Drinking Tea 

The woman named Nobuna quietly took Mr. Koizumi’s hand under the table, a look of deep, profound sorrow clouding her beautiful eyes.

Mr. Koizumi just laughed heartily, the sound booming in the quiet, formal room. “It’s probably my fault we haven’t had any children all these years,” he said, his voice a little too loud, a little too cheerful.

Haruka was quite surprised to hear him speak so frankly. What man would admit to such a thing so openly, and with such good humor, as if it were a funny story to amuse everyone present? He saw the man quietly squeeze his wife’s hand under the table and thought, Mr. Koizumi must really love his wife. He even brings her with him to meetings like this.

Haruka didn’t know that when high-ranking men and women met, it was customary to bring a relative or spouse to avoid any suspicion of impropriety. But it was clear to everyone in the room that this couple, unlike so many others in their circle, was genuinely, deeply in love.

Even though Mr. Koizumi was magnanimous enough to joke about his own infertility, it was still a painful subject. The others remained silent, a respectful pause, waiting for him to change the topic. “Madam,” he asked, his tone becoming serious, the boisterous mask falling away, “how is the head of the family’s health?”

Lady Murasaki sighed, a soft, elegant sound. “Mother is the same as ever. Bedridden, with no improvement in her strange, wasting condition.”

“I heard from Mr. Kawashima,” Mr. Koizumi lamented, his voice thick with sorrow, “‘The family head is like a withered tree, her heart like dead ashes. I’m afraid she will not recover.’ It made me so angry to hear him say that, so I gave him a thorough scolding. I remember calling the family head ‘Godmother’ a few times when I was young. She was such a vibrant and powerful woman, a force of nature. How could she have fallen into such a state?”

He pressed his large hands on the table, the veins on his forehead standing out. “For three years, I have heard of her illness. I couldn’t eat or sleep, wanting to rush over to see her at once. She is my godmother, after all.”

“Our mother,” Nobuna reminded him with a sad, gentle look.

“Yes, our mother,” Mr. Koizumi said, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Lady Murasaki smiled faintly. “You are very thoughtful, Mr. Koizumi.”

“And so, as soon as I found the time, I came to ask you, Madam, about our mother’s condition,” he said, flicking away an imaginary tear. “How is she?”

“Councilman Kawashima is too pessimistic; he always thinks of the worst-case scenario. How could she not recover? My mother still has many good days left. You were right to scold him, Mr. Koizumi. If I see him, I will scold him as well.”

“That’s right! She still has many good days left. He’s just spouting pessimistic nonsense,” Mr. Koizumi said, his mood brightening instantly. He picked up his teacup. “Madam, please.”

“And you as well, Nobuna,” Lady Murasaki said, raising her own cup.

The three of them touched their cups together in the air, a delicate dance of porcelain, each holding their own cup slightly lower than the others, a perfect, unspoken display of mutual respect.

Just as Mr. Koizumi was about to drink, he put his cup down again and let out a long, heavy sigh, as if he had already drunk a bitter draft. “Hearing you say that, Madam, I can finally rest easy. My father-in-law was also only able to be elected thanks to your considerable support. He only regrets that at this critical time, he cannot move about freely, lest he stir up trouble. That is why he sent me to offer our condolences to the Old Mistress.”

“Nobuna,” he said.

Nobuna took out an exquisite wooden box and placed it on the table. He pushed it in front of Lady Murasaki and smiled. “A small token of our sympathy. I hope you will give it to the Old Mistress on our behalf.”

Lady Murasaki was also prepared. She took out an equally exquisite wooden box from beneath the table and pushed it in front of Mr. Koizumi. “A small token of my esteem. I hope you will give it to your old father on my behalf.”

They both took the boxes and quietly, almost simultaneously, opened them for a peek.

Lady Murasaki saw that her box contained a short, elegant scepter made of pure, white jade, exquisitely carved: a ruyi, a symbol of good fortune and power.

Mr. Koizumi saw that his box contained a small, heavy lion with one eye half-open: a “waking lion.” He tapped it with his finger and was startled by its weight. It was a golden lion, covered with a clever patina of ugly bronze paint.

