The Emperor, who had been quietly observing the exchange, commanded a young page: “Bring a cup.”
When the boy offered the lacquer cup adorned with the Imperial Chrysanthemum Crest, the Emperor waved it away. “Not that one. Bring a Western glass.”
Taking the wine glass, the Emperor grasped a wine bottle in his other hand, stepped toward Yoshiteru, and extended the glass. It was a Venetian goblet, intricately decorated with the Imperial Crest etched at its center. Yoshiteru silently received the glass with both hands, and the Emperor poured the deep crimson wine until it brimmed.
Yoshiteru drained the goblet in a single draught, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his uniform, which bore his three-striped rank insignia.
At this rough, warrior-like gesture, a smile played upon the Emperor’s lips. He reached into the flowerbed, snapped off a single chrysanthemum, and with his own hands, tucked it into the lapel of Yoshiteru’s uniform.
Yoshiteru gazed directly into the eyes of his sovereign, a young master seven years his junior. The Emperor, looking back into the depths of Yoshiteru’s eyes, spoke: “Your poem was well-crafted. Write it down and present it to me.”
Panic-stricken, Yoshiteru replied hastily, “My calligraphy is dreadful, Your Majesty. I cannot write it.”
The Emperor smiled, flashing white teeth beneath his jet-black mustache. “In that case…” He drew the familiar notebook from his breast pocket. “A pencil sketch in this will suffice. Write it here.”
He proffered his own pencil and notebook. Yoshiteru, growing even more flustered, could only plead, “I beg your imperial indulgence to forgive me.”
Without another word to Yoshiteru, the Emperor slipped the notebook back into his pocket and turned squarely toward Tominokoji Hironao.
“Hironao,” the Emperor said, his tone turning rebuking. “Your poem was clumsy. The second half, in particular, was dreadful. You shall change the lower verse to:
Fige ni nifawanu / uta no yasasisa
(How tender the poem, so unsuited to his rugged mustache.)
See that you do.”
His Majesty, now thoroughly intoxicated, boarded the carriage Hironao had provided and departed for the Akasaka Palace, leaving the Imperial Guards behind at the former Toyama estate. The court ladies and chamberlains withdrew as well, but plenty of the Itabashi sake that the farmer had presented to the Emperor still remained.
Yoshiteru already had a severe headache from forcing down liquor he could not handle. Yet, until the bonfires burned themselves out to ash, he remained with the Imperial Guards at their feast, the single chrysanthemum still tucked into his breast, listening intently to the stories of his new recruits.
THE END