Besides, I can serve Her Majesty better here.

The Oba girl kept to the back, as well she might under the circumstances.  When her name was called, she came forward.  Regrettably, she was not wearing her dancing costume.  Her Majesty looked at her clothes and figure and said, “I see you have recently come from one of the provinces.”  We all knew what that meant.  The girl was hopelessly out of place at court.

“Do you have any talents?” Her Majesty asked next.

“I sing a little, Your Majesty,” she answered.  When Her Majesty merely raised Her brows, she added in a small voice, “And I can dance a little.”

“Hmm,” said Her Majesty and raised Her fan, turning away.  The girl backed off on her knees and hid behind the others.

And that was it.  It had been easy after all.  In Her truly elegant manner, Her Majesty has indicated what She thinks of song-and-dance girls.  I have no doubt that this one will soon be dismissed from service.

The Audience

The incident between Hachiro and Togoro caused Doctor Yamada to have a talk with his new son.  The meeting was painful for both.  The doctor was in his pharmacy and watched the boy slink in.  He had the same furtive look on his pasty face but seemed less interested in herbs and medicine than in the objects inside the house.   His expression reminded the doctor of a young gang member he once saw being punished in the market, and he wondered if he had adopted a criminal.  The same mix of fear and resentment flared in Hachiro’s eyes when the youngster saw what lay on the counter among the doctor’s pharmaceutical tools.

For a long time, the doctor looked at him silently, hoping that his wordless anger would have more effect than the bamboo rod he had cut in the snowy garden.  But his new son tried to brazen it out.

“You wanted to see me, Father?” he asked blandly, putting a slight emphasis on the word “father.”

This angered Doctor Yamada more and his hand crept toward the rod.  “Why did you kick Togoro?” he asked coldly.

“Oh.  Is that what this is about?”  The pretense of surprise was not convincing.  Yamada saw the flash of fury in the boy’s eyes.  “He was insolent, Father,” he said, adding, “You know, you really should speak to the servants.  They don’t show any respect.  Why, Otori — ”

“Silence!” the doctor thundered, clutching the rod.  The boy backed away a step toward the open doorway.  With an effort, the doctor controlled his temper.

Hachiro had been brought to him a year ago, beaten, bloody, and unconscious.  Someone had found him lying in one of the dirtier alleys near the market.  Yamada had cleaned and treated his wounds, fed him, and — when the boy had told him that he was without family or a roof over his head — he had allowed him to stay, offering food and shelter in return for small chores.  Since the youngster had claimed not to know his real name, they ended up calling him “Boy,” mostly in anger, for he proved to be unreliable at work and took whatever food he pleased.  As a result, neither Togoro nor Otori showed him much kindness.

One could not expect miracles.

“Hachiro,” the doctor said more calmly, “I will not tolerate physical abuse of my servants.  Otori has served my family since I was younger than you are, and Togoro has been faithful and a hard worker.  He, too, has been with me longer than you.  Both deserve respect from you.  Meanwhile, your own behavior in the past has left much to be desired.  Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Hachiro watched the rod nervously.  A look of anger crossed his face.  “They hate me and tell lies about me.  Togoro makes me do his work.  It’s not proper, when he’s the servant.  Otori wants a man in her bed.  She should be ashamed of herself at her age.  And now that you’ve adopted me they’re jealous.”

The doctor was speechless.  He knew both of his servants well.  Hachiro’s lies were gross and repulsive.

 His silence encouraged Hachiro.  “How can you take their word against me?” he demanded.  “Have you not made me your son?  What good is that unless you treat me as your son and make the servants respect me?”

The doctor bit his lip.  “Very well,” he said, taking up the rod.  “You leave me no choice but to do as you ask.  I shall treat you as a father treats a lying, disobedient son.  Come here.”

Hachiro paled.  “If you beat me like a slave,” he cried, “the servants will find out and spit on me.”

Yamada stepped forward and seized Hachiro by the arm.  “And so they shall,” he growled, pulling the boy out of the studio and into the bright winter sun.  His call brought both Togoro and Otori running.  When they saw Hachiro in his grasp and the bamboo cane in his other hand, they stopped, open-mouthed with surprise.

“You are to witness Hachiro’s punishment,” the doctor informed them.

He was still angry when he used the rod on Hachiro’s buttocks and thighs. The boy’s single cry sickened him and he stopped rather quickly.  Breathing hard, he said, “I trust your pain reminds you of the pain you inflicted on Togoro.  You will taste more of it if I hear of other examples of cruelty to someone less fortunate than you.  And beware of telling lies about others.  Now you will apologize to Togoro and Otori.”

Hachiro was very pale.  He obeyed sullenly and slunk away, while the two servants gaped after him.  Togoro was embarrassed.  He gave the doctor a lopsided grin, scratched his head, and trotted off.  Otori snapped, “The child of a devil is also a devil.  Beating him just makes him worse.”

The doctor tried to return to his work but he could not concentrate.  To clear his mind and rid himself of his self-disgust, he decided to visit squatters’ field.

Snow hid ugliness as a rule, but squatter’s field was the exception.  Here even snow looked dirty.  Flimsy shelters made from salvaged boards and ragged straw mats clustered together like piles of a giant’s garbage, and black acrid smoke rose from smoldering fires.  Shivering creatures huddled around them, cooking whatever scraps they had been able to scrounge.  Disease and festering wounds were the norm here, and the doctor was greeted eagerly and kept busy until nightfall.

When he got home, depressed again by the thought of Hachiro, he found that a messenger from the palace had come during the afternoon.  The man had waited nearly an hour before leaving again.

Otori glowered.  “I might have known that you’d be out the very moment good fortune finally calls.”  She gave a sniff and added, “It’s a good thing the fine gentleman left.  You stink.  Best take a bath and change before you touch the letter he brought.”

Yamada ignored this and opened the carefully rolled and tied sheet of fine paper.  It was not from Toshiko.  The writing was a man’s — elegant, concise, and marked with a crimson seal.  He did not recognize the signature, but the content was clear.  He was to present himself in the attendants’ office of the cloister palace the next day at the start of the hour of the snake.

Frowning at the letter, Yamada asked, “Did the messenger explain what is wanted?”

“No.  And don’t look like that.  You should’ve been here yourself.  What does it say?”

“I am to report to the attendants’ office tomorrow.”

Otori’s face broke into a wide smile.  “There.  You see?  They finally take notice of you.  I bet that cook got you another patient.”

“I doubt it.  When someone is ill, they want me immediately.  Besides both letter and messenger are a little too formal for a mere sick call.”

“Well, you will go, won’t you?” Otori asked belligerently.

“Oh, yes.  I’ll go.”

*

In his heart, the he still hoped that the summons would somehow bring him to the lady Toshiko.  He bathed and dressed with special care the next morning and set out with a spring in his step that not even the sight of Hachiro, lurking about with a resentful expression, could spoil.