Chapter

           Eight

Cracking of branches

Colours painting the heavens:

Flowers in the sky

I thought we had seen the last of the rain, yet I woke one morning to find the day had dawned grey and drizzly.

‘I hope it doesn’t last too long,’ Misaki fretted. ‘They might have to cancel the fireworks festival.’

I had never seen fireworks before. ‘Are they actually like fire in the sky?’ I asked.

‘Not exactly. They’re more delicate. They’re like . . . they’re like drawings in the sky with light and colour and movement — and they’re so loud.’

‘If I stand in the garden, will I be able to hear them?’

‘Probably.’

‘Will I be able to see them?’ Drawings in the sky . . . what a beautiful notion.

‘I’m sorry, Kasumi. I don’t think so.’ Her eyes were soft with regret. I knew she felt bad that I wouldn’t be going, but I didn’t; I knew that the ladies-in-waiting from the domain mansion would be real ladies, not like me. ‘So what should we do this morning?’ Her eyes wandered to the window. ‘I would’ve liked to spend time in the garden.’

I remembered the box I had found in the cabinet. ‘We could play a shell-matching game.’

‘Shell-matching? What are you talking about?’

‘The box in the cabinet. I found it the other day.’ As I was talking, I had moved to the cabinet and removed the box. ‘Was it part of your wedding set?’

Misaki frowned slightly as she looked at the octagonal box, and it occurred to me that she probably hadn’t had a wedding set, not on this scale. Shell-matching boxes were for the daughters of daimyo and their highest-ranking samurai retainers.

‘No, it’s not mine.’ She bit her lip. ‘It’s from my husband’s family, perhaps. I didn’t know it was there. I haven’t really looked through the cupboards.’

That seemed to me to show a remarkable lack of curiosity. Or politeness; I shouldn’t have been looking through my master’s possessions without permission, I realised with shame. Still, it was done now.

I opened the top of the box. ‘Look at the shells. They’re exquisite.’

Moving closer, Misaki kneeled beside me and pulled a shell from the box. ‘So many of them! Oh, look at this one.’ On the inside of the shell were painted cherry blossom branches on a gold background, with what looked like a line of verse written down the side.

‘What does it say?’

She peered at it, then shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I think there are supposed to be three hundred and sixty pairs,’ I offered. ‘Shall we play?’

We laid out the shells from the top tray so that their pictures were visible.

The morning passed very happily, though Misaki pretended to sulk when I had found two pairs for every one of hers.

Fortunately the rain didn’t last long. By the afternoon the skies were clear and we were able to take tea by the pond. It was the same spot in which Taro had revealed Lord Shimizu’s secret, the only difference being the appearance of blue and white bellflowers in the garden. Misaki had a fan painted with bellflowers, I recalled, thinking I must remember to give it to her to carry the next time we came outside. She was still carrying the iris fan, but their season was coming to an end. What would be suitable for the fireworks? I wondered. If there was a wrong note struck in her dress or accessories, would it be observed? I turned to her to ask, then decided not to trouble her with my anxieties. I was only worried because I knew her secret — she didn’t know I knew, and I wanted to keep it that way.

As it turned out, I was not alone in my anxiety. In the week since Shimizu had first announced that they would be going to Shunsho’s viewing party, Misaki had seemed excited by the prospect, enlivened, but on the morning of the fireworks festival itself she was pale. She ate no breakfast, and my attempts to engage her in conversation about the event were met with short answers.

Finally I asked, ‘Are you unwell, my lady?’

The face she turned on me was drawn not with illness but apprehension. ‘To be honest, Kasumi, I’m a little scared. Tonight will be my first time meeting my husband’s friends.’

The afternoon of the festival was spent in getting ready. We went through Misaki’s kimonos trying to decide which best suited the occasion. ‘What do you think of this one?’ She held up a kimono of bright red silk embroidered with threads of yellow, indigo and pale blue.

‘That must be what fireworks look like,’ I said.

‘Oh good, I thought so too. You don’t think it’s too bright?’

‘But the fireworks will be bright,’ I pointed out. ‘And besides, it’s so beautiful.’ I traced an embroidered flower with my finger.

