Young Yamada’s manners were good, as were his clothes.  He was of good birth, yet only a physician.  Like the Obas, the Yamadas were military men and held provincial offices.  Why was such a very strong and healthy male a mere doctor, a profession not much better than that of a pharmacist or soothsayer?  How could Sadamori have allowed it?

She knew her own sons and their ambitions and felt a small pang of envy.  Warriors often died young and violently — unlike courtiers, bureaucrats, or doctors —  but neither Takehira nor Yasuhira were studious types.  Their lives were predetermined:  They learned how to fight and how to die.

Women learned how to obey.  Her daughters were raised to serve men who could advance Oba family interests.

Lady Oba knew that her husband had other women, but she was fortunate.  She was the only official wife.  He bedded his other women elsewhere.  In the early years of their marriage he used to come to her bed regularly because he wanted heirs.  She miscarried five times before giving him four healthy children.  And then she bore a son so sickly and malformed that he died a day after the long and painful birth.  Her husband stopped coming to her after that, and she was grateful, as she was grateful for the consideration he showed her by keeping his women in distant towns and villages.

She looked out over the sea of swaying grasses, the silver band of river, the blue hills, toward the south where she had grown up.  The distance of time and space had turned the memories of her childhood home into a land of lost happiness, a place not to be regained until after death.

The priests taught that women could not attain paradise, but she preferred to believe them wrong.

The door slid open, and her youngest daughter slipped in.  Nariko was, like her name, a gentle, agreeable child.  Two years younger than Toshiko, she had none of her sister’s obstinacy.  Her eyes were wide with curiosity as knelt beside her mother.

“Yasuhiro is taking a guest around,” she announced.  “Who is he, Mother?  He is very handsome.  Is he a teacher?  Yasuhira says he came from the capital.  Does he know Toshiko?”

Lady Oba suppressed a smile.  “Nariko,” she said, “calm yourself.  You must learn restraint.  Young women need to control their emotions.  Men dislike them.”

Nariko instantly folded her hands in her lap and bowed.  “Yes, Mother.”

“The visitor is a doctor  . . .”

Nariko’s eyes flew to her face.  “Is someone ill?”

“You see how much you need to practice self-control?  I was about to explain that he is on his way to his own family and stopped to bring greetings from your sister.”

Nariko’s face fell.  “Oh, is that all?  Just greetings?  No news?”

“No news.”  Lady Oba had decided that there must be no mention of Toshiko’s letter, nor of the one she would write to her daughter later that night.

“Then may I go with Yasuhira?  I’m sure Doctor Yamada has stories to tell about the capital.”

Lady Oba shook her head.  “Remember your age.  You have put on your train this year. It is no longer suitable that you run after your brothers and male guests.”

Nariko looked astonished.  “Why not?  Toshiko was allowed to.”

Lady Oba compressed her lips.  Yes, she thought, and see where it got us.  “Enough,” she said.  “Go practice your zither.”

Grass Shades

Grass shades hang in doorways and hide the person inside while allowing her to look out.  It is always the women who are inside, hidden from sight.  Men remain outside, on the veranda.  Inside lives and outside lives have little in common.

A woman may welcome the visit and converse, or she may hide herself away in the darkness.  There are no other choices for her.  The pair may exchange poems by pushing them under the shade.  If so, the gentleman, if he feels inclined and his imagination has painted a seductive image of the hidden lady, may return at night to breach the thin barrier between them.  But that is always his choice, not hers.

The day Sadahira returned to the hidden garden, Toshiko felt shy and stayed behind the grass shades.

She was shy because she had spent the intervening days and nights thinking of him and hoping fervently that he would come again.  She reminded herself repeatedly that he would not trouble and that it was even unlikely that he would deliver her letter.  A busy young gentleman did not waste his time on a mere country girl.  Yet he had such a very kind face, and he had been so gentle with the cat.  That surely meant that he was a good and kind man.  But still, a handsome man like that no doubt already had a wife and children to occupy his leisure.  Several wives even, for someone so very handsome.

Thinking so much about him during the day caused her to dream at night, and she would wake up hot with shame and half-understood desire.  But sometimes dreams did come true, and in the privacy of the darkness around her, she put her lips to the small scar on her hand where he had touched her.

Every morning and every night, she returned to that small eave chamber and peered through the grass shades at the empty veranda and garden beyond.  After a while, when it seemed reasonable to think that he might have completed his journey, she carried her sewing or a romance novel with her and spent the time dreaming of impossible things.

Toshiko knew all about flirtations through grass shades and about secret visits by lovers in the dark.  The breaching of the grass-shade barrier signified their union.  She knew these things from reading courtly tales, and she wished more than anything in the world that it would happen to her.  But it could not be.  It must not be – even if he thought of it, as he would not, for why should he?  He was simply a kind man who had taken pity on her loneliness in the same way he had pitied the cat.

And so it was that she was shy and a little dizzy with emotion when she found him seated on the veranda outside the grass shades.

Ah, she thought, he was keeping his promise by delivering a message from home.  And afterward he would leave, and she would never see him again.  This filled her with such grief that, when she spoke to him, her voice brimmed with unshed tears, even though she only said, “Good morning, Doctor Yamada.”

He bowed from the waist, and she wished the shade gone so she could see him better because already her memory of his features was vague.  She wondered if his eyes were smiling at her as they had before.  Eyes, she thought, could caress as well as hands.

Should she dare to raise the shade?  Or step outside?  No.  Lady Sanjo was always watching -- watching and waiting.

In his warm voice he said, “I hope I find you well, Lady Toshiko.”

She murmured, “Yes, thank you.  And you?  Are you well?”

“Quite well.  And your cat?  How is his ear?”

“Almost well.  Thank you.”

It was a clumsy exchange, but she could not find the right words.  She had no talent for sparkling repartee or even cheerful chatter – especially not with him.  The emotion of the moment made her eyes brim again, and she was grateful for the shade between them.

“I delivered your letter,” he said.  She could hear his smile in his words.  “Your lady mother is well and has sent an answer.”

Oh, dear, she had forgotten her mother.  Guilt made her voice a little stronger.  “How very kind of you,” she said.  “I regret that I have given you so much trouble, but your news brings great joy.”  She stopped.  It was too stiff and cold when she wanted him to know how very much his kindness meant to her.

He said nothing but seemed to look very searchingly at the grass shade between them.  Then, reaching into his sash, he took out a letter and pushed it under the shade.  She took it, felt the warmth of his body on it and pressed it to her cheek before slipping it inside her gown between her breasts.