Текст книги "Dream of a Spring Night"

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

From Lady Sanjo’s Pillow Book

Everything men say about women is doubly true of them.  We are not the only ones who are frivolous, fickle , foolish, weak, temperamental, and easily seduced.

I must say no more, except that my disappointment causes me great suffering.  I, too, can now say, “My love is one-sided like an abalone shell, pounded by waves on a rocky shore.”  It is too painful to think that a lady of birth and refinement, a woman of superior sensibility and the most faithful affection could so easily be cast aside for a crude provincial who flaunts her disgusting body along with her dirty songs.

For days I wept quietly into my sleeves at night and strove to put a good face on it during the day.  I showed everyone that I had no hard feelings and wished to help her in every way, but the ill-natured creature did not respond to my generous and repeated offers.  I could see that the others were excited by the developments and watched us.  I, at least, behaved like a lady.  She flaunted her triumph by dressing up every day to show that she expected another summons.

The summons did not always come, of course, but she always put on her costume.  Apparently His Majesty gave it to her.  I cannot say that I would wish to appear thus attired.  There is something very low about the costume of a shirabyoshi.  They dress like men!  But then they are mere prostitutes of the lowest order, selling their bodies at street corners all over the capital.  And now we have one of them in our midst!

After days of silent suffering, I realized that I was not the only one who was being hurt by this female.  The whole imperial household is suffering from the gossip.  Soon our verandas will be cluttered with young men, foolish youngsters from good families as well as rude warrior types from the palace guard.  They will pass poems under our grass shades and screens, and the ladies will be occupied day and night composing poetic answers.  They will whisper and giggle.  Then, at night, there will be soft steps, and silks will rustle, and little cries and male murmurs will disturb my rest, and then – well, I won’t go on.  I will lie there, behind my screens, kept awake by such sounds, sounds that go on and on, until the furtive visitor leaves.  And the next morning another lady will receive her letter and write her poem in return.

I, of course, will have to stay aloof and merely listen to men’s footsteps passing on the veranda, coming and going.

It came to me finally one night, as I lay there thinking about all this, that it was my duty to report the matter before the scandal could take hold and damage the reputations of Their Majesties.  So I wrote to my mistress, the Consort.

I serve Her Majesty even though She spends most of Her time in Her own palace these days.  When She left, She took some of Her ladies with Her, but I imagine She could not spare me here.  At least one reliable person must remain behind to keep an eye on things.

  I made my letter short, but ended it with a poem of my own: “See how a gaudy blossom growing in the mud captivates the sun above the clouds.”  I thought the images rather appropriate.

To my immense gratification, Her Majesty arrived here the very next day, proof that I had not overestimated the danger.

I reported immediately.  Her Majesty, as always, looked incredibly beautiful, making me wonder why His Majesty has permitted Her to absent Herself.  It was indeed as if “Her radiance had hidden behind the clouds” all this time, and I said words to that effect.  Of course, even an imperial consort may feel that Her duty is heavy at times.  She must bear children and may die in childbirth.  I must say, though, that I would find it easy to make such a sacrifice.  Oh, why does He prefer that young slut?  Never mind!

Her Majesty spoke to me in the strictest confidence.  I told Her everything, and She sent for our ladies because She wanted to see what the girl looks like.

When they arrived to make their obeisances, I remained seated beside Her Majesty.  They could see that I occupied a position of the highest confidence, and that pleased me.  I felt so happy at that moment that I considered asking Her Majesty to take me with Her when She left us again.  Only my deep and forgiving devotion to His Majesty caused me to desist.  Ah, my foolish heart.  “Once I had gazed upon the sun above the clouds I was blinded to all else.”

Besides, I can serve Her Majesty better here.

The Oba girl kept to the back, as well she might under the circumstances.  When her name was called, she came forward.  Regrettably, she was not wearing her dancing costume.  Her Majesty looked at her clothes and figure and said, “I see you have recently come from one of the provinces.”  We all knew what that meant.  The girl was hopelessly out of place at court.

“Do you have any talents?” Her Majesty asked next.

“I sing a little, Your Majesty,” she answered.  When Her Majesty merely raised Her brows, she added in a small voice, “And I can dance a little.”

“Hmm,” said Her Majesty and raised Her fan, turning away.  The girl backed off on her knees and hid behind the others.

And that was it.  It had been easy after all.  In Her truly elegant manner, Her Majesty has indicated what She thinks of song-and-dance girls.  I have no doubt that this one will soon be dismissed from service.

