Hiramoto cleared his throat. “My son and I have come to return His Majesty’s visit and to see how my daughter fares.”
Tameyazu nodded. “I see. Very kind of you to wish to repay His Majesty’s favor, but not at all necessary. I shall inform Him of your courtesy, of course.”
Hiramoto reddened. “My daughter Toshiko? She is well?”
Tameyazu frowned. “Your daughter? I’m not sure . . .”
Hiramoto tried once more, a little desperately. “It pleased His Majesty to invite her to serve him. I . . . we wondered if her service has been satisfactory.”
“Dear me,” Tameyazu said blandly. “I wouldn’t know. She is probably in the women’s quarters. You must inquire there. I shall send someone to take you. Now, you must excuse me, it is a very busy time. Enjoy your visit to the capital.” He inclined his head again and was gone.
“What the devil is this?” snarled Hiramoto, after a moment’s stunned silence.
“What was that all about?” Takehira was confused. “When will we see His Majesty?”
“We won’t. But I shall want to know the reason why before we ride home from here like beaten dogs. This must be your sister’s fault. I shall get to the bottom of it.”
A servant arrived. They put on their boots again and walked to another building. Here they were asked to wait again.
This time, they were in an inner chamber. Takehira had no opportunity to see any females, but he could hear women’s voices and the rustling of long gowns across the floors of the corridors outside. Now and then someone giggled. Somewhere a door slid open, and lute music sounded faintly from the distance.
When their door opened, he expected to see his sister. But it was another lady. She was his mother’s age but not nearly as handsome. When she lowered her fan to adjust her train, he saw that she had a narrow face with a sharp nose. She bowed to his father in a perfunctory manner, then knelt, announcing in a prim nasal voice, “My name is Lady Sanjo. I am mistress of His Majesty’s women’s quarters. They tell me that you are the father and brother of Oba no Toshiko?”
Hiramoto glowered at her. “That is so. And I wish to speak to my daughter. Please bring her.”
Lady Sanjo drew herself up in disapproval. “That is not usually permitted. But as I may take this opportunity to warn you that your daughter has proved less than satisfactory in her manner and appearance, I shall make an exception. You may wish to discuss arrangements with her, as I assume she will shortly accompany you home.” She rose and, with another meager nod, swept out of the room.
From Lady Sanjo’s Pillow Book:
I knew it would happen. The arrival of the new girl did not remain a secret long. It has attracted curious males. Any new female at one of the courts is like a dish of honey to the young officers and the sons of court nobles.
I recall when I was an object of interest and, if I do say so myself, they kept coming even after the novelty wore off. I suppose they could not “drink their fill from water sweeter than another well.” Of course, I was always careful to hide, or at least raise my fan when in public view during the brief times when we entered or left our carriages or attended Her Majesty. But one cannot always know when one is being spied on, and perhaps one’s fan does not open when it should. These young gallants are very daring and persistent when they hear of a particular beauty, and it would be rude not to answer their admiring poems. These days my position with His Majesty protects me from unwanted attentions, I am glad to say. Nowadays, they gaze at the moon, “and fondly think of the vanished past.”
But to return to that brazen Oba hussy. It has been stiflingly hot lately, and we have kept all the doors open and the lattices raised. All the ladies wear their thinnest gowns and few layers of them. In this undress, the girl managed to show herself off to the Captain of the Right Guards, who had just left His Majesty. He told all his friends that there was a new lady in His Majesty’s women’s quarters and heaven knows what else. I was unaware of her shameless behavior until it was too late and we were plagued by constant visitors asking about her. What an irritating girl! She is truly like “the ceaseless cry of the cicadas.”
Of course, I should have suspected it would not end there. Far too many young men lost their way and had to be chased from the women’s quarters like pesky gnats. Far too often did I find one of them seated outside the shades conversing with someone and lingering with the moon until dawn. As a rule, one assumes that a lady has received a visit from a brother or that the visitor carried a message from her parents or husband, but alas, people tell lies.
One day, I caught her. She was in one of the eave rooms, kneeling just inside the lowered shade and pushing something under it to the outside. And there on the veranda, clearly outlined by his shadow, sat a man. Their hands must have touched. No, worse. The exchange of poems speaks of intimacy, of shocking night time visits, of bodies touching and hands caressing, of burning flesh.
It had to be stopped. Heaven forbid His Majesty should discover her betrayal. Or one of the other ladies should find out. Such affairs cannot be kept secret for long. And what if there were results? In either case, the blame would fall on me. The thought of His Majesty’s disappointment was an agony and I prayed for deliverance.
Thank heaven, my prayer was heard: Her father and brother arrived, and instantly I saw the path to salvation. They must be made to take her away with them. The “tears she sheds in parting” will turn to dew and refresh me in the days to come.
They were country boors, both of them, just as I expected. Crude, gross men with dark faces. They even wore armor – inside an imperial residence! After all the horrors that soldiers have committed in this city, and even to the person of His Majesty, these two wore their armor! Not even the Taira and Minamoto generals dare to do that.
To be fair, the brother, being young, was not without a certain attractiveness. He had a handsome set of shoulders and very good legs. I was reminded that it will soon be time for the Sumo matches. His muscles would make an excellent showing there. For all his roughness, my poor woman’s heart beat a little faster at the thought. There is something most pleasing about masculine strength when tamed by a woman’s gentle touch. I must try for a verse on the subject. The pine and the wisteria? A rocky promontory jutting into a softly lapping sea? A hawk, diving for a dove?
But I digress.
The father was the usual type. He addressed me rudely, demanding to see his daughter. Demanding! It made me angry to see such country scum behave as if they owned us all. I countered his bad manners by becoming very ladylike and reminding him that his daughter came here only by His Majesty’s excessively generous invitation.
Then the idea came to me in a flash, a moment of true enlightenment. I added that by now she had outstayed her welcome -- a crooked branch in His Majesty’s flower garden.
It was only a little lie, really. The girl would have been sent home sooner or later. Making her leave now will spare His Majesty embarrassment.
I saw that my small stratagem was working when the father’s face filled with shame and righteous anger at his offspring.
So I sent her in, certain that her mortified relatives would instantly pack her up and remove her to whatever rough hovel they inhabit in their wilderness. Once she was back in her rustic dwelling, His Majesty would hardly send for her again. No doubt he has already awakened from that “brief dream.”
I planned to inform him that she had begged most urgently to visit her ailing mother. Women her mother’s age are always ailing with something. As His Majesty is a most understanding man and respects proper filial behavior, he would leave well enough alone, I thought.