Bundori:: A Novel of Japan

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Now guilt and self-loathing choked Aoi as Yanagisawa’s innuendo conjured up the image of herself and Fusei on their last night together. The dim lamplight of his bedchamber had failed to obscure the signs of his physical deterioration: the lean, fit body gone weak and stringy; the once-keen eyes bloodshot; the trembling mouth and hands. He reeked of the sake that had ravaged him. She could always identify those men with a dangerous affinity for liquor by the unique smell they gave off as it mixed with their blood, and she’d deliberately encouraged Fusei to drink as she charmed him. But that night, she realized that she missed the man he’d once been, and that she loved him.

  “No,” she whispered, stricken by the sudden knowledge of how much bleaker her life would be when she finished destroying the only person in Edo she cared for.

  Seated on the floor, Fusei gazed at her, eyes glassy with drunkenness and incipient dementia. “Perform the ritual, Aoi,” he said, his words slurred.

  She had often exploited her victims’ religious beliefs and filial piety by evoking the spirits of their beloved dead to influence them. It wasn’t a trick. The dead did speak—through their possessions, through the minds of living persons who had known them. She need only focus her concentration to hear their voices, then use her excellent acting skill to recreate their personae and manipulate vulnerable men like Fusei. But her heart rebelled against performing the act that would complete her lover’s ruin.

  “Not tonight, dearest,” she murmured, stroking his face.

  Fusei ignored her attempts to entice him to bed. With shaky hands, he lit the incense on the altar. “I am losing all my allies,” he complained. He couldn’t see that his drunken ravings had alienated them, any more than he could see that she was helping him destroy himself. “The whole council has joined Yanagisawa’s clique. I don’t know how to stop this madness. Aoi, I must have my mother’s advice.”

  Amid the smoking incense burners, he set the sash that had belonged to his deceased mother, then waited in the same anticipation with which he’d once greeted sex.

  Go, Aoi wanted to cry, before all is lost! And take me with you, away from this awful place. Then she thought of her people, whose lives depended on her continued obedience. Sighing mournfully, she laid her hands upon the sash.

  “Listen, my son.” She assumed the old woman’s raspy voice, and arranged her features in the expression she’d gleaned from Fusei’s memory.

  “Yes, mother.” He leaned toward her eagerly.

  “My son, you must take your sword to your enemy.”

  “No! I cannot!” Fusei’s clouded gaze cleared; his mother’s message had shocked him sober. “It would be treason!” Then, as he gazed upon what he thought was his mother, speaking through Aoi from the spirit realm, his expression turned resolute. “But if I must, then so be it.”

  Holding back her tears took every bit of self-control Aoi possessed. “Yes, my son,” she whispered.

  Two days later, he was dead in a violent scandal of his own making—and hers. Yanagisawa succeeded to the post of chamberlain without further opposition. Night after night, Aoi lay awake, weeping silently, hating herself and the duty that bound her. Then fate dealt her another blow when Chamberlain Yanagisawa summoned her to the keep for the first of many secret meetings.

  “Michiko is dead,” he said. “From now on, you will command the spy network, reporting directly to me.”

  The news hit Aoi like a thunderbolt. For years, the lingering dream of freedom had sustained her. She longed to see her father again. And she cherished the wistful hopes that in her own village she might work for good, rather than evil; she might find a man to fill the emptiness that Fusei’s death had left in her soul. But now she would never be free. Like Michiko, she would spend the rest of her life in exile, condemned to do work she despised, for men she hated. She wanted to hurl herself through the barred window and onto the ground five stories below.

  But the old threat still held. Instead she’d whispered, “Yes, Honorable Chamberlain.”

  “So, kunoichi,” the present-day Yanagisawa said. “Do you understand your orders?”

  Aoi nodded in resignation. Six long years had passed since she’d driven her lover to his death and broken her own heart. She wasn’t a foolish young girl now, but a mature professional who knew how to maintain her detachment. She need not involve herself intimately with Sano and risk more pain. She would sabotage his work so badly that his total destruction would be unnecessary. She could satisfy Yanagisawa without adding another murder to her sins.

