In a flash she was by his side to help. "Oh," she cried, "how large! It is truly like a tree for monkeys to climb." She gave a little screech. "This little monkey is afraid," she cried and jumped under the covers, giggling.

Tora dove under himself. "Forget the monkeys," he groaned. "This tree must be planted quickly before it dies."

Michiko was not only a compassionate girl, but also a very good teacher. Tora learned all about swinging monkeys and other entertaining games that night.

Eight

The Poetry Contest

It was the hour of the cock, about two hours before sunset, when Akitada entered the Divine Spring Garden again. For the occasion of the contest the gate had been festively decorated with banners, and two foot soldiers from the imperial guard stood at attention on either side. Akitada presented his invitation and was waved through. Ahead of him he saw Nishioka walking side by side with the student Ishikawa, but he made no effort to catch up to them.

He had been downcast all day, and his depression deepened as he passed the spot where they had found the girl's body. When the imperial pavilion burst upon his eyes, filled with hundreds of elegant guests in colorful robes, the scene was almost painfully bright in the afternoon sunlight, a shocking contrast to his dark mood. Vermilion columns and balustrades, emerald roof tiles, gilded ornaments, many-hued silk cushions and colorful robes of contestants and guests, painted boats on the white sand of the lake which lay like molten gold in the setting sun— it all seemed for a moment completely unreal. Akitada felt that he had walked into a place quite separate and distant from the work-day world of normal people. It was certainly a world which was remote from that of the dead girl and the old beggar, and both had intruded into it at a cost.

Filled with an irrational anger at those who lived "above the clouds" like the very gods, Akitada climbed the steps to the veranda. It was already nearly filled with chattering and laughing guests. None of them, he thought, would care that a young woman had died only a short walk away.

At the top of the steps he paused briefly before the dais of the presiding judges to make his bow to Prince Atsuakira and the other imperial personages. Then he turned towards the left where he saw other members of the faculty and found his place somewhere in the back. After a moment, Hirata appeared by his side. He looked tired but smiled.

"I have not been home all day," he said, sitting down. "Did the ladies enjoy the procession?"

"I believe so." Akitada had to make an effort to smile back. "My mother invited Tamako to share their midday rice. I had to leave— a matter having to do with the murdered girl— but Tora was to take your daughter home in the hired carriage."

"That was most kind of you and your lady mother," said Hirata warmly. "Please express to her my deep gratitude for the honor she has done my insignificant daughter."

Insignificant? Honor? Kindness? The words of polite convention were as false as the ridiculous affair he was about to witness. Akitada nodded and turned away to look at the nobles and ranking members of the government seated to the right of the stairs. It suddenly struck him that even the cushions people sat on distinguished them by rank, as if a noble behind must not be insulted by an inappropriate support. The princes sat on purple brocade; the nobles had deep red, green or blue silk cushions; and he, along with the rest of the faculty and students, was provided with a gray cotton one. Never once forget your place in the hierarchy!

Strange, he thought, in the dusk last night the stacked cushions had all appeared the same. A trick of light, or of darkness rather. The thought teased him, as if this trivial matter had some hidden significance, but he did not pursue it. The ceremony was beginning.

Prince Atsuakira rose and stepped forward on the dais, and silence fell. His brief opening address was followed by others, last but not least by Oe, who made the most of his opportunity to shine before such an eminent audience.

Oe was wearing another splendid blue brocade robe, and his white hair gleamed under the formal black court hat. After bidding the guests welcome in the name of the combined faculties of the university, he explained the rules and sequence of the competition.

Akitada knew already that there would be four segments, compositions celebrating special occasions, travel poems, drinking songs and love lyrics. Each segment would be separated from the next by musical interludes and dance performances, after which each winner would be declared.

As Oe's voice droned on, Akitada looked out over the lake. A group of ducks came paddling around a bend, paused, seemingly astonished at the brilliant congregation of humans at the pavilion, then burst into disgusted quacking and rose from the lake in a clatter of wings and sparkling drops of water.

"The beauty of this day," said Oe, "will give birth to genius and affirm the greatness of His Majesty's reign." The nobles across the way applauded, and Akitada, idly glancing, recognized a face.

There, if he was not mistaken, sat the fellow Okura, the weak-chinned dandy who had quarreled with Tora and who had, against all probability, placed first during the recent examinations. He was one of the contestants. Akitada began to take some slight interest in the proceedings.

When Oe finished to general relieved applause, Hirata leaned over and whispered, "Did you notice anything strange about Oe's manner?"

"No. Why?"

"I hope I am mistaken, but I could swear the man was drunk already. He was slurring his words." Hirata shook his head. "I would have thought winning would be too important for him to risk embarrassment."

Akitada said dryly, "If you are right, he will not last long. I see they are beginning to pass the wine around." It was customary to toast each composition with a cup of wine, and from the size of the program it was clear that it would be a long evening and night.

The first presentations passed without great surprises. Occasional verses were the specialty of court officials who were forever dashing off lines in honor of imperial birthdays and esoteric ceremonials. Okura competed in this segment, and Akitada watched him with interest. He appeared composed, even complacent, reciting a short composition which seemed, to Akitada's untrained ear, surprisingly competent, certainly no worse than the rest. Could Hirata have misjudged his ability?

Hirata grunted. "His style has improved amazingly."

Okura retired to mild applause. Suddenly a voice hissed into Akitada's ear, "Well, well! Our esteemed colleague sells his talents to the highest bidder!"

Akitada turned his head and looked into the hooded eyes of the turtle-headed Takahashi. "I am sorry, but I don't understand you," he said coldly.

"Of course not. You are not as familiar with Oe's turn of phrase as the rest of us, to our misery. His style, if you can call it that, is quite unmistakable. He is the one who wrote Okura's poem. Okura could never do it himself."

Akitada stared. "How can you be certain? A student often imitates his teacher's style."

"Well, Hirata," Takahashi asked, "am I right?"

Hirata nodded reluctantly. "It may be so," he said.

"And what's more," continued Takahashi, "our 'great man' has been drinking all day, and wine does not make him amiable. He has already lost his temper twice with that poor fish Ono. I don't see how that man can show his face in public after today. The names Oe called him! And in front of any number of influential people. It was shocking!"