest of him. But in time they took to him because he’s so clever with his top. He’s a good boy.”

The incident depressed Akitada further and he left the temple compound, glancing up with a shudder at the great hall which loomed dark and forbidding above the scrambling humanity. The temple of the flesh-eating demons!

At the gate, Akitada asked directions to the Bamboo Hermitage from an old man selling incense sticks. He pointed down a narrow side street across from the temple.

“Is it far?” Akitada asked, eyeing the unpainted row houses with small shuttered windows dubiously. He got no answer. The old man was making rasping noises in his throat and pointed to his mouth. He was dumb, another cripple. Akitada put some coins in his bowl and walked away.

The narrow street resembled more an alley than an ordinary thoroughfare. It looked empty except for some debris and garbage, but Akitada kept his eyes open and soon noticed some furtive movement up ahead where a tangle of trees and the corner of a shed obscured the view. He felt sure that someone was hiding there and slowed his steps, cursing himself for setting out alone after having been warned. Suddenly there were quick steps behind him. They were accompanied by a familiar flapping sound, and Akitada whirled around. The bearded giant with the pockmarked face was blocking the lane behind him. Trapped! So much for the local warden, thought Akitada, and backed against a house wall.

“Looking for someone?” the giant asked, smirking a little.

Akitada looked him over. He appeared even bulkier than before, and infinitely more threatening in these surroundings. Looking to the right and left, Akitada searched for a weapon. There was nothing but a loose piece of lath a few steps away. It was shorter than a man, part of a broken fence, a puny weapon, but Akitada had some skill at stick fighting. He inched toward it, asking, “What do you want?”

The giant followed his eyes and made a strange rumbling deep in his chest. It sounded exactly like a dog’s growl, and Akitada moved a little faster toward the thin length of wood. The pockmarked face split into a broad, gap-toothed grin and the growl became a chuckle. “I mean you no harm,” the giant said, raising both hands to show he carried no weapon. “Just making sure you’re all right. This place is a bit rough and we don’t get rich gentlemen very often. If you’ll tell me where you’re going, I’ll walk with you.”

It was an impasse. The man could, of course, be lying. But there was something about him worth taking a chance on, and after a moment, Akitada detached himself from the wall. “Thank you. I thought I saw someone hiding up ahead. I am on my way to a place called Bamboo Hermitage.”

The warden raised bushy brows. “So! Old Noami’s got another customer. Well, come along, then. We think a lot of Noami around here. He’s got an open hand when it comes to the poor.”

Akitada felt himself flush. He reached into his sash and produced a string of coppers. “I have been thinking about that youngster’s family,” he said. “Perhaps you might give them this to help bury the little one.” -

The big man looked astonished, but he took the money, saying, “Thank you, sir. May the gods reward you for your kindness. It was the only time that boy’s ever been in trouble and he’ll never do it again. Well, let’s be on our way, then.”

He strode off, his torn boot soles slapping the frozen ground. Akitada followed.

When they got to the shed, two rough characters jumped out into the street, barring their way. The moment they saw his companion, their ferocious scowls turned to horror and they bolted.

“Hah!” shouted the warden after them. “Come back here! I’ve seen you bastards! Don’t think that you’ll get your ration this week, you dirty scoundrels!” They paid no heed, and he muttered angrily, shaking his fist.

“Do you know them?” Akitada asked, astonished.

“Do I!” he grumbled. “They’ll be sorry! Well, there you are! That’s Noami’s place over there! Excuse me, but I’ve got to go catch those two. Don’t hang about till dark, and take the other way out. There’s a busy street that way.” He gestured ahead, the way the two would-be robbers had gone, and strode off after them, boots flip-flapping in a purposeful manner.

The Bamboo Hermitage had been named for the dense growth of bamboo around the thatched buildings. A tall fence woven from bamboo canes surrounded the property. Next to the gate a small sign, beautifully lettered in Chinese, proclaimed its name and identified it as an “artist’s studio.” Both gate and fence were in excellent repair and reinforced with beams and sharpened bamboo spikes along the top. No wonder Noami took precautions against thieves in this neighborhood, thought Akitada. Considering the fortifications, he was mildly surprised when the gate swung open at his touch.

He entered, calling out, but got no answer. It was very silent here. Only the dry bamboo leaves rustled in the cold air. Bamboo grew so thickly and so tall that the tops screened out the sky, and Akitada walked in their shade between the dense, thick canes to the front door. When he reached it, a raucous cry overhead made him jump. A chain rattled above him, and then another cry sounded. Akitada peered up cautiously and saw a huge black crow on a projecting roof beam, eyeing him with its beady eyes and fluffing up its feathers. The chain around one claw was fastened to the beam and clinked again.

Apparently the bird was a primitive yet effective system for announcing visitors. Akitada waited for the artist to appear, but nothing happened. He could see through the open door into a large dim hall. Scrolls hung suspended from rafters, and long tables held pots of paints and stacks of papers. A half-painted screen stood near a set of sliding doors at the back.

Akitada called out again, the crow joining in his effort. When this noise produced no better results, he took off his boots and stepped onto the wooden floor of the hall to look around. Almost instantly an irrational feeling of danger seized him, and the hairs on the back of his head rose.

Too much talk of demons, he thought, and forced himself to look around. The wooden floor of the hall was dull with dirt and splotches of paint and ink. New rolls of paper and silk lay stacked in a big pile in one corner. From the low, smoke-darkened beam in the center of the room hung a heavy bronze lantern, suspended by a chain from a massive hook. The studio had the appearance of belonging to someone who cared nothing for comfort or cleanliness, and everything for his work.