  A movement outside made them both turn toward the window. Above the palace’s rooftops, curving stone walls, shining moats, and green gardens, a hawk wheeled and soared. As they watched, it veered to capture a tiny bird. A shriek of pain, a spatter of blood, and both predator and prey dropped from sight. Aoi winced inwardly.

  Yanagisawa contemplated the empty sky for a moment. The voices and footsteps of the patrolling guards drifted up to fill the silence. Then he said, “Will you use the dark forces against Sano?”

  Aoi sensed a sudden chill in the emotional climate that surrounded Yanagisawa. His nonchalant manner couldn’t disguise his fear of her. The mysterious “dark forces” were simply a combination of heightened perception, sensory awareness, and a thorough knowledge of the human mind and body. Formidable tools, beyond a samurai’s comprehension, yet hardly supernatural. But Yanagisawa knew she could kill him—with a poison dart, a concealed blade, or one sharp blow—before he could defend himself or summon help. So far she’d never had to commit an assassination, the last, dreaded resort should all other means of completing a task fail. But she would gladly kill Yanagisawa, if not for the death threat he held over her and her people.

  Aoi looked Yanagisawa straight in the eye, and saw that he knew it. His smile vanished. The balance of power between them shifted—but only temporarily. She lowered her gaze and bowed.

  “I will use whatever means necessary to achieve your aims, Honorable Chamberlain.”

  5

  Sano rode through a maze of narrow lanes that grew poorer and drabber as he neared Edo Jail, which housed not only prisoners awaiting trial, but also the morgue, where the bodies of those who died in natural disasters or from unnatural causes were taken. Here the spring sunlight only emphasized the signs of poverty: tumbledown houses with patched roofs and outdoor kitchens; thin, hungry-looking children. The warm weather intensified the smells of garbage, sewage, and poor food.

  A rickety wooden bridge led Sano across the rank, stagnant canal that formed a moat around Edo Jail. Before him rose the ominous bulk of the Tokugawa prison, with its high stone walls, multiple watchtowers, and massive iron-banded gate. When he reached the end of the bridge, two guards came out of the guardhouse, bowed, and slid back the heavy wooden beams that barred the gate.

  “Come right in, sōsakan-sama,” they chorused. Two months of his frequent visits had accustomed them to receiving him at this place of death and defilement where no one, especially high-ranking samurai, ever came voluntarily.

  As he dismounted and led his horse in the gate and through the prison, Sano reflected upon the changes he’d undergone since his first trip to the jail. Then he’d come reluctantly, on a distasteful errand associated with his first murder investigation. He’d never imagined wanting to return.

  Now he no longer needed anyone to escort him through the compound of earthen courtyards and dingy guards’ barracks and administrative offices. And he’d almost overcome his ingrained aversion, born of his Shinto religion, to contact with places of death. The proximity of the main prison building, where inmates suffered painful torture and squalid living conditions, and his fear of ritual pollution no longer made him physically ill. Nor did the smell of decay that surrounded the compound like a foul aura. Yet even when they still had, he’d come anyway—not out of professional duty, but to see Dr. Ito Genboku, Edo Morgue custodian, the friend whose scientific expertise had helped him prove that an apparent double suicide was actually a murder. Wh
ose wisdom and kindness had aided his struggle with the conflict between duty and desire, conformity and self-expression.

  Now Sano entered a final courtyard near the jail’s rear wall and stopped outside a low building with plaster walls and a thatched roof. The door opened at his knock and a short, wiry man with cropped gray hair and a square, stern face came out and knelt on the dirt to bow.

  “Mura,” Sano greeted him.

  He’d also overcome his distaste for this man, an eta. The eta, society’s outcasts, staffed the jail, acting as corpse handlers, janitors, jailers, torturers, and executioners. They also performed the city’s dirtiest tasks: emptying cesspools, collecting garbage, and clearing away dead bodies after floods, fires, and earthquakes. Their hereditary link with such death-related occupations as butchering and leather tanning rendered them spiritually contaminated. However, because Mura was both friend and assistant to Dr. Ito, Sano had learned to treat him with a respect not usually accorded an eta.

  “Is the honorable doctor well, and able to receive visitors today?” he asked.

  “As well as ever, master. And always glad to see you.”

