Текст книги "Dream of a Spring Night"

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Flight

The maid snored.

Toshiko had been aware of the irritating habit for weeks.  It was probably the reason why this woman, of all the servants, had been left behind to look after her.

Tonight she greeted the rasping sound with relief.  As long as she heard it, she was safe.  She began by applying her make-up, making it thicker and more garish than usual because she wanted to be taken for one of the professional entertainers.  Then she dressed in her shirabyoshi costume, adding the small drum, the sword, and the hat.  Because she had no one to help her, she was soon out of breath and weak-kneed and had to sit down to rest.

Blessedly, the snoring in the distance continued unabated.  Faintly, from outside, came the muffled twanging of the bowstrings of the guards.  The sound, meant to scare away criminals and evil spirits, was followed by the calling out of the hour: the hour of the rat.  A moment later the temple bell rang, too.

It was time.  She got up and took a final sip of water.  Then she tied on the tall hat, put the sword through her sash, and slipped the drum cord over her shoulder.  She slid open the door to the interior of the hall by tiny increments.  The track was well-oiled, but she could not risk the smallest noise.  The snoring was louder now.  Good.  It would cover the whispering of her silk trousers as she glided across to the southern veranda.

She had almost reached the outer doors when the snoring stopped abruptly.  Taking the next few steps quickly, she froze with her hand on the shutter.  All was silent.  Was the woman awake and listening?  Toshiko’s heart beat so loudly that she was afraid she would not hear her coming.  She was about to sink down on trembling knees when the snoring started up again, softly at first, then gaining full power.  With a sigh of relief, Toshiko lifted the shutter.  It seemed heavy, but she had lost much of her strength during the past days.  Gritting her teeth, she managed to raise it enough to slip out and lower it again.  The effort left her gasping for breath.

The night was very dark, and a light rain was falling.  With a shiver, she pulled the collar of her jacket up around her neck and set off in the direction of the north gate.  Her slippers were soon soaked and the hems of her full trousers heavy with moisture.

The unfamiliar grounds of the palace lay empty and silent.  She passed several dark buildings she knew nothing about.  In the stables were lights, and she could hear and smell the horses inside.  Panic returned.  Where there were horses, there were grooms.  She hurried past.  The raised and curving roofline of the north gate hove into sight, and with it more lights and the guards’ barracks.  Sounds of raucous singing came from the barracks.  The thought of being caught by men like those inside almost frightened her into turning around.

The massive outer gate was closed and barred for the night.  She must leave that way or not at all.  The most dangerous moment had come.  She rested a little to gather her courage and strength, then walked quickly toward the gate house.

Iron cressets hung suspended from the eaves of the massive gate.  They held burning pine branches to light the area and sputtered and smoked in the drizzle.

The door to the guard house stood open and light fell on the wet gravel outside.  Toshiko crept up.  Two soldiers in the uniforms of the outer palace guards sat on the floor, playing go and drinking warmed wine.  The wine pitcher rested on a small brazier.  When one of the men turned to refill his cup he saw her outside the door.  His eyes widened.  He scrambled up.  “What have we here?” he said, smiling broadly.  His companion joined him in the doorway.

Toshiko looked uncertainly at their wine-flushed, grinning faces.  Apprehension knotted her stomach.   “Please let me out, honorable officers,” she asked, bowing.

“Not so fast, my pretty,” said the first guard.  “Come in out of the rain.  We can use a little company.”

Toshiko took a breath and bowed again, with a little flourish, just as a shirabyoshi did after her performance.  “Begging your pardon, but not tonight, my brave officers,” she said, trying to sound regretful.  “I’m exhausted.  They’ve have kept me dancing for hours.  Please let me out.”

“I bet that’s not all they kept you for,” said the second guard.  His companion guffawed.

Toshiko offered, “I’ll be back tomorrow.  Maybe then?”  She smiled and performed another small dance movement.

