‘What? How stupid! You’re the best man they have.’
He liked the fierceness in her voice and squeezed her hand. ‘Thank you, but I’m not as wise as you think. I lost my temper with the minister and that is why he told me to take a leave of absence. I expect it will be permanent unless I can convince them to reconsider.’
Tamako was silent. She just looked at him and curled her fingers around his. He had not really intended to beg for reinstatement, but seeing Tamako’s eyes full of faith and loyalty, her free hand on the unborn child, he suddenly felt a powerful bond between the three of them. Yes, of course he would humble himself for Tamako and his unborn son.
He smiled at her. ‘I still have friends and must see what can be done. Don’t lose faith, my dear.’
‘Never,’ she said.
He returned to his study, pondering his options. His friend Kosehira, who had once briefly filled the post of minister of justice, had long since been dispatched to the desirable assignment of governor of Yamato province. It was not too far from the capital, but Akitada did not want to make the journey when Tamako was so close to her time. He must, of course, apologize to the current minister. That was only just, even if it would be shameful and likely be interpreted as an attempt to reverse the demotion. He imagined the detestable Munefusa’s sneering comments. Then a dim memory surfaced. The minister had mentioned the name of the man who had spoken against him.
He cursed his inattention. The name had not registered because he had not recognized it, but it must be someone important to have the chancellor’s ear. The family name escaped him, except that it was not Fujiwara.
Seimei waited, his face anxious.
Akitada sighed. ‘I’m afraid there’s bad news, old friend. I expect to be dismissed from the ministry.’
Seimei’s eyes widened. ‘What happened? You’ve been promoted, and you’ve always been hard-working. Whatever you are charged with, sir, it must be a mistake.’
Akitada winced. People would quite naturally assume that he must have committed a serious offense – or at least a stupidity – to be treated as he had been.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ Akitada said, ‘but I suppose I shall find out. Only, don’t expect that the matter will be righted. In my experience, that never happens to men in my position.’
THE ANGRY GODS
When she saw Tora’s face, Hanae stopped bouncing little Yuki on her knees and asked, ‘Are you in pain again?’
Tora shook his head and winced. ‘No, I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘I’m going out. Don’t know when I’ll be back.’ He looked for his boots.
Putting the baby on the floor, Hanae jumped up. ‘Don’t go. You aren’t well.’ She shook his arm when he ignored her. ‘Surely the master wouldn’t make you run errands after what’s happened to you.’
The abandoned baby started crying, and Tora went to scoop up his son, wincing again. ‘Where are my boots? The master doesn’t know. And don’t tell him. This is my business.’
Hanae stood in front of the door, her arms folded. ‘You’re not leaving,’ she said. ‘It could be your death to walk around with that big swelling on your head. We need you alive.’
Tora’s face softened. He kissed the baby and handed him to Hanae. Retrieving his boots, he sat to put them on. ‘I just want to look in on the man whose father died last night.’
Hanae looked uncertain. ‘Is that all you’ll do? You’ll come right back afterwards? You won’t get into any more fights?’
He nodded, kissed her and, moving his wife and son out of his way, left the house.
The street that had seemed a living inferno the night before looked merely depressing by daylight. He recalled the urgency and excitement of the flames, sparks, moving shadows, and screams. Now there was only the wet, smoking pile of rubble. The houses on either side were scarred by the heat, and a few neighbors moved about, making repairs. No one bothered with the ruin.
The Kaneharus had made and sold tatami floor mats. The grass mats, of course, were a great fire hazard, and so the disaster might be blamed on carelessness with open flames and cooking fires, but Tora recalled the old woman’s calling to the gods. He shuddered. That fire had seemed unnatural. Could the gods really be so angry that they would kill an old man?
He walked up to a man on a ladder who was ripping charred boards from the wall of his house and asked what had happened to his neighbor.
The man glanced down. ‘He’s dead,’ he said and returned to his work.
The curt finality sickened Tora. It wasn’t right that people cared so little about each other. Maybe life was just a matter of accepting tragedy and making repairs. ‘What?’ he persisted. ‘Both the father and his son have crossed that bridge?’
The man now paused to look at Tora more closely. He took in his bruised face and the blistered hands. ‘You were here last night, weren’t you? You’re the one that tried to get Old Kaneharu out.’ When Tora nodded glumly, he climbed down and said, ‘The old man walks that path alone, but Young Kaneharu’s very bad. He’s staying with a cousin.’ He gave Tora directions, then added with a bow, ‘We’re grateful that you told us what to do to save ourselves and our houses. May the Buddha smile on you.’
Tora waved that away. ‘Buddha sent the rain, and you did the rest yourselves.’ He glanced once more at the steaming pile of blackened timbers that had been a shop and a house and was now unrecognizable. The smell was acrid, but he knew it would have been much worse if it had not rained. The whole street would have gone up in flames. Other people would have died in the fires. Perhaps the rain, too, had been the gods’ doing.
The neighbor looked at his damaged wall. ‘Old Kaneharu was cheap. A regular miser. Look at what his fire did to my place and the others.’
This astonished Tora. ‘What do you mean?’
The neighbor shook his head and started back up the ladder. Tora looked after him and reflected that neighbors were like family. You had no choice in the matter. And this man was clearly unhappy about the damage to his house. Then he had a thought and shouted up, ‘You have much trouble with thieving kids around here?’
The man looked down and shook his head. ‘Not lately.’
The search for Kaneharu’s cousin proved frustrating. After trying several streets in vain, Tora passed a large house of a rice dealer. A sign read ‘Watanabe – Best Rice for Eating or Seeding’. Bales of new rice were stacked near the door, and from the back came the sound of pounding: someone was grinding rice into a fine meal. A fat man stood in the doorway, filling it with a broad belly covered in gray silk. He was counting the bales and shouting numbers to a clerk, who was making entries in an account ledger. The fat man’s round, shiny face rested on several chins, and the bulging eyes and thick lips suggested that his body could barely contain so much good living.
When the merchant had finished counting, Tora greeted him and asked about the umbrella maker who was married to Kaneharu’s cousin.
The merchant pursed his thick lips. His face reminded Tora of a large koi. The man compressed his lips and said, ‘Two streets back. Number sixteen. Is it about the fire? The gods’ anger is a terrible thing.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s criminal to let this go on. Now a man has died, and they say the son’s not going to make it.’
The umbrella maker’s shop was one of the poorest in this quarter. He was not as well off as the Kaneharus. The owner sat cross-legged in his small shop, splicing bamboo. When Tora asked for Kaneharu, he made a face and shouted for his wife, then went on with his work of splicing and cutting umbrella ribs. His pale, thin wife took Tora to the back room, where her cousin lay on a pallet. He was shivering continuously and his teeth chattered. His chest, arms, and legs were covered with stained bandages, and his swollen, crimson face shone with oozing burns and the ointment the cousin had applied.