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father, attentive, present in their lives. She’d like to see more of him, but she won’t put any demands on him. Not if it takes away from being a father to his children.
    In her study, she begins to clean. Into the recycling go her tall towers of paper—the first draft of the translation of Kobayashi’s novel, handwritten on lined paper. The second draft, done on the computer. The third, done to smooth out the transitions and choppy sentences that clunk. The fourth, to fiddle some more with the difficult passages. The tall towers of paper, like a city unto itself, are gone, as if a tornado had swept in and now a wide stretch of polished oak blinks at her, waiting. As always, she keeps the final draft, setting it on the floor beside her desk. Though, really, the story is so tightly woven into her being, she doesn’t need to look at it to remember it. She runs her hands over the desk’s smooth empty surface. She has found no other way to be in the world, only the movement of words from one language to another. She knows most people don’t even think about translation, and when they bother to, they don’t assign it much value: a mechanical process, substituting one word for another, a monkey could do it; worse, a computer. She’s tired of defending it, of explaining that even though she’s tethered to an already-assembled drama, her role is akin to being an author.
    Well, now she’s ready to make her own drama. She pulls out her notes on Ono no Komachi. During Japan’s Heian era, 794–1185, in the aristocratic culture of the Heian court, art stood center stage. An unusual time made more so because women, not men, were considered the masters of poetry. Every significant experience was accompanied by a poem, and Ono no Komachi, who lived in the palace in the capital city of Heian-kyo—present-day Kyoto, was one of the best, writing magnificently about love and the transient nature of life, sending poetic jewels to her lovers to coax, excite, or cool passion.
    She has no interest in delving into Komachi’s august years. Besides, someone has already done that. She found a Noh play written about the poet. A Buddhist priest takes his young poetry students to a rural area to visit an old woman who is thought to know the secret art of poetry. In this play, Komachi is an old hag, hiding her face under a straw hat. Eventually she reveals that she was once the famous poet who resided behind the imperial palace walls. The final act is the night of Tanabata, the festival celebrating love and poetry. One of the priest’s students performs a ritual dance. Touched by the event, Komachi, in her feeble state, rises and begins to dance on stage.
    Her play will be about romance and sexual intrigue. There will be five acts, and it will open at a teahouse. A magnificent old teahouse within walking distance of the imperial palace. She picks up her pen and writes: low-ceilinged, nestled among bamboo, the low tables, tatami mats, the thick green broth, matcha , in a cup so big it must be held with both hands. She is opening with a scene in which Ono no Komachi sends away one lover so as to begin the seduction of another. During the tea ceremony, she slips a poem beneath the new man’s cup. Like ripples in the water, I want to caress you.
    She looks at what she’s written so far, but tells herself not to judge it. It’s not fair to face inspection so soon. Just enjoy this making of something from nothing; this soaking in words; this remaking of the world. But she can feel a part of her assess what she’s done and call it not bad. Not bad at all.
    Of course it can’t be all romance, sex, and seduction. Someone must get hurt and it will be Ono no Komachi. Looming is her great fall. The final act will be her expulsion from the court. No one ever learned why, exactly, she was thrown out, so Hanne will have to make it up. Literary license.
    Something shatters outside. She