Segaki (13 page)

From outside there came a baying, like that of the ghost foxes, withdrawn and deliberately crazy, as though sound were a dangerous bright bobble on the end of a fishing-line. The sound was so clear that he could almost see the creature’s immaculate front paws, planted so firmly they trembled, on a little hummock, as it lifted its voice up. The sound was less a call than a reminder.

She stirred.

He panicked and glanced swiftly round the room. Against one wall was a light lacquer stand for clothes. This he pulled out and threw the second quilt over it.

The baying stopped and rose up again, even as she again stirred, and then broke off in a series of short, urgent barks. With each one, no doubt, the neat flame on its forehead fell and rose.

The second quilt had been scented. Shaking it out had released a firecracker odour in the room, which,
enhanced
by the heat of the stove, was slightly maddening. He sat down before the draped quilt with no desire to watch.

He could definitely hear her movements now. The foxes barked once more, but from a greater distance, and with more satisfaction. It was a sound like that of those unfortunate foxes who take rabies in the winter and run ravening everywhere, dodging something they cannot dodge, until they foam, contract, and die.

Abruptly the light went out. Spots danced before his eyes, as though someone had thrown oil into a pool, waited an instant, and then churned the water into utter darkness. The sliding panels were inlaid with shell and
ivory. As his eyes adjusted, he caught the glimmer of false fire-light, meteor-light, glow-worm-light, as a pattern half settled into place, the phosphorescence of rotten wood, the cold light of a cat’s eyes, the iridescence of fish scales and fish bones, and the hard elusive glitter of a diamond, not white, but blue, to green, to yellow-red. Then the quilt slithered away from the kotatsu, through whose grid came the secretive coddling glow of sinking coals.

Once more he heard the rain, as that silk slithered
towards
him, and the cloth sank down to him, overwhelmed by its own weight, as though there were no one in it at all.

Yet he could sense an essential innocence, as fresh as the rain, but as resolute and irresolute by turns, for after all, innocent or not, the rain, though it can shift about in direction, knows there is only one way for it to fall, escapes to a pool if it has the force, in pioneer rivulets, but otherwise soaks the ground. He wanted to please her. He scarcely knew how to do so. He thought what he felt must be a kind of love, for the absence of something is less noticeable than the presence of something like it, and in the bustling crowd of sudden physical sensations, which all come pressing in at once, how should we miss a face with which we are not even familiar?

“Did the maid undress me?” she asked softly. Her voice was frightened.

He shook his head, forgetting she could not see the motion.

“Then you saw me.”

He reached out and touched her. Her robe was not even tied. He was surprised to touch cold, impersonal
flesh, that yet was not so much impersonal as only correct against its will.

“No,” she whispered and drew away. Then a shadow half grew out of the darkness, and she began to let down her hair. It fell with the lazy customary swish of a curtain between two poles, a curtain someone has loosened in order to gain privacy.

There must be a cricket somewhere in the bedroom. It began to click. He gave in to his desires, or rather, his will gave in to them, out of surprise, since he had never felt any before, as though to say, well, if that is what you wish, why of course you may have it, why did not you tell me sooner.

That vow of chastity he had once taken, he saw, was not any sacrifice, but only a justification of what had been, in him, the absence of necessity. One must be like other men, in order to be unlike them. But because he had never been so, that had not occurred to him before.

She yielded with an indulgent gravity, that was
somehow
girlish, as though waters long lost in the depths of an exhausted well, supported life again by unexpectedly bubbling over. They began to roll on the floor.

“Oh, it is not true you are a priest,” she said. “You are too skilful and besides, you have the real smell of men.”

“What is that?”

She giggled. “I don’t know. Smells make you remember things you had forgotten so long ago.”

It was true. He was skilful. He did not quite know how, or even in what way. It was merely that he wanted to please, and therefore he did, but only because, since neither of them could be said to exist, since this could not
be happening to him, then it was not necessary to prove that it was correctly done.

He vanished down an alley he had fled from over twenty years ago, he could see it clearly, with mud
underfoot
and venality over the wall of a small court, like a blossom tree, in that scene in the Monogatari in which Genji rides down a suburban alley, and is arrested by someone looking at him from behind a jalousie, but goes into the building opposite instead, simply because they have not met.

The texture of the rain was a less tarnished silver. Perhaps it was beginning to be dawn.

