The Peony Lantern (19 page)

Isamu held up what looked like a letter and the artist snapped, ‘Put it down and go.'

As Isamu moved forwards to place the letter on the table, a hand grabbed my arm and I screamed. Spinning around, I cried out in shock. It was the young man Misaki had been speaking to at the kabuki.

Against the current

The koi swims without ceasing

Towards light and truth

‘You!' I gasped.

It was clear from his expression, a mix of disbelief and suspicion, that the young man recognised me too.

‘What are you doing here?' he demanded. ‘Are you spying on us?' Then his expression changed, became almost hopeful. ‘Or have you come with a message?'

Before I could answer, his grip tightened on my arm and he said, ‘You'd better come inside in either case.' Pushing back the curtain over the doorway, he said, ‘Father, this is —' He broke off abruptly as the old man and Isamu looked up.

‘Kasumi, I told you to wait outside,' Isamu said sharply.

The grip on my arm tightened till I cried out in pain.

The young man ignored me. ‘She came with you?'

Isamu stepped towards us. ‘Let her go.'

As if Isamu hadn't spoken, the young man spoke to the older. ‘Father, I found her outside watching you. She's from —'

The old man glared at his son then, with a meaningful glance at Isamu, echoed, ‘Let her go, Kenta.'

The young man — Kenta — abruptly released my arm and I rubbed at the place he had held.

Isamu was looking between us. ‘You two know each other?' he asked.

Kenta was watching me with an oddly beseeching look, and I sensed my answer was important, but for whom or why I wasn't sure.

‘How could I know him?' I replied irritably. Why was I being so evasive? I didn't even know if I was protecting Kenta or Misaki. Yet if Isamu was involved somehow — and he must be, or we wouldn't be here — why would I need to keep it a secret from him? I felt like I was in a game of Kagome Kagome, standing in the centre of a circle and trying to guess the identity of the person behind me.

To break the tension — and avoid further questioning — I moved forwards until I had a view of the old man's table. The picture he was painting showed a woman about to step into a boat. I pointed to the churning water beneath. ‘How do you capture that sense of movement?'

‘Why do you want to know?' he countered.

‘I'm interested in painting. I'm taking lessons with Daiki
sensei
.'

‘Daiki, hmm? I've heard of him.' My aim of distraction seemed to have worked, as Isamu moved to stand by my
side and we watched as the artist worked. ‘I make the movement of the tide with these long strokes here, but ah — an obstacle — the water is tossed around. When the block is printed these sections here will be left white.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘This picture is given to a block-cutter. He carves wooden blocks for the different colours. So for the blue block, for example, he cuts away all the parts of the picture that don't require the colour blue. Then blue ink is applied to the block and it is pressed to the paper. The process is repeated for every colour. You see?'

Behind me, Kenta said, ‘I work for the publisher, selling prints at the theatre. Father's actor prints always sell out faster than the others.'

At the sound of his son's voice the artist looked up and frowned as if remembering that ours was not a social visit. ‘I think it's time you left.'

As we reached the door, Kenta stepped forwards with a sheet of paper and thrust it at Isamu. ‘Don't forget to take this.' He handed one to me too.

Isamu set off without a word.

Clutching my sheet of paper — it was a woodblock print, I saw — I hurried after Isamu. He was walking so quickly I almost had to run to keep up.

‘Isamu, what —' I began.

‘Don't ask me, Kasumi, I can't talk about it.'

‘But who —' I persisted.

‘No!' His tone was so harsh I recoiled. ‘And you have to promise that you'll never mention to anyone that I took you there.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said in a small voice. ‘I won't tell.'

‘I told you to wait outside,' he said, then shook his head. ‘Where does Daiki-san live?'

‘He said it's on the street with the fire tower at one end and a sake shop on the opposite corner.'

