The Gargoyle (38 page)

We cleaned our hands with
o-shibori,
steaming napkins, and then she placed her palms together. She said,
“Itadakimas!”
(a Japanese blessing before eating), before adding her more familiar Latin invocation.

She showed me the proper way to stir my miso soup with chopsticks and demonstrated that ramen noodles must be slurped loudly, because this not only cools them but makes them taste better. While she drank sake, she insisted that I stick with oolong tea; she just wouldn’t give up that silly idea that alcohol and morphine don’t mix. Every time my cup was less than half-full, she refilled it with a slight but respectful bow. When I inserted my chopsticks into my bowl of rice so that they stood straight up like two trees growing out of a snowy hill, she immediately pulled them out. “It’s disrespectful to the dead.”

When the meal finally ended, she rubbed her hands together gleefully. “Tonight I’ll tell you a story about another woman named Sei, although this one wasn’t even born until hundreds of years after the writing of the
Pillow Book.”

L
ong ago in old Japan, a girl named Sei was born to a glassblower named Yakichi. At first her father was disappointed that she was not a son, but his disappointment ended the second that he held her. From that moment on he was devoted to her, and she to him.

Yakichi watched with proud eyes as Sei grew from a spirited child into an intelligent young lady. That she was beautiful was beyond question and, in her fine features, Yakichi could see his late wife’s eyelids and cheekbones. The mother died when Sei was just a child and this made the father and daughter hold each other all the tighter.

On the verge of adulthood, Sei decided to follow in her father’s footsteps. Yakichi felt great joy in her decision and his happiness was now complete: his knowledge wouldn’t die with him, after all. Sei adopted the title of Glassblower’s Apprentice and showed remarkable potential and quick progress. She had a delicate touch and, more important, she could envision the object before it was blown. Technique can always be learned, Yakichi knew, but Sei was born with the gift of vision. She could see beauty where others saw only empty air.

Sei studied well under her father’s tutelage, learning just how hot to stoke the fire and just how forcefully to blow. She learned to read the bright glow of the heated glass. She worked diligently to develop her understanding of breath; for she knew that with breath she could create a world. She imagined herself breathing life into the glass and, with every week that passed, Sei came closer to realizing the loveliness of the objects that she could picture in her imagination.

Yakichi began to bring Sei to the local weekend market, where he maintained a stand to sell their wares. Men started to come in swarms. They claimed they wanted to look at the glasswork but really, of course, they came to look at the captivating young woman. “How like glass you yourself are,” one old man couldn’t help but say, scuttling away like a crab across a beach when he realized that the words had actually slipped aloud from his claws.

Soon, their table was selling out before lunchtime. Almost all the pieces were purchased by men—even as gifts for their own wives—simply because they wanted to own a container of Sei’s breath.

Yakichi was pleased. Business was stronger than ever, finances were good, and Sei was becoming a fine glassblower. But for all their success, Yakichi wished a husband for his daughter. Though he was a protective father, he wanted her to experience all that life had to offer and, he thought, a “beneficial” marriage would better their family line.

So Yakichi took stock of the men who frequented the stand. There were artisans, landowners, fishermen and farmers, soldiers and samurai. Certainly, he mused with a smile, there would be no shortage of suitors. After all, Sei had beauty, skill, health, a pleasing personality, and loyalty. She would be a fine wife and good mother, anyone could see that, and it would be easy to arrange an advantageous marriage.

When Yakichi approached his daughter to suggest this, she was quite shocked. “I know this is the tradition,” she cried, “but I never thought that you would ask it of me. I will marry for love, and love alone.”

The force of his daughter’s conviction surprised Yakichi, for she had never before gone against his wishes. Marriage was for improving one’s family position, the old man thought; marriage was not something to be undertaken for love. And yet Sei insisted and, because Yakichi adored her, he acquiesced. Still he worried, because there was no one in his daughter’s heart.