Abruptly she was solemn again, he could sense it. The pupils of her eyes, which had followed several of his glances, now looked at nothing. But he was too drowsy and warm to notice that. There was not even the yap of a fox, and the coals had almost died out. They lay together under the quilt.

Sometime later he was aware that she was getting up.

“Don’t go.”

“I am only going to make tea,” she said. “Tea now would be so delicate.”

He wanted her to come back. “You are so beautiful.”

She flushed and gave a sad, wayward smile, which he did not see. He only felt the smile, which slowly faded, as he again fell asleep. From somewhere under sleep, he heard the surreptitious click of a handle, no doubt against the porcelain of the pot. It had a creamy sound, and then, stirring luxuriously under the quilt, he really was
unconscious
.

He did not know what woke him, but somewhere at the back of his mind heard once more the tinkling of that
intrusive bell. He awoke all over his body at once, like a browsing fish yanked out of the water on to the bank, where it clumsily flops in the searing air. Then he heard what had really wakened him, a curious furry continual bumping. He looked around and saw against one of the paper panels, though the doorway was still open, a plump bewildered butterfly. Light came through its wings, illuminating the glowing coloured spots of the pattern there.

He gazed at it, jumped up, caught its powdery wings between his thumb and forefinger, and cast it out the open panel. Then he looked around him. The room was cold. The fire had gone out, though the teapot stood there. She must have sat there for a long time, sipping the increasingly bitter tea, and watching him while he slept.

He called, but there was no answer, only an echo that died before it could reverberate far. He looked around him, confused and frightened, with an overwhelming sense of loss.

The quilt was gone from the stand. It had been neatly folded again. Draped over the poles now was a
gentleman
’s robe, with beneath it a pair of slippers. But the slippers were of an ancient style and the robe too was ancient, one of two hundred years ago, heavy and rich, in a style long outmoded. It was brittle to the touch and smelled of camphor. He put it on and shuddered. It was like wrapping the past around one’s waist. Then he stood there bandy-legged, really frightened now.

The room was incredibly rich, but also, he saw, patched and carefully repaired. The inlay on the panels was warped and here and there had faded away.

He went out into the corridor. It was just after dawn,
though the sun was not yet perceptible. The lamps along the roof of the corridor still burned, but dimly. It was so quiet that he could hear them splutter, and even as he watched, they began to go out.

He hurried down the hall and came to the great room. It was damp and disused, and here and there plaster had fallen from the walls, or a pillar had split at the base. There was dust everywhere, and spider webs spread from roof tie to roof tie.

Everything seemed to wait and watch, motionless, yet somehow capable of motion. He looked around him, bewildered. Everything here was rare and beautiful and well cared for, but everything was also unnameably old.

He went to the garden. There were tears in his eyes. It could not all have been illusion. The garden was also soundless and watchful. Only a leaf or two, heavy on a long stalk, bowed down and then was still. The moss was grey with decay. He pushed angrily through the bushes to the pool.

He found it black, rippleless, and inexpressive. The obi scarf floated half in and half out of the water, and even as he watched, as though it were something he was not supposed to see, rolled, dipped, and vanished. It had never been.

He could not help it. He turned and fled.

He went through the hall, hurriedly, unaware of what he was wearing, trying to remember from which silent opening he had first emerged. The whole house seemed to tremble. He blundered down long corridors, turned a corner, and found himself in the entrance hall of the gilt Buddha. But the gold leaf had flaked from the Buddha’s face, its left index finger was broken, and the flowers on
its offering-table were wilted and limp. He ran down the steps to the vast entrance court.

It was raked smooth. There was no sign of his entering footsteps to be seen. The building shook again. Here and there in that emptiness weeds sprouted up luxuriantly, an eave creaked, the trees had been denuded of their blossoms by the rain. Again he felt watched. The building seemed to shimmer in the hard dawn light, that was not really light at all, for the fog had risen and the whole dome of the sky was wadded with it, from whence it dripped, a dirty sodden poultice.

Behind him, unexpectedly, and yet expected, rose that withdrawn compressed wail. The ancient camphor of his garment was stifling. He fled across the courtyard, the wail following him, and out the gate, up the path among those trees, not daring to look back, for it seemed, too, that he heard a mocking, unsympathetic chuckle as the wail broke off.

