“You may call me ‘Father’ from now on, Hachiro.”
“Thank you, Father. May the Buddha and all his saints bless you.”
“And you, Sadamu?” asked Yamada, a little disappointed that the smaller boy had said nothing and was frowning.
“My father is dead,” Sadamu said flatly. “My mother is also dead. I have no home.”
Otori gave a small gasp.
Yamada sighed. “Yes, I know, Sadamu. That’s why you are here. I will be your father from now on.”
The boy said nothing and looked away.
“Sadamu,” whispered Otori. “You must thank the doctor. You’re a very lucky little boy, you know. Not many orphans with no family get taken in by such a fine gentleman as Doctor Yamada. Where are your manners?”
Sadamu thought about it, then bowed and said, “Thank you.”
More than anything the doctor wanted to be called ‘Father’ by this quiet thoughtful child, but he did not press him. Instead he sent the boys away and went into his garden.
Much later, as he was grinding dried herbs in his studio, Sadamu slipped in and stood beside him to watch.
“Would you like to help me?” Yamada asked.
The boy nodded, and the doctor showed him how to use the pestle to grind the powdered herbs together with sesame seeds so that he could mix them with honey into a thick paste and then roll small pills the size of orange seeds. He did the weighing himself and smiled to see the child put a finger into the honey and lick it. Still, Sadamu did not say much and made few replies to Yamada’s chatter.
“Did you know,” Yamada said, “that I can mix a medicine that will make a person become as fragrant as Prince Genji?”
The boy looked up at him. “Why?”
“Oh, there are people who wish for this. Prince Genji was much admired by beautiful ladies.”
“Do you want to be fragrant and have many beautiful women?” asked the boy.
Yamada laughed. “Yes, but I doubt it would help me much.”
Silence fell again as Sadamu pounded and Yamada measured. Then the boy asked, “Why don’t you have children?”
Remembering Otori’s reaction, the doctor said cautiously, “I’ve never had a wife.”
“Were you afraid she would die?”
Yamada set down the earthenware jar he had been filling with pills. “No. What makes you say a thing like that?”
“My father died. Then my mother cried and cried until she got sick and died, too. Maybe I’ll die next. And then you will die.”
“No, Sadamu. You will not die,” Yamada said quickly and took the child in his arms. “I’m a doctor, and I won’t let you die.” But as he said it, he thought that the boy would now believe he had let his mother die. Helplessly, he held the child until he felt the small arms slip around his neck and hug him.
“Thank you, Father,” Sadamu whispered. “If you like, I’ll help you make some fragrant pills.”
At that moment the doctor felt almost replete with happiness.
His satisfaction did not last long. When they walked back to the house for their evening rice, they heard someone screaming. They ran around the corner of the house and found the servant Togoro on the ground near the veranda steps. He was clutching his groin with both hands while tears ran down his disfigured face.
“What happened, Togoro?” asked the doctor. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Oh. Oh. Oh,” moaned Togoro. “Boy kicked me.”
“Boy kicked you? Why?”
“He said I must bow to him and call him Master Hachiro now. I told him to piss off, and he kicked me in the balls.”
From Lady Sanjo’s Pillow Book
Everything men say about women is doubly true of them. We are not the only ones who are frivolous, fickle , foolish, weak, temperamental, and easily seduced.
I must say no more, except that my disappointment causes me great suffering. I, too, can now say, “My love is one-sided like an abalone shell, pounded by waves on a rocky shore.” It is too painful to think that a lady of birth and refinement, a woman of superior sensibility and the most faithful affection could so easily be cast aside for a crude provincial who flaunts her disgusting body along with her dirty songs.
For days I wept quietly into my sleeves at night and strove to put a good face on it during the day. I showed everyone that I had no hard feelings and wished to help her in every way, but the ill-natured creature did not respond to my generous and repeated offers. I could see that the others were excited by the developments and watched us. I, at least, behaved like a lady. She flaunted her triumph by dressing up every day to show that she expected another summons.
The summons did not always come, of course, but she always put on her costume. Apparently His Majesty gave it to her. I cannot say that I would wish to appear thus attired. There is something very low about the costume of a shirabyoshi. They dress like men! But then they are mere prostitutes of the lowest order, selling their bodies at street corners all over the capital. And now we have one of them in our midst!
After days of silent suffering, I realized that I was not the only one who was being hurt by this female. The whole imperial household is suffering from the gossip. Soon our verandas will be cluttered with young men, foolish youngsters from good families as well as rude warrior types from the palace guard. They will pass poems under our grass shades and screens, and the ladies will be occupied day and night composing poetic answers. They will whisper and giggle. Then, at night, there will be soft steps, and silks will rustle, and little cries and male murmurs will disturb my rest, and then – well, I won’t go on. I will lie there, behind my screens, kept awake by such sounds, sounds that go on and on, until the furtive visitor leaves. And the next morning another lady will receive her letter and write her poem in return.
I, of course, will have to stay aloof and merely listen to men’s footsteps passing on the veranda, coming and going.
It came to me finally one night, as I lay there thinking about all this, that it was my duty to report the matter before the scandal could take hold and damage the reputations of Their Majesties. So I wrote to my mistress, the Consort.
I serve Her Majesty even though She spends most of Her time in Her own palace these days. When She left, She took some of Her ladies with Her, but I imagine She could not spare me here. At least one reliable person must remain behind to keep an eye on things.
I made my letter short, but ended it with a poem of my own: “See how a gaudy blossom growing in the mud captivates the sun above the clouds.” I thought the images rather appropriate.
To my immense gratification, Her Majesty arrived here the very next day, proof that I had not overestimated the danger.
I reported immediately. Her Majesty, as always, looked incredibly beautiful, making me wonder why His Majesty has permitted Her to absent Herself. It was indeed as if “Her radiance had hidden behind the clouds” all this time, and I said words to that effect. Of course, even an imperial consort may feel that Her duty is heavy at times. She must bear children and may die in childbirth. I must say, though, that I would find it easy to make such a sacrifice. Oh, why does He prefer that young slut? Never mind!
Her Majesty spoke to me in the strictest confidence. I told Her everything, and She sent for our ladies because She wanted to see what the girl looks like.
When they arrived to make their obeisances, I remained seated beside Her Majesty. They could see that I occupied a position of the highest confidence, and that pleased me. I felt so happy at that moment that I considered asking Her Majesty to take me with Her when She left us again. Only my deep and forgiving devotion to His Majesty caused me to desist. Ah, my foolish heart. “Once I had gazed upon the sun above the clouds I was blinded to all else.”