The Audience

The incident between Hachiro and Togoro caused Doctor Yamada to have a talk with his new son.  The meeting was painful for both.  The doctor was in his pharmacy and watched the boy slink in.  He had the same furtive look on his pasty face but seemed less interested in herbs and medicine than in the objects inside the house.   His expression reminded the doctor of a young gang member he once saw being punished in the market, and he wondered if he had adopted a criminal.  The same mix of fear and resentment flared in Hachiro’s eyes when the youngster saw what lay on the counter among the doctor’s pharmaceutical tools.

For a long time, the doctor looked at him silently, hoping that his wordless anger would have more effect than the bamboo rod he had cut in the snowy garden.  But his new son tried to brazen it out.

“You wanted to see me, Father?” he asked blandly, putting a slight emphasis on the word “father.”

This angered Doctor Yamada more and his hand crept toward the rod.  “Why did you kick Togoro?” he asked coldly.

“Oh.  Is that what this is about?”  The pretense of surprise was not convincing.  Yamada saw the flash of fury in the boy’s eyes.  “He was insolent, Father,” he said, adding, “You know, you really should speak to the servants.  They don’t show any respect.  Why, Otori – ”

“Silence!” the doctor thundered, clutching the rod.  The boy backed away a step toward the open doorway.  With an effort, the doctor controlled his temper.

Hachiro had been brought to him a year ago, beaten, bloody, and unconscious.  Someone had found him lying in one of the dirtier alleys near the market.  Yamada had cleaned and treated his wounds, fed him, and – when the boy had told him that he was without family or a roof over his head – he had allowed him to stay, offering food and shelter in return for small chores.  Since the youngster had claimed not to know his real name, they ended up calling him “Boy,” mostly in anger, for he proved to be unreliable at work and took whatever food he pleased.  As a result, neither Togoro nor Otori showed him much kindness.

One could not expect miracles.

“Hachiro,” the doctor said more calmly, “I will not tolerate physical abuse of my servants.  Otori has served my family since I was younger than you are, and Togoro has been faithful and a hard worker.  He, too, has been with me longer than you.  Both deserve respect from you.  Meanwhile, your own behavior in the past has left much to be desired.  Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Hachiro watched the rod nervously.  A look of anger crossed his face.  “They hate me and tell lies about me.  Togoro makes me do his work.  It’s not proper, when he’s the servant.  Otori wants a man in her bed.  She should be ashamed of herself at her age.  And now that you’ve adopted me they’re jealous.”

The doctor was speechless.  He knew both of his servants well.  Hachiro’s lies were gross and repulsive.

 His silence encouraged Hachiro.  “How can you take their word against me?” he demanded.  “Have you not made me your son?  What good is that unless you treat me as your son and make the servants respect me?”

The doctor bit his lip.  “Very well,” he said, taking up the rod.  “You leave me no choice but to do as you ask.  I shall treat you as a father treats a lying, disobedient son.  Come here.”

Hachiro paled.  “If you beat me like a slave,” he cried, “the servants will find out and spit on me.”

Yamada stepped forward and seized Hachiro by the arm.  “And so they shall,” he growled, pulling the boy out of the studio and into the bright winter sun.  His call brought both Togoro and Otori running.  When they saw Hachiro in his grasp and the bamboo cane in his other hand, they stopped, open-mouthed with surprise.

“You are to witness Hachiro’s punishment,” the doctor informed them.

He was still angry when he used the rod on Hachiro’s buttocks and thighs. The boy’s single cry sickened him and he stopped rather quickly.  Breathing hard, he said, “I trust your pain reminds you of the pain you inflicted on Togoro.  You will taste more of it if I hear of other examples of cruelty to someone less fortunate than you.  And beware of telling lies about others.  Now you will apologize to Togoro and Otori.”

Hachiro was very pale.  He obeyed sullenly and slunk away, while the two servants gaped after him.  Togoro was embarrassed.  He gave the doctor a lopsided grin, scratched his head, and trotted off.  Otori snapped, “The child of a devil is also a devil.  Beating him just makes him worse.”

The doctor tried to return to his work but he could not concentrate.  To clear his mind and rid himself of his self-disgust, he decided to visit squatters’ field.

Snow hid ugliness as a rule, but squatter’s field was the exception.  Here even snow looked dirty.  Flimsy shelters made from salvaged boards and ragged straw mats clustered together like piles of a giant’s garbage, and black acrid smoke rose from smoldering fires.  Shivering creatures huddled around them, cooking whatever scraps they had been able to scrounge.  Disease and festering wounds were the norm here, and the doctor was greeted eagerly and kept busy until nightfall.