My head was whirling as I tried to put the pieces together. I had first seen Kenta outside Lord Shimizu's house the day we arrived. I'd next seen him and Misaki arguing at the kabuki, and then she'd lied about knowing him. Now Isamu was visiting Kenta's house. Why? Isamu had delivered an envelope, I recalled . . . A message from Misaki to Kenta? Was that who Misaki was writing to? But why would Isamu play go-between? And Kenta had thought I was spying. For whom?

I felt there was a barrier between Isamu and me now. He had a secret, one he couldn't — wouldn't — share with me. And I had kept something from him: the fact that I had recognised Kenta. But why had I kept that a secret? I'd had the sense that Kenta was relieved when I hadn't revealed that we'd seen him at the kabuki, but why, if Isamu knew about him and Misaki already? I'd suspected before now that the encounter at the theatre had something to do with Misaki's illness. Perhaps she felt sick at her own betrayal, and this letter was telling Kenta not to contact her again. I hoped desperately that this was the case. That it would end here and Lord Shimizu would never have to know. I thought of his face — already worn from bearing the burdens of the domain and now taut with anxiety for his wife — and felt my heart harden a little against Misaki. It was for Shimizu's sake that I would keep this secret, I decided.

‘This must be the street,' said Isamu, stopping outside a sake shop. ‘We'll have to ask someone which house it is.'

The street was wider than the one in which Kenta and his father lived, the houses larger and the roofs tiled rather than shingled.

An assistant wearing an apron over his short striped kimono appeared in the doorway of the shop with a bottle in each hand and Isamu hailed him.

‘Do you know where Daiki the artist lives?'

‘The artist?' The assistant squinted at us, then indicated to the left with the neck of a bottle. ‘Down there, fourth house along.'

We followed his directions to a neat two-storey house.

‘Excuse me,' I called out in the entrance. ‘Hello?'

After a few seconds, a tiny sparrow of a woman came to the door. ‘Yes?' she said, sweet-voiced and sharp-eyed.

‘Is this the home of Daiki-san, the painter?' I asked uncertainly. Surely this couldn't be the wife of the bearlike
sensei
.

‘Who is asking?' she responded, looking from me to Isamu. Her sleeves were held back with bands and there was a smear of paint on her kimono. Her hair was pulled into an untidy knot. I'd obviously caught her in the midst of cleaning her husband's studio.

I bowed. ‘I'm sorry to intrude. My name is Kasumi, I'm a student of your husband.'

She beamed. ‘You're the famous Kasumi-san from Lord Shimizu's household, are you? My husband has told me all about you. Come in, come in.'

‘This is Isamu-san, Lord Shimizu's nephew.'

Her eyes moved to him and she bowed. ‘You're an artist too, Isamu-san, if I'm not mistaken.'

‘I'm studying with Toyotomi of the Matsuyama domain.'

She nodded in recognition. ‘Ah yes, we know Toyotomi; he's of the Kano school, of course.'

I was surprised how much she knew about art and artists, but I supposed she must have learned from her husband.

‘I'll call back for you in a while,' Isamu said to me.

‘You go on in, Kasumi-san.' Daiki's wife gestured to an adjoining room. ‘I'll bring tea.'

The next room was the studio. Daiki
sensei
was sitting at a low table, brush moving languidly over a page. ‘So, Kasumi,' he said, without looking up, ‘you couldn't wait for your next lesson?'

‘I've been missing them.' My eye fell on a second low table. I noted the brush, the ink stone, the ink still glistening wet.

His wife came in behind me with a tray of tea things.

I turned. ‘You're an artist,' I said.

She laughed at what must have been my dumbfounded expression. ‘Some people are kind enough to say so.'

‘Many people,' her husband interrupted.

‘But you're a woman,' I said stupidly.

She just kept smiling at me.

‘I didn't know women could be artists.' My heart was beating hard.

‘It's unusual. I was the only one in my school in Kyoto.'

‘They let you into a painting school?' I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

‘They wouldn't refuse an artist as great as Chika,' said her husband. ‘Show Kasumi what you're working on. I'll pour the tea.'