Akitada strolled over to the half-finished screen and saw an autumn scene in the forest. In the foreground some large rocks had been sketched in with elegant strokes of black ink, and the background was a misty wash of blue and gray, subtly hinting at wooded mountainsides. But a leaning maple tree in the center was already outlined and painted in all its crimson glory, every leaf daintily detailed, so real that one could almost see it trembling in the breeze. A similarly realistic large black crow, a double of the one outside, perched on one of the rocks, and a few sparrows were pecking at seeds in the foreground.

Small dishes of paint and containers of water stood about in front of the screen, along with bowls containing remnants of dried food and half -eaten pickles. Brushes of all sizes lay everywhere. Akitada bent to touch one dish filled with crimson paint. It was still moist. So the painter had been at work here not too long ago. Where could he be?

Akitada slid open one of the back doors. They led to a garden behind the house. A vast wilderness of vegetation had closed in on the building here also. He thought he could hear faint sounds from the far corner of the property. “Hoh! Is anyone home?” bellowed Akitada. “Master Noami?” He thought he heard a shout, but nobody came and Akitada turned back to his exploration of the studio.

Idly, he wandered around, picking up loose sketches of flowers and birds, marveling at the painstaking skill of execution. Toshikage had not exaggerated. This man was a consummate, even obsessive artist.

He was just bending over the large stack of sketches which had been piled higgledy-piggledy into a dark corner when there was the sudden sound at the back door. Almost simultaneously he heard a string of curses and rapid slapping footsteps across the floor.

Akitada turned quickly. A short, wiry individual in a dirty, paint-smeared monk’s robe glared at him from a head shaped like a kickball, his skull shaven but covered with a thin stubble, the eyes like dark berries on either side of a flat nose, and the mouth a mere slash above the thin strands of a chin beard. He was neither young nor old, indisputably ugly, and indefinably menacing.

“Get away from there, you whoreson piece of excrement!” the odd creature screeched at Akitada, waving his arms in the air as if he were shooing away dogs. “Away, I say! Don’t touch anything!”

The unexpected crudity, exceeding as it did even the most extreme example of disrespect, shocked Akitada. Looking at this astonishing being, he had the disconcerting feeling of having walked into some demonic tale, so unreal seemed the encounter and so grotesque the person’s appearance and manner. Perhaps the man was mad.

He stepped quickly away from the sketches and raised his hands into the air. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “No one answered my calls when I arrived.”

The wiry man said nothing, just stood scowling and studied him with his beadlike eyes as if he were memorizing every line of his face, every hair or fold of his robe. He was barefoot, his feet liberally caked with mud, his hands covered with earth. Akitada decided that this must be the painter’s assistant, evidently a half-wit. “Where is your master?” he demanded.

The man said in his strange high voice, “I’m Noami. Who wants to know?”

Akitada suppressed his surprise and introduced himself, explaining his errand.

“A screen?” asked the painter, relaxing visibly. “Like that one?” He jerked a thumb toward the autumn scene.

“Yes. Very much like it,” said Akitada. He walked back to the screen and looked at it again. “You are to be commended for your skill with the brush.” Surely, he thought, he could transact his business quickly and leave this unpleasant place, hopefully never to return. “I expect my wife to join me soon,” he continued, “and would like to surprise her with something to remind her of her garden. She loves flowers. When I saw the screen you painted for my brother-in-law, Toshikage, I thought of it. Only, could you have the flowers growing in a garden? Perhaps different ones for every season on each panel. And some birds or small creatures that live in a garden? I like the crow and sparrows in this one.”

The artist had come to join him. “Maybe.”

Akitada looked at him with raised brows. “How do you mean?”

“To paint all the seasons will take a full year, for I must study plants and animals in their proper time. It will therefore be expensive. Ten bars of silver for each panel.” His earlier vulgarity notwithstanding, Noami spoke like an educated man.

“Ten bars of silver?” Forty bars altogether! That was four times what Toshikage had paid for Akiko’s screen. Akitada said so, and Noami explained coolly that Toshikage’s screen had been assembled from existing sketches. He seemed disinclined to accommodate a new customer.

Seeing his long miserable errand wasted, Akitada said, “I had hoped to surprise my wife now. Do you have something ready which might please her? Then we could perhaps negotiate about the screen later?”

Noami pursed his thin lips. “I have no flowers. Only a scroll with dogs.”

They walked across the room. The painting was of a small boy playing with three black-and-white spotted puppies. The child, a little older than Yori, looked vaguely familiar and the entire scene was charming. Having agreed on a fairly reasonable price, Akitada paid.

As Noami took down the scroll and rolled it up, Akitada asked, “How do you manage to find your subjects and have them hold still for sketching? That little boy with the dogs, for example?”

The artist froze for a moment and stared at him blankly. Then he bent to tie the scroll, saying in a flat voice, “People are very poor around here. Most are outcasts. The children are willing to model all day for a copper and some food. The dogs are free for the taking.” He paused and his thin lips twisted. “It’s the getting rid of them that becomes a problem.”

Akitada nodded. The artist’s willingness to employ the unemployable would bring with it the frustration of their importunities. The children, no doubt, interfered with his work as well as his paints. Akitada suddenly realized that this might be the man who had been a benefactor to the crippled boy in the temple courtyard. The big warden had spoken highly of him. Noami, a successful artist living in the midst of this slum, was in a rare position to do good to his poorer neighbors. Ashamed of his earlier dislike for the man, Akitada said more warmly, “I can see that the offer of payment and food is enough to fill your house with all sorts of needy creatures and provide you with useful models at the same time.”

Noami stared at him again and then cast a glance around the room. “Why do you say that?” he asked sharply. “There is no one here but myself.”