Shinju. Part 4

"Go to your room until arrangements can be made," she ordered. To Eii-chan, who had come to stand at her side, she said, "See that Miss Midori gets to her room-and stays there."

Midori helplessly preceded Eii-chan to the door. Fear for herself drove from her mind all thought of what she had read in Yukiko's diary. Then a ripping noise made her look over her shoulder at her stepmother. She cried out in dismay.

Lady Niu had picked up Yukiko's diary. She was tearing the pages into little pieces and dropping them into the charcoal brazier.

Chapter 5.

Upon returning to his office, Sano found an uncharacteristically glum Tsunehiko waiting for him. The young secretary mumbled a reply to his greeting and barely looked up from his desk to bow.

"What's wrong, Tsunehiko?" Sano asked.

"Nothing," Tsunehiko replied, his eyes downcast, his lower lip outthrust.

Sighing, Sano knelt beside his secretary. Something was obviously troubling Tsunehiko; he'd had enough experience with young boys to read the signs. Resigned, he prepared to listen and sympathize.

Tsunehiko fidgeted with his sash, a bright blue one that matched the pattern of blue waves on his kimono, which gaped at the collar to show a section of plump chest. The chest heaved with each noisy breath. Just when Sano thought he would refuse to speak, he muttered, "The other yoriki take their secretaries with them when they go out on business. You never take me anywhere."

Now that his tongue had loosened, he rushed on, not giving Sano a chance to reply. "Yesterday you gave me a lot of orders, then walked out. Today you did the same thing. My father says I'm here to learn a profession. But how can I learn if you don't teach me anything?"

He lifted a pink, earnest face to Sano. His serious mood had caused his eyes to cross, giving him a comically dazed expression. Sano suppressed an urge to smile as Tsunehiko continued sadly: "Besides, I get lonely by myself. I have no friends here. n.o.body likes me."

Sano's mirth almost erupted into laughter at this mingling of adult and childish concerns. But he realized that he had so far proven a poor mentor for his secretary, offering little instruction and tolerating laziness and mistakes. The teacher in him still felt responsible for the nurturing of a young mind placed in his charge. He felt ashamed of neglecting that responsibility.

"From now on, we'll work more closely together, Tsunehiko," he said. "Whatever I can teach you, I will." At whatever aggravation to himself, he promised silently.

Tsunehiko bobbed his head, giving a wavery smile.

Sano returned it, both amused and irritated at the picture of the two of them-misfit yoriki and melodramatic young whiner- yoked together in ludicrous partners.h.i.+p. Then he changed the subject to the matter that had been foremost in his mind when he entered the office.

"Did you get the addresses I asked you for?" he said.

Before he'd left for the Niu estate this morning, he'd asked Tsunehiko to look up Noriyos.h.i.+'s places of residence and work in the Temple Registry and Artists' Guild records. Now that he'd failed to learn anything about the murder from the Nius, interviewing Noriyos.h.i.+'s a.s.sociates was of prime importance. He fervently hoped that Tsunehiko had managed to perform this simple task.

"Yes, Yoriki Sano-san!" Tsunehiko beamed, completely restored to his usual cheerful self. s.n.a.t.c.hing up a paper from his desk, he presented it to Sano with a flourish.

Sano read the characters written in Tsunehiko's large, awkward script: Noriyos.h.i.+, artist Okubata Fine Arts Company Gallery Street Yos.h.i.+wara, Edo "Yos.h.i.+wara." Sano lingered over the name of the district. Yos.h.i.+wara, the walled pleasure quarter near the river on Edo 's northern outskirts, where prost.i.tution of all kinds was legal. Where food, drink, and myriad entertainments-theater, music, gambling, shopping, and others less innocuous-were available in abundance for those with money to pay for them. The district had originally been called "reedy plain" after the land it occupied. Then some clever promoter had modified the characters of the name to mean "lucky plain," a euphemism that had endured. Still another name for it was the Nightless City: Yos.h.i.+wara never slept.

"He lived and worked at the same place," Tsunehiko added. "Both records gave the same address. Okubata was his employer."

"I see." In keeping with the rules that governed traditional teacher-pupil relations.h.i.+ps, Sano did not praise Tsunehiko for work well done. But he could offer a reward. And there was no time like the present for keeping promises. Tsunehiko's partic.i.p.ation would be a hindrance, but one he thought he could manage... "How would you like to go with me to Yos.h.i.+wara and help investigate Noriyos.h.i.+?"

"Yes! Oh, yes! Thank you, Yoriki Sano-san!" Tsunehiko leaped eagerly to his feet. He toppled his desk, spilling papers, brushes, and ink all over the floor.

