The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (34 page)

Orito, still catching her breath, shakes her head.

Across the cloisters, Asagao and Hotaru are feeding crumbs to a squirrel.

Sawarabi reads others well. “Don’t be afraid of engiftment. You can see for yourself the privileges Yayoi and Yûguri are enjoying: more food, better bedding, charcoal … and now the services of a learned midwife! What princess would be so pampered? The monks are kinder than husbands, much cleaner than brothel customers, and there are no mothers-in-law cursing your stupidity for giving birth to daughters but turning into jealousy incarnate when you produce a male heir.”

Orito pretends to agree. “Yes, Sister. I see that.”

Thawed snow falls from the old pine with a flat thud.

Stop lying
. Fat Rat watches from under the cloisters.
Stop fighting
.

Sawarabi hesitates. “Really, Sister, compared to what blemished girls suffer …”

The Goddess
, Fat Rat says, standing on its hind legs,
is your gentle, loving mother
.

“… down there,” Sawarabi says, “in the world below, this place is a palace.”

Asagao and Hotaru’s squirrel darts up a cloister pillar.

Bare Peak is so sharp it might be etched onto glass with a needle.

My burn
, Orito cannot add,
doesn’t justify the crime of
my
abduction
. “Let’s finish the futons,” she says, “before the others think we’re idling.”

THE CHORES ARE DONE
by mid-afternoon. A triangle of sunshine still lies over the pool in the courtyard. In the long room, Orito helps Housekeeper Satsuki repair nightgowns: needlework, she finds, numbs her longing for solace. From the training ground across the precincts ebbs the sound of the monks practicing with bamboo swords. Charcoal and pine needles rumble and snap in the brazier. Abbess Izu is seated at the head of the table, stitching a short mantra into one of the hoods worn by the sisters at their engiftment. Hashihime and Kagerô, wearing blood-red sashes as a mark of the Goddess’s favor, are applying each other’s face powder; one of the few objects denied even to the highest-ranked
sisters is a mirror. With ill-concealed malevolence, it is Umegae’s turn to ask Orito whether she has recovered from her disappointment.

“I am learning,” Orito manages to say, “to submit to the Goddess’s will.”

“Surely the Goddess,” Kagerô assures Orito, “shall choose you next time.”

“The newest sister,” observes blind Minori, “sounds happier in her new life.”

“Took her long enough,” mutters Umegae, “to come to her senses.”

“Getting used to the house,” counters Kiritsubo,
“can
take time: remember that poor girl from the Goto Islands?
She
sobbed every night for two years.”

Pigeons scuffle and trill in the eaves of the cloisters.

“The sister from Goto found joy in her three healthy gifts,” states Abbess Izu.

“But no joy,” sighs Umegae, “from the fourth one, which killed her.”

“Let us not disturb the dead”—the abbess’s voice is sharp—“by digging up misfortunes without reason, Sister.”

Umegae’s maroon skin hides blushes, but she bows an apology.

Other sisters, Orito suspects, remember her predecessor hanging in her cell.

“Well,” says Minori,
“I
, for one, would prefer to ask the newest sister what it was that helped her accept the house as her home.”

Orito threads a needle. “Time, and the patience of my sisters.”

You’re lying
, wheezes the kettle,
even I hear you’re lying
 …

The sharper her need for solace, Orito notices, the worse the house’s tricks.

“
I
thank the Goddess every single day,” Sister Minori says, restringing her
koto
, “for bringing me to the house.”

“
I
thank the Goddess”—Kagerô is working on Hashihime’s eyebrows—“one hundred and eight times before breakfast.”

Abbess Izu says, “Sister Orito, the kettle sounds thirsty to me …”

WHEN ORITO KNEELS
on the stone slab by the pool to dip the ladle into the ice-cold water, the slanted light creates, just for a moment, a mirror
as perfect as a Dutch glass. Orito has not seen her face since she fled her old house in Nagasaki; what she sees shocks her. The face on the pool’s silvered skin is hers, but three or four years older.
What about my eyes?
They are dull and in retreat.
Another trick of the house
. She is not so sure.
I saw eyes like those in the world below
.

The song of a thrush in the old pine sounds scattered and half forgotten.

What was it
—Orito is sinking—
I was trying to remember?

