The Last Concubine (4 page)

When the ninth month came round, a huge procession of
officials, guards, soldiers and local daimyos with their entourages suddenly appeared, heading for Kyoto to escort the princess back. Day after day the highway was choked with traffic. The porters, bearers and foot soldiers were pressed so close together that they were treading on each other’s heels. Jiroemon had organized more than a thousand extra porters but they were vastly overworked; there were still far from enough.

One day a line of palanquins appeared that were more ornate and gorgeous than any that anyone had ever seen. Rumours quickly spread and soon crowds of villagers were squatting along the sides of the road, craning their necks to get a peep inside before the guards shoved them out of the way.

‘Ladies from the Great Interior!’ Sachi heard Jiroemon telling Otama. ‘They’re stopping here for the night. What am I supposed to do? Do I go out and greet them? I’ve had no instructions at all!’

‘The Great Interior?’ queried Otama.

‘The women’s palace in Edo Castle,’ said Jiroemon impatiently.

‘Grand ladies like that on the road?’ said Otama, shaking her head. ‘That’s something special! You never see that!’

It was true. The only women Sachi saw were peasants or townsfolk on pilgrimage and sometimes the elegant wives of merchants, who usually bargained harder than their husbands. Occasionally a woman poet came by, but never anyone of higher rank. The daimyos’ entourages consisted only of men. The guards at the village barrier post were well aware that their most important job was to ensure that no great ladies crept through in disguise, trying to escape from Edo to their home province. Any other failure on the part of the guards was excusable, but for that one they paid with their heads.

For nine days the traffic continued. Then there was a lull. The villagers totted up the damage. The meeting room had been smashed up and many of the paper doors in the inns had been ripped when drunken samurai started fights. Some porters had been beaten and two who tried to run away had been shot. People started to find bodies along the verges of the highway, unceremoniously kicked out of the way of the processions. Some twenty or thirty porters had collapsed under their burdens and died. That was the way of things: there was nothing to be done.
The villagers set about making repairs as quickly as possible, before the princess’s cavalcade came through.

Then the transport commissioners arrived in person, jogging into the village in a line of palanquins escorted by servants, attendants and guards. They strutted up and down in their starched
hakama
trousers with their two swords swinging importantly at their sides. They stayed the night at Jiroemon’s luxurious inn, though they had their own cooks to boil up their tea and cook their dinner; they were far too grand to eat even the best food that Otama could offer.

Tapping their fans, they drew up plans and measured the road. When the princess’s cavalcade passed through, they told Jiroemon, women and children were to remain inside with the shutters closed, on their knees, in silence; anyone outside should prostrate themselves, face to the ground. Dogs and cats should be tied up, there were to be no fires lit and the heavy stones that kept the roof tiles in place should be securely fastened to make sure there were no accidents. All traffic on the road was to stop for three days on either side of the princess’s passage. Suddenly the highway became eerily quiet.

The first contingent of the princess’s convoy arrived on the twenty-fourth day of the tenth month. For two days there was a non-stop procession of porters staggering under the weight of baskets and boxes covered in rich brocade and lacquered trunks gleaming with gold. Jiroemon had managed to round up a total of 2,277 men from thirty-three neighbouring villages. They relayed the baggage to the next village along the road, then came back to pick up another batch.

On the third day the princess herself was to pass through. Sachi was up well before dawn to help her mother make sure that everything was perfect. Otama arranged branches of maple leaves in a vase in the elegant way the daimyos liked, while Sachi scuttled up and down the silent rooms like a crab, pushing a damp cloth, until the pale tatami matting gleamed and the silken edges were spotless. They polished the wooden floors in the corridors and entranceway one last time until there was not a speck of dust anywhere. Then Sachi ran to the edge of the village with the other children to watch for the procession.

By the time they reported back to Jiroemon, everyone could hear the jangle of the iron rings on top of the guards’ staffs, the crunch of approaching feet, the clatter of hooves and the neverending cry – ‘
Shita ni iyo! Shita ni iyo!
On your knees! On your knees!’

‘I’m going to hide under the eaves and watch the procession go by,’ hissed Genzaburo. ‘Why don’t you come, Sa? It’ll be fun. Nobody will know!’

But Sachi had a more pressing duty. Whenever a procession passed through, Jiroemon had to go to the entrance to the village to greet the daimyo. Then he would run back to the inn to welcome him again at the porch where the palanquins drew up. But the princess presented a problem. For a start, she was a woman. Not only that, she was the highest, most important woman in the land. It was unthinkable for any man, let alone a lowly innkeeper like himself, even to cast eyes on a woman of such high station. But it was equally unthinkable not to welcome her to the inn. As the day approached, Jiroemon grew more and more worried. The transport commissioners had not deigned to give him any advice. Finally he made up his mind: he would greet her palanquin in the usual way, but accompanied by his wife and daughter. His family had, after all, once been samurai; they were a cut above the other villagers.

Sachi put on the new indigo-blue kimono which Otama had been saving for her for New Year’s Day. Granny had spun the yarn and Otama had woven the fabric in a design of lighter and darker checks and stitched a charm bag containing Sachi’s protective amulet into a corner of the sleeve. Sachi tucked her special comb into the same sleeve and wrapped a red crepe obi around her waist. Then she took her place on her knees next to her mother, beside the entrance reserved for important guests.

Jiroemon’s inn was in the middle of the village but set back from the road, well away from all the noise and rowdy bustle, hidden behind a high wall. There was a second wall inside the entrance to shield his high-ranking guests from the vulgar gaze of villagers and travellers. Sachi could hear feet tramping along the road outside, making the ground shudder, and could see the tops of lances, banners and great red parasols bobbing along in stately
procession above the wall. Apart from the thunder of feet and hooves and the insistent shout of ‘
Shita ni iyo! Shita ni iyo! Shita ni . . . Shita ni . . .
’, there was utter silence. No one said a word.

