Chapter

           Twenty

Over silver-smooth lake

Against fish-scaled sky

A sacred mountain

When we got home Misaki said, ‘I’m tired, Kasumi. I think I might be coming down with a cold. I’m going to go straight to bed.’

My mind was still so full of the drama that even when I closed my eyes that night I could see and hear the colour and the noise, but I must have drifted off because I woke with a start when I heard a cry.

Fearing an intruder, I sprang out of bed just as a second cry pierced the air. Misaki! I hurried to the reception room and snatched a vase from the top of the cabinet, then crept across the corridor on trembling legs.

Raising the vase above my head, I entered the room just as Misaki cried out for a third time and found — no one.

Lowering the vase, I saw that Misaki was tossing and turning with fever, crying out in some kind of delirium. Her quilt had been thrown back and her under-kimono was drenched in sweat.

I fetched cold water and a cloth from the kitchen and wiped her face.

The exertion of the day, her encounter with the mysterious young man, it had all been too much for her.

As I alternated between patting her forehead with the cool damp cloth and smoothing her hair back, her cries faded into whimpers and she slept.

I stayed by her bed for a while longer, wondering at the change in her over the last couple of days. First there had been her strange mood after she’d confronted Isamu about her letters, then her insistence on going to the kabuki and her argument — if that’s what it had been — with the same young man I’d seen watching the gate of the house on the evening of my arrival in Edo all those months ago.

When Misaki continued to sleep undisturbed, I returned to my alcove, and fell into a troubled sleep of my own.

The next day Misaki was too ill to leave her bed.

‘Perhaps I should send for Lord Shimizu,’ I suggested.

‘No,’ she said weakly. ‘His business for the daimyo is more important. I’ll be better soon.’

But she still hadn’t improved by the next day. Anxious now, I sent a message to Isamu asking him to bring the doctor from the domain mansion.

When the doctor arrived, he was accompanied by Taro.

‘When Isamu told me Misaki-san was ill, I thought I’d better come see for myself,’ he said. His voice, usually so jovial, was grave.

The doctor was reassuring, however. There was a flu epidemic sweeping the city, but despite the flush to her cheeks Misaki’s temperature didn’t appear to be raised, nor did she demonstrate any other symptoms. There was no cause for alarm, he declared. A few more days of rest and she would be well.

‘Send for me at once if you have any concerns,’ Taro said as they left. ‘But I’m sure the doctor is right; rest is all she needs.’ He sounded relieved, and I realised he must have feared that his friend might suffer yet another tragedy. I was relieved too, and grateful. Knowing I could turn to Taro in Shimizu’s absence made me feel less worried and alone.

Yet Misaki improved only slowly. She didn’t have another night like the one after the kabuki, but instead was overcome by a fatigue so depleting that she was confined to her bed long after the few days the doctor had predicted.

Lord Shimizu came home, and was disturbed to find Misaki so listless. The doctor came again, but repeated that she did not seem to be in danger. Again he prescribed rest.

Shimizu spent hours by his wife’s bedside, stroking her hair and murmuring soft, encouraging words, but she barely stirred. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him everything — about the kabuki and the young man, even about the letters to Isamu — but something kept me silent. I told myself I was protecting Misaki, Isamu, even Shimizu himself, but deep down I suspected it was myself I was protecting. If he found out about the kabuki, he might send me home, and I wasn’t ready to go.

And then he was called on to travel once more. ‘I hate leaving her like this,’ he fretted. ‘You’ll watch over her, Kasumi, won’t you? And you’ll send for me if her condition worsens?’

I promised I would, all the while burdened with the sickening knowledge that I had done nothing to prevent her from falling ill in the first place.

The rhythm of my life changed. Our lessons had been cancelled, of course. Ikebana was not such a loss, but I missed our weekly painting lesson dreadfully. While the ikebana master sent a message containing his hopes for Misaki’s early recovery, Daiki the painting master came in person to enquire after her. To me he said, ‘I hope we’ll be able to recommence our lessons soon. And if you should ever find yourself in Nihonbashi, I hope you’ll call on me. My wife would like to meet you.’

I continued to paint every day, practising various techniques Daiki had shown us. It was only when I lost myself in painting that I was able to forget my distress at Misaki’s condition. I thought about the last time I had seen her truly happy, when she’d returned from her excursion to Hakone, and decided to try to paint one of the scenes she had described to me. Perhaps a recollection of that happy time would shake her from her strange despondence.

I was working on a view across a lake to Mount Fuji, silhouetted against the mackerel sky of autumn, when Isamu came round to check on Misaki’s progress.

I put down my brush and rose to greet him. ‘I’m afraid there’s been no change,’ I said sombrely, but his attention was focused on the painting.

He stared for some minutes without comment, then said, ‘What else have you done recently?’

I wrinkled my nose. ‘They’re not often good enough to keep,’ I said. But I went to my alcove and fetched a couple of paintings I had done of my valley.

These too he regarded in silence. At last he said, ‘Kasumi, these are —’ He paused. ‘I had no idea.’ He lifted his eyes to meet mine. ‘You are a true artist,’ he said.

Embarrassed, I brushed off the compliment. ‘I have a great teacher. You should save your kind words for Daiki sensei. I had never held a brush in my hand before I met him.’