Sisters Hotaru and Asagao greet her from the cloisters.

Orito waves back, notices the ladle still in her hand, and remembers her errand. She looks into the water and recognizes the eyes of a prostitute she treated in Nagasaki at a bordello owned by a pair of half-Chinese brothers. The girl had syphilis, scrofula, lung fever, and the Nine Sages alone knew what else, but what had destroyed her spirit was enslavement to opium.

“But, Aibagawa-
san
,” the girl had implored, “I don’t
need
any other medicine.”

Pretending to accept the contract of the house
, Orito thinks …

The prostitute’s once-beautiful eyes stared out of dark pits.

… is halfway to
accepting
the contract of the house
.

Orito hears Master Suzaku’s carefree laughter at the gate.

Wanting and needing the drugs takes you the rest of the way
 …

The gatekeeping acolyte calls out, “Inner gate opening, Sisters!”

… and when it’s been done to you once, why resist anymore?

Unless you win your will back
, says the girl in the pool,
you’ll turn into the others
.

I shall stop taking Suzaku’s drugs
, Orito resolves,
from tomorrow
.

The stream leaves the pool through mossy grates.

My “tomorrow,”
she realizes,
is proof that I must stop today
.

“HOW DO WE FIND
our newest sister this evening?” asks Master Suzaku.

Abbess Izu watches from one corner; Acolyte Chûai sits in another.

“Master Suzaku finds me in excellent health, thank you.”

“The sky this evening was a sky from the pure land, was it not, newest sister?”

“In the world below, sunsets were never this beautiful.”

Pleased, the man assesses the statement. “You were not aggrieved by the Goddess’s judgment this morning?”

I must hide my relief
, thinks Orito,
and hide that I am hiding it
. “One learns to accept the Goddess’s judgment, does one not?”

“You have come on a long journey in a short time, Newest Sister.”

“Enlightenment can occur, I understand, in a single moment.”

“Yes. Yes, it does.” Suzaku looks at his assistant. “After many years of striving, enlightenment transforms a man in a single heartbeat. Master Genmu is so pleased with your improved spirits that he referred to it in a letter to the lord abbot.”

He is watching me
, Orito suspects,
for evidence of annoyance
.

“I am unworthy,” she says, “of Lord Enomoto’s attention.”

“Our lord abbot takes a fatherly interest in all our sisters.”

The word “fatherly” evokes Orito’s father, and recent wounds ache.

From the long room come the sounds and smells of supper.

“We have no symptoms to report, then? No aches or bleedings?”

“Truly, Master Suzaku, I cannot imagine being unwell in the House of Sisters.”

“No constipation or diarrhea? Hemorrhoids? Itches? Headaches?”

“A dose of my … my daily medicine is all I would ask, if I may.”

“With the greatest pleasure.” Suzaku decants the muddy liquid into a thimble-sized cup and proffers it to Orito, who turns away and hides her mouth, as women of breeding do. Her body is aching with anticipation of the relief the solace will deliver. But before she can change her mind, Orito tips the contents of the tiny cup into her well-padded sleeve, where the dark-blue hemp soaks it up.

“It has a—a honeyed taste tonight,” Orito pronounces. “Or do I imagine it?”

“What’s good for the body”—Suzaku looks at her mouth—“is good for the soul.”

ORITO AND YAYOI
wash dishes, while Sisters Kagerô and Hashihime are given words of encouragement by their sisters—some shy and some, to judge from the laughter, not at all shy—before being led by Abbess Izu to the altar room to pray to the Goddess. A quarter hour later, the abbess leads them to their rooms, where they await their engifters.
After the dishes are washed, Orito stays in the long room, not wanting to be alone with the thought that in one month’s time it may be her lying with an embroidered hood over her head for a master or acolyte. Her body is complaining about its denied dose of solace. One minute she is as hot as soup, the next as cold as shaved ice. When Hatsune asks Orito to read the last New Year letter from the first sister’s firstborn gift, now a young woman of seventeen, Orito is glad of the distraction.

“‘Dearest Mother,’” Orito reads, peering at the feminine brushstrokes in the lamplight, “‘the berries are red along the verges and one may scarcely credit that another autumn is once more upon us.’”

“She has her mother’s elegance with words,” murmurs Hatsune.

