Akitada sat down. ‘Don’t concern yourself, sir. It’s very good of you to see me.’ On closer inspection, Ono was not only a handsome man, but also older than Akitada had thought. His hair, now that he was bare-headed, was turning quite gray, though the eyes were still large and bright and his face smooth. ‘I wonder,’ Akitada asked, ‘if you recall our meeting at Kiyowara’s house two days ago?’
Ono looked blank. Clearly, he had not recognized Akitada. But he smiled quickly and nodded. ‘Ah, yes. Of course. Poor Kiyowara. He has died, you know.’
‘Yes. The very day we met. I’m afraid he was too busy to see me.’
‘Ah.’ Ono nodded, but volunteered nothing else.
Akitada thought perhaps the poet was still confused and explained, ‘You were walking in the garden, reciting poetry. I was on the veranda of the reception room. Do you remember?’
Ono’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, that poem. I’ve rewritten it completely. Wait a moment. Now, where did I put it?’ He stared at the shelves with their boxes and scrolls, shaking his head. ‘It’s a very great undertaking, putting together an anthology of the best poems of our time. There are so many submissions that my own work gets lost among them. Sometimes I despair.’
‘Please do not trouble on my account,’ Akitada said quickly. ‘It’s the murder of Kiyowara I came about. Being a close friend, you must have some thoughts on who could have killed him.’
‘Oh, I’m not a friend. No, not at all. I didn’t like the man. And I haven’t really thought much about his death.’
That was an astonishing and – under the circumstances – foolhardy admission. Akitada cheered up a little. The poet’s lack of common sense could turn out to be very helpful. He said, ‘Oh? I thought as a frequent visitor…’ and let his voice trail off.
Ono glowered. ‘Only of Hiroko and her children. I avoided Kiyowara. The man had neither taste nor talent. His was the soul of a bureaucrat.’
Being a bureaucrat himself, Akitada was not sure he liked this. ‘But if you consider his murder now, do you have any suspicions?’
Ono looked up at the ceiling and frowned in concentration. ‘I don’t know… there was some rumor. Some official was dismissed because Kiyowara insisted on it.’ He stared at his overflowing shelves for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, I don’t recall exactly. Why do you ask?’
With an inward sigh of relief, Akitada accepted that Ono was simply too self-absorbed to care about those around him. Getting information from him was hopeless. He said blandly, ‘Just a matter of interest. With Kiyowara gone, there will be changes in appointments. Someone else will be put in his place. That can make for a powerful motive.’
‘You think so? In my world, men feel most strongly about love and art.’
‘In mine, ambition and greed are more common,’ Akitada said dryly. ‘I assume his son will succeed to the estates?’
This time, Ono got his drift and glared. ‘Katsumi is a very fine young man. He is devoted to his mother, who is my friend. I’ve known her and her son since both were children. I will not have anyone spread slanderous lies about them.’
Akitada raised his hands. ‘Forgive me. I put it badly. As I said, I know nothing of the family.’ He wondered if Ono was truly naive or so full of his own importance that he saw no need to hide his own motive or his relationship with another man’s wife. ‘I take it that the lady has influence at court on her own account?’
Ono was still irritated. He snapped, ‘Naturally. Kiyowara owed his position to her. The Minamoto daughters were raised to be great ladies, perhaps empresses. Their education and refinement are superb. Her sister is married to Yorimichi.’
Meddling in the affairs of the kuge, those of the highest rank in the nation, was like playing with fire, and Ono clearly considered his continued interest offensive. Akitada changed the subject. ‘Speaking of Lord Yorimichi, is he aware of the rumors about the rash of fires in the city?’
The poet relaxed a little. ‘Dear heavens, yes. They said the Biwa mansion would burn. Michinaga’s daughter and grandson, the retired emperor, reside there. Both Michinaga and Yorimichi went to touch their heads to the ground before the Buddha and prayed for rain. Well, there was a big fire, and then there was rain. They saved most of the palace. It is clear that the gods inspired the rumors.’ There was a pause, during which Ono stared at Akitada. ‘Fire,’ he said after a moment. ‘Now that you mention it, fire has great poetic possibilities. My own ancestress, Komachi, wrote that she was consumed by the fire of her passion. So powerful.’ His eyes grew distant. ‘I must discuss fire with Hiroko’s cousin Aoi. Yes, the sacred fire for purification – or destruction, leaving nothing but ashes – ashes to be blown away by the winds – the winds of fate.’ He swept out an arm to describe vast distances, then tapped his mouth with a forefinger and fell into an abstraction.
Akitada tried to find something to break the spell, but Ono blinked after a moment and focused on him again.
‘Umm,’ he said, ‘a very pleasant chat, my dear fellow, and so kind of you to stop by, but you can see I’m dreadfully pressed for time. You must forgive me.’
Akitada went home, not much wiser about Kiyowara’s murder and at a loss how to proceed. He changed into his old clothes and then looked in on Tamako. She was sleeping, her maid Oyuki sitting nearby sewing some tiny clothes. Seeing the small garments moved him deeply, but he was not sure if they made him happy or afraid.
He spent several hours sorting through his papers, separating ministry materials and boxing them, and looking for forgotten promises. He had never sought preferment as a reward for helping someone, but most officials relied on just that sort of thing to protect their positions or win better ones. From time to time men had thanked him, adding that he might call on them for future benefits. But he knew it was a hopeless task. He had ignored all such offers, even received some with stiff disapproval perhaps. Now that he needed help, they would claim ignorance.
Discouraged, Akitada fled outside to see if Tora was home. He found him on the small veranda behind his and Hanae’s living quarters. He was playing with his son, swinging the baby up and down as the child gurgled with laughter. Akitada’s spirits lifted.
‘Careful,’ he cried out, when the baby’s head nearly hit the roof overhang.
Tora turned, laughing and cradling his son against his chest. ‘Did you want me, sir? I just got home, and Hanae was needed in the kitchen.’
‘No, no. I came for a chat.’ Akitada sat down, dangling his feet over the edge of the veranda. ‘How Yuki has grown! He’ll surely be a big man like his father.’
Tora grinned. Holding the baby away, bare legs kicking, he looked him over proudly. ‘Better than looking like his mama. Not that it’s not very fetching in a female. Will you hold him, sir, while I get us some wine?’
The baby was bare-bottomed, but Akitada received him gladly, almost reverently. Yuki was a fine boy and a happy child. His parents doted on him. He settled the baby, pleased that he did not cry in his arms, and fell, willy-nilly, to cooing and tickling, admiring the bright eyes, the tiny, perfectly formed fingers and toes, the smiling toothless little mouth. Soon, very soon, he would hold his own son and feel a father’s pride again. There was deep joy in such brief moments – joy that would surely make up for the fears that also lurked in the corners of the mind.
Tora returned with the wine and said, ‘Wait till you hear what happened to me.’ He poured two cups, then took the baby back and set him down next to a wooden ball, a couple of smooth bamboo sticks, and a small carving of a dog.
Akitada watched the child rolling the ball back and forth and decided to buy him a toy in the market. ‘So, what have you been up to?’
‘I met Jirokichi, the Rat.’
‘No! Did you?’
‘Well, he claimed to be Jirokichi. Five young thugs were dragging him off after giving him a bad beating. I came along just in time. They thought he had gold hidden away someplace.’