Grass for His Pillow (12 page)

“You have aroused his interest in some way,” he said, a little surprised.

Pleased though somewhat apprehensive, Kaede told Shizuka to go to the stables and ask Amano to get Raku ready and to ride with her to Fujiwara's residence, which was a little more than an hour's journey away.

“You must go in the palanquin,” Shizuka replied firmly.

“Why?”

“Lord Fujiwara is from the court. He is a nobleman. You can't go and visit him on a horse, like a warrior.” Shizuka looked stern and then spoiled the effect by giggling and adding, “Now, if you were a boy and rode up on Raku, he would probably never let you go! But you have to impress him as a woman; you must be presented perfectly.” She looked critically at Kaede. “He'll think you too tall, no doubt.”

“He already said I was beautiful,” Kaede replied, stung.

“He needs to find you flawless, like a piece of celadon or a painting by Sesshu. Then he'll feel the desire to add you to his collection.”

“I don't want to be part of his collection,” she exclaimed.

“What
do
you want?” Shizuka's voice had turned serious.

Kaede answered in a similar tone. “I want to restore my land and claim what is mine. I want to have power as men have.”

“Then you need an ally,” Shizuka replied. “If it is to be Lord Fujiwara, you must be perfect for him. Send a message to say you had a bad dream and that the day seems inauspicious. Tell him you will attend on him the day after tomorrow. That should give us time.”

The message was sent and Kaede submitted herself to Shizuka's efforts. Her hair was washed, her eyebrows plucked, her skin scrubbed with bran, massaged with lotions, and scrubbed again. Shizuka went through all the garments in the house and selected some of Kaede's mother's robes for her to wear. They were not new, but the materials were of high-quality and the colors—gray like a dove's wing and the purple of bush
clover—brought out Kaede's ivory skin and the blue-black lights in her hair.

“You are certainly beautiful enough to attract his interest,” Shizuka said. “But you must also intrigue him. Don't tell him too much. I believe he is a man who loves secrets. If you share your secrets with him, be sure he pays a fair price for them.”

The nights had turned cold with the first frosts, but the days were clear. The mountains that encircled her home were brilliant with maple and sumac, as red as flames against the dark green cedars and the blue sky. Kaede's senses were heightened by her pregnancy, and as she stepped from the palanquin in the garden of the Fujiwara residence, the beauty before her moved her deeply. It was a perfect moment of autumn, and would so soon vanish forever, driven away by the storm winds that would come howling from the mountains.

The house was larger than her own and in much better repair. Water flowed through the garden, trickling over ancient stones and through pools where gold and red carp swam lazily. The mountains seemed to rise directly from the garden, and a distant waterfall both echoed and mirrored the stream. Two great eagles soared above in the cloudless sky.

A young man greeted her at the step and led the way across a wide veranda to the main room where Lord Fujiwara was already sitting. Kaede stepped inside the doorway and sank to her knees, touching her forehead to the floor. The matting was fresh and new, the color still pale green, the scent poignant.

Shizuka remained outside, kneeling on the wooden floor. Within the room there was silence. Kaede waited for him to speak,
knowing he was studying her, trying to see as much as she could of the room without moving her eyes or her head. It was a relief when he finally addressed her and begged her to sit up.

“I am very pleased you could come,” he said, and they exchanged formalities, she keeping her voice soft and low, he speaking in such flowery language that sometimes she could only guess at the meaning of the words. She hoped that, if she said as little as possible, he would find her enigmatic rather than dull.

The young man returned with tea utensils and Fujiwara himself made tea, whisking the green powder into a foaming brew. The bowls were rough, pink-brown in color, pleasing to both eye and hand. She turned hers, admiring it.

“It's from Hagi,” he said. “From Lord Otori's hometown. It is my favorite of all the tea ware.” After a moment he went on: “Will you go there?”

Of course, I should,
Kaede thought rapidly.
If he really were my husband and I were carrying his child, I would go to his house, to his family.

“I cannot,” she said simply, raising her eyes. As always the memory of Shigeru's death and the role she had played in it and in the act of revenge brought her almost to tears, darkening her eyes, making them glow.

“There are always reasons,” he said obliquely. “Take my own situation. My son, my wife's grave, are in the capital. You may not have heard this: I myself was asked to leave. My writings displeased the regent. After my exile, the city was subjected to two huge earthquakes and a series of fires. It was generally believed to be heaven's displeasure at such unjust treatment of a harmless scholar. Prayers were offered and I was begged to return, but for the time being my
life here pleases me, and I find reasons not to obey immediately—though, of course, eventually I must.”

“Lord Shigeru has become a god,” she said. “Hundreds of people go every day to pray at his shrine, at Terayama.”

“Lord Shigeru, alas for us all, is dead, however, and I am still very much alive. It is too early for me to become a god.”

He had told her something of himself and now she felt moved to do the same. “His uncles wanted him dead,” she said. “That is why I will not go to them.”

“I know little of the Otori clan,” he said, “apart from the beautiful pottery they produce in Hagi. They have the reputation of skulking there. It's quite inaccessible, I believe. And they have some ancient connection with the imperial family.” His voice was light, almost bantering, but when he went on it changed slightly. The same intensity of feeling that she had noticed previously had entered it again. “Forgive me if I am intruding, but how did Lord Shigeru die?”

She had spoken so little of the terrible events at Inuyama that she longed to unburden herself to him now, but as he leaned toward her she felt his hunger again, not for her, but to know what she had suffered.

“I cannot speak of it,” she said in a low voice. She would make him pay for her secrets. “It is too painful.”