A short while later, they were on a slow, rocking ferry headed upriver toward Yos.h.i.+wara. The open boat, which could seat a row of five men along either side, would have been full in summer. But today, Sano and Tsunehiko were the only pa.s.sengers. In their heavy cloaks and wide wicker hats, they huddled under the flapping canopy that provided scant shelter from the cold, damp river breeze. Behind them the two muscular boatmen sang in rhythm with their splas.h.i.+ng oars, occasionally interrupting their song to shout greetings to men on pa.s.sing fis.h.i.+ng boats and cargo vessels. The brown water swirled around them, rank and murky, reflecting no light from the low gray sky.

Tsunehiko was opening the box lunch they'd brought to fortify themselves for the two-hour trip. "We should really be riding to Yos.h.i.+wara on white horses," he said. "That's the fas.h.i.+onable way. And in disguise, so no one will know we're samurai." He began to consume rice b.a.l.l.s, pickles, and salted fish with great zest and speed.

Sano smiled. Laws forbade samurai to visit the pleasure quarter, but since the laws were seldom enforced, members of their cla.s.s frequented Yos.h.i.+wara openly, in droves. Disguise was unnecessary, except to add a touch of intrigue to the fun.

"We're on official business, Tsunehiko," he said.

"Official business," Tsunehiko agreed. He grinned, showing a mouthful of partially chewed food.

Sano ate his own lunch more slowly. He'd chosen to travel by boat, sacrificing speed for the opportunity to study the river that had claimed the bodies of Noriyos.h.i.+ and Yukiko. Now he gazed at the line of warehouses on his left. The pair could have been thrown into the river anywhere: From one of the piers or docks or boathouses at the foot of the stone embankment; from the Ryogoku Bridge, under whose great arch the boat was carrying him now; or even from the marshes on the opposite bank. If he didn't learn anything in Yos.h.i.+wara, he would have to search up and down the river for witnesses, a task that might take days to finish.

At last the ferry drew up beside the dock. Sano paid the boatmen. Then he and Tsunehiko climbed out, stretching their cramped muscles as they mounted the steps that led up the embankment. They followed the road inland, past shops and restaurants that served the river trade. Servant girls smiled invitingly at them from the curtained doorways, then turned sullen when they didn't stop. Pa.s.sing through the rice fields and marshes outside Asakusa, they could see the tiled roof of the Senso Temple rising in the distance above the smaller houses and temples surrounding it. A gong tolled; the wind brought with it the faint smell of incense. A few priests, their heads shaved, called out from the roadside, extending their begging bowls for offerings.

A short walk brought them within sight of the moat and high earthen walls that encircled Yos.h.i.+wara. Two samurai clad in helmets and armor vests guarded the gate: the day s.h.i.+ft of the continuous watch maintained over people pa.s.sing through the gate's roofed and ornamented portals.

Questioning the guards, Sano experienced anew the difficulty of carrying out an unofficial murder investigation.

"Yes, we knew Noriyos.h.i.+," one of them said. But when Sano asked if he'd seen Noriyos.h.i.+ the day of his death, the guard replied, "He went in and out all the time. How am I supposed to remember exactly when? Anyway, he's dead, so what does it matter?"

Having no ready answer to this, Sano asked, "Did anyone come out carrying a large box or package two nights ago?" One large enough to hold a dead body, he wished he could add. He was conscious of Tsunehiko wheezing beside him, hanging on every word. The secretary probably thought he was learning how a yoriki conducted business. Hopefully he wouldn't understand what was going on-or at least not enough for it to matter if he told anyone about this trip.

The other guard snorted. Unlike the Edo Jail guards, he and his partner, who wore the triple-hollyhock-leaf Tokugawa crest on their sleeves, evidently saw no need to act subservient toward a city official. "Probably." In a condescending voice, he added, "But we have plenty to do besides keeping track of all the porters, yoriki."

Like making sure no women escaped, Sano thought. Virtually all the yujo-courtesans-had been sold into prost.i.tution by impoverished families, or sentenced to Yos.h.i.+wara as punishment for crimes. While some reigned over the quarter like princesses, enjoying their luxurious surroundings while tolerating men's attentions, others, mistreated by cruel masters, led miserable lives. These often tried to flee through the gates disguised as servants or boys. The guards would naturally pay less attention to the comings and goings of porters, or of a man they knew.

"No disrespect intended," the guard went on in a tone that implied otherwise, "but you're blocking the gate. Are you going in or not?"