I redid Misaki’s hair, using the red comb from Yabuhara as an ornament. Then she reapplied her white face makeup, and I took the brush to paint around the nape of her neck. A light application of rouge to her cheeks and lips, and then it was time for the kimono.

‘What if they don’t like me?’ she said tremulously as I tied the obi.

I suspected what she meant was: What if they see through me? After all, the only person she’d had to fool so far was me, and while I could spy the new shoot of a fern among a carpet of leaves, my eye for people had proved not quite so discerning: I hadn’t suspected her secret at all.

‘How could they not like you?’ I responded, pushing her towards the reception room.

To our surprise Isamu was waiting there with Shimizu, so striking in his formal over-jacket and hakama that for a moment I couldn’t drag my eyes away. Fortunately he didn’t notice, as his eyes were fixed on Misaki.

‘You look lovely, Misaki-chan,’ Shimizu told his wife.

Isamu said nothing, but his gaze spoke volumes and, while I had never really bothered about my looks, for a moment I regretted not being beautiful myself.

Misaki gazed shyly at the floor.

‘It’s nearly sunset,’ Shimizu said. ‘We should be leaving.’

Misaki clutched my wrist. ‘Will you be listening in the garden?’

Isamu looked at her. ‘Did you want Kasumi to come with us?’

His uncle glanced at me in apology. ‘I never thought . . .’

‘I know that some of the other wives will have their ladies-in-waiting with them,’ Isamu said. ‘Even from my quarters I’ve been hearing them all shrieking over their robes since dawn.’

Their silk robes, I thought to myself. ‘No, no,’ I said, indicating my plain cotton kimono. ‘I don’t think . . .’

‘No one will be looking at you,’ Isamu interrupted. ‘They’ll be looking at Misaki.’

It was true, but the comment stung all the same.

‘I suppose . . .’ Shimizu said doubtfully. Was he really considering it? Suddenly I didn’t care about my kimono if it meant I could see fireworks. I could guess why he was hesitating: I was as unconventional a choice for a lady-in-waiting as Misaki was for a wife. Would my unsuitability for my role highlight some unsuitability in Misaki?

‘I’ll look after her, Uncle,’ Isamu promised. ‘We’ll stay in the background and no one will even know we’re there, right, Kasumi?’

I nodded eagerly, mentally thanking Isamu for saying exactly the right thing.

‘Oh yes, do let’s take Kasumi. She’s never seen fireworks. And it would be so good to have her there in case . . .’ I could see Misaki searching for a reason why my presence would be beneficial. ‘In case I lose a hairpin,’ she said.

We all looked at Shimizu in appeal. I tried my best to look like an efficient finder of hairpins.

‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘But you be careful not to lose her in the crowd, Isamu. And you, Kasumi . . .’ He smiled. ‘You keep a close eye on my wife’s hairpins.’ He glanced at her hair. ‘I see you’re wearing the comb from Yabuhara.’

She touched it. ‘It’s my favourite.’

We moved out towards the gate, where two palanquins waited to transport Lord Shimizu and Misaki. The festival was to be held in Ryōgoku by the Sumida River, a walk of about three-quarters of an hour.

‘I know a walk like this is nothing to you, Lady Kasumi,’ Isamu remarked.

I rolled my eyes at his teasing. ‘I’m glad of it,’ I said. ‘I’m used to taking long walks every day.’ After being confined to strolling in the garden, it felt good to be moving. I discreetly held up my kimono so I could take longer strides, and I easily kept pace with Isamu, looking about me curiously; it was my first chance to have a proper look at where I now lived.

We were walking on a road lined with tall trees and long whitewashed walls on either side.

‘So this neighbourhood is called Kanda?’ I asked.

‘That’s right. We’re on a plateau between the Shogun’s castle and the downtown area. Do you see that river?’ He pointed ahead of us. ‘This side of the river is called inner Kanda, because it’s closest to the castle. A lot of government officials live here. In fact, that wall there is a daimyo’s compound. Quite a few daimyo have their mansions in inner Kanda.’

‘Where’s the Matsuyama mansion?’

‘Daimyo Alley is that way. A lot of it was destroyed in the earthquake and it’s only just been rebuilt.’

