When the moon reached its apex on the fourth night, I went to the loom. It was a risk. I had only a vague outline in my mind. The design was as full of tension as my weaving fingers, and I was uncertain of success. I believed it to be my authentic creative voice speaking, however, and couldn’t have abandoned the idea, even if I had wanted to.
The following morning, my work was well underway. Under the quiet spell of creation, I was alive to the whir of response energy generated by my progress. I knew the whole house was watching. I felt every beat of anticipation, and even the stiff tension of Madame’s concern.
I perceived that Madame Sato’s well-controlled veneer of calm had splintered, and I supposed she fretted about what I was doing, and what that would mean.
After all, she kept inside the house, suffering most of the skepticism about me. Our hosts watched her closely, too, guarding their valuables and whispering scurrilous things behind her back. For Madame Sato, this behavior would be a singular affront. But to her credit, she did not disturb me. She never demanded I alter my vision of creation, or conduct myself as she preferred. In her way, she trusted me.
My betrayal would come as a blow.
* * *
Kiyo, however, came to the tearoom without inhibition. It was her character to consult her own convenience first, and any attempt at restraint on her part was practiced formality, and nowhere near her natural inclination.
“I must admit, I doubted you, Fuyuko. My parents doubt you still, but I’m watching you work, and I can see by your speed alone that you are a master. I think I will have you weave my entire trousseau. You will, won’t you? Did you not know I am to be married?”
I had not known, but she would talk bidden or unbidden.
“Oh yes. For such a country place as this, it is quite a conquest, or so they say. Everyone gossips about it. Do you want to know what they say? They say I shall be very rich! You can depend upon my having full credit to pay for your work. But you did not ask whom I am to marry. Don’t you wish to know?”
“Indeed, I am curious. May I ask who the honorable person is?”
“His name is Ogata, and he is a minister to the Shogun himself! You do not believe me, but I am no liar.”
“It is a high marriage,” I acknowledged, “but I wouldn’t think you would be happy with anything less.”
“You know me better than I gave you credit for. I am not easy to satisfy, but everyone tells me what a grand match it is and how well it will be for me once we are married. There will be so many people who come to see me, and I shall be at the center of a very fine circle of acquaintances, so you really must weave me the finest clothing possible. I must be fit to appear before the Emperor, for it is a high probability, I will!”
“You honor me with your confidence in my ability.”
“If I like what you do, perhaps I will invite you to my house. I will be in a position to do many things for you—you didn’t think I could do such things, did you? But I will. Please me, and you shall be very happy.”
I nodded and bowed my head to the tatami. For Madame Sato’s daughter to show this kind of obeisance to Kiyo was hardly necessary, but I was not really her daughter, and a display of humility seemed enough, only barely, to satisfy Kiyo’s ideas of what was appropriate.
* * *
By week’s end, I had finished my design. The central piece of my work was the embroidered obi, upon which I stitched a husk of a chrysalis, quite ugly, as only a chrysalis is. I did not adapt it. I would not make it pretty, and the image was quite apt, for embroidered work.
Stolen novel; please report.
Above the chrysalis, on a delicate piece of stem, I stitched a butterfly, not brilliant, as a mature butterfly is in the sun, but still wet and not quite folded out. I believed I had captured the newness, even vulnerability, of nature’s transformation. The piece of silk I had woven for the embroidering was not brilliant. It was a pale green color, like a new shoot of bamboo. It heightened the sense of vulnerability evoked by the butterfly. The piece would be perfect, I thought, for a young girl reaching adulthood.
I was pleased with my work, but not assured of others’ pleasure, and I brought the obi sash and the silk fabric to Madame, slowly, almost reluctantly.
As usual, she examined it silently, with neither a word of praise, nor complaint, then folded it up again and took it away. It was too late in the evening to display it to our hosts, so I went away to the tearoom to rest. I had not slept for ten minutes in the past three days. Despite my questions and worries about how well it would be received, I slept long and deeply through the night and most of the following morning.
Madame roused me from sleep, bearing a tray of salt fish and a bowl of country miso soup. “You were right to wait. Today is the day you must wear the hummingbird obi. Come. Eat. We must get you dressed. They are waiting for you.”
I drank my soup and ate almost quickly enough to satisfy Madame, who I had never seen so agitated. Her hands almost trembled as she robed me and tied the elaborate obi behind.
I made no difficulty for her, for I felt almost the same readiness, to be known, to be recognized, unmasked—but by only one person.
I followed behind Madame Sato across the walk through the garden, even raising my gaze up to search around the garden. He was as absent that day as he had been for the past week. If I had not known him and his mysterious ways of appearing and disappearing, I would have wondered at it more. Surely, he was close by, however. Surely, I would speak to him soon.
* * *
Our hosts and their prior guests, and also several new faces were assembled within the great house. I followed Madame through the shoji doors with a gentle rustle of silk fabric. A murmur filled the room as I appeared. Madame bid me stand and display my clothing and somehow, I bore it as the crowd of guests approached, crowded, and dared touch the edge of my kimono.
I wanted to pull away, even to push back, but I kept my eyes down and let them speak the words of disbelief—as though I were not even there! I bore their vulgar attempts at interpretation—as though they had any idea of my intent. As though they knew my heart when I had embroidered the hummingbirds. They did not. They could not know!
I shouldn’t have given way to anger. After all, my critics accepted what I had done. Even so, I gripped and struggled to control unruly emotions. Madame recognized them, and wisely, begged space. To a more composed audience, she displayed my week’s work.
Again, they crowded, praised. They pronounced me an artist, a genius, a mystic. I stood apart from them, and wished to run away, for I sensed, too, continued disbelief, and some treachery.
At last, Madame excused me, and I turned to withdraw, every muscle of my torso tensed to restrain my haste—every nerve alive to the sensation of Ansei’s nearness.
As I walked the garden path toward the teahouse, my gaze fixed on the ground, I sensed that Ansei watched from somewhere across the garden. I paused and dared lift my eyes to meet his for only one breath. And in that instant, a force charged through my body to my center, paralyzing my step for several seconds. When I could walk again, eyes averted, I yet sensed him, as well as all the emotions of our past intercourse. Desire. Exquisite restraint, and an undeniable projection of fear.
Something more welled at the foot of this mountain of raw emotion, bubbling up from the ground and running over with crystalline purity.
In this liquid emotion, I recognized Ansei’s honor. I could not fully fathom having inspired the feeling from the one I held out as a creature so far beyond me, but I could not deny it.
* * *
Madame and I returned together to the old mountain inn. I was exhausted, but the real work, I understood, had only just begun. Lady Nobu had begged Madame Sato to stay and have me weave Kiyo’s wedding clothing. Madame had consented for me, but they had not agreed upon a price, nor could I allow it. I had my own demands.
The wedding day was already fast approaching. I would have only three months to perform, I didn’t know how much work, but I knew it would be substantial.
“We must remember this when we negotiate terms,” I said. “I don’t like to work under such watchful eyes and upon other people’s timelines. I would rather we returned to the farmhouse.”
Madame hesitated, and I didn’t pursue the point, because as much as I hated to stay, I couldn’t abandon Ansei.
“Please wait,” I said, “before you negotiate a price. I want to finish the work first, and I want to be present at the negotiation.”
“These things are so tedious, my dear. You cannot really want to be present for that event.”
“Why not? You said I would get everything. Suppose I have an interest in deciding how much that is?”
Madame started at my blunt admission of ambition. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
I steeled myself that night as we soaked in the hot mineral water for the months of labor, stratagem, and duplicity that lay ahead.