Ten bars of silver! It was an enormous price to pay a mere artisan. Artists usually scraped together a living hawking their wares at markets and during temple fairs. Akitada said, “At these prices the man must live in a palace. Where is this Bamboo Hermitage?”
Toshikage laughed. “I told you the fellow is becoming the fashion. Did you notice the detail? He is said to study a flower from the time the bud opens through all the stages of bloom until the petals fall. Such patience costs money. But I have an idea. I have wondered how to express my gratitude to you, dear Brother, and to welcome you home properly at the same time. Allow me the pleasure of making you a gift of such a screen. Takenori shall go with you, and you shall tell the man what you want. When it is done, I shall have the screen delivered to your lovely wife.”
Akitada was embarrassed. Under no circumstances did he wish to obligate himself to Toshikage, at least not until he knew exactly where his brother-in-law stood in the case of the missing treasures. “Thank you, Brother! You are most generous, but this particular gift to Tamako must be my own. You understand, I am sure?”
Toshikage raised an eyebrow and grinned knowingly. “Say no more, dear Brother! I understand completely. The lady must be reassured of your affection. I know the feeling.” He chuckled.
Akitada turned to the son. “There is no need for you to come, but perhaps you can give me directions to the artist’s house?”
It appeared that the painter lived in the western part of the city. Takenori hinted that it was in a rough neighborhood.
“What’s this?” cried Toshikage. “You said nothing to me about the place being dangerous.”
Takenori lowered his eyes humbly. “Forgive me, Father. I did not know until I was accosted by a pair of aggressive beggars. I got away from them easily enough, but Lord Sugawara may not be so lucky.”
Toshikage tsk-tsked. “The western city is getting so bad you cannot walk the streets any longer without being in fear for your life. Takenori is right. You had better take an armed servant with you. I cannot imagine why a successful painter would live among such riffraff.”
“Oh,” said Takenori, “his house is quite substantial, if a bit overgrown. I suppose it is his family home, but he lives there alone.”
“Well, it is time I were on my way.” Akitada got up, still frustrated by his suspicions about the figurine in Akiko’s room. After a moment’s hesitation, he said to Toshikage, “I think my sister might benefit from your explanations about the origin and meaning of some of the charming objects which decorate her room. I am sure knowing their history will increase her enjoyment greatly.”
Toshikage looked pleased. “Certainly, certainly. What a very good idea! It will give me great pleasure to do so. Please convey my regards and hopes for improvement to your lady mother.”
An empty wish, that, and they both knew it. Akitada bowed and took his leave.
After the pleasant warmth of Toshikage’s rooms, the cold air outside took his breath away, and he strode out briskly to let the physical exertion warm his blood. He intended to take care of the matter of Tamako’s screen as soon as possible. Takenori’s warning he ignored. The suggestion that he could not handle himself at least as well as that young man had been offensive and he ascribed the slight to the fact that young Takenori not only resented his father’s young wife, but by extension her brother also. He might have realized that Akitada had dealt single-handedly with far greater dangers than a couple of hungry beggars.
More irritating than the imputation of faintheartedness or a walk through a bad neighborhood were the painter’s prices. But this time he would not let money stand in his way. Tamako should have her screen, come what may.
Little did he know the price he would ultimately have to pay.
SEVEN
The Bamboo Hermitage
Two days later Akitada went to see the painter. He had not set foot in the western city since his return. It was here that almost five years ago he had suffered soul-wrenching grief when his wife’s family home had been burned down with her father inside it. Since then, he had avoided this part of the capital.
It was another bitterly cold day. Winter here arrived not with the heavy snowfalls of the north country, but with an icy wind which bit more keenly, and the prevailing gray and brown hues of bare trees and dried grasses looked dirty and dismal in contrast to the sparkling snow cover in Echigo.
There were fewer people in this part of the capital and they seemed to hurry along with their chins tucked into the collars of their padded robes. A few women, with thick scarves draped around their heads and shoulders, walked clutching their baskets or small children with one hand, while the other held the scarf in place.
When he passed Konoe Avenue, he glanced down it toward the imperial flags flying over the prison. The capital had two of these, just as it had two city administrations and two markets. The division of the capital into an eastern or left half and a western or right half, with Suzaku Avenue the central dividing line, had created two worlds, for the two halves could not be more different. The eastern city was crowded, bustling, affluent, and mostly law-abiding; the western half had sunk into a rapid decline and now was inhabited mostly by the poor and desperate. The prison on this side of town was always crowded and the court docket full.
Nagaoka’s brother was in the other prison, but was suffering, no doubt, the same daily beatings until he signed his confession. Akitada’s stomach twisted at the thought of it and he drew up his shoulders with a shiver.
The artist’s studio lay in the westernmost quarter of the city. He walked quickly to keep warm in the cold air, tucking his chin into the collar of his quilted robe. But there was little he could do to keep his ears warm, and they began to hurt unpleasantly.
Once there had been fine private homes in large gardens here, but they had fallen into ruin or burned to the ground. The “good people” had moved away to the other side of town, leaving behind a tangled wilderness. Squatters occupied the empty spaces now, and here and there thin spirals of smoke rose from huts and abandoned pavilions.
Poorly dressed people gave him a wide berth after a brief glance at his silk robe and black hat. He was one of the “good people,” an oddity like a piece of brocade among hemp, or—as he soon realized when he could not get close enough to anyone to ask for directions—a fish out of water.
He began to regret his good clothing even more when he attracted a following of about six or seven ragged young men who seemed to wait for him to turn down one of the narrow side streets where there would be no witnesses to a quick robbery.
He got directions eventually from a laborer carrying a load of roof tiles on his back, no doubt salvage from another abandoned villa. He gave them grudgingly enough, along with an astonished glance at Akitada’s formal silk robe. The farther Akitada walked, the more uneasy he became. His clothes shamed him among the poor and ragged creatures who inhabited the makeshift shacks by the side of the weed-grown and rutted roads. When his surroundings became more densely populated, the character of the quarter became even worse. Workers’ tenements crowded together, interspersed with poor shops and leaning stalls. Now and then he passed a shrine or small temple, and once a somewhat more substantial house which bore the insignia of the local warden, but in most blocks cheap wine shops alternated with eateries stinking of rancid fish oil and rotted vegetables.
The Temple of Boundless Mercy was a surprise when he finally reached it. It occupied a large area and was dominated by a towering main hall and a three-story pagoda. These and other, smaller buildings stood inside a vast courtyard surrounded by the remnants of tall plaster walls which had lost most of their plaster and had collapsed altogether in some sections. The temple grounds lay in a haze of thin gray smoke and, from what he could see through the gaping holes in the wall, appeared to be a sort of local market.