Dream of a Spring Night Page 5

  He did not look at all as if he thought it a fortunate thing. Lady Oba inclined her head. “Thank you. I fear that my daughter may suffer criticism if it should become known that . . . she has received your visits.”

  He flushed to the roots of his hair. Perhaps it was only his pride she had hurt but with two young sons she had a sharp eye for the signs of infatuation. He reached into his robe and brought out a folded letter. This, too, Lady Oba thought ominous. Why not carry the letter in his sash or sleeve? Why so close to his body? Extending it to her with both hands, he said very stiffly, “Your daughter sent this. I was going to offer to take your reply, but perhaps you will wish to employ another messenger.”

  Ah, so he had taken offense. She should have been more circumspect in her reproof. Regretting her bluntness, she turned the letter over in her hands and sighed. “That was ungrateful of me. Please forgive my poor manners. I am terribly worried about her because she has neither friends nor family to protect her.”

  He opened his mouth, closed it again, then said merely, “I understand, Lady Oba,” and prepared to rise.

  “No, wait,” she cried. “I am sure you will honor a mother’s concern for her child’s future. If you will accept our hospitality, I would be grateful if you would carry my answer back to her.” She bit her lip. Her husband would be in another fury if he found out about this. “It will be best if we don’t mention the matter to anyone else,” she added, blushing with embarrassment.

  If he was surprised, he did not show it. He said, “Thank you, Lady Oba. I am completely at your service.”

  It was a vague reply, but she did not have the heart to press him further. “My husband is absent, but my son Yasuhira will see to your comfort. And my letter will be ready before you take your leave in the morning.”

  As he left, she looked after him, thinking how much she would have liked him if things had been different. If he had been her son, hers and Sadamori’s.

  Then she unfolded Toshiko’s letter and read. It was a loving and dutiful letter but one that left too many things unsaid. Her daughter did not mention His Majesty. Did that mean that he had taken no interest in her, or that he had and she was too ashamed to mention their intimacy? Instead, she wrote of insignificant events: the cat, her assignments, the oil they used on their hair, her lovely new clothes, and her friend, Lady Shojo-ben. Not a word either about Doctor Yamada. Lady Oba put the letter in her sash and frowned.

  Young Yamada’s manners were good, as were his clothes. He was of good birth, yet only a physician. Like the Obas, the Yamadas were military men and held provincial offices. Why was such a very strong and healthy male a mere doctor, a profession not much better than that of a pharmacist or soothsayer? How could Sadamori have allowed it?

  She knew her own sons and their ambitions and felt a small pang of envy. Warriors often died young and violently — unlike courtiers, bureaucrats, or doctors — but neither Takehira nor Yasuhira were studious types. Their lives were predetermined: They learned how to fight and how to die.

  Women learned how to obey. Her daughters were raised to serve men who could advance Oba family interests.

  Lady Oba knew that her husband had other women, but she was fortunate. She was the only official wife. He bedded his other women elsewhere. In the early years of their marriage he used to come to her bed regularly because he wanted heirs. She miscarried five times before giving him four healthy children. And then she bore a son so sickly and malformed that he died a day after the long and painful birth. Her husband stopped coming to her after that, and she was grateful, as she was grateful for the consideration he showed her by keeping his women in distant towns and villages.

  She looked out over the sea of swaying grasses, the silver band of river, the blue hills, toward the south where she had grown up. The distance of time and space had turned the memories of her childhood home into a land of lost happiness, a place not to be regained until after death.

  The priests taught that women could not attain paradise, but she preferred to believe them wrong.

  The door slid open, and her youngest daughter slipped in. Nariko was, like her name, a gentle, agreeable child. Two years younger than Toshiko, she had none of her sister’s obstinacy. Her eyes were wide with curiosity as knelt beside her mother.

  “Yasuhiro is taking a guest around,” she announced. “Who is he, Mother? He is very handsome. Is he a teacher? Yasuhira says he came from the capital. Does he know Toshiko?”

  Lady Oba suppressed a smile. “Nariko,” she said, “calm yourself. You must learn restraint. Young women need to control their emotions. Men dislike them.”

  Nariko instantly folded her hands in her lap and bowed. “Yes, Mother.”

  “The visitor is a doctor . . .”

  Nariko’s eyes flew to her face. “Is someone ill?”

  “You see how much you need to practice self-control? I was about to explain that he is on his way to his own family and stopped to bring greetings from your sister.”

  Nariko’s face fell. “Oh, is that all? Just greetings? No news?”

  “No news.” Lady Oba had decided that there must be no mention of Toshiko’s letter, nor of the one she would write to her daughter later that night.

  “Then may I go with Yasuhira? I’m sure Doctor Yamada has stories to tell about the capital.”

  Lady Oba shook her head. “Remember your age. You have put on your train this year. It is no longer suitable that you run after your brothers and male guests.”