My head was spinning. A woman artist. Her husband — himself a great artist — serving tea. It was like waking up in a spirit world.

‘I'm working on a design for a six-fold screen,' Chika explained. She showed me a series of sketches of a flock of blackbirds in flight, swooping, diving and wheeling.

‘These are . . .' I couldn't put into words how they made me feel, the rush of air, the sensation of soaring. ‘I have never seen anything like them. They — they
fly
.'

I silently berated myself for my stupid response, but Chika looked pleased.

‘She's too modest to say so,' her husband chipped in, ‘but the screen has been commissioned by a daimyo, an important collector.'

I couldn't get over Daiki
sensei
's obvious pride in his wife's accomplishments.

‘Show her your paintings of Miyajima,' he urged.

‘Stop, Daiki,' she said, laughing.

‘You've been to Miyajima?' I asked. Even in Tsumago I had heard of the sacred island.

‘We travel as much as we can. You know what they say: a frog in a well doesn't know the great sea.'

‘But forgive me,' said Daiki, sobering. ‘I haven't asked after Misaki-san. Is she any better?'

‘She . . . no. I've been trying to paint a picture for her, but I'm not happy with it.'

‘You have it here?'

I felt embarrassed now bringing out my poor efforts in front of Chika. ‘I've been trying to paint the view of Mount Fuji from Hakone. I'm working from my imagination; I've never been there.' I showed them my
failed attempts, explaining the effect I was trying to achieve.

My painting master laughed softly. ‘You're trying to run before you can walk, Kasumi. These techniques aren't mastered overnight, but take years of practice.'

‘Then I will spend years,' I said stubbornly, ‘if that's what it takes to get it right.'

‘Let's see what we can manage now.' Taking a piece of scrap paper, he demonstrated. ‘You try.' He moved over so I could sit at the table beside him.

My first attempt was clumsy, partly because I was conscious of his wife looking on. But I soon forgot my self-consciousness and was so absorbed in painting that I was barely aware of any time passing. All too soon I heard a voice calling.

‘Oh!' I jumped up. ‘That's Isamu. I shouldn't keep him waiting. Thank you,
sensei
.' I turned to his wife. ‘It was an honour to meet you, Chika-san.' I bowed deeply, wanting to convey my respect and admiration.

‘You are welcome any time, Kasumi,' she told me.

‘And keep practising,' my painting master ordered as I gathered up my paintings. He handed me three paintings of his own. ‘Take these to copy. Oh, and don't forget this.' He held out the woodblock print Kenta had given me. ‘I'm glad to see you taking an interest in all kinds of art. An artist shouldn't be narrow-minded.'

‘Yes,
sensei
.' Did that mean he saw
me
as an artist?

Walking home with Isamu, I couldn't stop thinking about Daiki and Chika. The way they had acted towards each other it was almost like they were . . . equals. Partners. I had never seen a husband treat his wife with
so much admiration and courtesy; had never imagined it was possible. I thought of the timidity with which my mother spoke to my father. My grandparents had always treated each other respectfully, but never with the open affection of the two artists. Even Shimizu and Misaki — there was still a hesitancy in Misaki when she spoke to her husband. But perhaps that hesitancy came from the difference in their ages, the difference in their social positions. Yet they clearly loved each other . . .

So where did Kenta fit in?

Was he a spurned suitor, perhaps? But that was impossible: he lived in Edo and Misaki had come from Morioka.

Perhaps he had followed her here from Morioka, I mused. But his father too?

No, it wasn't making sense. None of it was making sense!

‘What's wrong, Kasumi? You're huffing away. Not walking too fast for you, am I, my lady?'

He was teasing me. I felt obscurely pleased. The bond between us was not completely broken, then.

To my surprise Misaki was in the reception room when I arrived home, dressed in a plain cotton kimono, her face wan.