young lady,” he said, “why don’t you speak to her father? Mak-

ing his daughter labor like an outcast among rough criminals is

cruel and wrong.”

She clicked her tongue. “All human beings have the lotus of

Buddhahood within. It flourishes even in foul water.” She had

finished what she was doing, and he turned to glance up at her,

catching a speculative gleam in those deep-set eyes. A tiny smile

formed at the corner of her thin lips and disappeared instantly.

“There may be reasons,” she said, folding away the wet cloth and

putting the bowl of dirty water aside. “For example, they may be

very poor and need the extra money.”

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“Poor?” he scoffed. “Yamada is a man of rank and good

family. He has his salary and probably also family income.

How could he be poor enough to treat his only child this way?”

“Masako is not his only child. Yamada has a son in the

northern army. He is very proud of him. The boy has distin-

guished himself and has hopes of a fine military career.”

“Then he cares more about his son than his daughter,”

Akitada charged. “As if it were not enough that she is confined

to this island where suitable husbands must be singularly

lacking—” He stopped abruptly and flushed.

Ribata gave him a sharp glance, and he felt angrier than ever.

Closing his mouth firmly before his temper caused him to say

too much, he glared at the ceiling.

When she spoke, her voice was sad. “Sometimes events hap-

pen which force us to make cruel choices.”

Masako returned with a steaming bowl. He drank the pun-

gent, vile-tasting brew and was reminded of Seimei and home.

Ribata’s ministrations had turned the steady pain in his head to

vicious pounding.

They left him after a while, and he lay there, miserable in a

confusion of pain and puzzlement. After a while, he forced him-

self to check his robe. The stains were gone, but his papers still

stiffened the lining of the collar. With a sigh of relief, he crawled back and tried to think.

He had suffered humiliation, abuse, and repeated beatings

without having made the slightest progress. And now, as if this

were not enough, he had allowed himself to become distracted

by a girl who was of no concern to him and threatened to inter-

fere with his task and peace of mind.

C H A P T E R F I V E

T H E U N P O L I S H E D J EW E L

In the morning, Akitada had only a slight headache and a few

swellings and lacerations which his hair hid well enough. He

verified these matters by peering at himself in the courtyard

well. Unfortunately, his appearance was marred by the unkempt

state of his beard. Since he had no razor, he decided to ask

Yamada for the use of his.

Father and daughter were at breakfast as before. It was mil-

let gruel again, this time with a bit of radish thrown in. It was

poor food indeed for a family of Yamada’s status. Akitada cast

furtive glances at his hosts. Masako wore the same silk dress, not

new because the blue had faded in the folds, and Yamada’s dark

robe was mended at the sleeve and collar. Could they indeed be

abjectly poor? Perhaps the son in the northern army required

hefty sums. Many young men in the military gambled.

Yamada politely inquired about Akitada’s injuries and re-

peated the story of Yutaka being attacked by the prisoner.

Masako said nothing and, beyond a bow and a muttered thanks

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for her ministrations the day before, Akitada avoided speaking

to or looking at her. When they were done, he begged the loan

of the razor. An awkward silence met his request. Then Yamada

said, “Forgive me, but it is not permissible to provide prisoners

with such things.”

“Oh,” said Akitada. “Of course. In your house I tend to for-

get that I am a prisoner.” He touched his beard with a rueful

smile. “I do not like to appear in front of you so unkempt, but I

suppose I must.”

“But,” said Masako quickly, “I could trim it for you. I always

shave Father.”

“No,” cried Akitada, rising quickly, “I would not dream of

asking such a thing of a lady.”

“Well,” put in her father, “I suppose it is out of the ordi-

nary, but we can hardly expect to live by the old rules, any of

us. Masako is quite skilled with a razor. You may trust her

completely.”

“Of course I trust her,” said Akitada, reddening, “but it

is surely not seemly for her to trim my beard. A servant,

perhaps . . .”

“We have no servants,” Masako said practically. “But if it

embarrasses you, I would rather not.”

It was an impossible situation which ended, predictably,

after reassurances and apologies from Akitada, with him sitting

on the edge of the veranda, while she knelt beside him and

trimmed his beard. Yamada had withdrawn into his room,

where he was bent over some paperwork and out of earshot.

Masako’s closeness was as disturbing to Akitada as her

featherlight touch on his skin. He could not avoid looking at her

face, so close to his that he felt the warmth of her breath. She

had unusually long lashes, as silken and thick as her hair, and

her full lips quirked now and then with concentration. Once

they parted, and the tip of her pink tongue appeared between

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

81

her teeth. White teeth. She did not blacken them as other

women of her class did. Neither did his wife, for that matter,

unless she had to appear in public. The memory of Tamako

shook him enough to avert his eyes from Masako’s pretty fea-

tures. But there was little escape, for they next fell on her wrist, slender and white where the sleeve of her gown had slipped

back, in contrast to the rough redness of her hands.

He remembered the first time he had met her, how she had

been barefoot, and how dirty her pretty feet had been. How

could such a beautiful and wellborn young girl lead the life of a

rough serving woman? Had her education been as neglected as

her manners? He felt a perverse desire to protect her.

In his confusion, he blurted out, “Why are you and your

father so poor?”

She dropped the razor in her lap and stared at him. “What

do you mean?”

Oh, dear. He could hardly refer to the millet gruel and their

mended clothes. But there were always her menial tasks. “You

know very well,” he said severely, “that a young lady of your class should not engage in the kind of work I have seen you perform.

That is for slaves or outcasts to do. Only utter penury could

have caused your father to care so little about his daughter’s

behavior.”

She reddened and her eyes flashed. “My behavior is not your

concern,” she hissed, waving the razor at him to make her point.

“If I wish to shave men, it is my business. And if I want to work

in the prison kitchen, it is also my business. Let me tell you that I find such a life more entertaining than spending all my days

and nights in some dark room reading poetry like the fine ladies

you are familiar with. I am fed up with people telling me how

improper I am and how no gentleman will want me for a wife.

There are only farmers, soldiers, and prisoners in Sadoshima.

The few officials are either too old or too settled to look for

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another wife. The best I can do is to marry some penniless

exile like you, and he would surely appreciate the fact that I

can cook a meal, clean the kitchen, and trim his beard when it

needs it.”