He returned his gaze to the paintings. ‘I haven’t seen your work since I had the scroll made. That painting was good, but these — you have leaped forwards. The sensitivity of the brushwork, the play of light and shadow . . .’ He sounded almost awed.

‘They’re not that good. Never as good as the picture in my mind. But I’ve kept them because they remind me of home. I’m trying to do a scene for Misaki now, but it’s not coming out right.’

He considered the painting on the table. ‘It looks very good to me.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m not feeling the depth of the lake, the weight or volume of the water. If only the painting lessons were continuing. You’re so lucky being able to study it seriously. When will you bring some of your work to show us?’

‘Not yet. Especially now that I’ve seen what you can do after only a few months.’ He smiled. ‘Can you ask Misaki if she’ll see me?’

‘Of course.’

I went to my mistress’s room and repeated Isamu’s request. Misaki just shrugged. ‘If he likes.’ I showed him in, then put on a jacket and went outside to the garden so as to avoid the temptation to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Some time later he came out, and it occurred to me that I had been so preoccupied with my painting I hadn’t even offered him a refreshment.

‘Would you like some tea?’ I asked.

‘Sorry, I can’t. I have business in Nihonbashi.’

‘Nihonbashi? Daiki sensei lives in Nihonbashi. Please let me come with you.’

‘You can’t just turn up at his home,’ Isamu objected.

‘I’ve been invited. He said his wife wants to meet me.’

‘But what about Misaki? You shouldn’t leave her alone.’

‘It won’t be for long. And Ishi will be here.’

‘I’m sorry, Kasumi, but —’

‘Please,’ I begged.

‘I don’t know . . .’

‘I need to talk to him, to ask about my painting.’

Isamu shook his head then sighed. ‘Okay. If it’s really that important.’

Before he could change his mind, I picked up my painting and then went to tell Misaki where I was going, but she was asleep. I decided not to disturb her. I told Ishi I was going out with Isamu, then joined him in the courtyard.

‘What business do you have in Nihonbashi?’ I asked as we set off.

‘Please don’t ask questions — I shouldn’t even be taking you with me.’

I didn’t know why Isamu was acting so secretive. It would probably turn out to be an errand to a tobacco shop.

Instead of heading north, as we had when going to the fireworks in Ryōgoku and the kabuki in Asakusa, this time we headed east.

We soon reached a large square by a river. Wooden piers jutted into the water, the boats alongside them rocking gently. Men in loincloths, their feet planted wide for balance, heaved enormous baskets of fish from boat to pier, where they were taken up by others and delivered to stalls at the market that spread through the square.

We crossed the river over a curved wooden bridge to a wide main street alive with people. Below, narrow boats with sharp pointed bows darted like minnows across the water, two or three passengers in each, the boatmen with their poles manoeuvring quickly and easily among the other vessels.

‘Now you can say you’ve arrived in Edo,’ Isamu told me as we set foot on the far bank.

‘What do you mean?’ My attention was caught by a tea stall with colourfully dressed young women calling out to customers. One of the waitresses even ran out into the path of a young man, who dodged her, laughing, and went instead to the soba noodle stall a little further along.

‘The Nihonbashi bridge is where the Nakasendo highway officially ends.’

‘Really?’ I was barely listening; I was too occupied with looking. On the corner of a busy street was a large shop, the curtains drawn back so that it was open on both sides. Within, I could see a samurai fingering a length of fabric as a small bald shopkeeper spoke quickly and earnestly, gesturing to several bolts of cloth standing tall and straight like a grove of pines. Next to that was a sweet shop and then a shop selling seaweed, a harried-looking woman clutching a child by the arm while extending a basket into which the shopkeeper was piling murky green ribbons. Out on the street was a stall with singing insects, their song momentarily drowned out by the piping of a flute played by a man wheeling a noodle cart.

I had thought Isamu’s errand would take us to a shop, but instead he led me down an alley of row houses with roofs of wooden shingles. Emerging from the alley, we passed a two-storey house with a tiled roof and a warehouse attached (I wrinkled my nose at the smell of dried fish), and then a rice shop, before turning down a narrow lane. He stopped at a house midway along a row.

‘I’ll just be a moment.’ He stepped inside.

What business could he possibly have here?

I edged forwards and peered in.

I saw Isamu standing in front of a man who sat cross-legged at a low table lit by a lamp. The tatami looked neglected, as if it had been a while since anyone had taken it outside and beaten it, and the walls were dull with soot.

The man at the table didn’t look up from his work, just growled, ‘It’s you, is it?’ He dipped his brush in ink then made a long fluid stroke. So he was not writing, then, but painting. Painting what?

My eyes wandered the room until I found my answer: discarded on the floor was a carefully rendered close-up portrait of a man with an exaggerated scowl on his face. It was the same style as the actor portraits I’d seen for sale near the kabuki theatre — and this must be a woodblock print artist.

‘Yes, Makoto-san.’ Isamu was speaking surprisingly respectfully considering their relative positions. How could they possibly know each other? I had joked about his secret ukiyo-e collection, but surely he wouldn’t go so far as to actually study with this man, would he? I thought of the secrets I was keeping from Shimizu myself and winced inwardly.

Isamu held up what looked like a letter and the artist snapped, ‘Put it down and go.’

As Isamu moved forwards to place the letter on the table, a hand grabbed my arm and I screamed. Spinning around, I cried out in shock. It was the young man Misaki had been speaking to at the kabuki.