“Will you remain here, in your home, for the time being?”
“Of course she will,” Akiko cut in. “All this nonsense about leaving because she brought dishonor to you! How would it look, for heaven’s sake?”
Akitada and Yoshiko were still looking at each other. He saw the helpless tears gathering in her eyes and opened his mouth to reassure her, but it was too late. The tears spilled over. “I shall stay—as I stayed with Mother,” she said in a tone of utter hopelessness, half choking on the words, then jumped up and ran from the room. Tamako, with an inscrutable look at her husband, rose to follow.
“Now what?” said Akiko in an annoyed tone, staring after them. She started to get up also, clumsily, because of her pregnancy, and muttered, “Heavens! The stubbornness of that girl! She must be made to see reason!”
“No.” Akitada was up. “Don’t strain yourself. Stay here with your husband. You have done enough.” He headed out the door, pleased for a moment with the ambiguity of his words, but tension, and with it the throbbing behind his eyes, returned. He was not sure whether he was more frustrated by Yoshiko or her insensitive sister. At the moment he felt like blaming both for the strain between himself and his wife.
He heard Yoshiko before he reached her room. Her voice was desperate, high with passion, and carried quite clearly. “No! You are wrong!” she cried. “My brother has made up his mind against it. He’s the kind of person who despises men who are not as nobly born as he and thinks them no better than animals.”
Akitada stopped abruptly. His mind rebelled at her opinion of his character. He fought his anger. It was not true, of course. She did not know him, could not know how fond he was of Tora and Genba, neither of whom would dream of aspiring to marry his sister.
There was a pause, presumably for Tamako to respond, but she spoke so softly he could not hear her. Yoshiko cut back in with, “Honor? It is he who is dishonored by forcing me to break my word to Kojiro.”
Akitada bit his lip, then knocked.
Tamako opened, her eyes widening at the anger in his face. Akitada said stiffly, “Leave us alone.” Tamako flinched, then her eyes narrowed. She compressed her lips and left.
Yoshiko stood in the middle of her room, a very pleasant one as her brother saw, his glance sweeping over screens and painted clothes boxes, lacquered sewing kits and writing utensils, a bamboo shelf with narrative scrolls and collections of poems, and paper-covered doors to the outside. That she should be so unappreciative of the comforts provided for her angered him more. He glared at her flushed, tear-stained face and said coldly, “I shall not force you to remain under my roof against your will. However, in this matter both Toshikage and Akiko support me. I cannot imagine that your stay with them would be much more pleasant than putting up with me.”
Yoshiko stared at him. Slowly the tears started again. Her voice was unsteady. “I know. Thank you, Akitada.”
He looked away and glanced around the room again, searching for words. He finally said stiffly, “It appears that I cannot make you see that I have only your best interests at heart, and this naturally pains me. But if you decide to remain, there will be a condition. I will not tolerate your putting your affairs between myself and Tamako. Do you understand!”
She gasped and made an imploring gesture with her hands. “I… I didn’t intend … I am sorry.” Then she began to sob in earnest. Her words were so muffled that he could barely hear her. “I am sorry and shall obey you in the future.” She bowed, weeping silently. He could imagine what such a promise had cost her, and felt a little ashamed, sickened at having reduced his sister to this pitiful weeping thing—no matter that he had done so with words instead of blows; it had been just as effective.
He returned to his guests in a bitter mood. Toshikage was standing before the scroll of the boy and the puppies. He glanced at Akitada, but with great tact he did not ask about Yoshiko. Instead he said, “This is by Noami, Akiko says. What did you think of him?”
Covering his distress, Akitada became almost voluble. “A remarkable artist, but I did not like him. For one thing, he is insufferably rude. For another, there is something unpleasant about him. Did I tell you that he is painting a gruesome hell screen for the temple where Nagaoka’s wife was killed?”
“You don’t say! What a coincidence! Well, he is becoming very popular. I suppose his patrons think it’s artistic eccentricity. Will he paint a screen for you?”
Akitada wanted Tamako to have the finest screen in the capital, even if it meant paying an exorbitant amount to a man he instinctively detested, but he hesitated. “I don’t know. The thought of visiting his studio again appalls me. I am not superstitious, but I had the strangest sense of evil while I was there.”
Toshikage chuckled. “I have met him. He would make a fine demon, I think.”
Akiko yawned noisily and shivered. “How you men chatter! It is cold in here.”
Toshikage rushed to help his wife into her quilted jacket. “It is getting late and Akiko is worn out,” he said apologetically. “If things are settled, we will go home.”
Akiko was either too tired or had the good sense to say no more on the subject of Yoshiko’s lover. Leaning heavily on her husband’s arm, she waved a languid good-bye to her brother.
Akitada saw them off and then returned to his own room. The charcoal in the brazier had turned to ashes, and it was chilly. His head still ached, and he wondered if he was getting sick. He did not have the energy to call Seimei. Besides, the old man had been doing enough. Throwing an extra robe around his shoulders, he sat down behind his desk and tried to think. The meeting with his wife and sister had gone about as badly as he had feared. Although he considered his anger justified after Tamako had taken Yoshiko’s side against him, he dreaded facing her.
A scratching at the door interrupted his morose imaginings of what his wife would do or say to him after he had ordered her from his sister’s room.
“Come in,” he called, wishing whoever it was to the devil.
It was Yoshiko. She bowed very humbly. “Please forgive the interruption,” she said, creeping in on tentative feet, her voice toneless, her eyes lowered. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she raised her eyes to Akitada and burst into speech. “I regret deeply having caused trouble for you and Tamako. Thinking of you as only my elder brother, I am afraid I forgot my duty to you as the head of my family. Akiko and Tamako have both reminded me that since I am unmarried, my first allegiance must always be to my family. I promise to accept your decisions for my future and to remain here as long as it pleases you.” She took another deep breath and reached into her sleeve. With trembling fingers she extended a letter to him. “If you please, this is for Kojiro. You can read it. It explains why I cannot marry him. Will you give it to him?”
Akitada stared at the oblong of elegant paper as if it were red-hot. He had triumphed over her willfulness, had forced her to break her word to Kojiro, but victory tasted as bitter as the ashes in the cold brazier. Yet he could not reverse his judgment. The man in prison was simply not an acceptable husband for his sister. He hesitated so long that Yoshiko’s extended hand began to shake and the letter slipped from her fingers. He caught it before it fell and put it in his sleeve.
“Yes. Of course,” he said thickly. “I… I am very sorry, Yoshiko. He knows already, for I told him. I wish things were different. You must see—”
She bowed without a word and left his room.
Akitada took the letter from his sleeve. It was not sealed. The thin mulberry paper showed the brush strokes on the inside. Yoshiko’s brush strokes were elegant and fluid, the hand of a woman of grace and culture. How little he really knew about his sister! A memory came into his head, of how he had offered to help her marry the man her mother had rejected! A foolish promise made out of love for the little sister who had years earlier brought him and Tamako together. Sickened, he laid the letter on his desk and rose to pace the floor.