"Thank you for your a.s.sistance," Sano said. As he and Tsunehiko entered Naka-no-cho, the main street, he gazed around with interest. He'd seen Yos.h.i.+wara many times: during childhood summers, when he and his parents had joined other Edo families to watch the beautiful pageants of the yujo. Later, as a student wandering the streets with his friends, gawking at the women. But years had pa.s.sed since his last visit. The price of food, drink, and female companions.h.i.+p was far too high for him, and the necessity of earning a living left no time for the long trip there and back, or the hours of drunken revelry in between. Now he saw that while some things matched his memories, others did not.

The rows of wooden buildings were familiar, as were the bold signs advertising the teahouses-which sold not tea, but sake- shops, restaurants, and brothels, or pleasure houses. A familiar smell of stale wine and urine lingered in the air. But the quarter had grown. Although the walls limited outward expansion, new businesses had filled in the s.p.a.ces between the older ones that Sano recognized. His last visit had taken place in evening, when glowing paper lanterns hung from the eaves and beautiful courtesans solicited customers from within the barred, cagelike windows that fronted the pleasure houses. Now, in the afternoon, the lanterns were unlit and the cages empty, with bamboo screens pulled down behind the bars to hide the interiors of the buildings, which showed the inevitable signs of age: yellowed plaster, worn stone doorsteps, darkened wooden pillars. The season made a difference, too. The branches of the potted flowering cherry trees along the street, pink with blossoms in spring or lushly green in summer, were bare. Fun-seeking samurai and commoners, though numerous, walked quickly instead of strolling, bundled against the cold in their heavy garments. Even their laughter seemed subdued. The glamour that Sano remembered had faded.

Yos.h.i.+wara's winter drabness didn't faze Tsunehiko. "Isn't this terrific?" he enthused, goggling at the signs. "I don't understand why Yos.h.i.+wara has to be way out here in the middle of nowhere. If it weren't so far from town, we could come every day!"

"The government wanted it away from the city to protect public morals," Sano answered, taking the opportunity to instruct his protege. "And it's easier for the police to control what goes on in a centralized quarter than in a lot of scattered areas. They can reduce the number of little girls kidnapped and sold to brothels by procurers."

He would have added that the metsuke-government spies- found Yos.h.i.+wara a convenient place to keep tabs on citizens of dubious character. But Tsunehiko wasn't listening. He'd ducked beneath the curtain covering the doorway of a teahouse. A sign above it proclaimed, "WOMEN'S SUMO HERE! See the famous wrestlers Holder-of-the-b.a.l.l.s, Big b.o.o.bs, Deep Crevice, and Where-the-Clam-Lives compete!" On a smaller sign: "Tonight's special: Blind search for a dark spot. Women wrestlers versus blind samurai!" Guttural cries and loud cheers issued from inside the teahouse, indicating that the matches, illegal elsewhere in the city, had already begun.

Sano shook his head. Bringing Tsunehiko had been a mistake. Now he would have to waste time keeping track of the boy. One more worry, added to a puzzling murder case and the perils a.s.sociated with conducting a forbidden investigation.

"Come on, Tsunehiko," he said. "Let's find Gallery Street."

Then he found reason to be glad of Tsunehiko's company.

Backing out of the teahouse, Tsunehiko said, "Oh, I know where that is. Follow me, I know a shortcut."

He bounced off down Naka-no-cho, leading Sano around a corner and along a street where high walls hid the back gardens of the brothels from view. They plunged into a maze of narrow alleys lined with closed doors, barred windows, and overflowing wooden trash containers. Stray dogs rooted through the maladorous debris. Sano was relieved when they emerged into the clean brightness of a wide street.

"Here we are," Tsunehiko announced proudly. "See?"

All up and down Gallery Street, open storefronts displayed racks and walls covered with colorful woodblock prints. Browsers strolled past, many of them samurai defying the laws that prohibited them from possessing these supposedly immoral works of art. Hawkers stood outside the galleries, chanting prices and extolling the quality of their merchandise. Inside, the proprietors haggled with their customers in strident tones. Sano studied the signs above the galleries. The Okubata Fine Arts Company lay halfway down the block. Now to get rid of Tsunehiko so that he could conduct the interview in private...

To his delight, Tsunehiko's flightiness came to his aid. The secretary immediately wandered into one of the other shops and began pawing through a stack of pictures. Smiling, Sano headed down the street alone.

He'd no sooner reached the shop than the hawker accosted him, crying, "Good day, sir! Looking for fine prints at the best prices? Well, you've come to the right place!"