  Nariko looked astonished. “Why not? Toshiko was allowed to.”

  Lady Oba compressed her lips. Yes, she thought, and see where it got us. “Enough,” she said. “Go practice your zither.”

  Grass Shades

  Grass shades hang in doorways and hide the person inside while allowing her to look out. It is always the women who are inside, hidden from sight. Men remain outside, on the veranda. Inside lives and outside lives have little in common.

  A woman may welcome the visit and converse, or she may hide herself away in the darkness. There are no other choices for her. The pair may exchange poems by pushing them under the shade. If so, the gentleman, if he feels inclined and his imagination has painted a seductive image of the hidden lady, may return at night to breach the thin barrier between them. But that is always his choice, not hers.

  The day Sadahira returned to the hidden garden, Toshiko felt shy and stayed behind the grass shades.

  She was shy because she had spent the intervening days and nights thinking of him and hoping fervently that he would come again. She reminded herself repeatedly that he would not trouble and that it was even unlikely that he would deliver her letter. A busy young gentleman did not waste his time on a mere country girl. Yet he had such a very kind face, and he had been so gentle with the cat. That surely meant that he was a good and kind man. But still, a handsome man like that no doubt already had a wife and children to occupy his leisure. Several wives even, for someone so very handsome.

  Thinking so much about him during the day caused her to dream at night, and she would wake up hot with shame and half-understood desire. But sometimes dreams did come true, and in the privacy of the darkness around her, she put her lips to the small scar on her hand where he had touched her.

  Every morning and every night, she returned to that small eave chamber and peered through the grass shades at the empty veranda and garden beyond. After a while, when it seemed reasonable to think that he might have completed his journey, she carried her sewing or a romance novel with her and spent the time dreaming of impossible things.

  Toshiko knew all about flirtations through grass shades and about secret visits by lovers in the dark. The breaching of the grass-shade barrier signified their union. She knew these things from reading courtly tales, and she wished more than anything in the world that it would happen to her. But it could not be. It must not be – even if he thought of it, as he would not, for why should he? He was simply a kind man who had taken pity on her loneliness i
n the same way he had pitied the cat.

  And so it was that she was shy and a little dizzy with emotion when she found him seated on the veranda outside the grass shades.

  Ah, she thought, he was keeping his promise by delivering a message from home. And afterward he would leave, and she would never see him again. This filled her with such grief that, when she spoke to him, her voice brimmed with unshed tears, even though she only said, “Good morning, Doctor Yamada.”

  He bowed from the waist, and she wished the shade gone so she could see him better because already her memory of his features was vague. She wondered if his eyes were smiling at her as they had before. Eyes, she thought, could caress as well as hands.

  Should she dare to raise the shade? Or step outside? No. Lady Sanjo was always watching -- watching and waiting.

  In his warm voice he said, “I hope I find you well, Lady Toshiko.”

  She murmured, “Yes, thank you. And you? Are you well?”

  “Quite well. And your cat? How is his ear?”

  “Almost well. Thank you.”

  It was a clumsy exchange, but she could not find the right words. She had no talent for sparkling repartee or even cheerful chatter – especially not with him. The emotion of the moment made her eyes brim again, and she was grateful for the shade between them.

  “I delivered your letter,” he said. She could hear his smile in his words. “Your lady mother is well and has sent an answer.”

  Oh, dear, she had forgotten her mother. Guilt made her voice a little stronger. “How very kind of you,” she said. “I regret that I have given you so much trouble, but your news brings great joy.” She stopped. It was too stiff and cold when she wanted him to know how very much his kindness meant to her.

  He said nothing but seemed to look very searchingly at the grass shade between them. Then, reaching into his sash, he took out a letter and pushed it under the shade. She took it, felt the warmth of his body on it and pressed it to her cheek before slipping it inside her gown between her breasts.

  And now, she thought, he will make his good-byes and walk away forever. She braced herself, considered lifting the shade a little when his back was turned so she could see him clearly one more time, to hold his image in her heart.

  But he said instead, “The countryside near your home is very lovely. Your younger brother showed me around. I saw the places where you used to walk and ride your horse.”

  The thought of what Yasuhira might have said caused her to gasp audibly. She put her hand over her mouth.

  He misunderstood. “I have distressed you,” he said quickly. “Forgive me. I thought perhaps you would like to talk about your home.”

  She lowered her hand. “Oh, yes,” she begged. “Please tell me.”

  “Well, then, I did not speak to your father. He was away with your brother Takehira. But your mother was very kind and saw to it that I was given lodging and a fine meal. There was fresh fish and even some wild duck. I haven’t tasted food like that since I left home.”

  “My family still keeps to the old ways of hunting,” she said apologetically, remembering the rich taste of roasted pheasant and dove, and of rabbit stew.