I nodded, remembering the terrible earthquake that had struck Edo a few years before in Ansei 2. We had even felt the tremors in Tsumago.

We crossed the bridge over the river, one of many bridges I could see up and down the waterway. Shops and houses were packed close together here, and there seemed to be people everywhere — and the noise! I was reminded of a flock of geese, with the calling and honking, but there seemed to be no order to the movements of the shopgirls and hawkers, samurai and deliverymen, geishas and children and carpenters and flower-sellers and . . . I was feeling almost dizzy.

Ahead of us the palanquins bearing Shimizu and Misaki were stopping and starting, and at times I lost sight of them as shoals of people moved between us. Instinctively I walked closer to Isamu, his confidence and the familiarity of him reassuring me.

‘It’s so big.’ I tried to make it sound like an observation, but my voice must have betrayed how startled I was by the scale.

‘Don’t think of it as one huge city,’ Isamu suggested. ‘They say that Edo is made up of eight hundred and eight neighbourhoods. When you think of it that way it doesn’t seem so overwhelming. Look there.’ In what I suspected was an attempt to distract me, he pointed to a street we were passing; all along it I saw huge swathes of material hung from wooden rails. ‘That’s the street where the dyers live. It’s their cloth you can see drying.’

Soon I forgot my nerves and was able to focus on other vignettes of city life. Lounging outside a toothpick shop was a beautiful woman puffing at a pipe, a chicken pecking at her feet. A young boy, his hair standing straight up like the bristles on a pig, ran ahead of his samurai father; in his hand was a ball made from strips of brilliantly coloured kimono silk.

A gust of breeze blew up and a shop curtain flapped sideways, the movement echoed by the hem of a kimono and a banner in the shape of a carp left over from the boys’ festival several weeks earlier. Even the low line of cloud sitting just above the horizon, catching the last rose and gold of the setting sun, was aligned.

And then the sun retreated, leaving a clear dusky sky salted with the first stars. I felt such a wave of euphoria come over me to be part of the bustle of the crowd beneath that immense sky that I laughed aloud.

‘What’s funny?’ asked Isamu.

I shook my head. ‘Nothing. It’s just — look at it all!’ People were jostling us from all sides, the twanging of a shamisen rising above the murmur of voices, and above that a vendor calling, ‘Okonomiyaki straight from Osaka! Okonimiyaki straight from Osaka!’

‘It makes you laugh?’ Isamu said.

‘Yes!’ I exclaimed, turning towards him. ‘It’s just so . . . alive. And I’m here, in the middle of it.’ I flung my arms out wide to embrace it all, and as my eyes met his I had a sudden urge to fling my arms around him too, because wasn’t he part of it? And wasn’t it because of him that I was here now, instead of spending a long evening alone in the house?

His eyes widened as if he could read my thoughts and for a moment we just gazed at each other. He seemed to sway towards me, then abruptly took a step back. Embarrassed, I dropped my arms to my sides. I hadn’t really been suggesting . . .

‘You’re a strange girl,’ he said, shaking his head, but he was smiling. I supposed he thought I was the one worthy of ridicule. He was used to sedate ladies in silk kimonos riding in palanquins, and here was I, striding along like a peasant in my old cotton kimono laughing to myself. He must be horrified.

We were approaching another river, spanned by the biggest bridge I had ever seen. Pleasure boats lit with lanterns bobbed along sedately, smaller boats skating between them like water striders on the surface of a pond. Voices and laughter and snatches of music echoed across the water. Wide flat ferry boats guided by boatmen with poles plied a course from one side of the river to the other.

Ahead of us, where the bridge joined the land once more, was a cluster of stalls hung with banners, so many of them they obscured my view of the water. The variety of food was extraordinary: a family stood by a stall eating sushi next to a man grilling eel over coals. The smell of cooking oil hung in the air like a cloud from the tempura which people ate from skewers.

As we moved away from the stalls, the crush eased until finally we were strolling beneath cherry trees in full leaf. The palanquins stopped and Shimizu and Misaki alighted. Misaki turned to look for us and I waved.

‘This is it,’ said Isamu as ahead of us his uncle and Misaki walked into the gathering of samurai and their ladies.

It seemed to me that there was a perceptible ripple through the crowd as they passed.

