I. Parker: Death on an Autumn River

But the stems of bamboo thinned abruptly, and he found himself at the edge of a garden filled with vegetables and melon plants. A tiny house stood under a wide catalpa tree beyond the neat woven fencing that protected the garden from wildlife. And there an old woman was feeding a small flock of chickens and ducks.

He startled her when he called out, but she made him the most graceful bow. It would have done honor to an imperial princess, yet she was a frail white-haired creature, barefoot and in patched rags. For some obscure reason, he felt extremely flattered, and on his best behavior, he bowed also and said, “Please forgive me for startling you. I’m looking for a man called Fukuda. He is said to live nearby.”

“He lives here, my Lord,” she said, her voice still strong and quite beautiful. “May I announce you?”

Akitada glanced at the poor shack, the squawking fowl, the rows of vegetables. He felt silly, giving her his name as if he were calling on some great lord, but he did so anyway and watched her perform another flawless obeisance. She walked away from him as gracefully as a young woman, then ducked inside the hut.

It came to him that she must have been one of the courtesans at one time, perhaps even the ranking beauty. Her hair, twisted up in back, was still thick and long, though white as snow, and the wrinkled face retained some former beauty. Only the most rigorous training could have produced such perfect manners and posture.

She reappeared with two plain cushions. These she placed in the shade of the catalpa tree and invited him to sit. “It’s a pleasant morning,” she said. “Fukuda thought you would be more comfortable here than inside.”

Akitada sat and smiled up at her. “An excellent idea.”

“Please forgive this slow old woman,” she said and tripped off into the vegetable patch to select a ripe melon. This she cut up with a knife she carried tied to a string around her waist. She presented it to him on a large cabbage leaf.

Akitada said, “Thank you. You take too much trouble. Please sit down and rest.”

But Fukuda had appeared in the doorway of the hut. He was leaning on a stick and made his way painfully toward them. She went quickly to offer her arm for support and helped him down on the other cushion. Then she knelt behind him on the bare ground, much like a trained courtesan attending to her client.

Fukuda had a black eye and angry bruises on his scrawny neck. He bowed deeply to Akitada. “You’re welcome here, sir. Please forgive this poor hospitality.” Turning to the woman, he asked, “Is there no wine, my dear?”

Akitada said quickly, “Thank you, but it’s far too early for wine for me.” He reached for a slice of melon. “Your wife was kind enough to bring this fresh melon.” He took a bite. The fruit was sweet and fragrant, better than any he had ever tasted. “Wonderful!” he said.

They smiled at him. Fukuda said, “Melons grow very well here. But Harima is not my wife, though I ask her often enough.”

She raised a hand to cover her face and protested, “It would not be proper. I used to be an entertainer.”

Fukuda looked at her with loving pride. “Harima was elected choja two years in a row. She was the most desired woman in Eguchi. I don’t know why she puts up with a poor old stick like me.”

She smiled and reached forward to touch his hand.

Akitada was moved. They were clearly very much in love, even at their advanced ages. And though Fukuda was only a waiter, and she had somehow missed her chance for a good marriage or for the wealth leading courtesans accumulated from the generous gifts of past lovers, they considered themselves fortunate in each other’s affection.

He recalled his purpose.

“I was in the restaurant last night when you were treated so badly by your customers and your employer,” he said to Fukuda.

Fukuda touched his swollen eye. “I should have been more careful,” he said.

“I believe those two men created a scene to get a free meal.”

Fukuda nodded. “Yes, I should have suspected as much and made it more difficult for them to cheat my employer. It was very good of you to come here to tell me, sir, but I knew quite well what was going on.”

Harima interjected, “I think it was cruel and unjust of Master Wakita to dismiss you. And don’t tell me he didn’t give you that very nasty bruise on your leg.”

Fukuda smiled a little. “She loves me,” he said apologetically. “It makes me sad.”

Akitada reached for another slice of melon. “Why do you say that? It should make you happy.”

The old man shook his head. “Look at me. I’m an ugly old man, and now I’ve become a burden to Harima. How shall we eat? I’ll die soon enough, but she? What will become of her?” He shuddered and put his head in his hands.

She shuffled forward on her knees and put an arm around him. Looking at Akitada, she said, “I shall not let him die. He won’t get away so easily.” She shook the old man a little. “Do you hear, Fukuda? You’re not going to leave me.”

Fukuda dropped his hands and sighed. “A long life accumulates shame. It’s best for a man to die before he reaches forty.”

By the waiter’s count, Akitada had only another five years. Already his guilt and shame had accumulated. He cleared his throat. “Allow me to leave this small token of appreciation for your service last night. I did not have time to give it to you.” He took another gold piece from his slash and placed it with a slight bow before Fukuda.

Fukuda blinked but did not touch it. Tears started down his wrinkled face. It was Harima who made Akitada a deep bow and said, “Your generosity is greatly appreciated, sir. Fukuda and I will say special prayers to the Buddha for you and yours. Happiness has returned to our poor hovel.”

Akitada was embarrassed. He looked around. “You do your place an injustice. It’s a hermitage rather than a hovel. A man, or woman, or both, may live contentedly here among the chickens and bees and tend a garden. And grow these superb melons.” He took another slice and ate it, licking juice from his fingers.

She smiled behind her hand. “Exactly what I always tell Fukuda. He loves his garden, and now he will have more time to work in it.”

Fukuda glanced toward the vegetable plot with a watery smile. “We cannot live on melons, no matter how delicious.”

Akitada had an idea. “But you could grow your fine vegetables and melons to sell to the restaurants in town. And if you had more chickens and ducks, you could sell their eggs.”

They looked at each other. Harima clapped her hands. “Of course. We could do that easily. I’m quite strong and still have good connections in town. What about it, Fukuda?”

Fukuda looked thoughtful, then nodded. “Perhaps. There’s enough land to make the garden larger. Perhaps . . .”

*

As Akitada walked back through the bamboo grove, he wondered. Fukuda was unlike any waiter he had ever known. The man had sounded educated. How had these two found each other and ended up here? Surely, there was a story in that.

But he had no time to waste on the many mysteries of Eguchi, not even on the disappearance of Sadenari. He had to catch a boat for Naniwa.

The harbor at Naniwa was in the Yodo River delta. Here, Akitada saw many more ships, but the largest ones were at a distance at anchor out in the bay, leaving the wharves to smaller craft.

The boat’s master, leaving the work of docking to his men, who performed the task several times each day, came to stand beside Akitada.

“It’s silted up bad,” he said, gesturing at the river delta. “The big ships go to Kawajiri on the Mikuni River. A new canal takes passengers and goods to the Yodo River and up to the capital.”