Yamada put his hand on the child’s head.  “Don’t worry, Sadamu.  The bowl does not matter.  I have many bowls.”

Otori bristled, but catching the doctor’s eye, she turned and marched off, muttering under her breath, “Sadamu!”

“Come and eat,” Yamada invited.  “And if something is left, you can feed the fish.”

There was some sort of soup, fragrant rice, and sweet dumplings.  Two servings of everything.  Clearly, Otori had hoped Yamada would also eat and, after offering food to the boy, he did.  They sat together near the brazier and ate, the child hungrily, the man slowly, his eyes intent on the child.  Before he had finished his rice, the boy got to his feet, holding the half-filled bowl.

“The fish must be hungry,” he said.

The doctor carried the child out into the chilly garden and let him scatter the rice grains on the winter-black pond.  The carp rushed up from the murky depths, snatching crumbs from each other and turning the surface of the pond into a swirl of brilliant orange and silver, lashing the water into spangles and flashes of refracted light.

Yamada hoped to see delight on the child’s earnest face, perhaps even to hear a gurgle of laughter, but the boy merely watched.  His eyes widened a little for a moment, but otherwise he was unmoved.

They returned to the warm house and finished their meal.

“Will you wait here for me,” Yamada asked when all the food was gone, “or do you want to come with me?”

Sadamu wiped his hands on his wrinkled and very dirty shirt, and got up.  “I’ll come,” he decided with a glance toward the back of the house where Otori could be heard sweeping.

They stopped in the kitchen to return the tray with the dishes, and Yamada asked Otori to wash the child’s face and hands.  She did so with surprising gentleness.

Then they left, hand in hand, for the tenement where the boy used to live.

The landlord, a greasy character with one eye, was leaning against the doorway, cleaning his teeth with a straw.  When he saw the boy with a gentleman in a silk robe, he straightened up and bobbed bow after bow.  “So glad to see you again, Sadamu.”  He grinned, laying a clawlike hand possessively on the boy’s head and rolling his one eye in Yamada’s direction.  “Found your family, have you?”

Sadamu kicked his shin.  “Where’s my mother?” he yelled.  “What have you done with her?”

The landlord hopped aside and rubbed his leg.  “Poor boy.”  He laughed a little.  “He’s confused and upset because his mother died.”

“He is not confused,” said Yamada.  “What happened here?”

“Oh, you don’t know?  She died two nights ago.  Owing me money, too.  I’m a poor man and had to rent the place again.”

“Where is she now?”

“The monks came and took her away.  About my money . . .”

Doctor Yamada looked at him with distaste.  “That is none of my business.  You must apply to her relatives.”

The man’s jaw sagged.  “But I thought you . . .”

“What was her name and where was she from?” the doctor snapped.

“She said her name was Miyuko.  And that she was a soldier’s widow.”  The landlord snorted.  “Not that I believed it.  More likely she was a whore.”

“Come,” said the doctor to the boy.  They turned to go.

“Wait!”  The landlord took a few steps after them. “The kid’s mine.  She owed for two months.”

Without releasing the boy, the doctor turned on the landlord.  Taking him by the front of his filthy robe, he pushed him back against the wall of the tenement.  “What do you mean, the child is yours?” he demanded.

A passing mendicant priest, elderly and unkempt, stopped to watch the altercation.

The landlord squealed, “He’s got to work off the debt.  He’s big enough.  The law’s on my side.”

Yamada released him abruptly. “I am Doctor Yamada.  Tomorrow you may bring the warden to my house.  If your bill is correct, you will be paid.”

To the boy, he said, “Don’t worry.  It will all be settled.  Now let’s see about your mother’s funeral and then we’ll go home.  Tomorrow’s another day.”

The priest heard him and nodded.  “Every day’s a good day as long as you don’t think about the past or worry about the future.”  He smiled a toothless smile and extended his empty bowl.

The Little Snail

The call for Toshiko did not come until two days after her disastrous performance.  This time she was ready.  She had been ready every day and all day, her face fully made up, her costume exquisite, her hair brushed and oiled.  It had been a matter of self-discipline.

Her courage was much more difficult to maintain.  As she hurried down the long, polished corridor toward the Emperor’s apartment, her heart beat so violently that her ears were ringing.

She entered and saw that he was again in the company of the nun and had writing utensils and papers spread out on a small desk and on the mat beside him.  Her relief was almost dizzying.  She approached on soft feet and prostrated herself.

“Ah, Toshiko,” the emperor greeted her affably.  “Please come and join us.  I am trying to finish a part of my collection of songs before the pilgrimage.”

He was leaving on a pilgrimage?  Toshiko looked at Him in dismay.  How was she to accomplish what she must do if He was about to leave – for many weeks.  She had heard about His frequent visits to worship at the Kumano shrines but had somehow thought there would be time.

“Why, what is the matter?” he asked, raising his brows at her expression.

She felt the blood rise hotly under her make-up.  “I . . . did not know, sire.  I did not know you are leaving.”  Even she could hear the grief in her words.

The emperor smiled and extended a hand toward her.  “Come, my dear,” He said in the friendliest manner.  “I am not leaving quite so soon.”

Slightly dazed she went and took his hand.  It was warm and soft.  As she touched it, she felt a slight thrill run up her arm and warmth spread through her body.  He pulled her down on a cushion beside him and said, “We shall have time together before I leave, and I shall come back a better man than I am now, I hope.  And while I am gone, I shall remember to say a prayer to the gods that you will be waiting for me when I return.”

She was speechless and merely looked at him gratefully.  It could not be this easy, could it?  But no.  They were not alone.  Otomae was sitting there, regarding them with a knowing little smile.  And behind the daytime screens, the curtained dais where He slept, lay in darkness, its draperies drawn around it.  She felt hot and breathless.

The moment passed.  The emperor turned to his papers, selecting a sheet, and handed it to her.  “Can you read this?  Will you see if it is correct?”

His brush strokes were more elegant than any she had ever seen.  She read the poem.  It was the song she had performed last time, and shame flooded over her again.  She dropped the sheet and covered her face with both hands.

“What?  Is my calligraphy so horrid you cannot bear to look at it?” He teased.

She could smell His scent.  He was so close that it almost made her dizzy.  “No, sire,” she murmured.  “It is the song I performed.  I am so ashamed.”

She felt his hands on hers, pulling them from her face, and raised her eyes.  He looked very kind and smiled a little.  She thought that his eyes were as gentle as a doe’s.

“You have no need to be ashamed, Toshiko,” He said.  “I am getting very impatient with that aging virago who seems to take out her own discontent on you.  She meant to embarrass you and make me send you away.  It did not work.  I thought you enchanting, and I hope you will honor me with another dance tonight.”

She forgot that they were not alone.  Her hands lay in his warm ones.  She could not keep them from trembling a little, but so intensely aware was she of his touch that she did not want to take them back.  And so they sat for a long moment absorbed in each other, and Toshiko felt with amazement for the first time a sense of power.