And then I heard someone say: ‘Have you seen Lord Shimizu’s new wife?’

‘I know! And so young! She can’t be much older than his daughter.’ The voice that spoke was as tart as yuzu.

His daughter! What was the woman talking about? Shimizu had no children.

‘Look at her kimono,’ said a third voice. ‘So garish — she looks like a geisha. She should be riding in one of the boats down there.’

‘No!’ The response was both scandalised and thrilled.

‘Lady Aimi never would have worn something like that,’ said the third voice again, clearly preoccupied with fashion. She sounded rather envious, I thought.

To me, Misaki’s kimono was so beautiful I hadn’t stopped to wonder if it was appropriate. I glanced around subtly at the women who were speaking and saw three ladies of about my mother’s age, their eyes fixed on Misaki as they spoke behind their fans. They were all soberly dressed, the patterns on their kimonos subdued and delicate.

‘I’m just glad Rin-san isn’t here to see.’

Lady Aimi? Rin? Who were they talking about?

‘I don’t know about that,’ said the yuzu-voiced woman. ‘I think Rin-san would be very interested to meet Lord Shimizu’s wife.’ Her conversation was heavy on emphasis I noticed, as if her words were weighted with significance.

‘I doubted he would marry again, you know. Never did I imagine this.’

Marry again? So he’d been married before. Did Misaki know? She must. But what had happened to Shimizu’s first wife?

‘How dare they?’

Isamu’s voice was close to my ear.

‘What would those obabas know about it?’ he said furiously. ‘My uncle’s remarriage is a cause for joy. Those old women are just jealous because Misaki is so much more beautiful and charming than they ever were.’

I had just opened my mouth to repeat, ‘Remarriage?’ when a huge bang made me scream and clutch his arm. ‘What’s happening? Is it an earthquake?’

Isamu laughed. ‘It’s only the fireworks. Look at the sky.’

Humiliated, I let go of his arm, but almost grabbed it again at the strange and wonderful sight. The sky was exploding with flowers, raining colours, stars bursting to unleash waterfalls with silken threads of red and gold. The sound was tremendous; like the cracking of branches under the weight of snow — not a single tree but a whole forest of branches.

All around me upturned faces were lit with colour, and initial exclamations gave way to sighs of appreciation.

For a long time I forgot where I was, transfixed by the spectacle in the sky. It was like being transported into a celestial realm.

When at last the noise of the fireworks had died away there was a momentary lull as the crowd adjusted themselves to earthbound existence once more, and then one of the three women whom I had heard gossiping stepped forwards.

‘Lord Shimizu!’ The yuzu-voiced woman was affecting surprise, as if she hadn’t been trailing behind making acid observations.

Shimizu greeted her with a polite bow. ‘Aiko-san, let me introduce you to my wife.’ He made the introductions and Misaki clasped her hands in front of her and bowed deeply.

‘Misaki-san, I’m delighted to meet you.’ Aiko’s voice was mochi-sweet now. ‘We were beginning to think you were hiding your lovely wife from us, Lord Shimizu.’

Aiko was truly two-tongued; I was glad Misaki wasn’t aware of the vinegar behind her words. She was murmuring a polite response when the group was joined by Taro and a slender woman who was several inches taller than him.

‘Misaki-san,’ he interrupted, ‘I have been looking forward to introducing you to my wife, Miri.’

Miri bowed and said with what could only be genuine warmth, ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Misaki-san. Taro tells me he has never seen such exquisite ikebana arrangements as yours and he doesn’t say such things lightly.’

Misaki ducked her head to hide her smile and her husband beamed proudly.

‘Is it your first time at the festival? I suppose it must be. When we first came to Edo — over fifteen years ago now — it used to be a competition between two guilds, but then there was a fire.’

As Miri spoke the word ‘fire’, Misaki unconsciously put a hand to her scarred cheek.

‘Fires are such a big problem in Edo,’ Miri continued with a sigh. ‘Despite the watch towers, the fire brigade. I’ve lost count of how many . . .’ She trailed off with a quick look at Shimizu, then finished, ‘Since then, all fireworks have to be let off near the river. Have you met Yada Kunisada and his wife, Tatsumi?’ It was an abrupt change of subject. Did she know something about how Misaki had received her burn?