When he got home, depressed again by the thought of Hachiro, he found that a messenger from the palace had come during the afternoon.  The man had waited nearly an hour before leaving again.

Otori glowered.  “I might have known that you’d be out the very moment good fortune finally calls.”  She gave a sniff and added, “It’s a good thing the fine gentleman left.  You stink.  Best take a bath and change before you touch the letter he brought.”

Yamada ignored this and opened the carefully rolled and tied sheet of fine paper.  It was not from Toshiko.  The writing was a man’s – elegant, concise, and marked with a crimson seal.  He did not recognize the signature, but the content was clear.  He was to present himself in the attendants’ office of the cloister palace the next day at the start of the hour of the snake.

Frowning at the letter, Yamada asked, “Did the messenger explain what is wanted?”

“No.  And don’t look like that.  You should’ve been here yourself.  What does it say?”

“I am to report to the attendants’ office tomorrow.”

Otori’s face broke into a wide smile.  “There.  You see?  They finally take notice of you.  I bet that cook got you another patient.”

“I doubt it.  When someone is ill, they want me immediately.  Besides both letter and messenger are a little too formal for a mere sick call.”

“Well, you will go, won’t you?” Otori asked belligerently.

“Oh, yes.  I’ll go.”

*

In his heart, the he still hoped that the summons would somehow bring him to the lady Toshiko.  He bathed and dressed with special care the next morning and set out with a spring in his step that not even the sight of Hachiro, lurking about with a resentful expression, could spoil.

In winter, city sounds are muffled by snow.  Carriages and wagons stay home and horsemen move more slowly, huddled into their clothing.  Yamada knew from experience that nothing is colder than metal armor on a winter’s day.  Those who are walking are luckier, even when their cold-weather garb only consists of layered rags and straw capes and boots.  He was luckier still in his wadded and quilted robe and sturdy, lined leather boots.

The palace was a beautiful sight this morning.  Sunlight reflected from a million places: The large roofs were of an immaculate and glittering whiteness against the shiny red columns and the gilded dragons at the eaves.  By asking directions, the doctor found the attendants’ bureau where he was passed from white-clad servants to black-robed officials.  His hopes of seeing Toshiko evaporated.  This was where the business of government took place, a world of officials.  Eventually he was left to wait in a chilly passage which seemed to lead to an important office.  The passage was full of waiting men, and very important-looking officials passed in and out of the distant double doors.  They wore rank colors on their formal hats and did not glance at those who humbly waited, shivering and with hopeless expressions on their faces.

At some point in his long wait, it occurred to the doctor that a mistake must have been made, and he approached an attendant to ask.  By now, he did not feel humble and was brusque because he thought of the time he had wasted that could have been spent looking after the sick.

But the attendant assured him that all was correct and that he would be admitted shortly.

Admitted?

Yamada began to suspect that he had been summoned by the emperor himself.  Since he had been waiting past his customary midday meal, his empty stomach was growling.  Besides, he remembered their previous meeting and how angry and rude he had been then, and nervousness now twisted his gut, making him queasy.

When they finally called him, he was sweating with the tension in spite of the cold.  This was going to be very different from that casual encounter in the cook’s room.  He would see the emperor officially.  Few men were allowed in his presence, and most of those held ranks far above his.

The great doors opened and closed behind him.  He saw a wide expanse of shining floor and in the distance the figure of the emperor bent over his desk.  An official sat at another desk.  The shutters were closed against the cold, but many braziers and lights stood about the two desks.  When Yamada hesitated at the door, the official waved a peremptory hand for him to come forward.  The doctor walked to the center of the room where he knelt and touched his forehead to the floor.

“This is the doctor, sire,” said the official.

“Doctor?  Oh, yes.  I remember.  Come closer, come closer.  And you may leave us, Tameyazu.”

Yamada rose and approached the emperor’s desk, wondering what he was to do next and if he was permitted to look into the emperor’s face.  He knelt and in his confusion he stared down at the documents that lay strewn across the desk until he saw the emperor’s hand reach out to cover them.  Afraid that His Majesty thought he had been reading them, he raised his eyes.

Yes, the face was that of the cook’s visitor, but today the emperor was not smiling.  Yamada touched the floor with his head again.

“Come, Doctor.  Sit up,” the emperor said.  “I wish to consult you about a medical problem.”

