He frequently carried on silent conversations with the dead Shinzei when he felt threatened by Kiyomori. Now he stared into a dark corner where he imagined the ghost of Shinzei to hover, and asked, What should I do about the girl, old friend?
And Shinzei answered, Why, send her home, of course, Sire.
The Emperor frowned. Shinzei was gray-haired even before he shaved his head and became a monk. He was an old man when they killed him, a monk past the age of indiscretions with females. The pleasures of the body no longer stirred him, and he was equally immune to the pleasures of the mind. What could he know of this dilemma?
He expressed his doubts: I don’t know. She seems . . . innocent.
It is a little like a fever, isn’t it? Shinzei suggested.
The Emperor sensed Shinzei’s amusement and started to shake his head.
Oh, said Shinzei, I remember it well enough – even after I put away the things of the world. With you, Sire, it is different. You are still a young man.
A young man? At thirty-six? With a grown son already dead and his grandson on the throne? He protested. I have never felt this fever, as you call it. My father had it, I believe. Not for my mother, but for Tokuko. He chuckled. Have I ever told you that I desired my father’s concubine when I was only seven?
Across the room, Tameyazu raised his head to look at him. The Emperor glared and cleared his throat, and the man quickly bent to his work again.
I have no privacy, he grumbled to Shinzei. They watch me to see if they can read their future in my behavior. Where were we?
Your father’s wife was very beautiful and entirely charming. Shinzei’s voice carried a smile. It is no wonder you should have felt that way. And, yes, your August Father had the fever very badly, I think. For many years. He was afraid of you.
The Emperor said complacently, I thought so. He would not allow us to be
together after the time he found us lying in each other’s arms.
Shinzei asked, you were lying together?
Oh, nothing happened. But only because I was too young. And I never felt that way again.
Shinzei sounded intrigued. Until now?
It is not like that, Shinzei. She is a child. I do not want to hurt the child by
rejecting her. Her parents will punish her.
Shinzei pondered. True, the father is not the sensitive type, but surely you do not wish to reward such a man?
No. And I am angry at his deception. Never mind. Something will come to me.
But Sire, surely the answer is obvious.
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.
From Lady Sanjo’s Pillowbook
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.”