As servants handed around cold tea, Taro and his wife drew more and more people into the circle.

I nudged Isamu. ‘You should be with them. Honestly I’ll be fine by myself. I’m enjoying watching.’

‘I promised my uncle I’d look after you. Let me try to get my hands on some of that tea. Don’t move.’

By now Lord Shimizu and Misaki were the centre of the gathering as everyone flocked to meet Shimizu’s bride. And though they couldn’t conceal their curiosity, they clearly held Shimizu in high esteem and thus were willing to accept his wife as one of their own. And there was no reason why they shouldn’t. No one, not even Aiko, could possibly fault Misaki’s good manners. And plenty of the younger women were wearing kimonos at least as colourful as Misaki’s; several of them even made admiring comments.

The only people who didn’t seem delighted by Misaki were the three women I’d overheard earlier. I watched them watching her, surprised by how angry I felt. Despite my secret knowledge of Misaki’s low rank, she was far more ladylike than them.

‘If only it were light and we could see her shadow,’ said Aiko in a low voice.

Her companions tittered. ‘You think she might have a tail?’

‘It’s possible. She has a fox’s face.’

On the one hand this could be taken as a compliment, a reference to Misaki’s narrow, high cheekbones. But I suspected Aiko was suggesting that Misaki might be a shapeshifter, a fox who had assumed the form of a beautiful woman in order to bewitch Shimizu.

One of Aiko’s ladies nudged her and pointed to me. ‘Someone’s servant is listening.’

They all turned to glare. I knew I should lower my head, even bow to show deference before these high-ranked ladies, but I didn’t. I just stared, and eventually they were the ones to turn and move away.

‘Here you are.’ Isamu was back with the tea. ‘Why are you looking so sour?’

I was saved from answering by an explosion of sound and colour. The fireworks had started again.

It was long past the time we were usually in bed when Shimizu and Misaki returned to the palanquins and we started for home. I was content just to plod along beside Isamu without speaking. The night had held so many wonders, and so many mysteries, that I felt I would need a week just to unpack them all. Isamu too was quiet, breaking the silence only once to mutter angrily, ‘Those women who dared to insult Misaki . . .’

I recalled his fierce defence of her earlier, how he had spoken of his uncle being lucky to have such a beautiful and charming wife. Was he himself charmed by her? He had accused the three obabas (though they weren’t that old, really) of being jealous, but perhaps it was he who was jealous of his uncle . . . I tried to ignore how the thought troubled me.

The lamps were still burning in anticipation of our arrival when we passed through the gate into the courtyard of Lord Shimizu’s house. He stepped quickly from the palanquin, bid farewell to Isamu and went to speak to Goro, the night guard.

I was distracted from Isamu’s departure by Misaki, who began talking as soon as she alighted from her palanquin. ‘Weren’t the fireworks beautiful, Kasumi?’ She turned to her husband, who had joined us. ‘And your friends were so kind.’

Her husband smiled down at her. ‘I could tell they were all charmed by my beautiful wife.’ Almost the same words Isamu had used, I noted.

They both seemed elated, as if a test had been passed. And for the most part it had — so why did I feel so apprehensive? Who cared what those three women thought?

I helped Misaki to undress, then went to my own little alcove across the corridor. As I unrolled my futon, I could still hear the faint cracking of fireworks. I would have heard them from the garden, I reflected, but that would have given me no true picture of what they were like. I had Isamu to thank for that. Even though I knew it was Misaki he’d been thinking of when he’d urged his uncle to permit me to join them, I was grateful. And he had been true to his promise to Shimizu: he had looked after me well. Because he was honourable, I reminded myself, not out of any affection for me. He was amused by me: ‘a strange girl’ he had called me.

It was so different from the way he looked at Misaki. I remembered how his eyes had widened when she entered the reception room that evening in her exquisite red kimono with the red comb glowing in her hair. Little did he know that she was just a commoner like me. But while he mightn’t know that, he clearly knew more than I did; he knew that Misaki was not Lord Shimizu’s first wife. But where was his first wife now? Perhaps this was the tragedy Taro had mentioned . . .

Despite my fatigue, I was awake for a long time.