I had to confess that I did not know.  “That maid must have been drunk,” I suggested.

“And who,” He snapped, “is responsible for the welfare of the ladies serving me?  Who makes the arrangements for serving women and looks after the needs of every lady in my quarters?”

Ah, the unfairness of that!

I replied — by then in tears — that I had been busy with the move to the new quarters and could not be in two places at the same time.

“But you, Lady Sanjo,” He said in a tone that cut me to the heart, “left a sick young girl behind, alone and in the care of an unreliable servant.”

I murmured an apology.  I don’t recall my words.  The moment was too painful.  And then He uttered the terrible words:  “Out of my sight!”

I crawled away and hid myself in the darkest corner of the women’s quarters where I prayed to Buddha and all his helpers.  I made vows to copy the Lotus Sutra five hundred times if only I were forgiven.  I wept until all my sleeves were soaked.  And I wrote to His Majesty.

Temple Bells

Sometimes Doctor Yamada’s patients forced their way into his thoughts and traveled home with him, clamoring for his attention and his pity, begging him not to rest until he had made them better, tormenting him with silent pleas to save their lives.

That night it had been a young girl with a raging fever after giving birth to a puny child that died soon after.  He had sat with her for long hours, fretting at his helplessness, changing cold compresses on her head, watching for signs that her young body would win the battle.  But toward sunset the familiar veiling had begun to dull her eyes and told him that he could not stop the coming of death.  He had seen its approach often in the past, but this time it had touched him especially, because this young mother was Toshiko’s age and, while she was not very beautiful, she had had the same smile for him before the coming darkness wiped away all trace of trust.  He had to leave her finally, bone-weary and afraid of seeing her die.

Later he lay on his bed, staring into the fathomless darkness, wondering if he was really any use to anyone.  Even those he thought he was helping might regain their health without him, and too many of his patients died.

Sleep does not come when a man struggles with the darkness in his heart.  He lay awake, probing his doubts like a festering wound, and counted the times the temple bells called out the hour.

Shortly before dawn, there was a faint knocking at the street door.  He got up more wearily than he had lain down.  It was probably the father of the dying girl or some other desperate case.  They never knocked at this hour unless there was no hope.

The night was still very dark.  A faint smell of rain and moist soil filled the air — a scent of spring and growing things.  The beginnings of life in the middle of death, he thought bitterly.  His visitor was leaning against the wall of his house.  It was too dark to see more than a vague shape, lighter than the surrounding night or the plaster of the wall.  He was not sure if it was a man or a woman; the clothes look elaborate and formal, a white jacket over full trousers.  Dully, he wiped his eyes and realized that it must be one of the street entertainers who sang and danced in the markets in men’s clothes.

“What is wrong?” he asked.  “Do you need help?”

She raised her head, her face with its garish make-up luminous in the darkness.  “Yes,” she said softly — just that — and took a step toward him.  Before he could catch her, she crumpled to the stone path.

He picked her up.  She was light in his arms, but her clothes got in his way, as did the long hair.  Its length astonished him.  He stumbled with his burden to his room and laid her down on his bedding.  Then he located the flint and lit the wick of his oil lamp, using that to light the candle near his desk, and carried both across the room to examine his patient.

She was struggling to sit up, looking dazedly around the room.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I did not know where else to go.”

He knew the voice but could not quite believe it.  Toshiko?  At this time of night?  In his room?

He must have said her name aloud, standing there frozen in the utter surprise and joy of it, because she looked up at him and nodded.  And began to cry.

He almost dropped the oil lamp in his haste to kneel and take her cold hands, to look in her face, searching for the familiar features under the thick paint.  The black paint that ringed her eyes had made streaks down the white cheeks.  He melted with love.

“Oh my dearest,” he said.  His voice trembled.  “What happened to you?  What can I do?”  He remembered her fainting on his door step and asked anxiously, “Are you ill?”

She wiped at the tears with her sleeve, leaving smudges on the white silk, and smiled at him, shaking her head.  His heart nearly overturned at that smile.  She said, “No.  Not now,” and squeezed his hands gently.  “Not now,” she said again and removed her hands from his to reach out for him.

They held each other without speaking.  He thought he could feel her heart beating against his and stroked her hair.  She was wet, her hair heavy with rain.  At some point, he told her that he loved her and made her cry again and clutch him more tightly.

When the first faint gray light of dawn intruded, they were lying naked in each others arms.  They had got there without conscious thought and without volition but with the urgency of an act long overdue.

Afterward they talked.  She told him of the poisoned gruel and the dead cat, about dressing in her costume in the middle of the night and slipping past the snoring maid, past a gate guards, of walking through the night, across the river and along the dark streets, asking the people of the night for his house, the one he had written on the slip of paper, and of being shown the way by a real prostitute.

Later he got up, throwing on some clothes, and went to the kitchen for warm water.  He knelt and cleaned her face with great tenderness, finding under the mask again the girl he remembered, paler, thinner, and more beautiful.

Only then did she tell him about the emperor, bowing her head, ashamed.

But he had known, had known it when they lay together and their bodies joined — had not wanted to think about it then because of his own responsibility in the matter.  It did not affect his love for her, but it would affect their future together.

Otori walked in, having been woken by his excursion into her kitchen.  She carried his gruel on a tray and stopped in surprise at seeing a woman in his bed, wearing nothing but her thin under robe.  Her sharp eyes took in the disordered bedding and noted his own undress, the embarrassment that was surely on their faces.  She stood, at a loss whether to be scandalized or pleased, frowning and smiling and then frowning again.

He was suddenly filled with great joy and took Toshiko’s hand.  “My dear,” he said, “this is Otori, our housekeeper.”  To Otori, he said, “Otori, you should have brought moon cakes for my bride.”

Outside the temple bells began to ring again, and Otori dropped her tray.

His Father’s Wife

Hachiro returned late from Master Soma’s, his head still filled with dreams of being a famous swordsman.  The Master had praised him today and advanced him to the next level long before other students achieved this.  He entered the house, not immediately aware that something had changed, but passing the open doorway of his father’s room on the way to the kitchen and food, he caught a glimpse of a strange female.

He slid to a halt and crept back to peer around the corner of the door.  She stood at his father’s desk, her back to him, dressed in a fine gown of heavy green silk.  Long, glossy hair trailed to the floor behind her.  His father’s patients were poor women, and this one looked like a princess.  Hachiro was so surprised that he made a sound, and she turned.  He saw a mere girl, certainly not much older than he, and very beautiful.  They locked eyes, and she smiled, covering her mouth with a small hand.  Was she laughing at him?