Hirata frowned. "A fight? You must be exaggerating."
"No. I just saw them."
"Remember, Oe has been drinking. Come, Akitada, it is a beautiful evening. Let's enjoy it while we can. Look! The Dengaku dancers are performing."
Akitada glanced at a group of young women on the stage. He found Hirata's lack of interest irritating and said, "I thought you wanted me to get to the bottom of this matter. Here we may have a clue to your blackmailer and you don't want to discuss it."
Hirata flushed and looked over his shoulder. "Ssh! Not so loud." He leaned closer. "You are quite right to be angry. It is true that I have had second thoughts about the wisdom of involving you in this matter. I think it will be better for you not to pursue it further. Please forgive me for causing you all this trouble, especially now that…" He broke off delicately, but Akitada knew that he referred to the failed marriage plans.
So Hirata had merely wanted a husband for his daughter. A cold fury seized Akitada and made his stomach churn. "Unless you have discovered the answer yourself," he snapped, "in which case you owe me at least an explanation, the situation remains as dangerous as before. Or are you telling me now that the letter was a mere subterfuge to invite me to your house?"
Hirata paled. "No," he said stiffly. "I asked you because of the danger to the university." He paused and looked at his hands, which lay in his lap. "It is true that I had hoped our working together might lead you and Tamako to discover affection for each other again."
And the plan had worked perfectly well in Akitada's case, though not for Tamako! Akitada felt a wave of nausea. Whether or not the note was real, Hirata had just admitted that he had really wanted something far more personal. Little did he know that his daughter had refused the bridegroom her father had chosen for her, the one man he could count on because of the debt he owed them. Akitada turned away.
The older man sighed deeply. "Don't be angry, dear boy," he pleaded. "I was afraid you would misunderstand. Now I wish I had bitten off my tongue before mentioning the note to you."
Akitada wished it too. He said through clenched teeth, "Never mind. I understand."
There was a lull in the performance, and a certain stillness had fallen over the park. The last light was fading in the sky. Akitada searched in his mind for the right words so that he might leave.
Then the poetry recitals began again. Akitada listened absentmindedly to some poorly scanned lines in praise of wine and emptied his cup quickly. A waiter replaced it with a full one, and Akitada emptied this also.
"About Oe and Ishikawa," said Hirata suddenly. "Last year Ishikawa began to assist Oe with minor chores. They seemed to get along well until just recently. Ishikawa's arrogance became more pronounced. He often showed a great lack of respect when he addressed Oe, who was his senior professor. But can his bad manners really be significant?"
Akitada forced himself to reply. "Uncharacteristic behavior is always suggestive. Something happened to change their relationship. Was this around the time of the examinations? Perhaps Ishikawa learned that Oe had helped a student cheat."
"Oe?" Hirata looked stunned. "Surely you are wrong. Oe is too highly thought of to do such a dangerous thing. Ishikawa is another matter. He has always been arrogant and might well engage in blackmail. But not Oe. You said yourself that Oe's blue gown could not possibly have been confused with my green one."
"Perhaps Ishikawa is colorblind."
But Akitada did not think so. He had a feeling that there was a much simpler explanation for the mistake, but his mind was growing fuzzy.
Below the first lanterns glimmered on in the blue dusk. They raised sudden flashes of jewel tones from the robes of poets and musicians and made rainbows of the painted boats. The sky still retained the faintest tinge of lilac, and a thin line of gold rimmed the dark mass of the western mountains.
The mood of the company had changed. Loud laughter and shouts accompanied verses celebrating inebriety. But all became quiet when Fujiwara stepped forward and bowed towards the dais. The crowd was expectant.
Fujiwara's voice sounded deep and compelling. Syllables rolled off his tongue like distant thunder. The poem was long and spoke of human needs beyond fame and fortune, of friendship between men which becomes most tender when wine loosens the tongue and true feelings break down the barriers of social convention. And it was far and above the most moving verse Akitada had ever heard. As he listened, his thoughts recalled lost friends, and tears rose to his eyes. The crippled giant Higekuro and his daughter Ayako, once so close to his heart and now lost forever; the handsome Tasuku who had left the world because it had become a place of sorrow; all those who had been his childhood friends and were gone, either through death or distance. Tamako, too, was quickly slipping away from him. In life there was a great need to hold on to friends.
A brief silence fell when Fujiwara finished. All that could be heard for a moment was the rustle of paper lanterns in the evening breeze and the distant voices of waterfowl on the lake. Even the servants had fallen quiet in the hush of the audience. Then the applause came, general and thunderous. Soon every man was on his feet. People were bowing to Fujiwara, shouting their approval, even walking over to embrace him.
Suddenly a single shrill voice rose over the rest. Oe was standing, waving his arms about, shouting, "Stop this vulgar display! Sit down, everybody! This rudeness must stop immediately. The rules do not permit it, and the contestant who invited this rude outburst by his unseemly subject must be disqualified. His lack of decorum is more suited to the revels of derelicts and whores!"
The crowd gasped. All eyes were on Oe and Fujiwara. Hirata jumped to his feet, muttering, "I must stop the fool," and started toward Oe. But it was already too late. Everyone, from His Imperial Highness to the lowest ranking official, had heard the insulting words. Hirata and Ono between them managed to pull Oe down on his cushion, but he continued to struggle and shout unintelligibly.
Fujiwara surprised everyone. In his booming voice he made a clever joke about the potency of wine and poetry. It set everyone laughing and calling for refills.
With peace thus reestablished, another contestant took his turn, and Fujiwara walked over to the small group gathered about Oe, which by now included Nishioka. The tall, broad-shouldered Fujiwara leaned down, put his arm around Oe's shoulders, and lifted him to his feet. Ono took the other side, and between them they walked the babbling Oe away from the gathering, Hirata going ahead to make way and Nishioka following behind with Oe's belongings. When the group had disappeared around the corner of the pavilion, Akitada saw Ishikawa rising to follow.
As the last contestant finished his verse, Fujiwara returned to his seat, dabbing at his cheek with the sleeve of his robe. He was bleeding from a large scratch.
Unfortunately the bloodied cheek could not be glossed over, for when the prince called the name of the winner, Fujiwara had to rise. Prince Atsuakira himself walked over to congratulate him and present him with a fine silk robe. As Fujiwara knelt and bowed, blood dripped into his beard. The prince murmured something, but Fujiwara smiled, saying, "Just a clumsy collision with a branch, Your Highness."
After another dance interlude, the boats were launched into the lake, their lanterns sparkling on the dark water like the stars in the sky above. Other lights blinked on along the lakeshore, among the trees, and even on the island. It was a magical scene, in its own way more splendid than the brilliant colors of the afternoon.
Now the servants passed along the veranda with lighted lanterns and attached them to the eaves with long poles. Across the way, where the nobles sat, the lantern bearers had not yet begun, and the darkness had turned the colorful cushions of the nobles, abandoned for boat rides or strolls in the park, a uniform black. Akitada remembered how the stacked cushions had all seemed the same color to him the evening before. They had been in the shadow of the veranda. He had assumed they were all blue, because one blue cushion had caught some light. Of course! The same thing must have happened the night the blackmailer delivered his note. Blue and green would have been indistinguishable, and both Oe's and Hirata's robes had had white designs around the sleeves. That must have been how Ishikawa had made his mistake.