He was a man of quite astonis.h.i.+ng ugliness. His most prominent feature, a large purplish-red birthmark, spilled across his upper lip, over his mouth, and down his chin. Hair sprouted from his nostrils. Smallpox scars pitted his skin. Protuberant eyes gave him the appearance of an insect, perhaps a mantis. This resemblance was strengthened by his stooped shoulders and by the way he rubbed his bony hands together as he hovered close to Sano.

"Come in, come in," he urged, plucking at Sano's sleeve.

Sano stepped up onto the raised wooden floor of the shop and pa.s.sed under the curtain that partially s.h.i.+elded it from the street. The shop was small, a single room with racks of prints crowding its floor and walls, which were hidden by more prints. It was also deserted.

"Now what can I show you?" the ugly man asked. Evidently he was both hawker and proprietor. "Some nice landscape scenes?"

He pointed to a set of pictures mounted on the wall: Mount Fuji during each of the four seasons. Sano could see why the shop had no customers. The prints were poorly drawn, with garish colors slightly out of register so that each picture was a blurred multiple image. He wondered how the shop managed to stay in business.

"Are you Okubata?" he asked the man.

"Yes, yes, that's me. But everyone calls me Cherry Eater." With a self-deprecating laugh, the proprietor touched his birthmark.

Sano thought the name had a second, lewder meaning, as the man's sly glance seemed to suggest.

Cherry Eater pulled a print from the nearest rack. "Perhaps you prefer cla.s.sical art, sir?"

Sano winced when he saw the print, a crude copy of the ancient painting He-ga.s.sen, "Fart Battle." In it, two samurai on horseback blew farts at each other from bared b.u.t.tocks. The artist had rendered the farts as huge, colored clouds of fumes.

"A fine tribute to your heroic ancestors," Cherry Eater suggested.

"No, thank you." Sano, nettled by the implied insult, eyed the proprietor for signs of irony or deliberate malice, but met with only a polite, bland gaze. "Actually, I've come to talk to you about your employee, Noriyos.h.i.+."

Before he could introduce himself, Cherry Eater exclaimed, "Ahhh! Why didn't you say so?" With a knowing nod, he ushered Sano to a display rack at the rear of the shop. "Sadly the great artist Noriyos.h.i.+ has departed from this world. But I have here his most recent work. His best work, I might add. You like it? Yes?"

Looking at the prints, Sano immediately understood how the Okubata Fine Arts Company made its money: by selling shunga- erotic art-to a select clientele. The other prints were nothing but window dressing. Noriyos.h.i.+'s work showed amorous couples in every possible position and setting: In a bedchamber, with the man on top of the woman; in a garden, with the spread-legged woman seated in the fork of a tree and a standing man thrusting into her. Some pictures included third parties, such as maids a.s.sisting the couples, or voyeurs peeping through windows at them. Noriyos.h.i.+ had depicted costumes, surroundings, and genitalia in great detail. A large print showed a reclining samurai, his swords on the floor next to him, his robes parted to expose a huge erection. With one hand he fondled the crotch of the nude maiden lying beside him; with the other, he drew her hand toward his organ. The caption read: Indeed, indeed With all their hearts Sharing love's bed: Caressing her Jeweled Gateway and taking The girl's hand, causing her to grasp his Jade Shaft: what girl's face will not Blush, her breath come faster?

All the prints were technically superior to the works at the front of the shop. The colors were clear and harmonious, the drawing masterful. In addition, they had a sensuous grace not usually found in common shunga. Sano felt himself growing aroused against his will.

"Perhaps Noriyos.h.i.+'s pictures can a.s.sist you in your romantic endeavors," Cherry Eater said helpfully.

This jab at his s.e.xual prowess, whether or not intentional, jolted Sano out of his reverie. The proprietor was either a very subtle wag, or too thoughtless to realize how his remarks might affect his customers. Turning away from the prints, Sano said sharply, "That's none of your business. And I'm not here to buy."

When he introduced himself, he watched with some satisfaction as Cherry Eater's face blanched so that the birthmark stood out like a fiery rash. The proprietor's eyes flew toward the pictures. The absence of round red censors' seals clearly identified them as contraband, their sale or possession illegal.

"I'm not concerned about your merchandise, either," Sano hastened to add. "I'd like you to answer some questions about Noriyos.h.i.+."

Color flooded back into Cherry Eater's face. "If I can, sir. Ask me anything at all." He grinned, expansive in his relief.

To put the man at ease and avoid provoking his suspicion, Sano began with an innocuous question. "How long did Noriyos.h.i.+ work for you?"

"Oh, not long enough."