He did not know how he stumbled across that plain with its tufted deserted hummocks, or even how long it took him to do so. He was beside himself. But at last he lurched through the gate of his brother’s house and leaned against its inner pillars.

The dog had been snuffling in the shrubbery. It saw him and bounded joyously forward. But some instinct made him preserve that robe, even though it seemed to stifle him. He beat the dog down, and it ran away disappointed and yelping. Then, changing its mind, it trotted sedately behind him, for it had clearly missed him so much that it did not care how he behaved, given he was there.

Yasumaro was pacing up and down the veranda, with vast agitation. When he saw his brother, he clattered down the steps, across the garden, and then helped him into the house. He seemed shocked to see the robe, but held his brother gently, guiding him and calling out for the girl to prepare something hot, as he led him up the veranda to his own room.

Muchaku was cut off from sympathy by exhaustion, fear, and a touch of fever, but managed to tumble his story out.

Yasumaro questioned him closely about what he had done, too closely, but seemed relieved.

“I would have killed you if you had not done so,” he said.

“Why did you send me?”

“I cannot tell you that. You must rest.”

“I cannot forget it. It hurts,” said Muchaku.

Yasumaro eyed him narrowly and seemed relieved when the girl came. Between them, they gave him
something
to eat and then put him to bed. They tried to
undress
him, but he would not allow them to remove his robe. Somehow it smelled of her fingers.

Then he became unconscious.

Yasumaro sat cross-legged on the floor, his chin on his right hand, and watched. His face was serious and sad, and also impersonally angry, for he was one of those men who can only become angry about a cherished principle or about something that has nothing to do with
themselves
, and most of all, the destruction of anything fine hurt him deeply. It was a pity his brother could not see his face. He would have known then that he was loved.

The room was quiet. After a while the dog slunk into it, gave Yasumaro a wide berth, sniffed at the sleeping Muchaku, and then lay down. Yasumaro watched it, and then reluctantly gathered it to him.

“We will watch, we two,” he said. The dog looked at him reproachfully, gave a little sigh, and curled up against him, its wet nose along its paws. Its violet eyes were puzzled and apprehensive. The girl appeared in the doorway and Yasumaro motioned for paper and ink. When they were brought, he drew rapidly. Then,
dissatisfied
, he fell to watching again.

In two hours Muchaku awoke, again all over, with that feeling of having been summoned. His fever had gone down.

“How long have I been sleeping?”

“An hour or two.”

Muchaku scrambled to his feet. “I am going back,” he said.

Yasumaro seemed to have been expecting that. He became watchful. “That would not be wise.”

“I loved her.”

“You know nothing of love.”

Muchaku did not listen. He was eager to find
something
lost.

Yasumaro sighed. “Very well. I will go with you. But take the dog. It is fond of you, it misses its master, and you will need it.”

“How do you know I am not its master?”

“Because it likes you against its will, like a servant in a borrowed house,” said Yasumaro wearily.

Together they went out of the house, without speaking, and into the wood, with the dog following.

It was when they reached the plain that they could smell the smoke, though they could see no flames. It became thicker as they hurried on. And there was
something
here the dog did not like. It pawed the ground and whined.

Neither Yasumaro nor Muchaku noticed. They went on, with Yasumaro to lead the way, which he did
unobtrusively
, and without explanation, as though it were familiar to him. The smell was heavier and thicker. They began to descend through the black trees into the bowl itself, which was clogged with fumes.

Then, abruptly, they came out opposite the entrance gate and wall, and breaking away, Muchaku ran through the gate, the dog anguishedly loping after him, a worried expression in its eyes, which were smarting from the char.

Yasumaro came up with them. Together they stood on the stone steps of the gate. The sand garden lay before them, but this time the footsteps were still present, though they came towards them from nowhere. The galleries were a smouldering ruin. Even as they watched, the hall beyond fell in. The broken blackened beams stuck up like incinerated bone fragments, and here and there, in that confused mass of soot and desolation, a little foxfire of flame burned greedily, kicking up the last fuel. The twisted statue of the Buddha alone rose out of nothing, its face coated with soot.

It was impossible to venture any further. The ruins were too hot, but the dog ran forward, and then up and down along them, as though searching for a way through. There was no way through.

