“Ah, Lady,” he said to her with kind formality. “I’m so pleased to see you well and happy.”
“I’m with my Lord, Omi-san, and he’s strong and content. How can I be anything but happy.”
“Sayonara, Lady.”
“Sayonara, Omi-sama.” She bowed, aware of a vast finality now, never quite realizing it before. A tear welled and she brushed it aside and bowed again as he walked away.
She watched his tall, firm stride and would have wept aloud, her heart near breaking, but then, as always, she heard the so-many-times-said words in her memory, kindly spoken, wisely spoken, “Why do you weep, child? We of the Floating World live only for the moment, giving all our time to the pleasures of cherry blossoms and snow and maple leaves, the calling of a cricket, the beauty of the moon, waning and growing and being reborn, singing our songs and drinking cha and saké, knowing perfumes and the touch of silks, caressing for pleasure, and drifting, always drifting. Listen, child: never sad, always drifting as a lily on the current in the stream of life. How lucky you are, Kiku-chan, you’re a Princess of Ukiyo, the Floating World, drift, live for the moment. . . .”
Kiku brushed away a second tear, a last tear. Silly girl to weep. Weep no more! she ordered herself. You’re so incredibly lucky! You’re consort to the greatest daimyo himself, even though a very lesser, unofficial one, but what does that matter—your sons will be born samurai. Isn’t this the most incredible gift in the world? Didn’t the soothsayer predict such an incredible good fortune, never to be believed? But now it’s true, neh? If you must weep there are more important things to weep about. About the growing seed in your loins that the weird-tasting cha took out of you. But why weep about that? It was only an “it” and not a child and who was the father? Truly?
“I don’t know, not for certain, Gyoko-san, so sorry, but I think it’s my Lord’s,” she had said finally, wanting his child so much to bind the promise of samurai.
“But say the child’s born with blue eyes and a fair skin? It may, neh? Count the days.”
“I’ve counted and counted, oh, how I’ve counted!”
“Then be honest with yourself. So sorry, but both of our futures depend on you now. You’ve many a birthing year ahead of you. You’re just eighteen, child, neh? Better to be sure, neh?”
Yes, she thought again, how wise you are, Gyoko-san, and how silly I was, bewitched. It was only an “it” and how sensible we Japanese are to know that a child is not a proper child until thirty days after birth when its spirit is firmly fixed in its body and its karma inexorable. Oh, how lucky I am, and I want a son and another and another and never a girl child. Poor girl children! Oh gods, bless the soothsayer and thank you thank you thank you for my karma that I am favored by the great daimyo, that my sons will be samurai and oh, please make me worthy of such marvelousness. . . .
“What is it, Mistress?” little Suisen asked, awed by the joy that seemed to pour out of Kiku.
Kiku sighed contentedly. “I was thinking about the soothsayer and my Lord and my karma, just drifting, drifting. . . .”
She went farther out into the courtyard, shading herself with her scarlet umbrella, to seek Toranaga. He was almost hidden by the horses and samurai and falcons in the courtyard, but she could see he was still on the veranda, sipping cha now, Fujiko bowing before him again. Soon it’ll be my turn, she thought. Perhaps tonight we can begin a new “it.” Oh, please. . . .
Then, greatly happy, she turned back to her game.
Outside the gateway Omi was mounting his horse and he galloped off with his guards, faster and ever faster, the speed refreshing him, cleansing him, the pungent sweat-smell of his horse pleasing. He did not look back at her because there was no need. He knew that he had left all his life’s passion, and everything that he had adored, at her feet. He was sure he would never know passion again, the spirit-joining ecstasy that ignited man and woman. But this did not displease him. On the contrary, he thought with a newfound icy clarity, I bless Toranaga for releasing me from servitude. Now nothing binds me. Neither father nor mother nor Kiku. Now I can be patient too. I’m twenty-one, I’m almost daimyo of Izu, and I’ve a world to conquer.
“Yes, Sire?” Fujiko was saying.
“You’re to go direct from here to Anjiro. I’ve decided to change the Anjin-san’s fief from around Yokohama to Anjiro. Twenty ri in every direction from the village, with a yearly income of four thousand koku. You’ll take over Omi-san’s house.”
“May I thank you on his behalf, Sire. So sorry, do I understand that he doesn’t know about this yet?”
“No. I’ll tell him today. I’ve ordered him to build another ship, Fujiko-san, to replace the one lost, and Anjiro will be a perfect shipyard, much better than Yokohama. I’ve arranged with the Gyoko woman for her eldest son to be business overseer for the Anjin-san, and all materials and craftsmen will be paid for out of my treasury. You’ll have to help him set up some form of administration.”
“Oh ko, Sire,” she said, immediately concerned. “My time remaining with the Anjin-san will be so short.”
“Yes. I’ll have to find him another consort—or wife. Neh?”
Fujiko looked up, her eyes narrowing. Then she said, “Please, how may I help?”
Toranaga said, “Whom would you suggest? I want the Anjin-san to be content. Contented men work better, neh?”
“Yes.” Fujiko reached into her mind. Who would compare with Mariko-sama? Then she smiled. “Sire, Omi-san’s present wife, Midori-san. His mother hates her, as you know, and wants Omi divorced—so sorry, but she had the astounding bad manners to say it in front of me. Midori-san’s such a lovely lady and, oh, so very clever.”
“You think Omi wants to be divorced?” Another piece of the puzzle fell in place.
“Oh, no, Sire, I’m sure he doesn’t. What man wants really to obey his mother? But that’s our law, so he should have divorced her the first time his parents mentioned it, neh? Even though his mother’s very bad tempered, she surely knows what’s best for him, of course. So sorry, I have to be truthful as this is a most important matter. Of course I mean no offense, Sire, but filial duty to one’s parents is the corner post of our law.”
“I agree,” Toranaga said, pondering this fortunate new thought. “The Anjin-san would consider Midori-san a good suggestion?”
“No, Sire, not if you ordered the marriage . . . but, so sorry, there’s no need for you to order him.”
“Oh?”
“You could perhaps think of a way to make him think of it himself. That would certainly be best. With Omi-san, of course, you just order him.”
“Of course. You’d approve of Midori-san?”
“Oh, yes. She’s seventeen, her present son’s healthy, she’s from good samurai stock, so she’d give the Anjin-san fine sons. I suppose Omi’s parents will insist Midori give up her son to Omi-san, but if they don’t the Anjin-san could adopt him. I know my Master likes her because Mariko-sama told me she teased him about her. She’s very good samurai stock, very prudent, very clever. Oh, yes, he’d be very safe with her. Also her parents are both dead now so there’d be no ill feeling from them about her marrying a—marrying the Anjin-san.”
Toranaga toyed with the idea. I’ve certainly got to keep Omi off balance, he told himself. Young Omi can become a thorn in my side too easily. Well, I won’t have to do anything to get Midori divorced. Omi’s father will absolutely have definite last wishes before he commits seppuku and his wife will certainly insist the most important last thing he does on this earth will be to get their son married correctly. So Midori will be divorced within a few days anyway. Yes, she’d be a very good wife.