Aoi picked up the first kimono. Its white cranes, snowflakes, and green pine boughs seared their images into her brain; the brilliant crimson background made her sensitized eyes water. As she moved her hands over the fabric, she almost swooned at the sensuous pleasure of touching the lush silk, the million tiny stitches of embroidery. Her fingertips probed every area of the garment, seeking the almost invisible thinning where the wearer’s body had rubbed the fabric. With surreal clarity she saw tiny particles adhering to the neckline, cuffs, and hem. She found a single long black hair, which she stroked, sniffed, then ran along her tongue.
Last, Aoi lifted the kimono to her face. She closed her eyes to eliminate visual distractions. Then, concentrating on the underarm, breast, and crotch areas, she inhaled body odors left by the wearer: perfume, sweat, intimate secretions. With her tongue she tasted what information sight, smell, and touch hadn’t given her. When she finally laid the kimono down, her heart was thudding, her body trembling from the profound sensory experience. She rested for a moment, then repeated the procedure on the second kimono, a gray one printed with autumn flowers and grasses. It confirmed what facts she’d gleaned from the first and yielded a few more. Finished, she lay on her back, exhausted and gasping, eyes closed. The energy sea receded; its pulsing tide ebbed. Gradually Aoi’s heartbeat slowed, her breathing evened, and her body ceased to tremble. The world returned to its normal state—muted, colorless by comparison.
Aoi opened her eyes and sat up at the sound of soft footsteps outside the door.
“Enter,” she called before the knock came. Even with her ordinary perception she could identify the caller as the person for whom she’d sent.
The young maid entered on her knees and bowed. A small woman with a pleasant face and quiet demeanor, she was one of the Edo Castle network’s best agents, liked and trusted by her peers and superiors.
“I await your orders, my lady,” she said.
“I want to know who owns these,” Aoi said, showing her the kimonos. “Show them to all the women in the palace, Official Quarter, and attendants’ quarters.”
For who better to ask about the mystery witness than the castle women—confined and idle—who thrived on town gossip and fashion news brought them by their men and servants?
“The woman I’m looking for went to Zōjō Temple to become a nun,” Aoi continued, “but she may have returned home.”
Having filled her agent in on the bare facts Sano had given her, Aoi next fleshed them out with her own discoveries. “The woman is a wealthy commoner. Her husband is probably a rice broker. And she’s unhappy because he has other women.” There was no mistaking the expensive quality of the kimonos. Or the fine dusting of powdered rice hulls at the hems—too much for a rich woman with no need to enter the kitchen, but typical of one who lived near a brokerage, with someone who worked there. And Aoi had recognized the distinctive aura of heartbreak, a wife spurned.
“She’s fat, past forty-five, and suffers from congestion in the nose and chest.”
This from the strained seams, the faint wear patterns over the hips, buttocks, and breasts, the sour odor of a woman beyond her childbearing years, and the faint saltiness of dried mucus.
“But she tries hard to look young and pretty. She wears too much makeup.”
Aoi had found numerous particles of white face powder and tiny smears of rouge on the kimonos’ necklines. The fabric, bright and gaudy, was more appropriate for a young girl. And Aoi had tasted bitter dye on the long black hair.
“Ask everyone if they know this woman’s name, and where she lives,” Aoi finished. “Report to me by sunset.”
“Yes, my lady.” The maid took the kimonos, bowed, and left the hut.
Aoi gazed after her, thinking: That girl is young, but a good, obedient worker. She’s careful to hide her loneliness and pain, as I once did. She would make as good a replacement for me as I did for Michiko …
Abruptly Aoi rose and left her hut, taking with her a whisk broom and dustpan. She hurried through the woods toward the shrine, as if by running toward duty she could escape the fact that meeting Sano had changed her life, that love had destroyed her carefully constructed defenses and made her vulnerable.