Suddenly some men appeared around the inner wall. Sachi twisted around a little and lifted her head just enough to peep at what was going on. There was a line of bare-buttocked porters, their faces shiny with sweat, lugging buckets of water, baskets of food, shiny lacquered trunks and an ornate gold and black chest, big enough to hold a bathtub, around to the back entrance. Burly men in multi-layered short kimonos and leggings, with conical straw hats and wear the two swords of samurai, took up positions around the porch, along with bearers carrying shiny black benches.

Then a palanquin drew up at the entrance porch. A woman stepped out, slipping one tiny foot, then the other, into a pair of clogs that had been set on the bench. More and more palanquins began to pull up. Women emerged from each, greeting each other in high-pitched coos. To Sachi their voices sounded no different from the trilling and warbling of birds and they were every bit as impossible to understand. The porch was awash with fabrics as fine and soft as flower petals and as colourful as a meadow in spring. Scents filled the air, so sweet and powerful that she felt herself growing dizzy. She grew bolder, peeping again and again. She had never before seen such exquisite creatures. It was another world, more gorgeous than anything she could ever have imagined.

Twisting her head even more, she caught a glimpse of a magnificent palanquin like a tiny mobile palace, gleaming with reddish-tinted gold, with fat red tassels swinging over the window blinds and a red banner draped across the roof. Even the carrying pole and window frets were encrusted with gold leaf. The walls were covered in ornate designs and embossed with a chrysanthemum, surely the imperial crest. There were six porters to carry it, three at the front and three at the back. Guards marched alongside and liveried retainers shaded it with large red umbrellas. As the porters lowered it gingerly on to the palanquin stand the women fell to their knees in a graceful flurry of silks. Jiroemon and Otama kept their faces pressed to the polished
wooden floor, but Sachi was burning with curiosity. For a second she glanced up. Surely this was the princess! She had to see her.

Attendants slid open the door of the palanquin and a woman emerged from the shadowy gold interior. The many layers of her kimonos, in subtle shades of orange, gold and green, were visible at throat and wrist. She was wearing a travelling hat with a thick veil that fell to her shoulders, but as she stepped down she raised a white hand and pushed it aside. Sachi saw her face before the veil fell back into place.

Quickly Sachi lowered her head. She did not know what she had been expecting or, indeed, how she had dared expect anything. She had been thinking about the princess so much. She had expected to see something wonderful, but instead she felt puzzled and confused. The face she had seen did not belong to a princess – certainly not to the princess of her imaginings. The woman was certainly painted like a great lady, with a whitened face, tiny blood-red lips and eyebrows brushed in high on her forehead; but she seemed to shrivel inside her lavish kimonos. Strangest of all was the expression that had flickered across her face – a look of naked fear, such as Sachi had seen in the eyes of chickens about to be killed. She felt a sense of unease. Something was wrong.

Even a child like Sachi knew that great lords and ladies had lookalikes. There were always enemies lurking, hoping to kidnap or even kill a lady. So perhaps that was what she was. Or perhaps she really was the princess. Perhaps princesses were just ordinary people after all.

Swishing their bell-like kimono skirts the women ushered the princess into the inn, gliding past Jiroemon, Otama and Sachi, who were still on their knees, as if they did not exist.

Palanquins continued to pull up, disgorging yet more women. Now only a few lingered in the porch. Jiroemon and Otama seemed frozen, still with their faces to the ground. Then a rather undistinguished palanquin with plain wooden walls and bamboo blinds drew up. Sachi was in a dream, half stupefied by the drama of the day and the obscure feeling that all was not as it should be. She lifted her head and watched as a woman stepped out. This one, dressed more plainly than the others, looked like a maid. For a moment her eyes met Sachi’s.

The woman was a mere girl, not much older than Sachi, no older than the young wives who gathered at the well. She was not beautiful but there was something about the way she carried herself that held everyone’s attention. Her face was oval and childishly plump, with large sad black eyes, a straight nose, a pointed chin and a small mouth pursed in an expression of dazed resignation. Her skin was so white it was almost tinged with blue. She stepped awkwardly from the palanquin and stood uncertainly, as if she did not know what to do next. The other women flocked around her, hastily throwing a veil over her head. They seemed to be trying to play-act indifference, looking away from her and talking loudly to each other. But they could not hide the deference in their gestures and the way they held their bodies, instinctively dipping and bowing so that their heads were always lower than hers.

Sachi was mesmerized. There was something familiar about the girl. Somewhere – surely in a dream – she had seen this face before. The girl in her turn had seen Sachi. Something sparked in her eyes as if she too felt a sense of recognition. As the other women arranged the veil over her face, she whispered to one of them. Suddenly everyone turned to look at the child kneeling in the entranceway, daring to stare at them. The women began to move towards her and the guards stationed around the porch put their hands on their sword hilts. Hearing the commotion, Jiroemon looked up, horrified.

Instinctively Sachi felt for her comb, tucked safely in her sleeve. The fate of Sohei the drunkard and the porters left dead along the roadside flashed through her mind. For a moment her young life passed before her eyes and she thought of Genzaburo, hidden in the eaves just across the road, not far away. But one thought overwhelmed all the others: I have seen the princess.

It had begun to dawn on her why the girl’s face looked familiar. It could almost have been the face she saw glimmering in her mother’s tarnished mirror – a slightly more grown-up version of her own.

Part II

The Women’s Palace