Laura Rowland - The Incense Game

After the ferry docked, he and his guards trudged through the Honjo district. Its lumberyards, which had once supplied Edo with wood brought from forests in the provinces, looked as if a giant had picked up all the logs and flung them down like a fortune-teller casting yarrow sticks. Peasants labored to pull out the logs that jammed the canals, which had flooded the collapsed neighborhoods. A few houses had survived-the well-built estates of rich lumber merchants. Yanagisawa’s party arrived at one of these. It consisted of four houses grouped around a square courtyard, connected by covered corridors and surrounded by a bamboo fence. Guards stationed outside the gate recognized Yanagisawa and bowed.

Yanagisawa didn’t like to put all his eggs in one basket, but the earthquake had destroyed the separate villas where his four sons had lived with their mothers. His retainers had managed to commandeer this estate for them during the rush when so many people were seeking housing. Yanagisawa gazed up at the plank walls of the houses’ upper stories, the wooden shutters and bars over the windows, and the drab brown tiles on the roofs. Sumptuary laws forbade commoners to flaunt their wealth. Inside, the estate was luxurious. Yanagisawa felt apprehension mount in him as he walked through the gate. He didn’t know if what he found here would be good enough for his purposes. His heart bounded with the hope that one of these sons had Yoritomo’s looks, intelligence, and sweet, tractable personality. If only one of them could be to him what Yoritomo had been!

Yanagisawa banished the wish from his mind. Sentimentality had no place in politics.

As he approached the nearest wing of the mansion, the guard captain came out on the veranda. Yanagisawa said, “I’m here to see my sons.”

The guard captain looked surprised. Yanagisawa hadn’t seen his sons up close since they were born, when he’d examined the infants to make sure they were normal before he acknowledged them as his and provided for their support. He routinely sent his aides to check on the boys and report back to him. When he’d needed one to place close to the shogun, he’d set out to evaluate his sons and choose the best. He’d met Yoritomo-the eldest-and stopped there. Now, here on the same quest, Yanagisawa found himself jittery with nerves.

“How are they?” he asked, prolonging the suspense, avoiding disappointment.

“Tokichika, the youngest, has a fever. He’s often sick with one thing or another.”

“I don’t need to see him, then.” A sickly boy wouldn’t suit Yanagisawa’s purposes. “What about the other three?”

“They’re fine. Shall I tell them you’re here?”

“No.” Yanagisawa strode into the mansion. Walking down the corridor, he came upon a woman. She froze in her tracks. He barely recognized her as his former concubine; he didn’t remember her name. She’d gotten old; she’d gained weight. “Where’s our son?”

She gazed at him for a moment, fearful and mute, then called, “Rokuro! Come quickly! Your father is here!”

A young samurai came running. He tripped, stumbled, and almost fell. Scarlet with embarrassment, he bowed and stammered, “Greetings, Honorable Father.”

Yanagisawa winced. That a child of his could be so awkward! He could see himself in Rokuro, but the resemblance was distorted, as if his son’s features had been shaped by a sculptor using him as a model and working in the dark.

“Are you doing well in your studies?” Yanagisawa asked.

Rokuro looked at the floor. His mother answered, “He needs to work harder.”

Yanagisawa understood that Rokuro was dull-witted. “Can you sing and play music?”

“A little,” the boy muttered.

“I see.” Yanagisawa saw that Rokuro could never attract the shogun, who liked only handsome, clever, charming boys. He left the room without a backward look.

As he walked through the passage to the adjoining house, a boy ran smack into him. Yanagisawa grabbed the youth’s arms to steady them both. They stared at each other in mutual astonishment. Yanagisawa saw a face that was a young version of his own, the image of Yoritomo’s minus some ten years. His breath stopped as if he’d been punched in the chest. Here was Yoritomo, miraculously reborn!

In the next instant, Yanagisawa realized his mistake. Grief resurged with such force that he pushed the boy away from him, turned, and ran outside, where he leaned on the veranda railing and panted. No matter that the boy looked exactly like Yoritomo and might have the same talents; Yanagisawa couldn’t bear to see him again. Every time he looked at the boy, he would be reminded of Yoritomo, confronted with the fact that the boy wasn’t, and could never be, Yoritomo.

Yanagisawa forced himself to walk down the steps and around the corner toward the next house, to enter another door despite his fear of what else he would find. A woman met him in the entryway.

“So it’s true,” she said in a tone that mixed dismay with curiosity. “You’re really here.”

“Someko.” Yanagisawa was amazed because she’d hardly changed in eighteen years. Her deep red kimono clothed a figure that was still small and compact. Upswept hair studded with ornaments gleamed richly black. Her wide face with its delicate, rounded chin was unlined; her tilted eyes sparkled. Someko was as beautiful as the day Yanagisawa had first bedded her. Were he in the mood for sex, he would think her hard to resist even though he usually preferred his lovers-female or male-to be under thirty, and she was at least a decade older.

“I want to see our son,” he said.

“I understand. Your favorite son died, so you need one of your others.”

Her nerve startled Yanagisawa. “Your tongue is still as sharp as a fox’s teeth.”

She smiled, bitter as well as amused. “If my tongue is sharp, it’s because of you.”

She’d been married to a Tokugawa army officer, and he’d stolen her from her husband, whom she’d loved, and made her his concubine. He’d tolerated her anger and her vicious remarks because they’d added piquancy to the sex. After she became pregnant, he’d provided generously for her and, later, the child; but she’d obviously never forgiven him for eighteen years of forced, lonely seclusion. She’d spent them nursing her grudge.

Now Someko took a closer look at him and smirked. “You’ve changed, though. Still handsome as a devil, but you’re an old man.” Compassion altered her manner. “Yoritomo’s death must have been hard for you. I’m sorry.”

Yanagisawa fought tears. “Why should you be?”

The eyebrows painted high on her forehead rose. “I’m a mother. I couldn’t wish losing a child on anyone.” Her bitter smile returned. “But if I could, it would be you.”

Tired of sparring with her, Yanagisawa said, “Where is he?”

“Who?” Someko pretended confusion. “Do you mean Yoshisato? He has a name.” She spoke with rancor because Yanagisawa had ignored her child while lavishing attention on his favorite. “He’s having a martial arts lesson with his tutor.”

She led Yanagisawa to the courtyard at the center of the estate. On the wide, paved square stood a middle-aged samurai dressed in white martial arts practice clothes, sword in hand.

“Where is Yoshisato?” Someko asked.

“He was here a moment ago,” the tutor said. “One of the maids came and told us that his father was here. He just left.”

Yanagisawa realized that Yoshisato had run away to avoid him. “What a nerve he has.”

“He takes after his father.” Someko gave a mean, satisfied smile. “I guess he doesn’t want to see you as much as you want to see him. You may as well go.”

Yanagisawa had come here intending to pick and choose, and he himself had been rejected. He felt an unexpected pang of hurt. He missed Yoritomo so terribly that he wanted to go home and crawl back into bed. But he couldn’t let Yoshisato get away with his insolence, and he still needed a political pawn.