She’d vowed never to involve herself with a man again. Remembering her dead lover, Fusei Matsugae, she couldn’t open herself to the pain and self-hatred that came of destroying that which was dearest to her. Yet now she’d done it again. She couldn’t dismiss her union with Sano as a momentary yielding to lust, nor could she pretend that their collaboration was based solely on coinciding interests—his wish to please the shogun, hers to destroy Yanagisawa. Somehow their togetherness had become an integral part of her desire to succeed.
Aoi strode the paths of the shrine precinct, seeking any task that could occupy her thoughts and assist her denial of the truth. She turned down a path where a strip of garden formed a boundary between precinct and forest. Along this ran flagstones on which worshippers could stroll and view the cherry trees, shrubs, and flower beds. Aoi knelt on the path and industriously began sweeping up dirt, pebbles, twigs, and fallen blossoms. Sweat filmed her face. Sunshine, dappled by the swaying branches of a cherry tree above her, dazzled her eyes. The smells of damp earth and pungent pine filled her lungs. Despite her attempt to purge all thought and emotion from her mind, she succumbed to the magic of the warm spring day and the yearning voice of her own heart. Her hand slowed. She slipped into a daydream that blended past and present.
She was back in her village, standing at her favorite place on the mountainside, with the wind in her hair and her spirit at peace. How good and clean she felt, having used her mystical powers for good rather than evil! And working with Sano had given her a sense of community she’d not experienced since leaving home. The memory of last night made her body sing with desire. Now she saw Sano standing on the mountain beside her, with all the trappings of his class and rank miraculously stripped away. His hair had grown, covering his samurai’s shaven crown. He wore no swords, no Tokugawa crest. Seeing him thus, Aoi gasped. She hadn’t noticed until now his resemblance to her father. They didn’t look alike, but the same inner essence of honor and integrity marked their faces.
Gazing at her, Sano didn’t smile. Neither did she. They didn’t embrace, or even touch. Free from the castle walls that imprisoned them, they walked up the mountain together, toward a shared future ambiguous in its particulars, but radiant with promise. Aoi’s heart swelled with happiness.
Her extra sense, trained to remain alert even when her mind was occupied, detected the approach of evil first. In an instant, Aoi’s dream evaporated. Her skin contracted, her nostrils quivered; her body stiffened as danger wafted toward her like a predator’s spoor. The wild elixirs of fear and excitement began to flow in her blood. Her legs tensed instinctively, ready to run for cover. Then she recognized the person behind the aura that preceded him. Fear gave way to dread. Trapped, she stayed on her knees, head bent, hand still wielding the broom, while she frantically sought escape.
Now he entered the range of her ordinary senses. She heard his stealthy footsteps and the whisper of his satin robes on the path. She smelled his wintergreen hair oil and masculine body odor. He stopped just short of her, his presence a cold patch of night in the bright morning.
“Continue working. Don’t look up,” said Chamberlain Yanagisawa.
Aoi kept her eyes on the ground and her hand moving, though less out of obedience than from fear of meeting his gaze. Why had he come to her like this, in the open, where anyone could see them? Had he somehow learned of her defection? Her thoughts flew to her family. She must warn them of the danger. And Sano, too, who at this moment was out gathering evidence against the chamberlain.
Above her, a branch of the flowering cherry tree rustled, then snapped: Yanagisawa had picked a spray of blossoms. She felt him hold them to his nose and heard him sniff their fragrance—his ostensible reason for stopping, the pretense to hide their conversation.
“What have you to report about Sōsakan Sano’s inquiries?” he asked.
Aoi relaxed a little. Maybe he’d found a spare moment in his busy schedule, had been passing by the shrine, and impulsively stopped to see her. Hastily she marshaled her thoughts.
“Yesterday Sano interviewed Chūgo Gichin and Matsui Minoru.” She knew Yanagisawa had other spies, who might tell him even if she didn’t, and the last thing she wanted was for him to doubt her efficiency or loyalty.
“Has he found evidence against any of the suspects?”
She heard an anxious tremor in the chamberlain’s smooth voice. Were Sano’s suspicions justified? Now Aoi longed to look into his eyes and read the truth there.