They both closed the lids at the same time and laughed, a shared moment of understanding. “How thoughtful. Come, let us drink.” They each took a sip. It was the first sip of tea Mr. Koizumi had had since arriving.

“The Old Mistress’s illness doesn’t seem like an illness,” he said, his voice low. “It seems more like she’s been cursed by a demon.”

“We all believe she has been possessed by a vengeful spirit,” Lady Murasaki sighed, her face a mask of weary sorrow.

Haruka, listening from the side, thought, And a miko wants me to wield a sword to exorcise it. Though I haven’t seen a shadow of her since. He felt that everything, both inside and outside the Fujiwara family, was absurd. His own family members never spoke of the Old Mistress, yet they seemed to be always talking about her. Outsiders never stopped talking about her, yet it was as if they weren’t talking about her at all, just using her name as an excuse to conduct their own dirty, grasping business.

Haruka felt the Old Mistress was a tragic figure. She had once been the absolute head of the family. How had she fallen to such a state, to become a mere pretext?

“Oh my!” a loud voice suddenly exclaimed, startling him. Mr. Koizumi had slapped the table and stood up, the tea in his cup sloshing precariously. “What a coincidence! This ‘ruyi’ of mine has been blessed by a high priest. No demon or monster can come near it, and it brings the good fortune of ‘all wishes coming true’.”

Lady Murasaki gave him a cold, sidelong glance. “I hear my mother already has a ‘ruyi’ by her bed.”

“That one is old. It no longer works,” Mr. Koizumi said, waving his hand dismissively. Nobuna tugged on the corner of his sleeve, and he sat back down. “Out with the old, in with the new. How can the old compare to the new?”

“That is true,” Lady Murasaki said, her voice noncommittal. “But you need not worry, Mr. Koizumi. I have already summoned a great miko from the Ise Grand Shrine.”

“From the Ise Shrine?” Mr. Koizumi asked, surprised. “Could it be that the head priestess herself has come to perform the exorcism for the Old Mistress?”

Lady Murasaki laughed. “How could the Fujiwara family have such great influence? It is an old miko by the name of Sangu.”

“Well, she’s still halfway to completing a somersault,” Mr. Koizumi said with a sneer.

Haruka, who often read history books, knew that “completing a somersault” was a Chinese expression for an enlightened monk. He had never heard of “half a somersault,” let alone used to describe a miko. It was a bizarre, mismatched metaphor, but from Mr. Koizumi’s expression, it was clearly meant as sarcasm. Haruka, who already disliked the old miko, thought, That’s an interesting way to put it.

But he turned his head and saw that, different from Mr. Koizumi, Nobuna’s fair face was filled with a pious sorrow. She stared at her husband as if to say, If you keep blaspheming the shrine’s miko like this, of course the gods will not grant us a child.

Mr. Koizumi paid her no mind, continuing, “I hear the head priestess has been in seclusion for five years. I doubt even my father-in-law could persuade her to come. But if the rumors are true, she must be at least a hundred years old by now. She has probably already ‘ascended to heaven’. Heh, no wonder no one can get her to move.” His words were full of ridicule. It was clear he, too, had tried to summon the head priestess and had failed.

He was about to say more, but Nobuna pinched his side, hard, and he hissed in pain. He heard his wife muttering, over and over, “Do not blame us, do not blame us. ‘May the good advance and the wicked retreat’.”

Forced by his wife, he reluctantly repeated the prayer himself, his voice a low grumble: “‘May the good advance and the wicked retreat’.”

Kiyohime, who had been sitting bored on the side, couldn’t help but let out a secret, mischievous smile seeing the powerful Mr. Koizumi being bullied by his wife.

But Haruka didn’t smile. He seriously considered the words. What was the use of such a prayer? In the eyes of the gods, what was “good” and what was “evil”? Was it just a matter of “useful” and “useless”?

He shook his head, feeling the prayer was empty and hollow, a meaningless string of words in a world governed by power and desire.