The second guard shook his head and returned to the game.  The first man stepped outside.  “A promise?  I’ll be waiting.  Just ask for Corporal Mori at the barracks.  I bet I can make you dance all night, and not on your feet either.”  He laughed.

She hid her disgust.  He sauntered to the gate and lifted the heavy bar.  Pulling one wing of the gate open just far enough for her to slip through, he waited until she stepped forward, then he snatched her, pressing her against the closed section with his body.  He pushed his face into hers.  She gagged on the sour fumes of wine.  Inserting a hand into her jacket, he squeezed one of her breasts.  “Sure you won’t stay a little, sweetheart?” he murmured against her lips.

She gasped and slapped his face.

For a moment he looked angry, but then he stepped aside with a chuckle.  “Oh, all right, all right,” he said.  “I can see you’re bushed.  Tomorrow then.  Don’t forget.”

She did not give him time to change his mind but slipped through the opening and ran.

The road took her straight to the bridge into the city.  When she was out of sight of the palace, she slowed a little to catch her breath.  The rain still drizzled, but over the mountains to the east the sky was clearing.  Moon and stars appeared briefly between ragged clouds and were hidden again.  It was no longer so dark now that she was in the open.  Ahead lay the city, not quite asleep because lights glimmered here and there.  But the road was empty, and even on the bridge were only a few late stragglers.  They walked hunched into their clothes against the misting rain and paid no attention to her.  The water lapped against the bridge supports and muffled the sound of steps on the wooden planks.

An odd feeling of lightheadedness seized her.  She was free – she was truly free.  Nobody would find her now.  Nobody could ever again force her will and use her body without her permission.

In the city, the storefronts were shuttered and few lights showed in houses.  She needed directions to Sumei-mon but there was no one to ask.  And there was soon another problem: her costume was a familiar and inviting sight to the night crawlers of the city.

A drunk appeared suddenly out of the darkness and propositioned her, reaching with greedy hands for her sleeves and making obscene demands.  She ran, diving into an alley, where she stumbled about and fell over unseen obstacles.  A dog charged at her, barking and growling through some broken fencing.  She tripped over her sword.  When the drum caught on a fencepost, jerking her off her feet into the mud, she tore it off, throwing it, the sword, and the hat into someone’s garden before running on.

Her rain-soaked clothing was heavy, and she was out of strength quickly.  When the moon came out again, she was alone in a dank corner filled with refuse and broken furniture.  She leaned against a wall to rest, then let herself slide down, her legs too weak to hold her.

But the cold and wet soaked through her clothes, and her clammy jacket clung to her body, chilling her to the bone.  Teeth chattering, she got up.  She must find the doctor or perish in this darkness.

Walking more slowly now and stumbling often, she took her direction by a glimpse of a distant pagoda.  Where there was a pagoda, there was a temple, and in a temple, there must be good people who followed the Buddha’s way, people who would help her.

Even as she thought this, she stumbled over a sleeping monk.

He was one of those who had taken vows of poverty and wandered the country begging for their food.  This one had found a doorway to sleep in, his wide straw hat covering his head against the drizzle, and his bare legs sticking out into the alleyway.  Because his legs were so dirty that it was hard to tell them from the mud, Toshiko had stepped on them.

Her heart stopped when the mud-colored creature scrambled up with a curse.  It was as if the earth had opened up to spit out an angry goblin.  Then she saw the shaven head and the monk’s robe, and relief flooded through her.  “”Oh, thank heaven,” she cried, “forgive me, reverend sir.  I did not see you there.”

He stopped ranting and peered at her from bleary eyes.  “Watch where you’re going next time,” he grumbled, rubbing his leg.

“Yes, it was my fault,” she said meekly.  “I am very sorry.”  Then she asked, “Please, could you direct me?  I am looking for Doctor Yamada.  He lives near the Sumei-mon, I think.”

“You’re lost?” the monk asked, his eyes roaming over her shivering figure.  “New in town?  You look pretty young to be on the game.”

