Dream of a Spring Night (Hollow Reed series) (10 page)

It is?

Indeed.
 
Sleep with the girl.
 
She will feel flattered and loved, and you will get over your fever.
 
Then you can send her home with a small token of your affection or pass her on to one of your wives as a lady-in-waiting.

The Emperor stared fixedly at the wall where he imagined Shinzei’s comforting figure.
 
A slow smile formed on his lips.
 
Of course.
 
And it will irritate Lady Sanjo immeasurably.
 
Her irritation amuses me.
 
He started to laugh.

“Sire?”
 
Across the room, Tameyazu half rose.
 

“Nothing.
 
You may check these lists and report any problems.”
 
The Emperor got up and walked out of the room.
 
Tameyazu prostrated himself on the cold floor.

My disappointment was great when her father did not take the Oba girl away with him.
 
But all is not lost.
 
For a time, she stayed out of my way.
 
This makes it harder to catch her with a man, but I was so angry for a while that I could not look at her.
 

Happily, the other ladies are taking their cue from my cold disdain.
 
All but Shojo-ben avoid her.
 
She does not seem to mind this.
 
In fact, she does little but
hum
tunes to herself and spend time in the eaves chamber where I caught her passing notes to her lover.
 
I leave her to it, thinking that she will surely carry her immodest behavior too far, and someone else will catch her at it and make an outcry.
 
It will come much better from one of the other ladies, or even from a servant, than from me.
 
Everyone knows my dislike for the girl.

But the weeks have passed without anyone noticing anything – other than her singing — and, considering it my
duty,
I decided to make my report to His Majesty who is to me “like the moon and stars above.”

I found Him with that ancient nun at work on His collection.
 
She sings while He plays His flute.
 
The nun is a most peculiar woman.
 
The situation would be highly improper, if it were not for her age.
 
Rumor has it that she once was a common streetwalker until Lord Kiyomori found her and set her up as his mistress, having her perform for his guests.
 
If so, the matter is scandalous enough:
 
a harlot in the presence of His Majesty?
 
I cannot believe it myself.
 

I have noticed that His Majesty is very familiar with her but He treats her with the utmost respect, once even calling her sensei, as if she were His teacher.
 
People say that His Majesty has a regrettable tendency to associate with low persons when He judges it a question of art.
 
One day, before He resigned the throne, He is said to have stopped His palanquin in a street of artisans because He recognized the name of a painter on a sign.
 
He got out and walked down a filthy alleyway and into the man’s house.
 
Sitting down on a dirty trunk in His imperial robes, He watched the painter for an hour or more, then thanked Him very politely and asked for a memento of the visit.
 
Alas, the man had nothing to give Him.
 
(Would that I could make up for all His disappointments.
 
“Ah, I know not the destination of my love.”)

It is this sort of thing that made His Majesty’s father
think
Him unsuitable for the succession.

But I digress.

Having taken pains with my appearance, not forgetting the plums in my cheeks to make my face look fuller, I knelt before His Majesty and announced that I had a report of a private nature for Him.

The nun – Otomae, I think, she is called -- gave me the most peculiar stare.
 
It was almost as if she were trying not to laugh.
 
I was so disconcerted that I nearly swallowed one of the plums.

To my disgust and embarrassment, His Majesty said, “Please speak freely, Lady Sanjo.
 
The reverend sister is completely in our confidence.”

Speaking freely was not as easy as He thought.
 
The plums slow my tongue and make me lisp.
 
“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” I ventured, “but this matter concerns one of Your Majesty’s ladies.”

“I expected it would,” he said, “since that is your duty.”

Well, I had no choice.
 
“The young Oba woman,” I told him, “has corresponded with someone.”
 
I rather liked the word “corresponded.”
 
It implied the most intimate relationship without actually naming such a dirty thing.

He laid down His brush and raised His eyebrows at that.
 
“Did you say ‘corresponded’?
 
Try to speak more clearly.
 
Do you mean she has written a letter?
 
Or received one?
 
Or both?”

I could not very well say more than what I had seen.
 
“I caught her s-slipping a note to a male visitor, Your Majesty,” I said.
 
“My assumption is that it answered one of his.”

There.
 
It was the truth, but it would make Him think that they had spent the night together and the man had sent her a next-morning poem to which she had then replied.

His Majesty looked astonished.
 
“Do I assume that you are concerned because of the identity of this male visitor?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know that,” I cried.
 
One of the plums shifted and I had to swallow it whole.

“Well then, why are you concerned?”

 
I gulped and stuttered, “But Your Majesty . . . I thought . . . you asked me to report on her.”

He frowned.
 
“Hmm.
 
And is that all you have to report?”

“Well, she is also humming to herself,” I offered, thinking that would make it clear that she was far too happy to be innocent.

He sat up and looked at me more sharply.
 
“What is wrong with your face?
 
It looks lopsided.”

Oh, dear.
 
I flushed under my make-up.
 
“A bad tooth, Sire.”

“Hmm.
 