Instead, she arranged her sweepings of dirt, twigs, and dead blossoms into a neat pile. “No, Honorable Chamberlain,” she replied evenly.
A beat passed. Then: “Did you see Sano last night?”
Panic rippled the surface of Aoi’s nerves. Sano’s servants knew she’d brought him home last night and stayed until dawn. How much else they knew—or would tell, if asked—she couldn’t say. In addition, Sano’s attackers might have recognized her. She must stay as close to the truth as possible.
“I saw him, Honorable Chamberlain,” she said.
“How did he seem?”
He knew about the attack. Aoi could tell by the acceleration of his pulse, which she felt as a palpitation in her ears.
“He was badly beaten,” she said cautiously. “I treated his wounds. I listened to his troubles. I left him asleep.”
“Good. He will trust you all the more.”
The satisfaction in Yanagisawa’s voice chilled her. He was a suspect; he wanted Sano’s investigation stopped. Had he ordered the beating? Was this proof of his guilt?
“And how is our invalid this morning?” Yanagisawa’s hushed laugh made Aoi imagine a soft quilt stuffed with steel needles. “In bed, where he’ll languish away the rest of his miserable life?”
Aoi wanted to tell him that Sano’s body and spirit were broken, that the investigation was over—anything to cease Yanagisawa’s interference and buy her and Sano time to destroy him. But she couldn’t risk the possibility of his learning the truth elsewhere and discovering her lies.
“No, Honorable Chamberlain,” she said, hating her role as a spy even more now that she’d renounced it. “Sano is a strong man. And lucky that whoever beat him didn’t hurt him permanently. He was well enough to leave the castle this morning to call on another suspect. A woman named O-tama.”
Yanagisawa’s robes rustled as he began to pace. His movements stirred up a cold draft that raised bumps on Aoi’s skin. A net of terror fell over her heart: silk threads tightening, cutting. She could no longer pretend to work, because she knew what he was going to say.
“It’s just as I feared. It’s not enough to feed Sano false information, undermine his relationship with the shogun, threaten him with ruin, and hope he fails. He’s too zealous in his duty. He’s impervious to pain; he has incredible good fortune, and no regard for self-preservation. If he’s interrogating Chūgo, Matsui, and O-tama, he’s on the path to the truth. He must be stopped before he gets any farther.”
Yanagisawa stopped pacing, but his anger, fear, and hatred coalesced around them like a gathering storm.
“At the earliest possible moment, you will kill Sano.”
Aoi heard his robes swish as his arm moved. On top of her dirt pile landed the cherry branch he’d been holding. The broken end exposed the pale wood beneath the bark; the bright blossoms had already begun to wilt. Aoi’s horror blurred its image into a vision of torn flesh and spilled blood. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Through her mind’s silent screams of protest, Yanagisawa spoke again.
“And make it look like a natural death.”
Then he was gone.
30
When Sano returned to his mansion that evening, he was so stiff and sore he could barely move. Pain clothed him like a skintight suit of armor lined with spikes. At his gate he almost fell off his horse, then staggered through the courtyard and into the house. There he collapsed facedown in the corridor, thankful that no one had attacked him on his way home, for he wouldn’t have been able to defend himself. He rested in the security of having stone walls and guarded gates between him and whoever wished him harm.
Then he heard soft footsteps coming down the corridor. He looked up to see Aoi kneel beside him, her lovely face grave with concern. In his joy at seeing her again, he almost forgot his pain.
“I’ve prepared a medicinal bath for you,” she said. “Come.”
With her strong arms, she helped him to his feet and supported him down the corridor. Sano wanted to rest in her embrace and drink in her beauty, but he could do neither.
“I can’t stay,” he said.
“You must. For the sake of your health.”
He’d spent the afternoon in a futile attempt to establish the suspects’ presences in the pharmacists’ district, the eta settlement, Yoshiwara, and Zōjō Temple at the times of the murders. Now he should find out whether Aoi had identified the mystery witness from the temple, then begin surveillance on Chamberlain Yanagisawa. But the pain, coupled with his desire to be with her, overcame his resistance. He let her lead him to the bathchamber.