Confused, she backed away.  He followed, smiling now.  Even in the murk, she saw that his teeth were long and yellow and he was no longer young.  She could smell onions on his breath and sweat and dirt on his body.

“Come, don’t be shy, girl,” he said, pushing his face into hers and reached into his robe.  He brought out a few coins and rattled them in his hand.  “It’s your lucky night.  I’m in funds.”

She swallowed hard and took another step back, bumping into an empty barrel and losing her balance when it toppled.  He caught her and tried to kiss her.  His onion breath was hot in her face, and his fumbling hand was at her trouser bands.

“No,” she screamed, pushing at him.  He laughed.  “Please,” she begged with a gulp, “you’re mistaken . . . .”  But even though he was a monk, she knew this was no mistake and felt the sour bile rising in her throat.  She retched.  He loosened his hold and eyed her suspiciously.  “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sick,” she mumbled, a hand over her mouth.

“Sick?”  He stepped away.  “How dare you accost people in your condition?”  He spat and abandoned her quickly.

Toshiko gulped in cold, wet air to settle her stomach, then limped away herself.

The alley opened into a road, and this road led to another where she could see lights and hear people.  She saw light came from the gently swaying lantern of a wine shop.  Customers were leaving.  Rain still misted the night air, and across the street several women sheltered under the eaves of a house.  When men left the wine shop, the women ran out to talk to them.  Their luck was not good.  One of the men pushed the nearest woman away so roughly that she fell into the mud.  The women went back, calling rude and dirty words after the men.

Toshiko was desperate and by now felt safer with women than with men.  Stepping from the shadow into the light, she started toward them, calling out, “Please, can you help me?”  At that moment a drunk stumbled from the wine shop and threw his arms around her for support.

“I’ll help you, my precious,” he promised thickly.

For a moment, they swayed together like a pair of wrestlers. Then Toshiko squealed and, with more luck than design, rammed a knee into the drunk’s groin.  He sat down hard, doubled over.

One of the women crossed the street, glaring at Toshiko.  “What do you want here, bitch?”

Toshiko looked at her, shocked by such anger.  The woman was no longer young and her face was plain and marked by smallpox.  She wore clothes that were even stranger than her own costume, and much dirtier.

“I am lost,” Toshiko said.  The woman balled her fist.  “Please,” Toshiko cried, “all I want is directions.”  Too late.  The fist struck her painfully in the middle of the chest and knocked her back against the wall of the wine shop.  Toshiko cried out and wrapped her arms around the pain.

The woman laughed.  It was an ugly sound.  “I know what you’re up to.  Get away from here and don’t come back!  Go on!  Run, or we’ll teach you manners.”

Toshiko just looked at her.  She could barely stand, let alone run, so she did nothing, hoping dimly that the woman would disappear and the pain in her chest would fade and all would be well.

Only nothing was well.

The woman seemed to think she was defiant.  She called to her companions.

Thinking that they would surely kill her, Toshiko tried to take a step, but her feet would not obey.  She sank to her knees and waited hopelessly as the other women crossed the street.  The drunk staggered to his feet and looked on with interest.

One of the women came more quickly.  “No, Kosue,” she said, putting herself between Toshiko and the pock-marked one.  “She’s just a child.”  She asked Toshiko, “What are you doing here?  Where d’you live?”

The unexpected kindness brought tears to Toshiko’s eyes.  “Thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes.  “I was looking for Doctor Yamada’s house.”  Despairing of that purpose, she raised her eyes to the pagoda again.  “That temple.  I’ll go there in just a moment.  As soon as I have a little strength.”

“Doctor Yamada, is it?  You do look bad.  Are you sick, poor girl?”

“Yes.  No.”  Toshiko stopped, not sure which answer was correct or useful in this situation.

The woman bent and put an arm around her.  “Come, lean on me.  I know where he lives,” she said, and to the others, “She was just looking for the doctor, you stupid sluts.”

The women stepped away then, guiltily, and let them pass.

