Shinju Page 7

  The time for decision has come. Except I do not know what to do. To act would destroy lives. But to do nothing—infinitely worse! To speak is to betray. To remain silent a sin.

  Chewing her fingernail, Midori read the passage again. She ran her finger over the characters, which were shaky and irregular, unlike the beautiful calligraphy of the earlier entries. Yukiko’s agitation had expressed itself in her writing. Destroy … betray … sin. Such extreme language convinced Midori that here was proof that someone had killed Yukiko, because of something she knew. But what? What decision had caused her such anguish on the last day of her life? Midori flipped to the previous page. She began to read with growing dismay and fascination. So absorbed was she that she didn’t notice the door sliding open until it clicked to a stop.

  Midori shrieked and dropped the diary. She spun around. Surprise turned to horror when she saw her stepmother silhouetted in the doorway. The light from the corridor left Lady Niu’s face in shadow. Behind her loomed the unmistakable bulk of Eii-chan, whose silence and ugliness had always frightened Midori. Now she darted a frantic gaze around the room, desperately seeking a hiding place. The cabinet? The chest? But it was too late. Lady Niu was advancing on her. Whimpering, Midori waited for her stepmother’s outburst and inevitable stinging slaps.

  But Lady Niu stopped a few paces from her. Her serene gaze flickered over Midori, down to the diary on the floor, to the disarranged cabinets.

  “You have entered this room against my orders.” Although she didn’t shout like she had in the garden, her hushed tone was somehow more frightening. “You have spoken to a police official without my permission, and no doubt told him foolish lies about our family. And now you have dishonored your sister’s memory by abusing her possessions.”

  Midori began to tremble. Her lips moved in a soundless plea. “Please … no …” She sensed that what happened to her next would be far worse than a beating. She stepped backward and felt her elbow tear through the paper windowpane.

  “For this you must be punished,” Lady Niu went on in the same tone. She paused, her lovely eyes narrowing. Midori could almost hear her turning over the possibilities: no play, no company, no good food or favorite possessions for several days? She’d used all of these before. Then Lady Niu nodded, apparently reaching a decision.

  “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.

  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. Nobody 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 partnership. 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 Noriyoshi’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 Noriyoshi’s associates 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. Snatching 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:

  Noriyoshi, artist

  Okubata Fine Arts Company

  Gallery Street

  Yoshiwara, Edo

  “Yoshiwara.” Sano lingered over the name of the district. Yoshiwara, the walled pleasure quarter near the river on Edo’s northern outskirts, where prostitution 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: Yoshiwara 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 relationships, 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 participation would be a hindrance, but one he thought he could manage.… “How would you like to go with me to Yoshiwara and help investigate Noriyoshi?”

  “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 Yoshiwara. 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 passengers. 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 splashing oars, occasionally interrupting their song to shout greetings to men on passing fishing 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 Yoshiwara on white horses,” he said. “That’s
the fashionable way. And in disguise, so no one will know we’re samurai.” He began to consume rice balls, 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 class frequented Yoshiwara 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 Noriyoshi 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 Ryōgoku 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 Yoshiwara, 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. Passing through the rice fields and marshes outside Asakusa, they could see the tiled roof of the Sensū 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 Yoshiwara. Two samurai clad in helmets and armor vests guarded the gate: the day shift of the continuous watch maintained over people passing 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 Noriyoshi,” one of them said. But when Sano asked if he’d seen Noriyoshi 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 yūjo—courtesans—had been sold into prostitution by impoverished families, or sentenced to Yoshiwara 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 assistance,” Sano said. As he and Tsunehiko entered Naka-no-cho, the main street, he gazed around with interest. He’d seen Yoshiwara many times: during childhood summers, when he and his parents had joined other Edo families to watch the beautiful pageants of the yūjo. Later, as a student wandering the streets with his friends, gawking at the women. But years had passed since his last visit. The price of food, drink, and female companionship 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 spaces 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.

  Yoshiwara’s winter drabness didn’t faze Tsunehiko. “Isn’t this terrific?” he enthused, goggling at the signs. “I don’t understand why Yoshiwara 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 protégé. “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 Yoshiwara 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-Balls, Big Boobs, 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 associated 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 stoo
d 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 astonishing 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 passed under the curtain that partially shielded 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.