  “Then please secure my horse.” As the eta rose, Sano removed a flat package from his heavily laden saddlebag and tucked it under his arm, adding, “And unload these parcels.”

  “Yes, master.” Mura’s deepset, intelligent eyes flashed Sano a look of understanding as he took the reins.

  Sano walked to the door of the morgue, feeling a touch of the old apprehension. He never knew what he would find here. Gingerly crossing the threshold, he held his breath, then sighed in relief.

  In the big room, other eta, dressed like Mura in short, unbleached muslin kimonos, worked at waist-high tables, tying hemp cords around corpses already swathed in white cotton, cleaning knives and razors and replacing them in cabinets, and mopping the floor’s wooden planks. The stone troughs that lined one wall stood empty, drained of the water used to wash the dead. All the windows were open, and the cool draft swept away any lingering odors. At a podium in one corner stood Dr. Ito, a man of about seventy, with short, thick white hair that receded at the temples. He wore his long dark blue coat, the physician’s traditional uniform. At Sano’s approach, he looked up from making notes in a ledger.

  “Ah, Sano-san. Welcome.” His shrewd old eyes lit with pleasure, and his bony, ascetic face relaxed into a smile as he set down his brush. Walking across the room to meet Sano, Dr. Ito was a living illustration of Tokugawa policy.

  Fifty years ago, the bakufu had virtually sealed off Japan from the outside world in order to stabilize the nation after years of civil war. Only the Dutch retained limited trading privileges. Foreign books were banned; anyone caught practicing foreign science faced harsh punishment.

  But a few brave rangakusha like Dr. Ito—scholars of Dutch learning—continued to pursue forbidden knowledge in secret. In a blaze of scandal, Dr. Ito, once esteemed physician to the imperial family, had been discovered, arrested, tried, convicted, and sentenced to lifelong custodianship of Edo Morgue. But this man of great spirit had found a source of consolation in his imprisonment. Ignored by the authorities, he could dissect, observe, and record in peace, with a neverending supply of human corpses at his disposal. He and Sano had begun their friendship over an inquiry related to Sano’s first murder investigation.

  Sano bowed. “Greetings, Ito-san,” he said, extending his package. “Please accept this token of my friendship.”

  Dr. Ito offered the customary thanks and demurrals and accepted the package, which contained writing supplies—the only things he would allow Sano to give him. The first and only time Sano had brought gifts of more substance, his friend had refused them, obviously humiliated to be an object of charity. Now Sano always gave food, fuel, and luxuries to Mura to sneak into the doctor’s hut, as he’d done today. All three of them knew about this, but to spare Dr. Ito’s pride, no one ever spoke of it.

  “And what brings you here today?” Dr. Ito asked, fixing his piercing gaze upon Sano. “Somehow I sense that it is more than just a desire for congenial company.”

  “The shogun has put me in charge of investigating the murder of Kaibara Tōju, whose head—”

  “Was severed and made into a war trophy.” Dr. Ito’s face grew animated, and his glee seemed out of all proportion to the news. “Yes, I have heard of this murder. And you are to find the killer. Splendid!”

  “Maybe not so splendid,” Sano said, puzzled. He explained about his difficulties with the police and how the murder scene had provided no clues.

  But Dr. Ito, instead of offering sympathy or counsel, just gave him an enigmatic smile and said, “Perhaps you are worrying needlessly, and too soon.”

  Suspicious, Sano asked, “Why? Do you know something?”

  “Oh, perhaps. Perhaps.”

  Sano would have demanded more information, but the mischievous look in Dr. Ito’s eyes stopped him. His friend had little enough pleasure in life; let him enjoy his secret a while longer.

  “I’d like to examine Kaibara’s remains,” Sano said.

  “Of course.” To the eta morgue attendants, Ito said, “Clear the tables. Then bring the body and head that came in this morning. Mura?” He turned to his assistant, who’d just entered the room. “Prepare to assist in an examination.”

  Mura gave Sano a discreet nod: He’d hidden the gifts. Then he said, “Yes, master,” and went to a cabinet for the necessary tools.

  The attendants removed the wrapped corpses and soon returned with two bundles, one large and elongated, the other smaller and squarish, both wrapped in rough hemp cloth. They placed these one on each table and withdrew, leaving Sano, Dr. Ito, and Mura alone.