“Ah.” Fujiwara looked down at the bowl in his hand. Kaede allowed herself to study him, the sculpted bones of his face, the sensuous mouth, the long, delicate fingers. He placed the bowl on the matting and glanced up at her. She deliberately held his gaze, let tears form in her eyes, then looked away.

“Maybe one day . . .” she said softly.

They sat without moving or speaking for several moments.

“You intrigue me,” he said finally. “Very few women do. Let me show you my humble place, my meager collection.”

She placed the bowl on the floor and stood gracefully. He watched every movement she made, but with none of the predatory desire of other men. Kaede realized what Shizuka had meant: If he admired her, this nobleman would want to add her to his collection. What price would he pay for her, and what could she demand?

Shizuka bowed to the floor as they stepped past her, and the young man appeared again from the shadows. He was as fine-boned and as delicate as a girl.

“Mamoru,” Fujiwara said, “Lady Otori has kindly consented to look at my pathetic pieces. Come with us.”

As the young man bowed to her, Fujiwara said, “You should learn from her. Study her. She is a perfect specimen.”

Kaede followed them to the center of the house, where there was a courtyard and a stage area.

“Mamoru is an actor,” Fujiwara said. “He plays women's roles. I like to present dramas in this small space.”

Maybe it was not large, but it was exquisite. Plain wooden pillars supported the ornately carved roof, and on the backdrop a twisted pine tree was painted.

“You must come and watch a performance,” Fujiwara said. “We are about to start rehearsing
Atsumori.
We are waiting for our flute player to arrive. But before that we will present
The Fulling Block.
Mamoru can learn a lot from you, and I would like your opinion of his performance.”

When she said nothing he went on, “You are familiar with drama?”

“I saw a few plays when I was at Lord Noguchi's,” she replied, “but I know little about it.”

“Your father told me you were a hostage with the Noguchi.”

“From the age of seven.”

“What curious lives women lead,” he remarked, and a chill came over her.

They went from the theater to another reception room that gave out onto a smaller garden. Sunlight streamed into it and Kaede was grateful for its warmth. But the sun was already low over the mountains. Soon their peaks would hide it, and their jagged shadows would cover the valley. She could not help shivering.

“Bring a brazier,” Fujiwara ordered. “Lady Otori is cold.”

Mamoru disappeared briefly and came back with a much older man who carried a small brazier glowing with charcoal.

“Sit near it,” Fujiwara said. “It is easy to take a chill at this time of year.”

Mamoru left the room again, never speaking, his movements graceful, deferential, and soundless. When he returned he was carrying a small paulownia-wood chest, which he set down carefully on the floor. He left the room and returned three more times, each time bringing a chest or box. Each was of a different wood, zelkova, cypress, cherry, polished so that the color and grain spoke of the long life of the tree, the slope it had grown on, the seasons of hot and cold, rain and wind, that it had endured.

Fujiwara opened them one by one. Within lay bundles, objects wrapped in several layers of cloth. The wrapping cloths themselves
were beautiful, although obviously very old—silks of the finest weave and the most subtle colors—but what lay within these cloths far surpassed anything Kaede had ever seen. He unwrapped each one, placed it on the floor in front of her, and invited her to take it up, caress it with her fingers, touch it to her lips, or brow, for often the feel and the scent of the object were as important as its look. He rewrapped and replaced each one before displaying the next.

“I look at them rarely,” he said, with love in his voice. “Each time an unworthy gaze falls on them it diminishes them. Just to unwrap them is an erotic act for me. To share them with another whose gaze enhances rather than diminishes is one of my greatest, but rarest, pleasures.”

Kaede said nothing, knowing little of the value or tradition of the objects before her: the tea bowl of the same pink-brown pottery, at once fragile and sturdy; the jade figure of the Enlightened One, seated within the lotus; the gold lacquered box that was both simple and intricate. She simply gazed, and it seemed to her that the beautiful things had their own eyes and gazed back at her.

Mamoru did not stay to look at the objects, but after what seemed a long time—for Kaede, time had stopped—he returned with a large, flat box. Fujiwara took out a painting: a winter landscape with two crows, black against the snow, in the foreground.

“Ah, Sesshu,” she whispered, speaking for the first time.

“Not Sesshu, in fact, but one of his masters,” he corrected her. “It's said that the child cannot teach the parent, but in Sesshu's case we must allow that the pupil surpassed the teacher.”

“Is there not a saying that the blue of the dye is deeper than the blue of the flower?” she replied.

“You approve of that, I expect.”

“If neither child nor pupil were ever wiser, nothing would ever change.”

“And most people would be very satisfied!”

“Only those who have power,” Kaede said. “They want to hold on to their power and position, while others see that same power and desire it. It's within all men to be ambitious, and so they make change happen. The young overthrow the old.”

“And is it within women to be ambitious?”

“No one bothers to ask them.” Her eyes returned to the painting. “Two crows, the drake and the duck, the stag and the hind—they are always painted together, always in pairs.”

“That is the way nature intends it,” Fujiwara said. “It is one of K'ung Fu-Tzu's five relationships, after all.”

“And the only one open to women. He only sees us as wives.”

“That is what women are.”

“But surely a woman could be a ruler or a friend?” Her eyes met his.

“You are very bold for a girl,” he replied, the nearest she had seen him come to laughing. She flushed and looked again at the painting.

“Terayama is famous for its Sesshus,” Fujiwara said. “Did you see them there?”

“Yes. Lord Otori wanted Lord Takeo to see them and copy them.”

“A younger brother?”

“His adopted son.” The last thing Kaede wanted to do was to talk to Fujiwara about Takeo. She tried to think of something else to say, but all thoughts deserted her, except for the memory of the painting Takeo had given her of the little mountain bird.