The Incense Game

22

A messenger boy from Edo Castle called into the courtyard of the Yushima Seid o: “Honorable Minister Ogyu! His Excellency the shogun wants you. You’re to come at once!”

The summons awakened Minister Ogyu, who lay in bed with his wife and children in their tent. Groggy consciousness gave way to an agonizing headache that felt as if a spike had pierced his right eye, stabbed through his brain, and pinned him to the bed. His body’s response to mental strain, the headache had come on yesterday after Chamberlain Sano’s visit. Ogyu wished he could go back to sleep, but he couldn’t ignore the shogun’s order. He rolled over and stifled a groan.

His wife roused immediately. She searched his face, read the pain that he hid from everyone except her. “Is the headache bad today?”

“Not very,” Ogyu lied, not wanting to worry her.

The mental strain had been his constant companion for as long as he could remember. Even when he was a child, fear and anxiety would pump through him and turn into pain in his head. “Make it go away!” he’d sobbed to his mother.

She had shaken him and scolded, “Never cry! Don’t be a sissy!”

“Obey your mother,” his father had said. “It’s for the good of us all.”

Even though they withheld comfort, Ogyu had never doubted that they loved and cherished him. He’d known their story ever since he’d been old enough to understand. His father had been a court physician, his mother from a minor noble family. They were desperate for a son to carry on the family name, until at last Ogyu was born, the precious only child. They expressed their love through ever-vigilant discipline.

His wife clambered out of bed, wrapped herself in her heavy coat, and said, “I’ll brew you some opium tea.”

She was more sympathetic than his parents had ever been. Ogyu loved her dearly for it. Most other men would think her plain and worthless, but he wasn’t like most other men. He appreciated her as the luckiest thing that ever happened to him.

He said, “I’ll have just a little.” Opium was the only thing that took the pain away, but he rationed his doses; he didn’t want to become a slave to it or impair his wits. “Because of Chamberlain Sano and his investigation. I need a clear mind.”

They hadn’t spoken about Madam Usugumo or the murders. They had a tacit agreement that they wouldn’t, except indirectly.

“But you dealt with Chamberlain Sano,” his wife said. “He went away.”

“He’s not finished with me,” Ogyu said. “We have to be on our guard.”

“We always are.” She smiled, proud of their unity against a world they’d both found cruel.

But Ogyu could see how tired she was, how dark the shadows under her eyes. Life after the earthquake was wearing her down, and she’d shared the burden of his problems for the nine years they’d been married. He himself badly needed a rest from the pressure to dissimulate, achieve, and impress. But it never let up.

Dragging himself upright, he remembered mealtimes at his parents’ house during his childhood. “Eat!” his mother commanded, holding a bowl under his chin and spooning rich meat stew into his mouth. “Get bigger!” He ate until he was bloated. “Take your medicine!” He swallowed the bitter herb potion. Before he went out in public, his father coached him. “Walk like this, with bigger steps. Don’t mince! Shoulders back. Head high. If someone speaks to you, speak up; don’t whisper. Talk deeper in your throat.”

His parents were gone now, but his wife had taken over for them. She put more coals on the brazier and heated gruel, thick with fish and vegetables and lard. As she mixed his medicine, he said, “I don’t think I can eat.”

“You must.”

She urged him with kindness, but it was still a regimen he wished he could escape. Knowing he never could, he dutifully ate and drank. Afterward, she shaved him, oiled his hair, tied his topknot, and neatly trimmed the end. Unlike other men of his status, he didn’t have a valet. She helped him dress in his loincloth, white silk under-kimono, his formal black satin robe ornamented with gold family crests, his black trousers, and black padded coat. On his feet she put socks she’d laundered herself, and high-soled sandals. She checked every detail of his appearance so thoroughly that he didn’t need a mirror.

“There,” she said with a satisfied smile. “You’re ready for the shogun.”

Ogyu took small comfort in knowing that he looked the perfect scholar. His headache stabbed, each thrust deeper. Involuntary tears stung his right eye. The pain was as bad as during the most stressful occasions of his life.