  “They’ve not been washed or prepared for cremation yet,” Dr. Ito warned.

  “Good.” Sano nodded, pleased. Some evidence might remain. But as Mura unwrapped the bundles, Sano steeled himself, anticipating his first sight of the contents. He hoped his last meal had already passed through his system so that he couldn’t vomit, as he’d done after his first visit to the morgue. Since then he’d seen many corpses in various conditions, both here and in other, less expected places. But the thought of beholding another still made him queasy.

  The last fold of cloth fell back. Sano swallowed hard. Blood caked the corpse’s clothes so heavily that he couldn’t make out their original colors. It stained the sheathed swords still tucked into the sash, and had coagulated in thick crusts around the cut neck. Sano forced himself to step closer, flinching when he caught the sweet, sickly, metallic odors of blood and decay.

  “I suppose there’s no point in performing a dissection, because it’s obvious how he died,” Sano said, relieved to be spared that.

  He would never forget the first dissection he’d seen, or the awful sense of uncleanliness he’d experienced while watching a human body cut, mutilated, defiled. But all horror and disgust aside, he had more reason for relief: Dissection was just as illegal as when Dr. Ito had been arrested. Sano doubted that even the shogun’s patronage would protect him from the consequences of dabbling in forbidden foreign science. Instead of seeing it as necessary to obeying his orders, the refined, devout Tokugawa Tsunayoshi might be offended enough to exile Sano, or at least decide he didn’t need a sōsakan of such dubious character. The thought of defying the law and jeopardizing his position terrified Sano. Yet, as in his first murder case, he would do both to satisfy his desire for the truth.

  “No, a dissection does not appear necessary,” Dr. Ito agreed. He walked around the table, viewing the body from all angles. “But we shall see. Mura, remove the clothes.”

  Dr. Ito, for all his unconventionality, followed the traditional practice of letting the eta handle the dead. Mura did all the physical work associated with Ito’s studies. Now he began to undress the corpse.

  Sano examined the swords, holding them with his fingertips to avoid the blood. He pulled each free of its scabbard to expose a gleaming steel blade.

  “Clean,” he
said. “He didn’t even draw his weapons, let alone cut his attacker.” So much for the idea of identifying the killer via telltale sword wounds.

  When Mura loosened Kaibara’s sash, a small brown cotton pouch fell onto the table. Sano picked it up. Protected by its concealed position beneath the sash, it was free of blood. A white jade netsuke—charm—in the form of a grasshopper sitting on a plum dangled from the drawstring. Sano opened the pouch and saw silver coins inside. That the killer had left behind Kaibara’s valuables eliminated robbery as a motive. And fortunately for Sano, thieving corpse handlers hadn’t braved the blood and gore to find them. He tucked the pouch and netsuke inside his own sash.

  “I’ll return it to Kaibara’s family tomorrow,” he told Dr. Ito after explaining about Aoi’s ritual.

  Mura removed Kaibara’s cloak, kimono, trousers, and under-kimono, leaving only the loincloth, which was stained with feces and urine: death had loosened Kaibara’s bowels and bladder. The clothing had absorbed much of the blood, leaving only the dreadful accretion at the neck and faint blotches on the rest of the body, which was small and frail, with the withered muscles and pale, papery skin of old age.

  “Whatever reason the killer had for attacking Kaibara, it wasn’t for sport,” Sano commented. “The old man couldn’t have offered much of a challenge.”

  “Turn him,” Dr. Ito said to Mura.

  Sano leaned closer and voiced the obvious. “No cuts or bruises. Killed with one stroke. The murderer must have leapt out of the fog and surprised him.”

  Ito was studying Kaibara’s neck. “Mura, clean the cut.”

  Mura fetched a jug of water, then rinsed and swabbed until the caked blood loosened; the water washed reddish-brown clots down a hole in the table and through a bamboo pipe to a drain in the floor. The drain gurgled. Sano fought nausea as the cut came clean. He tried to think of the raw red tissue, white bone, and slashed vessels as mere abstract shapes, unrelated to anything human, but an unpleasant sense of contamination crept over him. Though he hadn’t touched the corpse, he felt an urgent need to wash his hands.