They walked across the room. The painting was of a small boy playing with three black-and-white spotted puppies. The child, a little older than Yori, looked vaguely familiar and the entire scene was charming. Having agreed on a fairly reasonable price, Akitada paid.
As Noami took down the scroll and rolled it up, Akitada asked, “How do you manage to find your subjects and have them hold still for sketching? That little boy with the dogs, for example?”
The artist froze for a moment and stared at him blankly. Then he bent to tie the scroll, saying in a flat voice, “People are very poor around here. Most are outcasts. The children are willing to model all day for a copper and some food. The dogs are free for the taking.” He paused and his thin lips twisted. “It’s the getting rid of them that becomes a problem.”
Akitada nodded. The artist’s willingness to employ the unemployable would bring with it the frustration of their importunities. The children, no doubt, interfered with his work as well as his paints. Akitada suddenly realized that this might be the man who had been a benefactor to the crippled boy in the temple courtyard. The big warden had spoken highly of him. Noami, a successful artist living in the midst of this slum, was in a rare position to do good to his poorer neighbors. Ashamed of his earlier dislike for the man, Akitada said more warmly, “I can see that the offer of payment and food is enough to fill your house with all sorts of needy creatures and provide you with useful models at the same time.”
Noami stared at him again and then cast a glance around the room. “Why do you say that?” he asked sharply. “There is no one here but myself.”
Again Akitada felt an irrational hostility in the man. He said soothingly, “1 merely meant that your neighbors surely appreciate your generosity to their children.”
“My neighbors?” Noami’s voice rose shrilly. “They are all liars and thieves!”
“Never mind.” Akitada extended his hand for the scroll, adding coldly, “My name is Sugawara Akitada. If you decide to accept a commission for a screen, you may come to see me. Lord Toshikage can tell you how to find my house. But I should like to see some sketches before I approve a commission of that size.”
Noami bowed, and Akitada escaped the studio to the raucous cries of the crow.
On the whole it had been one of the most unpleasant afternoons Akitada had spent in a long time. By comparison even home with his dying mother seemed preferable. Tired and footsore from walking, chilled to the bone, and irritated by his encounter with the eccentric artist, he took a shortcut through the Imperial City. The tall halls and groves of pines were some protection from the icy wind which whistled down the thoroughfares of the capital, and he was safe enough from acquaintances. At this time of day the bureaucrats were busily planning and wielding their brushes inside their offices.
When he entered his half of the city, he found himself on Konoe again, but this time near the eastern prison. It was as good a way as any to take home and, miserably aware that his feet were so cold that they had lost all feeling and that his legs hurt abominably, he reflected that he was no longer used to walking such distances.
There were more people about here. The prison gate, its flags snapping in the wind, was guarded by red-coated constables who jogged steadily back and forth to keep warm. Other constables, city clerks, and ordinary men passed in and out. The problem of Nagaoka’s brother nagged at him again and he promised himself to look into it as soon as his family was safely home. Perhaps some news from them was waiting for him even now. He sped up a little. Ahead a woman walked in the same direction, her head wrapped in a large kerchief against the cold, and a basket over her arm. He wondered idly if she had come from the prison, perhaps a constable’s wife who had taken her husband his dinner. For a moment there was something oddly familiar about the way she moved and held her head, then she disappeared around a corner.
He thought of Tamako and Yori in this cold weather, wishing that he might find them waiting for him at home, hoping that there would be at least some message by now, and limped homeward at a steady pace.
Saburo let him in, crushing his hopes quickly. They had not come and there was no news. Sick with worry, Akitada cursed under his breath and staggered to the house. Saburo watched his master’s stumbling progress across the courtyard with open-mouthed concern.
“I’m home,” Akitada called out, sitting down in the entry to ease his swollen feet from the boots.
Yoshiko appeared behind him. She was in her outdoor clothes and folded a scarf into a basket. “Welcome, Brother,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
Akitada looked up at her and smiled in spite of his disappointment. Her cheeks and nose were pink from the cold air and she looked like the little sister of the past. “A bit, but mostly cold and footsore,” he said. “I have been all the way to the other end of the city to buy Tamako a painting.” He held up the scroll, then glanced at her basket. “Have you been out, too?”
“Yes. Just to the market for some things for supper. Let me check on Mother first and then we can have some tea in your room and you can show me the picture.” She padded off softly on stockinged feet.
Akitada stood up himself, groaned, rubbed his icy ears, and hobbled toward his room, wondering why his sister had claimed to have come from the market when her basket was empty.
EIGHT
Temple Bells
In his room, neatly folded on his cushion, Akitada found an elegant court robe. He unfolded it reverently, marveling at the tiny stitches with which his sister had sewn together the panels of rich silk. Now he was ready for the summons from the palace, whenever it would arrive, and would not have to be ashamed before arrogant youngsters like the secretary in the controller’s office. He took off his quilted outdoor robe and slipped into the new garment. It fit comfortably, and he was looking for a sash to wind around his waist when Yoshiko came in.
“Well?” she asked. “Do you like it? You look absolutely wonderful! Not even the chancellor will make a greater figure than you. I cannot wait to see you walking in the official procession to present New Year’s wishes to His Majesty.”
His pleasure and her words momentarily wiped all doubts from his mind. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, choking a little with emotion. “It is beautifully sewn and must have taken you many long, weary hours. I am afraid it was too much for you, when you already have Mother to take care of.”
She came closer, smiling, and gave his robe a little tuck here and there. “A sash,” she muttered, “it needs a sash, and I think I know just the fabric. The train of Father’s court robe is just the right shade of silver gray. It will look well with this dark blue.”
“No,” he said quickly. “Nothing of my father’s.” Seeing her startled eyes, he added lamely, “You can hardly mutilate his best robe. What would Mother say?”
“Nonsense! It is already damaged by mildew. You cannot waste things for sentimental reasons. And Mother won’t know. I have made up my mind that we must decide our future from now on. You and I have endured far too long the will of parents who cared nothing for our happiness.”
“Yoshiko!” Akitada stared down at his sister slack-jawed and shocked to the core. She, a woman and the youngest member of the family, had just rebelled against centuries of Confucian laws fixing immutably the duties of children toward their parents, and, for the first time in his hearing, voiced an outright criticism of their parents. Suddenly she seemed a stranger to him. What had happened to change her so?
“Well?” she demanded, her chin pushed out stubbornly. “Am I wrong? Has either of them ever demonstrated any love or care for either of us? Our father threw you out of the house, and Mother forbade me to get married because she wished to keep me around as a cheap bond maid. It is a credit to you that you have succeeded anyway. As for me”—she turned away abruptly and her voice broke—”any hope of happiness has come too late.”