I. Parker - Death of a Doll Maker

Tenjin was the posthumous name bestowed upon Sugawara Michizane on the occasion of his deification. Akitada’s ancestor had become a god, and shrines were built to him all over the country. Miracles had allegedly happened over the past century. Akitada might have felt proud except for one circumstance: all this veneration was due to fear.

Michizane’s death from an unjust exile with inhuman conditions had produced a crisis of conscience among his enemies. They had ascribed all disasters befalling the nation to the vengeance of Michizane. An abnormal number of diseases, earthquakes, typhoons, droughts, and imperial illnesses had brought about his deification and veneration. This appalled Akitada, who did not much believe in vengeful ghosts and certainly did not wish to have Michizane remembered as one.

However, in this instance he merely nodded.

“Have you visited his shrine, yet? It’s magnificent. We pride ourselves on having made a special effort because Kyushu is the place of the Great One’s death.”

“I shall give myself the honor as soon as immediate duties permit it. I wonder if you’d be so kind and tell me a little of local conditions?”

“Gladly, Your Excellency. Is there anything special you want to know?” The priest smiled.

Akitada decided smiling was not one of his habits. It was merely an infrequent social gesture. He said, “I’m ill at ease about the large number of foreign persons who seem to be resident in my province. Perhaps you might enlighten me a little about them?”

“Ah. Well you’ve met Feng and Yi, the two men who administer their respective settlements. They are both most respectable gentlemen. Feng is a very successful merchant, third generation of merchants who have worked tirelessly to further trade between our countries. And Yi is a schoolmaster. He runs Hakata’s school and has prepared many a hopeful son of the local gentry for entry to the imperial university. He’s a very learned man. Under such men, the two communities are exceedingly well-run and will not give you any problems.”

“Thank you. That’s good to hear, but what about the trading situation?”

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Kuroda seemed startled by the question. He looked away, clearly gathering his thoughts before replying. “Hakata derives its income from trade, particularly from shipping,” he said. “Tax shipments pass through here, and most of the common people are employed in shipping and transport. I’m not sure what aspect you’re interested in.”

“As there are many Chinese and Koreans here, apparently comfortably and permanently settled, foreign trade comes to mind.”

“Ah. But you’re aware, I think, that our laws restrict the exchange of goods with China and Koryo. Since the Toi invasion, the government in Dazaifu has kept a close eye on this.”

“Perhaps, but I’m told the foreign merchants simply take their cargo to landing places belonging to local landowners, thus escaping both restrictions and taxes. Is this a problem in Chikuzen province?”

Now Kuroda was really uncomfortable. Akitada deduced that he did indeed know of illegal practices but would at all costs protect the people involved.

And as expected, Kuroda lied. “I’ve been told such trading has been legalized with special sanctions. In my position I’m not privy to these activities, Your Excellency. If there are illegalities, they are surely extremely rare.”

And with that, he made his excuses and departed. Akitada looked after him thoughtfully. He did not linger either. Paying his bill, he set out for Master Feng’s shop.

The building was of an impressive size, and the very handsome carved and gilded panels and shop signs hinted at success. He entered.

The interior was dim after the bright street outside. A strangely exotic smell hung in the air: the scent of sandalwood and lacquer, of paint pigments and strange perfumes, of paper and exotic woods. It took him a moment to adjust his eyes. Then he saw racks upon racks of merchandise: porcelain bowls and dishes in every imaginable shape and color, earthenware vessels with lustrous glazes, carved figures, dolls, metal braziers with ornate patterns, musical instruments of all sorts, stacks of fabrics in many colors, including silks, gauzes, and brocades, embroidered coats and jackets for women, embroidered sashes for men, and a very large number of books and rolled up scrolls. These racks not only covered all the walls, but many were free-standing and divided the large space into smaller ones. He was so impressed by this abundance that he did not notice the slight young man who approached from behind one of the racks on silent felt shoes.

“May I assist the gentleman?”

Akitada jumped. “Oh,” he said with a little laugh. “I came in to browse and admire. And perhaps”-he nodded toward the shelf holding dolls in bright clothes-”to buy something for my children.”

The young man, who had an unhealthy color and a pimply face, bowed. “Please allow me to show you what we have.”

Akitada was given a tour of the store with explanations. His admiration for Feng’s collection increased. The young assistant unrolled paintings for him which amazed him with the fine details rendered by the Chinese painters. In one scroll painting of a village, every roof tile and every twig on the bare trees was lovingly drawn. As impressive as such artistic ability and patience was, the scene also showed him life as it was lived in China. He bent closely over the scroll, which the shop assistant unrolled to a considerable length, and saw it took him from the outskirts of a village though its center with a teeming market and out to the last straggling houses before road and river disappeared into hazy mountains.

“This is exquisite,” he said. “It seems the work of a divine being.”

The assistant nodded. “Master Feng ordered it for the last governor. I’m afraid he won’t sell it now.”

This startled Akitada, and he looked up. “But surely someone else may want this. How much would such a painting cost?”

“I don’t really know, sir, but there is a smaller scroll, not quite so detailed, which I could sell you for forty pieces of gold.”

The prices were much too rich for him. Akitada cast one last longing glance at the Chinese village and turned away. While the young man rolled up the precious scroll again, he wandered over to the shelf with the dolls. Surely he could afford two of these. He missed the children, and it would give him pleasure to send them home by the next boat, along with his letter to Tamako. And she should also have a piece of Chinese silk.

The dolls were charming, their bodies made of pale, glazed clay and their chubby childish faces painted with black eyes and tiny rosebud mouths. Their hair was modeled clay, painted a glossy black, but their short bodies were covered with real fabric costumes, sewn from scraps of silk, ramie, or brocade. Several of the girl dolls wore Chinese costumes, and among the boy dolls were a few in elaborate warrior gear, the metal of their armor made of silvered or gilded bits of paper.

He looked at a number of them as the young man hovered by his side. “How charming. Are these made locally?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Akitada took up several more and admired them. Eventually, he said regretfully, “These are lovely, but I think a child would soon destroy such fine work. I have a daughter and a small son. Neither, I think, is old enough for these.” He looked about and saw another batch of dolls at the end of the rack. These were more simply dressed. The fired clay bodies seemed sturdier. He picked up a soldier. “This should do very well,” he started when a very large, very ugly man suddenly appeared at his side.