New applause broke out, and Takahashi left to talk to Fujiwara who was arriving late, still wearing the same disreputable silk robe and unmatched sash Akitada remembered from the faculty meeting.

Hirata put his hand on Akitada's arm and nodded towards the stage. Oe, his face flushed, had stepped forward again. He had developed a rather strange manner of rocking on the balls of his feet. Instead of facing the judges, he was looking across at the gathering of government and court officials. "Again you find us gathered so," he began in his mellifluous voice, "again the sun sets bright." He waved an expansive arm towards the bright lake, and received a smattering of applause. "The same that shone a year ago," he lowered his head sadly, "but, oh, how changed we are tonight."

Akitada rather liked the sense of nostalgia and the appropriateness of the images, and waited expectantly for Oe's star performance.

To his surprise, Oe's head jerked up to look again into the gathering of officials, and he concluded sharply: "Some break the rules by which the game is played, / And gain reward where none is due, / While others find their hopes betrayed. / For time and change please only few." He bowed jerkily and returned to his seat, leaving his audience dumb-founded. There was some dubious applause, but most people whispered, shaking their heads in confusion.

"What can he have meant by that?" asked Hirata. "It's almost as if he had accused the judges of awarding the prize to the wrong poet."

Akitada frowned. Surely Oe would not accuse the noble judges. Was he referring to another matter? The charges were uncomfortably apt for the compromised examination. The matter was completely puzzling, and Akitada promised himself a frank talk with the great Oe as soon as possible.

A winner was declared— it was neither Oe nor Okura, but one of the officials— and the servants walked around with trays of wine cups. A gorgeously costumed child, the young son of one of the court nobles, now took the stage and performed an elaborate dance. It told the story of an ancient emperor who had won a battle against insurmountable odds by disguising himself as a fierce dragon warrior.

There was a generous burst of applause when the child finished. Oe shot up from his seat and, before he could be stopped, recited another poem. To everyone's relief, it turned out to be in praise of the grace of this scion of a noble family and predicted greatness for his future. This time, Oe reaped generous applause. Most of the guests were under the impression that they had just witnessed a brilliant extemporaneous composition, but Akitada was convinced that Oe had come prepared. It made the previous poem even more puzzling.

The second segment passed without incident. It featured, among others, Ishikawa, who won a prize. An interlude of flute music followed; Akitada gave it his full attention. He stretched to see if Sato was playing but found that the performer was a stranger. Sato's absence caused him to wonder about the police investigation. He hoped Kobe had not decided to arrest the music professor. Recalling the beating given to the old beggar, he felt uneasy about having mentioned Sato's name to the captain. When the flute player stopped, Akitada got up to stretch his legs. He strolled along the veranda to the rear of the pavilion.

On the ground below was a great bustling of waiters who were heating flasks of wine in large braziers and running back and forth with trays of cups. Akitada leaned on the balustrade to watch. Directly below him, a group of servants unpacked large colored paper lanterns. It would not be long till night, for the brilliant sunlight had turned a muted gold and the deep blue of the sky was changing to the pale shade of wisteria blossoms. Soon in the darkness, hundreds of colored lanterns would gleam.

Occasionally one of the guests passed below, perhaps to relieve himself after all the wine. Akitada stretched and decided to walk down, when he suddenly noticed the student Ishikawa. He stood near the corner of the pavilion, talking angrily to someone hidden by one of the lacquered columns. Suddenly Ishikawa lunged and pushed. A tall, broad figure in blue staggered out from behind the column. Oe. He had lost his hat and his face was nearly purple with rage. He roared something and attacked, slapping Ishikawa across the face so violently that Akitada could hear the sound above the noise of the waiters. Ishikawa recoiled, touching his face, then reached down and raised what looked like a broken oar. He looked absolutely murderous. Akitada leaned over the balustrade and shouted a warning. Ishikawa froze and looked up; his eyes met Akitada's. He dropped the oar, said something to Oe, and disappeared around the corner. Oe stood a moment longer, staring up at Akitada. Then he, too, turned and stumbled away.

When Akitada returned to his seat, he asked Hirata, "Do you know of any reason why Oe and Ishikawa should get into a fight?"

Hirata frowned. "A fight? You must be exaggerating."

"No. I just saw them."

"Remember, Oe has been drinking. Come, Akitada, it is a beautiful evening. Let's enjoy it while we can. Look! The Dengaku dancers are performing."

Akitada glanced at a group of young women on the stage. He found Hirata's lack of interest irritating and said, "I thought you wanted me to get to the bottom of this matter. Here we may have a clue to your blackmailer and you don't want to discuss it."

Hirata flushed and looked over his shoulder. "Ssh! Not so loud." He leaned closer. "You are quite right to be angry. It is true that I have had second thoughts about the wisdom of involving you in this matter. I think it will be better for you not to pursue it further. Please forgive me for causing you all this trouble, especially now that . . ." He broke off delicately, but Akitada knew that he referred to the failed marriage plans.

So Hirata had merely wanted a husband for his daughter. A cold fury seized Akitada and made his stomach churn. "Unless you have discovered the answer yourself," he snapped, "in which case you owe me at least an explanation, the situation remains as dangerous as before. Or are you telling me now that the letter was a mere subterfuge to invite me to your house?"

Hirata paled. "No," he said stiffly. "I asked you because of the danger to the university." He paused and looked at his hands, which lay in his lap. "It is true that I had hoped our working together might lead you and Tamako to discover affection for each other again."

And the plan had worked perfectly well in Akitada's case, though not for Tamako! Akitada felt a wave of nausea. Whether or not the note was real, Hirata had just admitted that he had really wanted something far more personal. Little did he know that his daughter had refused the bridegroom her father had chosen for her, the one man he could count on because of the debt he owed them. Akitada turned away.

The older man sighed deeply. "Don't be angry, dear boy," he pleaded. "I was afraid you would misunderstand. Now I wish I had bitten off my tongue before mentioning the note to you."

Akitada wished it too. He said through clenched teeth, "Never mind. I understand."

There was a lull in the performance, and a certain stillness had fallen over the park. The last light was fading in the sky. Akitada searched in his mind for the right words so that he might leave.

Then the poetry recitals began again. Akitada listened absentmindedly to some poorly scanned lines in praise of wine and emptied his cup quickly. A waiter replaced it with a full one, and Akitada emptied this also.

"About Oe and Ishikawa," said Hirata suddenly. "Last year Ishikawa began to assist Oe with minor chores. They seemed to get along well until just recently. Ishikawa's arrogance became more pronounced. He often showed a great lack of respect when he addressed Oe, who was his senior professor. But can his bad manners really be significant?"


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