In the lamplit paneled room, a coal fire burned beneath the large, round wooden tub. From the heated water rose steam redolent with a sweet, pungent herb Sano couldn’t identify. The open window framed the branches of a blooming cherry tree that trembled in the cool evening breeze, dropping petals like snow flurries.
Sano undressed, and saw that the bruises had darkened; he looked as bad as he felt. His happiness at being with Aoi turned to puzzlement. As she helped him scrub and rinse himself, her touch was gentle but impersonal. She didn’t speak, and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Last night’s intimacy was gone, as if it had never existed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Still not looking at him, she shrugged and shook her head. “Get in. Before the water cools.”
Wincing in pain, Sano climbed the short ladder into the tub and immersed himself. The heat seeped into his aching muscles; a blissful sigh escaped him. But even as the pain and tension slipped away, he examined Aoi with increasing concern.
She stood stiffly beside the tub, her face pensive. And why was his extra sense detecting the cold breath of danger emanating from her? His innate distrust of the ninja resurfaced.
“There is something wrong. What is it?”
“Nothing,” she answered, too quickly.
A sick feeling spread through Sano’s stomach, almost eclipsing his fear, as he guessed at the problem. “You weren’t able to find out who the missing woman was?”
“Yes. I did.” Her voice was flat, its huskiness turned hoarse. “Madam Shimizu, wife of an Edo rice broker, fits what you told me, and what I learned from her clothes. She’s staying at her husband’s summer villa.” In the same lifeless voice, Aoi gave the woman’s description, and directions for finding the house.
Sano received the news with less relief than he’d expected, because so far every inquiry had led to Yanagisawa. “Thank you, Aoi,” he said, trying to sound pleased. “I’ll interview Madam Shimizu tomorrow morning.” He hoped that whatever she’d seen wouldn’t provide the final, incontrovertible evidence that would condemn him to death.
Hesitantly Aoi said, “What did you learn today?”
Sano told her, all the while wondering why she’d changed toward him. “O-tama’s story strengthens Yanagisawa’s motive,” he finished. “Wild Boar’s ties the assassin to him. And I didn’t find any evidence against Chūgo or Matsui.”
“Then you’ll arrest Chamberlain Yanagisawa soon?”
Sano turned away from her innocent, hurtful eagerness. She didn’t guess what form Yanagisawa’s execution would take—and he couldn’t tell her.
“Not until I have solid proof of his guilt,” he said.
Although she didn’
t move, he felt her shrink from him. Disappointment darkened her eyes. He could forgive her for wishing Yanagisawa’s downfall, and her freedom, but he couldn’t deny the pain of knowing that both could only be bought with his own life. Yearning to bridge the barrier of heritage that separated them, he lifted his hand from the water. She stepped back before it touched her cheek. In the awkward silence, steam rose around them like a physical manifestation of their unhappiness. Then Sano understood the reason for her distant behavior.
She’d reconsidered the wisdom of helping him, and now regretted it. She realized the danger their relationship posed to her, with every day adding to the risk of Yanagisawa’s learning about their collusion. Terrified for her family and herself, she wanted to end their liaison, but feared hurting him.
Guilt and sorrow flooded Sano. He knew what he must do, but couldn’t bear to let her go. Perhaps unwisely, he let his heart voice the message his mind ordered him to deliver.
“My father followed the ancient samurai practice of familiarizing one’s sons with the phenomenon of death, to desensitize them so that they would grow up unafraid of it and thus willing to die in battle for their lord. During my fifth year he began taking me to funerals to watch cremations. In my sixth year he instructed the priests at Zōjō Temple to let me spend nights alone in the cemetery. And when I was seven he started taking me to the execution ground to see the rotting corpses and severed heads. He did this until I reached manhood at fifteen.
“ ‘A samurai must keep constantly in mind the fact that he has to die,’ he would tell me. ‘And you must neither feel nor show fear of death.’ ”
Bundori:: A Novel of Japan Page 28