Despite Cherry Eater's innocent smile, Sano began to understand that the proprietor's jabs and wisecracks were indeed intentional, delivered in an apparent earnestness that would fool most people. Annoyed, he frowned a warning.

Mischief lit Cherry Eater's eyes as he counted on his fingers. "Noriyos.h.i.+ was with me six... seven years."

Long enough for them to know each other well, Sano thought. "What kind of man was he?"

"Much like any other. He had two eyes, a nose... "

Sano's annoyance grew. He glared at Cherry Eater, touching his sword to underscore the threat.

Cherry Eater's insectile eyes goggled; his smile vanished. Obviously realizing that he'd gone too far, he amended quickly, "Oh, Noriyos.h.i.+ was a very capable artist. Very prolific. His work sold well. I'll miss him."

Sano said patiently, "No, I mean what was he like as a person? Friendly? Popular?"

Cherry Eater grinned. "Oh, not very popular. But he did have many friends, I would say." He gestured toward the street. "All over the quarter."

"Tell me their names." Except for having to accommodate the proprietor's irritating nature, this was going better than Sano had expected.

Cherry Eater mentioned several, all men who worked as artists or in Yos.h.i.+wara's teahouses or restaurants.

Sano committed each name to memory. "No women?" he asked.

"No, sir, none that I know of. Except for the young lady who died with him."

A movement caught Sano's eye. He looked down. Although Cherry Eater's expression hadn't changed, he was s.h.i.+fting his weight from one foot to the other. This, along with the unexpected straight answer, told Sano that the art dealer was lying. His body and manner were betraying him.

To throw Cherry Eater off guard, Sano changed the subject. "Did Noriyos.h.i.+ have any family in town?"

The feet stopped s.h.i.+fting. "No, sir. But plenty in the spirit world. He told me they all perished in the Great Fire."

"Who were Noriyos.h.i.+'s enemies?"

"He had no enemies, yoriki," But I am not your servantCherry Eater answered blandly. "He was very well liked."

Sano waited for a wisecrack; it never came. He watched the art dealer's s.h.i.+fting feet. "You may as well tell me," he said. "If you don't, I'll find out from someone else. Are you so sure you can trust your friends- " he recited the list of names Cherry Eater had given him " -not to talk?"

"I am most sorry to say that I don't know what you're talking about, sir." s.h.i.+ft, s.h.i.+ft. The floorboards creaked under Cherry Eater.

"Who is Noriyos.h.i.+'s woman friend?"

Cherry Eater folded his arms across his concave chest. "With all due respect, yoriki, I do not like the way you are addressing me. You're calling me a liar." Evidently his decision to bluff had calmed him; his feet stood firm. "Either arrest me and take me before the magistrate, or else please leave my shop!"

Sano closed his eyes briefly. Self-disgust withered him. Inexperienced as he was, he'd mishandled the interview. Cherry Eater wouldn't tell him anything now. He could hardly arrest the man for refusing to answer questions about what was officially a suicide, and he didn't even dare arrest him for selling contraband artwork or insulting a police officer. Magistrate Ogyu had already made it clear that he didn't want his yoriki doing dos.h.i.+n's work. Besides, he couldn't let Ogyu learn that he was investigating the deaths of Noriyos.h.i.+ and Yukiko until he could prove they were murders.

"I didn't intend any offense," he said, hating to offer apologies in return for insults and teasing, but hoping to placate Cherry Eater enough to let him see where Noriyos.h.i.+ had lived. He wanted to get some feeling for the man and an idea about what could have driven someone to kill him. "I didn't come to arrest you or demean your character. I only want information for my records, and you've been most cooperative. Now I ask you to grant me a small request. May I see Noriyos.h.i.+'s living quarters?"

"Of course, sir." Cherry Eater seemed glad for an excuse to stop talking about Noriyos.h.i.+'s women and enemies. He slid open a section of the wall to reveal a dim pa.s.sageway. "This way."

Sano followed him down the pa.s.sage and out into a narrow dirt courtyard. One side was bounded by the wall of the shop next door. Along the other ran a flimsy shedlike building with a narrow veranda. At the back, a privy, a woodpile, and a row of ceramic storage urns stood against a bamboo fence. The bitter, acrid smell of ink overlaid the more familiar odors of sewage and sawdust. Cherry Eater led him past the shed. Through its open doors, Sano could see three identical cubicles. In each, an artist knelt at a sloping desk. One was cutting lines in a block of wood with a metal gouge. A second inked a finished block and pressed it against a sheet of white paper. The other was adding color to a finished print.