Yamada took a deep breath, sat up, and risked another glance.  Perhaps the emperor was ill.  He looked well enough, but many ailments remained hidden from the eye.  “Yes, sire?”

The emperor studied him for a moment.  “You can keep a confidence?”

The doctor blinked.  “Of course, sire.”

“It is nothing of great import, but gossip would be very unpleasant.  You are to mention to no one what we discuss.”

Yamada bowed.  He was slightly offended and said stiffly, “Certainly not, sire.”  His nervousness faded as his curiosity grew.

“I am told,” the emperor said, “that you are of good birth, that your studies at the imperial university are recent, and that you excelled at them.”

The doctor bowed again.  He had done well at the university, but most of what he knew about medicine had come to him later, in the slum dwellings of the capital.  He was tempted to say so, but Otori would not like it, so he was quiet.

“These studies have included matters of a sexual nature?”

Well, hardly in the slums.  People who were starving did not worry much about procreation.  It seemed to take place all too often and too easily for the poor.  He said, “Yes, sire,” and became nervous again.  The only time powerful men of the emperor’s age consulted their physicians about sexual problems was when they worried about dysfunction or a wife’s inability to conceive.  The retired emperor already had a large number of children, so he was probably not desperate for more.  Why the sudden concern about his sexual performance?

And then he remembered Toshiko and was filled with a sudden hatred for the other man.

The emperor pursued his subject, unaware of Yamada’s clenched hands and grinding teeth.  “Then you are familiar with all the methods and medicines that enhance the pleasures of the bedchamber?”

The doctor raised his eyes briefly.  The emperor’s face had an earnest, almost pleading expression.  Yamada reminded himself that this was the emperor, but that he was also a man and a patient and apparently very worried.  Private feelings must be put aside when treating a patient.  He said cautiously, “Yes, sire.  There are various substances and activities that are said to help the male performance.  I am not myself very familiar with their efficacy but —”

The emperor smiled and said quickly, “You are too young.”

Yamada blushed in spite of himself.  “Yes, sire, that may be so, but many men my age have such concerns.  I meant only that I could not attest to these prescriptions from my observation.  A great deal of our knowledge is based on what people report, and they may not always understand their bodies or tell the truth.”

The emperor considered this and nodded.  “Yes, I see.  Well, I cannot say I have ever experienced any problems maintaining my stamina before now.”

The doctor said, “In that case, surely it may be a temporary affliction, sire.”

The emperor rubbed his chin and looked uncomfortable.  “Perhaps, but there are reasons why I wish to be absolutely certain.  You understand?”

Yamada gulped but met the Emperor’s eyes and asked, “How can I help, sire?”

“You may answer some questions, and then perhaps you may wish to ask some.  When we are done, I am sure you will feel able to prescribe.”

The doctor bowed.  Dear heaven, he thought, I want to like this man and help him, but what if my advice loses me Toshiko forever?  He twisted his hands in irresolution.

The emperor said gently, “Do not be afraid, Doctor.  I shall not blame you for my weakness.”

Yamada managed a pale smile at this misunderstanding of his fears and reminded himself that there had never been any hope for him and that, as a physician, he had a duty to help to the best of his ability.  “Please ask, sire,” he said.

“Thank you.  Then my first question is this:  May a sudden weakness in a man be caused by a decrease in the female’s life-giving force?”

Surely that could not refer to Toshiko.  Suppressing surprise, the doctor  said cautiously, “Ancient medical texts state that women over thirty and those who have given birth are not beneficial to the male’s stamina, but I have not seen any evidence of this and I doubt it is true.”  Indeed, in his practice, poor women produced children far too readily and repeatedly to suggest that their men had such problems.

“Good,” said the emperor.  “Then would you say that the opposite is equally untrue?  That a man cannot gain stamina from lying with virgins?”

Yamada’s ears started to burn again.  It was warm in the room from the braziers, and the air was scented with the oil of the many lamps, but he was hot for other reasons.  “I don’t believe it helps, sire,” he managed.

“Hmm.  Then an inability experienced by a man is purely his own fault or due to age or disease?”

“I believe so, sire.  But a temporary weakness is not a serious or permanent impairment.  It may be caused merely by distractions or tiredness.”

“Distractions.”  The emperor pursed his lips and nodded slowly.  “Yes, I think you are quite right.  That may well be so.  Good.  It is your turn now.”