But, as is often the case in these matters, Sei soon met a young man, and she did fall quite completely in love with him. At first, Yakichi was displeased because Sei had chosen Heisaku, a simple farm boy with neither money nor prospects. However, the boy had a pure, good heart. So, maybe…

Yakichi remembered his own departed wife. Although theirs had been an arranged marriage, they had been lucky and Sei had been conceived in love. Buoyed by the memory of his own good fortune, Yakichi decided that he could hope for nothing less for his daughter. He gave his blessings to Sei and Heisaku.

It was about this time that one of Sei’s more inspired pieces—a glass flower—was given to a daimyo, a local feudal lord, by one of his servants. This daimyo was despised and feared for his brutal temper. He had no time for glass flowers and angrily asked the meaning of the trivial thing.

The servant, always looking for special favor, said, “I thought you might like to know, my lord, that this glass flower was created by the most beautiful girl in all the land.” The daimyo’s ears pricked up and the servant quickly added, “And she is unmarried.” The servant, you see, had recently overheard the daimyo talking about his desire to start producing children, saying that only the most beautiful and skilled woman would suffice.

The daimyo quickly decided on a plan of action. He sent out a message that he had in mind a commission for a great glass statue, and that he’d heard Sei and her father were the most skilled glassblowers in all of Japan. For this reason, the message claimed, he was summoning them.

The daimyo had no more interest in commissioning a glass statue than he had in commissioning a ladder to the moon. He was interested in owning land and castles and cattle and rice fields. And a beautiful woman. Yes, that interested him very much. But Sei and Yakichi knew nothing of this, and were only excited. They imagined that this might be the first of many noble commissions—in short, the realization of their dreams. So the father and daughter loaded up their little cart and set off for the daimyo’s castle.

They were admitted into the main court, where the daimyo was waiting, and his eyebrows went up at the sight of Sei. His gaze followed her around the room; to Sei, it felt like cockroaches upon her skin. She could tell immediately that this was not a good man, as he sat there turning one of her glass flowers over and over in his grubby fingers. But this was not about her feelings, she told herself, and all she could do was give the best presentation possible.

Sei and her father showed the daimyo their finest works and described them in detail. She showed crystal cranes and glass-bubble blowfish with translucent skin. She displayed tinted sake glasses and heavy goblets. She exhibited plates and toy horses and wind chimes that produced pure notes in the slightest breeze. When father and daughter were finished, a rainbow of glass lay before the daimyo.

The daimyo was impressed, sure enough, but by the artist, not the art. Sei was the most enticing girl that he’d ever seen. He clapped as Sei and Yakichi bowed deeply. “I have made my decision,” he announced.

The father and daughter held their breath, which was highly uncommon for glassblowers. They waited hopefully but the words were not at all what they expected. As he fingered the glass flower, the daimyo said, “Sei is fit to be my wife and bear my children. She should be overjoyed with her good fortune.”

Sei knew that this was a very powerful man and that to oppose him would be very difficult. Nonetheless, she could not stop herself. “But I love another.”

Yakichi immediately begged pardon for his daughter’s abruptness. When pressed, however, he did confirm the truth of her statement. The daimyo was livid and the glass flower snapped in the involuntary fist that he made. Who could compete with a lord? He demanded to know who this “other” was.

Sei spoke up. “He’s only a farm boy, but my love for him is true.”

The daimyo asked, “What is his name?”

Sei feared that if she told, Heisaku would be hunted down and killed. She looked at her feet for a moment and then lifted her head to meet the daimyo’s gaze. “The name of a simple farm boy should be of no consequence to a lord.”

The daimyo was shocked by the girl’s audacity. Then he laughed, too loudly, too spitefully. “A farm boy? You dare to choose a farm boy over me? You dare to withhold his name?” The daimyo looked down at his hand and saw that he was bleeding where the broken glass flower had cut him. The blood calmed him because it reminded him who he was.

“You will not marry this farm boy,” he stated with certainty, “and you should thank me now for the life that I have saved you from. You will marry me.”

