Shōgun

“Please excuse me, I know you haven’t forgotten but Masijiro-san is still in the pit.” Omi went to the trapdoor and stared down at the samurai. Instantly the man was on his knees, bowing deferentially.

The two days had aged him. Omi weighed his past service and his future worth. Then he took the young samurai’s dagger from his sash and dropped it into the pit.

At the bottom of the ladder Masijiro stared at the knife in disbelief. Tears began coursing his cheeks. “I don’t deserve this honor, Omi-san,” he said abjectly.

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

The young samurai beside Omi said, “May I please ask that he be allowed to commit seppuku here, on the beach?”

“He failed in the pit. He stays in the pit. Order the villagers to fill it in. Obliterate all traces of it. The barbarians have defiled it.”

Kiku laughed and shook her head. “No, Omi-san, so sorry; please no more saké for me or my hair will fall down, I’ll fall down, and then where would we be?”

“I’d fall down with you and we’d pillow and be in nirvana, outside ourselves,” Omi said happily, his head swimming from the wine.

“Ah, but I’d be snoring and you can’t pillow a snoring, horrid drunken girl and get much pleasure. Certainly not, so sorry. Oh no, Omi-sama of the Huge New Fief, you deserve better than that!” She poured another thimble of the warm wine into the tiny porcelain cup and offered it with both hands, her left forefinger and thumb delicately holding the cup, the forefinger of her right hand touching the underside. “Here, because you are wonderful!”

He accepted it and sipped, enjoying its warmth and mellow tang. “I’m so glad I was able to persuade you to stay an extra day, neh? You are so beautiful, Kiku-san.”

“You are beautiful, and it is my pleasure.” Her eyes were dancing in the light of a candle encased in a paper and bamboo flower that hung from the cedar rafter. This was the best suite of rooms in the Tea House near the Square. She leaned over to help him to some more rice from the simple wooden bowl that was on the low black lacquered table in front of him, but he shook his head.

“No, no, thank you.”

“You should eat more, a strong man like you.”

“I’m full, really.”

He did not offer her any because she had barely touched her small salad—thinly sliced cucumbers and tiny sculptured radishes pickled in sweet vinegar—which was all she would accept of the whole meal. There had been slivers of raw fish on balls of tacky rice, soup, the salad, and some fresh vegetables served with a piquant sauce of soya and ginger. And rice.

She clapped her hands softly and the shoji was opened instantly by her personal maid.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“Suisen, take all these things away and bring more saké and a fresh pot of cha. And fruit. The saké should be warmer than last time. Hurry up, good-for-nothing!” She tried to sound imperious.

Suisen was fourteen, sweet, anxious to please, and an apprentice courtesan. She had been with Kiku for two years and Kiku was responsible for her training.

With an effort, Kiku took her eyes off the pure white rice that she would have loved to have eaten and dismissed her own hunger. You ate before you arrived and you will eat later, she reminded herself. Yes, but even then it was so little. “Ah, but ladies have tiny appetites, very tiny appetites,” her teacher used to say. “Guests eat and drink—the more the better. Ladies don’t, and certainly never with guests. How can ladies talk or entertain or play the samisen or dance if they’re stuffing their mouths? You will eat later, be patient. Concentrate on your guest.”

While she watched Suisen critically, gauging her skill, she told Omi stories to make him laugh and forget the world outside. The young girl knelt beside Omi, tidied the small bowls and chopsticks on the lacquer tray into a pleasing pattern as she had been taught. Then she picked up the empty saké flask, poured to make sure it was empty—it would have been very bad manners to have shaken the flask—then got up with the tray, noiselessly carried it to the shoji door, knelt, put the tray down, opened the shoji, got up, stepped through the door, knelt again, lifted the tray out, put it down again as noiselessly, and closed the door completely.

“I’ll really have to get another maid,” Kiku said, not displeased. That color suits her, she was thinking. I must send to Yedo for some more of that silk. What a shame it’s so expensive! Never mind, with all the money Gyoko-san was given for last night and tonight, there will be more than enough from my share to buy little Suisen twenty kimonos. She’s such a sweet child, and really very graceful. “She makes so much noise—it disturbs the whole room—so sorry.”

“I didn’t notice her. Only you,” Omi said, finishing his wine.

Kiku fluttered her fan, her smile lighting her face. “You make me feel very good, Omi-san. Yes. And beloved.”