Toshiko was not sure where they were going or how far.  She concentrated on putting one foot before the other.  When they stopped, she looked around dazedly.  The dark shapes of trees and houses seemed to be doing a slow dance.

“We’re here,” her companion said, releasing her.

The ground began to sway and Toshiko saw it coming toward her.  The woman caught her and propped her against a wall, then went to knock on the door.  After a moment, she said, “Someone’s coming.  Good luck!” and disappeared into the night.

In her black haze, the thought that she had been led into a trap crossed Toshiko’s mind, but she was too weak to save herself.  When the door of the house opened, she did not bother to raise her head.

A man’s voice asked, “What is wrong?  Do you need help?”

She took a step away from the wall and fainted.

From Lady Sanjo’s Pillow Book

Oh, the injustice of it!

It’s all because of that demon of a girl.  Why did the fool have to run away?  And where was that idiot of a maid?  Asleep, she said.  Well, she won’t sleep well where she is headed.

We searched all day, every nook and corner of our own building and then the palace grounds.

Eventually, I sent the stupid maid to the gates.  When she came back, I could see the truth on her face.  The misbegotten wench had dressed up in those clothes His Majesty gave her, and the dolts at the gate had taken her for a hired harlot and let her out.  In the face of disaster, I was secretly amused: men always know.

But it anything but laughable, though I did not then, in my wildest imaginings have an inkling of the outcome.  That night, I had to go to inform His Majesty.

He turned perfectly white at the news and then red with anger.  “What?” He demanded in a terrible voice.  “Are you telling me that one of my ladies left the palace after dark and on foot?”

I thought His fury was directed at the girl and replied, “I am afraid, Sire, that she was a most unsuitable person.  A country-bred girl.  Such people have no idea how to behave among their betters.”

He just looked at me.  It occurred to me belatedly that my comment was thoughtless, given the fact that He had honored the wench with His favor.  But before I could apologize, He said, “Did you not report to me only yesterday that Lady Toshiko was ill?  How then could she walk away and leave the palace in the middle of the night?”

I had to confess that I did not know.  “That maid must have been drunk,” I suggested.

“And who,” He snapped, “is responsible for the welfare of the ladies serving me?  Who makes the arrangements for serving women and looks after the needs of every lady in my quarters?”

Ah, the unfairness of that!

I replied – by then in tears – that I had been busy with the move to the new quarters and could not be in two places at the same time.

“But you, Lady Sanjo,” He said in a tone that cut me to the heart, “left a sick young girl behind, alone and in the care of an unreliable servant.”

I murmured an apology.  I don’t recall my words.  The moment was too painful.  And then He uttered the terrible words:  “Out of my sight!”

I crawled away and hid myself in the darkest corner of the women’s quarters where I prayed to Buddha and all his helpers.  I made vows to copy the Lotus Sutra five hundred times if only I were forgiven.  I wept until all my sleeves were soaked.  And I wrote to His Majesty.

Temple Bells

Sometimes Doctor Yamada’s patients forced their way into his thoughts and traveled home with him, clamoring for his attention and his pity, begging him not to rest until he had made them better, tormenting him with silent pleas to save their lives.

That night it had been a young girl with a raging fever after giving birth to a puny child that died soon after.  He had sat with her for long hours, fretting at his helplessness, changing cold compresses on her head, watching for signs that her young body would win the battle.  But toward sunset the familiar veiling had begun to dull her eyes and told him that he could not stop the coming of death.  He had seen its approach often in the past, but this time it had touched him especially, because this young mother was Toshiko’s age and, while she was not very beautiful, she had had the same smile for him before the coming darkness wiped away all trace of trust.  He had to leave her finally, bone-weary and afraid of seeing her die.

Later he lay on his bed, staring into the fathomless darkness, wondering if he was really any use to anyone.  Even those he thought he was helping might regain their health without him, and too many of his patients died.