One of those was the day he’d had his first lesson with his tutor, at age six. Up until then, the only people he knew were his parents and their servants. They’d kept him at home, not allowing him to mix with other children; they had no friends or visitors. But they wanted him to have a good education, necessary for their family’s advancement. At great expense they’d hired the tutor-a strict, humorless scholar from the shogun’s court. The tutor was the first stranger that Ogyu had had to impress. For years he toiled to learn math, literature, history, and Confucian philosophy while practicing everything his parents had taught him. He excelled at his studies, but that only created a new challenge.

When Ogyu was twenty, his tutor took him to Z o j o Temple. It was his first venture into public without his parents. The magnificent buildings, the crowds, and the noise terrified him. In front of the main hall, Confucian scholars gathered to show off their talents. They took turns lecturing to each other and whoever happened by. As Ogyu waited for his turn, his head ached so badly that he could hardly hold it upright. His vision speckled the scene around him with black spots one moment, dazzling lights the next. When he mounted the stairs, he was almost blind with pain, almost too weak to stand. But his days of writing, rewriting, and rehearsing his lecture paid off. He delivered it perfectly and received enthusiastic cheers.

Soon afterward, he was invited to visit the shogun at Edo Castle. Determined to make the most of this opportunity, his parents drilled him on his speech, manners, and comportment. They made him study for extra hours, preparing to discuss Confucianism with the shogun. Such excruciating strain and headache did the pressure bring upon Ogyu! But his suffering was worthwhile. He became the shogun’s favorite scholar. Important people began courting his favor. He managed to overcome his nervousness enough to enjoy his new position.

Then his parents decided he must marry. A man in his position needed a wife, an heir. High-ranking families offered their daughters to Ogyu. The very thought of marriage made him sick with dread. His mother and his nurse were the only women he knew. Unlike other young men, he’d never patronized brothels. The idea of sexual relations was terrifying. So was the idea of meeting prospective brides and their families. Ogyu feared being accepted as much as he feared rejection. But his parents told him to trust them; they would find him the perfect wife.

Now his wife fretted over him, smoothing his clothes, adjusting the swords at his waist. “You’ll come back soon?” Even before the earthquake and the murder investigation, she’d hated any separation.

When they’d met at their miai, he’d immediately seen that his parents had chosen well. His own personal torment made him sensitive to it in other people, as if it were a smell they gave off. She’d reeked of it. Her lavish kimono had only emphasized her plainness. She’d been rejected by other clans and her parents were eager to get rid of her-facts that Ogyu’s parents knew. And her shame was obvious. She’d stood with her head ducked, shoulders hunched, hands fidgeting. After the miai, Ogyu agreed to marry her. She would be in no position to complain when she found out that he wasn’t the powerful, confident man he seemed.

The wedding ceremony had been an ordeal for both of them. Despite the pain in his head, he felt sorry for her because she was as terrified as he. She trembled so hard that when they took the ritual sips of sake that bound them together as husband and wife, she almost spilled the cup. Tears glistened on the white powder on her face. After the banquet, after the guests had left and Ogyu was alone with her for the first time, there came the part of the ordeal he’d dreaded the most. They’d knelt in the bedchamber, the bed between them, not looking at each other. Ogyu could hear her breathing, fast and ragged with panic. He’d forced himself to go to her, take her cold, damp, trembling hand in his, and speak. He was the husband. It was his duty to prepare her for the realities of their marriage.

And he discovered that she had her own troubles, which their marriage forced her to confess. They talked, and by morning they were united in a special way that other couples weren’t. To their amazement and gratitude, their marriage brought them the love and happiness they’d never dared to hope for because it seemed so impossible.

Now Ogyu tenderly caressed her cheek. “Of course I’ll come back soon. Nothing can separate us.”

But fear, like a chisel made of ice, drilled the pain deeper into his head. The murders, and the consequences, had the potential to destroy them both, and their beloved children.

He vowed that he would die before he would let that happen.