Sei spoke with equal certainty. “I will not marry you. I will marry the farm boy or I will marry no one.”

The daimyo’s counterargument was swift and merciless. “Very well. Marry, then. Marry this farm boy and I will execute your father. But marry me and your father shall live.”

Sei stood dumbstruck, for never could she have imagined herself in such a position. Never could she have imagined a man such as this. The daimyo continued, “In one week, you will return to this court and speak a single word. ‘Yes’ means you will marry me and your father will live. ‘No’ means you refuse me and your father will die. A single word. Think well, Sei.” With this, the daimyo threw the shards of flower at her feet and swept out of the courtyard.

Father and daughter were released from the castle to ponder their answer. There was nowhere they could hide; they could not just pack up and move, as they would be found wherever they went. Yakichi pleaded with Sei to say no. He was an old man with only a few more years to live, he argued, but she had her entire life ahead of her. The father was willing to die so that the daughter was not condemned to a lifetime of unhappiness.

Sei wouldn’t hear of this. She refused to make a decision that would kill her father. And yet, she knew the unhappy waste that her life would become with the brutal daimyo.

That night, Sei was unable to sleep. She tossed in her bed, considering the problem from all sides, but there seemed to be no way out. Then, shortly before dawn, inspiration came and she knew what she must do. When Yakichi awoke, he found his daughter gone and, in her place, a note stating that she would be back in a week to face the daimyo.

First, Sei went to her farm boy and explained the situation. She told Heisaku that he was her one true love but that she would never be able to speak to him again. The last words she said to him were “If you listen to the wind very carefully, you’ll be able to hear me whisper my love for you.” Then she disappeared.

Days passed, and Yakichi began to think that his daughter must have run away. Though it saddened him that he would be unable to say goodbye, he was reassured that she would live. When a week had gone by, the father appeared before the daimyo to say that Sei had disappeared and that he was pleased to forfeit his life in her stead.

The daimyo was about to order the father’s execution when two women, clothed in simple robes and with shaved heads, entered the courtyard. It took even Yakichi a moment to realize that the younger woman was Sei. He broke into tears now that Sei had reappeared to marry this awful man.

“What is this?” the daimyo demanded. “Why have you shaved your head? Who is this woman with you?”

But neither Sei nor the older woman spoke.

The daimyo raged, “What is this insolence? I command you to speak!”

Still, Sei and the older woman remained silent.

“What is your answer? Will you be my wife, and save your father’s life? Or shall I kill him because of your selfishness? Answer my question—yes or no, will you marry me?”

And still, neither Sei nor the older woman responded.

The daimyo spat on the ground. “Execute the old man!” he commanded. But Sei raised her hand to stop the two soldiers who stepped forward to take her father. She approached the daimyo and held out a sheet.

He gestured to one of the others in the court to take the note, as if it were beneath him to handle it personally, and growled, “Read it aloud, so that everyone can hear the words of this most disrespectful girl!”

The courtier glanced over the note and cleared his throat. He did not want to read what it said. But he had no choice:

One week ago, you asked me to be your wife. The word yes would seal our engagement, and the word no would ensure my father’s death. I will speak no words, for I am now
mugon no gyo no ama-san.

The final words got caught in the courtier’s throat. He knew how this would displease the lord, as
mugon no gyo
meant “the discipline of not talking” and
ama-san
meant “nun.”

The courtier cleared his throat again and continued to read:

I have taken vows of silence and poverty, and I have shaved my head to show my dedication. I have moved to the temple on the highest mountain of the region. It is here that we feel closest to Buddha. I cannot marry you because I am already wed to the Universe. I cannot speak the answer to your question, because my vows will not allow it. Therefore, with no answer, you must release my father and I will return to the mountain temple to spend my life in devotion.

The daimyo was stunned. Though powerful, he knew better than to contradict the Great Buddha. He thought for a few moments and then made his response.

“I must commend you for your commitment,” he said. “I would not think to stop you from returning to the temple. Please do so.”