Shogun - Clavell James (бесплатные полные книги .TXT) 📗

"They're at their inn, Sire." Naga indicated the sprawling low building on the other side of the river, near the far bank.

"Who chose that one?"

"I did, Sire. Please excuse me, you asked me to find them an inn on the other side of the bridge. Did I misunderstand you?"

"The Anjin-san?"

"He's in his room, Sire. He's waiting in case you want him."

Again Toranaga shook his head. "I'll see him tomorrow." After a pause, he said in the same faraway voice, "I'm going to take a bath now. Then I don't wish to be disturbed till dawn except..."

Naga waited uneasily, watching his father stare sightlessly into space, greatly disconcerted by his manner. "Are you all right, Father?"

"What? Oh, yes - yes, I'm all right. Why?"

"Nothing - please excuse me. Do you still want to hunt at dawn?"

"Hunt? Ah yes, that's a good idea. Thank you for suggesting it, yes, that would be very good. See to it. Well, good night . . . Oh yes, the Tsukku-san has my permission to give a private service tomorrow. All Christians may go. You go also."

"Sire?"

"On the first day of the New Year you will become a Christian."

"Me!"

"Yes. Of your own free will. Tell Tsukku-san privately."

"Sire?"

Toranaga wheeled on him. "Are you deaf? Don't you understand the simplest thing anymore?"

"Please excuse me. Yes, Father. I understand."

"Good." Toranaga fell back into his distracted attitude, then wandered off, his personal bodyguard in tow. All samurai bowed stiffly, but he took no notice of them.

An officer came up to Naga, equally apprehensive. "What's the matter with our Lord?"

"I don't know, Yoshinaka-san." Naga looked back at the clearing. Alvito was just leaving, heading toward the bridge, a single samurai escorting him. "Must be something to do with him."

"I've never seen Lord Toranaga walk so heavily. Never. They saythey say that barbarian priest's a magician, a wizard. He must be to speak our tongue so well, neh? Could he have put a spell on our Lord?"

"No. Never. Not my father."

"Barbarians make my spine shake too, Naga-san. Did you hear about the row - Tsukku-san and his band shouting and quarreling like ill-mannered eta?"

"Yes. Disgusting. I'm sure that man must have destroyed my father's harmony."

"If you ask me, an arrow in that priest's throat would save our Master a lot of trouble."

"Yes."

"Perhaps we should tell Buntaro-san about Lord Toranaga? He's our senior officer."

"I agree - but later. My father said clearly I was not to interrupt the cha-no-yu. I'll wait till he's finished."

In the peace and quiet of the little house, Buntaro fastidiously opened the small earthenware tea caddy of the T'ang Dynasty and, with equal care, took up the bamboo spoon, beginning the final part of the ceremony. Deftly he spooned up exactly the right amount of green powder and put it into the handleless porcelain cup. An ancient cast-iron kettle was singing over the charcoal. With the same tranquil grace Buntaro poured the bubbling water into the cup, replaced the kettle on its tripod, then gently beat the powder and water with the bamboo whisk to blend it perfectly.

He added a spoonful of cool water, bowed to Mariko, who knelt opposite him, and offered the cup. She bowed and took it with equal refinement, admiring the green liquid, and sipped three times, rested, then sipped again, finishing it. She offered the cup back. He repeated the symmetry of the formal cha-making and again offered it. She begged him to taste the cha himself, as was expected of her. He sipped, and then again, and finished it. Then he made a third cup and a fourth. More was politely refused.

With great care, ritually he washed and dried the cup, using the peerless cotton cloth, and laid both in their places. He bowed to her and she to him. The cha-no-yu was finished.

Buntaro was content that he had done his best and that now, at least for the moment, there was peace between them. This afternoon there had been none.

He had met her palanquin. At once, as always, he had felt coarse and uncouth in contrast to her fragile perfection - like one of the wild, despised, barbaric Hairy Ainu tribesmen that once inhabited the land but were now driven to the far north, across the straits, to the unexplored island of Hokkaido. All of his well-thought-out words, had left him and he clumsily invited her to the cha-no-yu, adding, "It's years since we . . . I've never given one for you but tonight will be convenient." Then he had blurted out, never meaning to say it, knowing that it was stupid, inelegant, and a vast mistake, "Lord Toranaga said it was time for us to talk."

"But you do not, Sire?"

In spite of his resolve he flushed and his voice rasped, "I'd like harmony between us, yes, and more. I've never changed, neh?"

"Of course, Sire, and why should you? If there's any fault it's not your place to change but mine. If any fault exists, it's because of me, please excuse me."

"I'll excuse you," he said, towering over her there beside the palanquin, deeply conscious that others were watching, the Anjin-san and Omi among them. She was so lovely and tiny and unique, her hair piled high, her lowered eyes seemingly so demure, yet for him filled now with that same black ice that always sent him into a blind, impotent frenzy, making him want to kill and shout and mutilate and smash and behave the way a samurai never should behave.

"I've reserved the cha house for tonight," he told her. "For tonight, after the evening meal. We're ordered to eat the evening meal with Lord Toranaga. I would be honored if you would be my guest afterwards. "

"It's I who am honored." She bowed and waited with the same lowered eyes and he wanted to smash her to death into the ground, then go off and plunge his knife crisscross into his belly and let the eternal pain cleanse the torment from his soul.

He saw her look up at him discerningly.

"Was there anything else, Sire?" she asked, so softly.

The sweat was running down his back and thighs, staining his kimono, his chest hurting like his head. "You're - you're staying at the inn tonight." Then he had left her and made careful dispositions for the whole baggage train. As soon as he could, he had handed his duties over to Naga and strode off with a pretended truculence down the river bank, and when he was alone, he had plunged naked into the torrent, careless of his safety, and fought the river until his head had cleared and the pounding ache had gone.

He had lain on the bank collecting himself. Now that she had accepted he had to begin. There was little time. He summoned his strength and walked back to the rough garden gate that was within the mother garden and stood there for a moment rethinking his plan. Tonight he wanted everything to be perfect. Obviously the hut was imperfect, like its garden - an uncouth provincial attempt at a real cha house. Never mind, he thought, now completely absorbed in his task, it will have to do. Night will hide many faults and lights will have to create the form it lacks.

Servants had already brought the things he had ordered earlier - tatamis, pottery oil lamps, and cleaning utensils - the very best in Yokose, everything brand-new but modest, discreet and unpretentious.

He stripped off his kimono, laid down his swords, and began to clean. First the tiny reception room and kitchen and veranda. Then the winding path and the flagstones that were let into the moss, and finally the rocks and skirting garden. He scrubbed and broomed and brushed until everything was spotless, letting himself swoop into the humility of manual labor that was the beginning of the cha-no-yu, where the host alone was required to make everything faultless. The first perfection was absolute cleanliness.

By dusk he had finished most of the preparations. Then he had bathed meticulously, endured the evening meal, and the singing. As soon as he could he had changed again into more somber clothes and hurried back to the garden. He latched the gate. First he put the taper to the oil lamps. Then, carefully, he sprinkled water on the flagstones and the trees that were now splashed here and there with flickering light, until the tiny garden was a fairyland of dewdrops dancing in the warmth of the summer's breeze. He repositioned some of the lanterns. Finally satisfied, he unlatched the gate and went to the vestibule. The carefully selected pieces of charcoal that had been placed punctiliously in a pyramid on white sand were burning correctly. The flowers seemed correct in the takonama. Once more he cleaned the already impeccable utensils. The kettle began to sing and he was pleased with the sound that was enriched by the little pieces of iron he had placed so diligently in the bottom.