Sleep does not come when a man struggles with the darkness in his heart.  He lay awake, probing his doubts like a festering wound, and counted the times the temple bells called out the hour.

Shortly before dawn, there was a faint knocking at the street door.  He got up more wearily than he had lain down.  It was probably the father of the dying girl or some other desperate case.  They never knocked at this hour unless there was no hope.

The night was still very dark.  A faint smell of rain and moist soil filled the air – a scent of spring and growing things.  The beginnings of life in the middle of death, he thought bitterly.  His visitor was leaning against the wall of his house.  It was too dark to see more than a vague shape, lighter than the surrounding night or the plaster of the wall.  He was not sure if it was a man or a woman; the clothes look elaborate and formal, a white jacket over full trousers.  Dully, he wiped his eyes and realized that it must be one of the street entertainers who sang and danced in the markets in men’s clothes.

“What is wrong?” he asked.  “Do you need help?”

She raised her head, her face with its garish make-up luminous in the darkness.  “Yes,” she said softly – just that – and took a step toward him.  Before he could catch her, she crumpled to the stone path.

He picked her up.  She was light in his arms, but her clothes got in his way, as did the long hair.  Its length astonished him.  He stumbled with his burden to his room and laid her down on his bedding.  Then he located the flint and lit the wick of his oil lamp, using that to light the candle near his desk, and carried both across the room to examine his patient.

She was struggling to sit up, looking dazedly around the room.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I did not know where else to go.”

He knew the voice but could not quite believe it.  Toshiko?  At this time of night?  In his room?

He must have said her name aloud, standing there frozen in the utter surprise and joy of it, because she looked up at him and nodded.  And began to cry.

He almost dropped the oil lamp in his haste to kneel and take her cold hands, to look in her face, searching for the familiar features under the thick paint.  The black paint that ringed her eyes had made streaks down the white cheeks.  He melted with love.

“Oh my dearest,” he said.  His voice trembled.  “What happened to you?  What can I do?”  He remembered her fainting on his door step and asked anxiously, “Are you ill?”

She wiped at the tears with her sleeve, leaving smudges on the white silk, and smiled at him, shaking her head.  His heart nearly overturned at that smile.  She said, “No.  Not now,” and squeezed his hands gently.  “Not now,” she said again and removed her hands from his to reach out for him.

They held each other without speaking.  He thought he could feel her heart beating against his and stroked her hair.  She was wet, her hair heavy with rain.  At some point, he told her that he loved her and made her cry again and clutch him more tightly.

When the first faint gray light of dawn intruded, they were lying naked in each others arms.  They had got there without conscious thought and without volition but with the urgency of an act long overdue.

Afterward they talked.  She told him of the poisoned gruel and the dead cat, about dressing in her costume in the middle of the night and slipping past the snoring maid, past a gate guards, of walking through the night, across the river and along the dark streets, asking the people of the night for his house, the one he had written on the slip of paper, and of being shown the way by a real prostitute.

Later he got up, throwing on some clothes, and went to the kitchen for warm water.  He knelt and cleaned her face with great tenderness, finding under the mask again the girl he remembered, paler, thinner, and more beautiful.

Only then did she tell him about the emperor, bowing her head, ashamed.

But he had known, had known it when they lay together and their bodies joined – had not wanted to think about it then because of his own responsibility in the matter.  It did not affect his love for her, but it would affect their future together.

Otori walked in, having been woken by his excursion into her kitchen.  She carried his gruel on a tray and stopped in surprise at seeing a woman in his bed, wearing nothing but her thin under robe.  Her sharp eyes took in the disordered bedding and noted his own undress, the embarrassment that was surely on their faces.  She stood, at a loss whether to be scandalized or pleased, frowning and smiling and then frowning again.

He was suddenly filled with great joy and took Toshiko’s hand.  “My dear,” he said, “this is Otori, our housekeeper.”  To Otori, he said, “Otori, you should have brought moon cakes for my bride.”

Outside the temple bells began to ring again, and Otori dropped her tray.