Nothing in his studies and the years of his practice of medicine had prepared the doctor for the difficulty of this particular consultation.  He felt the sweat trickle down his back under his robe and was afraid.  The powerful are unpredictable.  He did not trust the kind and reasonable manner with which the emperor had invited him to probe.

After some thought, he ventured, “From what I have heard so far, I take it that Your Majesty has been blessed with unusual vigor until very recently?”

“Unusual?  I don’t know.  Is it unusual?”

“Yes, indeed, sire.”

So far, so good.  The emperor looked quite pleased, proving that emperors were just men after all.  Except, of course, when they lusted after the woman one loved.  The doctor said, “A healthy man may experience temporary failure at any time, though more frequently in old age.”

The emperor frowned.  “I am in my thirty-ninth year, doctor.  Is it old age then?”

“No.  I don’t think so, sire.  I believe both Your Majesty’s August Father and Grandfather enjoyed great vigor far beyond that age.”

The emperor nodded.  “Quite right.  Go on.”

“May I ask if there is a physical impediment?  Some discomfort for example?”

“None at all.”

“May we leave aside that the fault may lie with the female?”

The emperor raised his brows in astonishment.  “What do you mean?”

Oh, dear.  Yamada felt he was groping along an abyss in the dark.  Was the emperor talking about the consort?  The snowy courtyard had been full of palm leaf carriages and merchants carrying stacks of silks and boxes of cosmetics.  Apparently Her Majesty was in residence.  Yes, that must be the answer and it presented new dangers.  He said, “Sometimes there may be an impediment, and access becomes difficult or unpleasant for the male.”

The emperor stared at him, then shook his head.  “No.  Nothing like that.  Besides, it was over too quickly.  But you raise an interesting problem.  I suppose greater stamina is needed for bedding a virgin than for a woman who has borne a child?”

Yamada panicked again and wiped the moisture from his forehead.  The emperor noticed his discomfiture and chuckled.  “Do not be embarrassed to speak your mind, Doctor.  You have my confidence.”

Yamada took a deep breath.  “I feel, sire, that the problem may lie with you, but that it is one that may easily be overcome with careful preparation.  I believe what you refer to is the first of the seven sexual impediments.  It is called “stopped air.”  This prevents a sufficient erection because the male is exhausted from excess or lacks the desire to continue.”  He saw that the emperor began to frown and hurried on, “The art of the bedchamber is not a business that should be hurried.  Perhaps taking counsel from one of the helpful little texts that most young men are given may suggest an approach?”  He let his voice trail off.

“Dear me.”  The Emperor burst into laughter.  “I haven’t thought of those little books for years.  When I was very young, I studied them with the greatest interest.  They contain fascinating but often quite useless suggestions.”  He laughed again.  “‘Joined mandarin ducks’ was nothing at all like what ducks do, though it was one of the easier positions, but ‘the soaring seagull’ was impossible to achieve and, heaven knows, I tried.”  He shook his head with another laugh.  “Thank you, Doctor, for making me feel quite young again for a moment.”  Becoming serious and businesslike again, he said, “I suppose all will be well, but if you have some medicine that you have found efficacious, may I have it?  Just in case?”

Yamada bowed.  “Yes, sire.”

“Today?  And I will call you again if the problem persists.”

“Of course, sire.”

The audience was over.  The doctor bowed and took his leave.

Outside again, he was grateful for the chill air on his perspiring skin.  He blinked against the blinding light, his mind in turmoil.  Suddenly, he felt a powerful urge to rescue Toshiko before it was too late, and he did a very foolish and dangerous thing.  Returning into the waiting area, he asked one of the servants for a piece of paper and writing utensils.  Then, kneeling on the cold flooring, he rubbed a little ink and wrote the directions to his house.  Instead of a signature, he drew a cat’s face with one eye closed.  This note he folded into a small square.

Then he made his way to the northern precincts of the palace and found the walled garden of the women’s quarters.  It was deserted this time of year, lying undisturbed and featureless under the soft blanket of new snow.  The rocks seemed merely larger hummocks of snow, and the bamboo drooped under its burden and rustled dryly as a sparrow flew up, sending a dusting of snow to the white ground.  The heavy shutters of the building were closed.  The doctor walked quickly to the veranda, and left his note under a small stone just outside the shutter where they used to meet.

A part of him hoped fervently that she was inside and, hearing him, would open the shutter a little, but in this he was disappointed.  All remained silent except for the sound of melting snow dripping from the end of the eaves.

Back at the gate, he turned for a last look and saw his tracks leading to her door and away again.  Too late!