  “Your younger brother, I think, shot the duck. He showed me the horses. They were very fine.”

  She wanted to ask about her own mare, Fierce Storm, but was afraid to. They had probably sold her by now. Grief overwhelmed her again. “I cannot go home,” she said in a forlorn voice. “I can never return home again.”

  He was silent for a moment, then said, “Surely you may visit your parents sometimes?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He moved a little closer. “It pains me that you are so unhappy.”

  She said nothing because speaking her true feelings would be disloyal to her family.

  “Perhaps you will make friends here,” he offered.

  “Yes,” she said sadly, and both were silent. She thought of Lady Shojo-ben and knew that even the kindest friend would not take the place of what she had lost.

  Through the grass shade she looked at his wide shoulders and his shapely head. His hands rested on his knees, and he inclined his face a little toward her. She inhaled deeply to breathe in his scent and nearly swooned. Perhaps, she thought, what I am about to lose is much worse, for there is no hope for us.

  He sighed as if he agreed. “I should not be here,” he said, “but I’ll return if you would like me to.” He paused, then added, “As a friend.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “Please. But . . . I’m not sure . . . it is not permitted, I think.”

  “I see. Not here, at any rate. And not like this.” He stood, then said quite fervently, “I am your friend, Lady Toshiko. Call on me whenever you need me and I shall come wherever you direct me.”

  Visitors

  Toshiko had been lost in the perfumed darkness for four months when her father and brother arrived in the capital. It was nearly autumn by now, and the roads were dusty and crowded with soldiers and pilgrims.

  Oba no Hiramoto and his nineteen-year-old son, Takehira, belonged to the warrior class, masters in their own domains but despised by the court nobility. On the highway, they met with respect, even fear. Foot travelers stepped politely out of their way and bowed. Peasants knelt. But when they reached the capital, they encountered the court nobility who showed their disdain by raising their chins and staring right through them. The Obas responded to this by making gross jokes about perfumed fops in their carriages.

  The provincial warriors were fiercely proud of their lands and loyalties but had not been welcome at court until recently when the fops had come to realize that they needed the warriors to protect their ancient wealth and power.

  Father and son wore full armor and were attended by ten armed foot soldiers. Hiramoto was tall and broad-shouldered but had a pock-marked face and grizzled beard. His son drew the eyes of young women because he was handsome and had a dashing narrow mustache.

  The Obas were not wealthy but proud. At the moment, they were dusty, hot, and tired. City life was strange to them and that, along with what lay ahead, made them tense. The father worried about the outcome of his journey, and Takehira was filled with nervous energy. His eyes went everywhere, taking in the teeming humanity all around him, gazing at willows and canals, squinting toward the distant imperial palace and the green foothills beyond. He noted that earthen walls enclosed whole city quarters of tenements and houses, each like a village in the larger city, each, no doubt, filled with shops and amusements for his delight as a member of the imperial guard.

  “Too many beggars,” his father complained, and Takehira tore his eyes away from his golden hopes and looked at the people around him.

  They made little headway. Large carriages drawn by slow oxen impeded them. Servants on their master’s errands ducked in and out of the throng. Half naked porters bore their goods in enormous baskets on their backs. Traveling monks strode along as if they owned the street, the small rings on their staffs jingling at every step. And everybody was shouting. The ragged children with limbs like sticks and distended bellies were everywhere, crying for coppers with their shrill voices. They dashed into the street to reach for their bridles, touched their stirrups, hung onto their saddle blankets, pleaded with sunken eyes and hungry mouths. And yet the smell of cooking foods was all around them.

  Takehira tossed the children some coins, and a fight broke out between the hooves of their shying and rearing horses.

  “Stop that,” snapped his father.

  They caught up with a fine ox-drawn carriage. Its driver and runner used their whips on the crowd and cursed at people. Now and then, the reed curtain in the back twitched, revealing glimpses of colored silks inside.

  Takehira stared. “Who do you think she is?” he asked his father. “A princess? Maybe it’s Toshiko? What if it’s Toshiko, and here we are, right behind her?”

  “Nonsense,” grunted his father.

  Takehira dismissed the thought of shouting a g
reeting at the lady, and looked instead at some palace guards riding the other way with their bows and quivers of arrows slung over their shoulders. “Fine horses, those,” he remarked, “and look at that armor.”

  This time his father did not hear him, for there was too much noise, a grand cacophony of shouts, creaking wheels, hoof beats, cracking whips, barking dogs, bells, and laughter.

  They took Third Avenue to the river, passing more walls and fences of every kind, tall plastered ones with massive gateways, wooden ones, modest ones of woven bamboo, and poor ones made from twigs and brushwood. Everywhere, as far as the eye could see were homes, temples, shrines, palaces, markets, and villas.