“My Tarô is a blockhead,” sighs Kiritsubo, “compared to Noriko-
chan.”

In their New Year letters
, Orito notices,
the “gifts” regain their names
.

“But what hardworking brewer’s lad like Tarô,” objects proud, modest Hatsune, “has
time
to notice autumn berries? I beg the newest sister to continue.”

“‘Once again,’” reads Orito, “‘it is time to send a letter to my dear mother on distant Mount Shiranui. Last spring, when your First Month letter was delivered to the White Crane Workshop, Ueda-
san
—’”

“Ueda-
san
is Noriko-
chan
’s master,” says Sadaie, “a famous tailor in Miyako.”

“Is that so?” Orito has been told ten times before. “‘Ueda-
san
gave me a half holiday to celebrate its arrival. Before it slips my mind, Ueda-
san
and his wife send their sincerest compliments.’”

“How lucky,” says Yayoi, “to have found such an honorable family.”

“The Goddess always takes care of her gifts,” avows Hatsune.

“‘Your news, Mother, brought me just as much pleasure as you kindly say my foolish scribblings bring you. How wonderful that you are blessed with another gift. I shall pray that he finds as caring a family as the Uedas. Please give my thanks to Sister Asagao for nursing you during your chest illness, and to Master Suzaku for his daily care.’” Orito pauses to ask, “A chest illness?”

“Oh, the trouble my cough caused! Master Genmu sent Acolyte Jiritsu—may his soul be at rest—down to Kurozane to procure fresh herbs from the herbalist.”

A crow
, Orito aches,
could reach Otane’s chimney in a half hour
.

She recalls this summer’s journey to Kurozane and wants to weep.

“Sister?” Hatsune notices. “Is anything the matter?”

“No. ‘What with two large court weddings in the fifth month and two funerals in the seventh, the White Crane was inundated with orders. My year has been a lucky one in another respect, Mother, though I blush to write about it. Ueda-
san
’s principal supplier of brocade is a merchant named Koyama-
san
, who visits the White Crane with his four sons every two or three months. For a couple of years the youngest son, Shingo-
san
, would exchange pleasantries with me as I worked. Last summer, however, during the
O-bon
festivities, I was summoned to the garden teahouse where, to my surprise, Shingo-
san
, his parents, Ueda-
san
, and my mistress were drinking tea.’” Orito glances up at the enraptured sisters. “‘You shall have guessed already what was afoot, Mother—but, being a dull-witted girl, I did not.’”

“She isn’t dull-
phi
tted,” Asagao assures Hatsune, “just
ph
ure and innocent.”

“‘Small talk was made,’” Orito continues, “‘about Shingo-
san
’s many talents and my own pitiful accomplishments. I did my best to master my shyness, without seeming too forward, and afterward—’”

“Just as you advised her, Sister,” clucks Sawarabi, “two years ago.”

Orito watches the sister swell with pride. “‘And afterward, my mistress congratulated me on the favorable impression I had made. I returned to my duties, honored by the praise but expecting to hear nothing more about the Koyamas until their next visit to the White Crane. My foolishness was short-lived. A few days later, on the emperor’s birthday, Ueda-
san
took all his apprentices to Yoyogi Park to enjoy the fireworks along Kamo River. How magical were the brief-blooming reds and yellows against the night sky! Upon our return, my master summoned me into his office, where my mistress told me that the Koyamas had proposed that I become the wife of their youngest son, Shingo. I knelt there, Mother, as if a fox had put a spell on me! Then Ueda-
san
’s wife mentioned that the proposal had come from Shingo. That such an upstanding young man desired
me
as his bride caused tears to flow down my cheeks.’”

Yayoi hands Hotaru a paper cloth to dab her own eyes.

Orito folds the last page and unfolds the next. “‘I asked Ueda-
san
’s permission to speak frankly. My master urged me to do so. My origins
were too obscure for the Koyamas, I said; my loyalties lay with the White Crane Workshop; and that if I entered the Koyama family as a bride, tongues would wag that I had used low cunning to ensnare such a fine husband.’”

“Oh, just grab the lad,” Yûgiri cackles, a little drunk on
sake
, “by his dragon!”

“For shame, Sister,” scolds Housekeeper Satsuki. “Let the newest sister read.”