Otomae broke into his glum musings: “Shall we continue our work?”

“No.”

Their work was the collection of the songs performed by shirabyoshi in markets and on streets, those haunting words and melodies that would otherwise cease to exist.

This passion for imayo had almost cost him the throne when his august father, urged on by his Consort, refused to make him crown prince, saying that his obsession made him unfit to rule.

Still upset, the Emperor put away the flute.  “Kiyomori is behind this,” he said.  “He hopes to distract me from the nation’s business with this girl.  He called her an artist of uncommon talent.  Like a fool, I believed him.”

He did not mention his tantalizing glimpse of the girl astride her horse, flying along the moon-lit valley with a flock of geese, her long hair streaming behind.  His utter enchantment and sudden physical desire had shaken him to the point of dizziness.  Light-headed with wine, moon light, and the thought of a girl on horseback, he had burst out with the offer.

Otomae said softly, “There is something about her.  Don’t judge her too quickly.”

“She is a child, the daughter of a minor noble.  What could she know of the art?”

Otomae chuckled.  “You mean she is not a streetwalker?”

 He was not amused, though the image was fitting.  “I mean that I bought the girl because of extravagant promises made by her seller, and the merchandise is not as represented.  I have been cheated. The girl’s father is richer by ten shoen of good rice fields and his son by a lucrative post in the outer palace guards.”

The door at the end of the room opened and Lady Sanjo peered in.

Otomae hissed softly, then said, “Please excuse me now, sire.”  She bowed, murmuring, “You may yet find some use for your purchase,” and rose to leave.

The Emperor watched the frail gray figure disappear through another door before turning his attention to Lady Sanjo, who tiptoed in and knelt.

“What?” he demanded impatiently, eyeing her with distaste.  She looked worn in this light.  What possessed some women to paint their faces and drag their thinning hair behind them like young girls?  Women ought to become nuns when they lost their beauty.

“I wondered if the young woman had offended Your Majesty,” Lady Sanjo lisped in the girlish voice she reserved for him alone.  Her expression was hopeful.

He knew that this woman felt some perverse lust for him.  Her efforts at seduction amused him in the way that grotesque scroll paintings of diseased people or of hungry ghosts amused him.

Now he saw the hunger in her eyes as she simpered, fluttering a bony hand before her thin lips, and he suppressed a laugh.  He considered her question.  There had been offense, yes, but one could not quite blame the girl.  She had obeyed her father, that was all.  In this deception, she alone had been honest, making it clear that she had no wish to be near him.

“Not at all,” he said, and added spitefully, “She is quite charming and only needs some time to feel at home.”

He watched Lady Sanjo’s face fall.  She touched her forehead to the floor and prepared to withdraw.

“You will take charge of her and report to me when she is ready,” he said.  “And I particularly wish to know if she has any talents.”

“Talents?”  Lady Sanjo was so crushed she could barely speak.

“Yes.  She is said to have a charming voice.  As you know, I have a great desire to hear charming voices about me.”

“I have been told I have an attractive voice,” Lady Sanjo cried and flushed unattractively.  “I would not wish to sound boastful but—”

He interrupted quickly, “Ah, you are a woman of many talents.”  He laughed, but when she crept a little closer, he said quite coldly, “Thank you.  That is all.”

She bowed again and backed out on her knees.

He watched her creep away, pushing her full skirts out of the way.  The girl in her graceful flight had forgotten that you do not turn your back on an emperor, not even a retired one.

Alone again, the Emperor contemplated his retirement.

 His father had been only twenty-one when he had turned over the throne to the five-year-old Sutoko.  At that age, a man had his life before him and enjoys all the benefits of wealth and power without any of the chores and restrictions of actually occupying the throne.

His own fate had been a darker one.  Poor, foolish Prince Masahito, a poet and a dreamer, had had a short and troubled reign.  Bloodshed and rebellion had marked it.  An since then, he had rarely been at peace from those near him.  Sometimes he found it convenient to play the fool around Kiyomori.  There was safety in foolishness.  People rarely regarded you as a serious obstacle in their path to power.

No, there was little pleasure in his life.  His consorts wanted his embraces only to conceive.  They were brief and loveless couplings.  Sometimes he doubted his children’s paternity.  The galleries of the palace teemed with male attendants, and even a consort’s curtained dais might be invaded stealthily at night while her ladies-in-waiting slept with their robes thrown over their faces.

He had done it himself in his younger days.  Perhaps, like the cuckoo, he left his sons and daughters in other men’s nests.  The thought cheered him a little.  He hummed:

“None rests her head on my arm anymore

Where long ago my sweetheart’s lay;

We two made love hungrily,

Knowing that happiness is short.”

Too bad the girl did not know imayo.  They could have spent such pleasant evenings together, he and the girl and Otomae.  Under those layers of shimmering silk gauze had been a young body.  Why not forget for the span of a few moments of hot lust that he was no longer Prince Masahito, no longer an Emperor, and soon perhaps a priest?  Why not teach someone so young the ways of the bedchamber?

With a smile he opened a document box and took out a sheet of fine paper.  Reaching for his ink stone and the water bottle carved from a piece of translucent jade, he rubbed fresh ink, dipped his brush, and wrote quickly:

My head grows white as snow,

But my heart still follows the white goose in flight,

Across the mountains to the distant sea.

Wherever it roams, wherever it nests,

In time it will return to me.

From Lady Sanjo’s Pillow Book

Today the new girl arrived -- a rustic from a military family.  Need one say more?  We worked for hours to make her presentable, and throughout the fool had not a word to say for herself.  I was secretly pleased.

I suppose if His Majesty had not graciously sent a palm leaf carriage for her, she would have arrived in a sedan chair.  Or worse: on a horse!  Apparently provincial warriors bring up their daughters much the same as their sons.  I overheard His Majesty telling the imperial adviser of the third rank – amazing how military men rise in this world – that He was charmed when He saw her ride a horse.  I thought He was joking.  But alas – He sent for her.

They had her togged out in silk, but the colors were all wrong and the silk so wrinkled from travel that I let one of the maids have everything she wore.  There was no time to unpack her single trunk (!), but fortunately His Majesty had sent some gowns for her.  I had instructions that I was to make a selection.  This proves how highly He regards me, but I must confess it put me in a quandary.  I meant to have her appear as uncouth as possible to open His eyes to her unsuitability.  As it was, I was forced to demonstrate my good taste instead.  Her youth and the season required the colors of blossoming:  a three-layered dress of varying shades of plum-red beaten silk and a pale green over robe.  Her costume, in any case, was charming.

As for the girl herself:  a heavy application of lead-white on her face, neck, and those rough red hands – honestly, they must have had her cutting reeds -- pretty well hid those dark features more commonly seen in peasant women.  Her hair is thick and long enough, but crimped around her temples.  We had to apply hot oil and stretch it.  No doubt that hurt – a true warrior’s daughter, she did not flinch once.  With a great deal of effort and some discreet pinning of the more unmanageable portions, her hair looked passable.