What was she humming?”
 

“I could not hear the words, Your Majesty.
 
Little songs.
 
Common little songs, from the sound of them.
 
She looked happy.”
 
People sing when they are happy, so that was a sensible deduction.

His Majesty exchanged a glance with the nun,
then
said, “Ask her about the songs she sings and report back to me.”

I touched my forehead to the boards and crept away.
 
Really, I thought to myself, He has some very peculiar interests for such an august person.
 
And He is far too young to have lost all memory of romance.
 
It crossed my mind to pretend an avid interest in songs myself to make him more approachable.
 
Why should He spend all his time with an elderly nun when He could be with me?
 
After all, given daily close proximity, who knew what might not happen?
 
As the poet said, “The strength of our love may yet prolong our unfinished dream forever.” This made me so happy that I forgot all about the awkwardness with the swallowed plum.

I was still turning the idea over in my mind when I reached the door.
 
His Majesty and the nun had returned to their conversation, and I was about to open the door to leave, when His Majesty called out after me, “On second thought, Lady Sanjo, bring her back with you.
 
I will ask her myself.”

Ah, I thought, that should prove interesting.
 
I obeyed with alacrity.
 

In the first place, I knew that the Oba girl had just washed her hair.
 
Nothing looks more slovenly than a female with wet hair and disordered gowns.
 
Perhaps He would be sufficiently disgusted to ask her about the letter.
 
Secondly, if she really knew something about those silly songs He was forever gathering and singing, then I might make use of her to teach me.

She was undressed, sitting near a brazier filled with glowing coals to dry her hair.
 
I was glad to see that none of the others had offered to help her by brushing and fanning the long strands and that her hair was still heavy with water and tangled.
 

She blanched and balked when I brought her the message.
 
“I cannot go like this,” she cried.
 
No wonder.
 
She had also washed her face and looked positively naked without paint, just like the peasant she was.
 
No man could possibly find her attractive.
 

“Nonsense, you look fine,” I snapped.
 
“Besides, you cannot refuse an imperial command.
 
Heavens, don’t they teach you anything in the country?”
   

“Oh, please, Lady Sanjo,” she pleaded, “couldn’t you explain?
 
If I might just have a little time, I could change my clothes, paint my face, and dry my hair a little more.”

“No,” I said firmly.
 
“You will report to His Majesty now.”

I could see from her face that I would have no more trouble from her.
 
She bowed her head, tied her wet hair with a ribbon and threw a red jacket over the thin white undergarment.
 
I would have forbidden that also, but water had soaked the gauze and it clung most indecently to her figure.

We returned to His Majesty.
 

I saw immediately that He was startled by her appearance and smiled to myself.
 
She fell to her knees and murmured an apology about having been caught unprepared.

His Majesty shot me a glance, but said that it did not matter, that He only had one little question and then she might go back.
 
This pleased me, since it showed His lack of interest in her as a female.

The girl sat up and looked at him expectantly.
 
Very improper, of course.
 
I myself kept my face down and only stole a glance now and then.

His Majesty said, “Lady Sanjo tells me that you sing sometimes, and I recalled your father mentioning that you had
a knowledge
of local songs.”

“Yes,
Your
Majesty,” said she, still staring brazenly at His face.
 
“I was ashamed to say so before.”

He smiled at that.
 
“Would you favor us with one of your songs?”

“Now?
 
Like this?”

His Majesty smiled more broadly and nodded.

She bowed.
 
“With Your Majesty’s permission, may I rise?
 
The songs are performed with movement.”

To my amazement, His Majesty clapped His hands.
 
“Imayo,” he cried.
 
“Do you hear that, Otomae?
 
It was true what they said.
 
Yes, yes, of course.
 
Rise, Lady Toshiko, and let us see and hear you.”

I was appalled, but the strange nun looked as pleased as His Majesty and nodded encouragement.
 
The girl rose, took up a pose, and began.

“They’re in love,” she sang, raising her arms and looking up at the ceiling, “the weaver maid and the herdsman in the sky.”
 
Lowering her arms slowly, she turned, and dipped.
 
“The pheasants in the field, the deer in autumn.”
 
She twisted her body, waving her arms from side to side.
 
“The women who sell their charms in the street.”
 
I cannot possibly describe the gestures that accompanied that scandalous line.
 
“And in winter, so are the mandarin ducks.”
 
She pressed her hands together,
then
she bowed deeply to His Majesty.

It was an exceedingly vulgar performance.
 
Most of the images in her song were ordinary enough — that old legend of the star-crossed lovers in the sky, deer and pheasants, ducks — I daresay I could have done better, but no lady should be aware of street women.
 
Her voice was also quite crude and strong.
 
The song was uncouth enough, but when she danced, all semblance of decency departed.
 
She behaved like a harlot would — or as I imagine she would, for I am, of course, not familiar with such creatures.
 
Whenever she flung out her arms, her jacket parted and nothing was left hidden from our eyes.
 
I still shudder with shame and disgust.