A gust of wind swooped through the trees, and more things within, that no longer had any support, fell. Even as they stood there, they could see the ruins sinking down, like a suddenly empty dress. Only the blossom trees, already stricken by the rain, remained untouched, and the broad stairs to the entrance pavilion, that now led nowhere.

For a moment Yasumaro grieved and the dog was still.

To Muchaku it was unexpectedly to lose something invaluable that one had not even known enough to search for.

“Then she was a ghost,” he said at last.

Yasumaro stirred, without looking at him, and then sat
down on the steps. The dog came to him at once. “Yes, she was a ghost,” he said. “The ghost of herself.”

Muchaku stirred. His brother had always tried to protect him, now as always. It was true: he should not have come back. One should never see something again once one has lost it for good.

He looked towards the ruins, half expecting some sound, some shape, some faintly scented warmth. But of course there was none. Only, as the ruins fell in, the trees of the abandoned garden came into prominence, and he remembered the ancient pool.

“What was this place?” he asked at last.

“It was hers. It was a royal summer pavilion of the Fujiwara,” said Yasumaro, burying his hands, which trembled, in the dog, and the taut skin of his face looked tighter than ever.

The Fujiwara had ruled almost two hundred years ago. They had ceased to rule in 1185.

“Lady Furikake was the last of them. She was a very great lady. That robe you are wearing must have belonged to her great-great-grandfather. It is a court robe. This was their last villa, her marriage portion. She was married to a Minomoto. He was a young lord of the minor branch, and it was a marriage of convenience. That was twenty years ago, but they found out that they loved each other. She was very delicate. And then, because the Hojo feared opposition even where it did not exist, our own family, though we have cast ourselves out of it, he was murdered. But he might have started a son. She was watched. And she was pregnant. When the child was born, it was strangled.

“But they left her here, with that old witch to guard
her. Perhaps our cousins in Kamakura were frightened of her, and of this house. It was too fine for them, so they left it alone. And now it is the Hojo’s turn to be turned out and murdered. Her servants ran away months ago. And the times are troubled. The others who live here have fled. That is why the villas are shut up. But she was the last Fujiwara. This villa was her ancestors’. She would not leave it. Nor would she have either it or herself touched.

“So she sent her servant to me last night. You met her. She had great sensibility. For years she had to live alone. She was reared to please a man, but there was no man to please. She was forbidden to remarry, any man she married would have been killed, and she was too
fastidious
for anything else.

“She was determined no one should violate either her or her ancestors. She would destroy both first. But first, also, she wanted to spend one evening as she had lived in her youth. She wanted to please someone before she went away. That is what her servant came for. We were friends, I think. I was very fond of her. I would have gone myself. But we knew each other too well, and I thought she would like you better. She deserved someone new, the stranger she never expected and always hoped for. Besides she had much to teach. Every day here she lived as would a court lady and wife, pretending there was someone to please. You are not unlike that husband, whom she must have forgotten in everything but presence. But we cannot go on repeating the moment indefinitely. At last we must stop, and it is only then that we begin to live in the present. With me we would only have talked like old friends. But you also stopped years ago,
when you were still young. So perhaps the two of you went on a little way, before she had to leave.”

Muchaku wanted back that indefinite moment, for he had made mistakes. He thought of her standing lost in the pool. “But she cannot be gone,” he said.

“No. She is a ghost. It is only that we will never see her again, but be aware of her always, and she of us, never.” As Yasumaro said that, the dog lifted its head and stared towards the house.

Yasumaro put his hand on Muchaku’s shoulder. “You pleased her, I think,” he said gently. “Otherwise you would not have wanted to come back. And nothing we please ever completely leaves us.” Unexpectedly he broke into a sad smile and embraced his brother.

The fire had impregnated the air with the imprisoned odours of the building’s aromatic woods, and somehow that freshened them. Feeling the warmth of his brother around him, Muchaku began to laugh, they both laughed, when sadness makes one lose one’s balance, what can one do but laugh, the dog looked up again, and then, padding across the courtyard, Muchaku reached up carefully and snapped off a tall graceful branch from one of the plum trees. The branch was old, but some of the leaf buds were a young green, and as it vibrated in his hand, it cast off a few remaining drops of the night’s quiet rain.

Then, with the tips of it, he raked away his footsteps, so that at least the sand garden should remain inviolate. But when he was through, he took the branch back to Yasumaro’s house, and the robe, when he returned, he was careful to fold discreetly away.