The Incense Game si-16

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Akiko ran to Taeko and Tatsuo. Midori said, “I thought you were my husband coming home.” She looked worried. “Have you seen him?”

  “No,” Sano said. “I was hoping to find him here.”

  Midori brushed her disheveled hair off her face. “He didn’t come home last night.”

  Sano was disturbed. His irritation at Hirata for his absence during the investigation gave way to fear that something bad had happened to him. Sano didn’t trust those friends with whom Hirata had become so close. But he didn’t want to voice these thoughts and upset Midori.

  “He’ll probably be home soon,” Sano said. “I’ll stop by again later.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Midori said, reassured.

  “Can I leave Akiko with you?”

  “Of course.” Midori turned, saw the three children climbing a rock pile, and shouted, “Get down from there!”

  Sano left in search of Priest Ryuko.

  22

  A messenger boy from Edo Castle called into the courtyard of the Yushima Seid o: “Honorable Minister Ogyu! His Excellency the shogun wants you. You’re to come at once!”

  The summons awakened Minister Ogyu, who lay in bed with his wife and children in their tent. Groggy consciousness gave way to an agonizing headache that felt as if a spike had pierced his right eye, stabbed through his brain, and pinned him to the bed. His body’s response to mental strain, the headache had come on yesterday after Chamberlain Sano’s visit. Ogyu wished he could go back to sleep, but he couldn’t ignore the shogun’s order. He rolled over and stifled a groan.

  His wife roused immediately. She searched his face, read the pain that he hid from everyone except her. “Is the headache bad today?”

  “Not very,” Ogyu lied, not wanting to worry her.

  The mental strain had been his constant companion for as long as he could remember. Even when he was a child, fear and anxiety would pump through him and turn into pain in his head. “Make it go away!” he’d sobbed to his mother.

  She had shaken him and scolded, “Never cry! Don’t be a sissy!”

  “Obey your mother,” his father had said. “It’s for the good of us all.”

  Even though they withheld comfort, Ogyu had never doubted that they loved and cherished him. He’d known their story ever since he’d been old enough to understand. His father had been a court physician, his mother from a minor noble family. They were desperate for a son to carry on the family name, until at last Ogyu was born, the precious only child. They expressed their love through ever-vigilant discipline.

  His wife clambered out of bed, wrapped herself in her heavy coat, and said, “I’ll brew you some opium tea.”

  She was more sympathetic than his parents had ever been. Ogyu loved her dearly for it. Most other men would think her plain and worthless, but he wasn’t like most other men. He appreciated her as the luckiest thing that ever happened to him.

  He said, “I’ll have just a little.” Opium was the only thing that took the pain away, but he rationed his doses; he didn’t want to become a slave to it or impair his wits. “Because of Chamberlain Sano and his investigation. I need a clear mind.”

  They hadn’t spoken about Madam Usugumo or the murders. They had a tacit agreement that they wouldn’t, except indirectly.

  “But you dealt with Chamberlain Sano,” his wife said. “He went away.”

  “He’s not finished with me,” Ogyu said. “We have to be on our guard.”

  “We always are.” She smiled, proud of their unity against a world they’d both found cruel.

  But Ogyu could see how tired she was, how dark the shadows under her eyes. Life after the earthquake was wearing her down, and she’d shared the burden of his problems for the nine years they’d been married. He himself badly needed a rest from the pressure to dissimulate, achieve, and impress. But it never let up.

  Dragging himself upright, he remembered mealtimes at his parents’ house during his childhood. “Eat!” his mother commanded, holding a bowl under his chin and spooning rich meat stew into his mouth. “Get bigger!” He ate until he was bloated. “Take your medicine!” He swallowed the bitter herb potion. Before he went out in public, his father coached him. “Walk like this, with bigger steps. Don’t mince! Shoulders back. Head high. If someone speaks to you, speak up; don’t whisper. Talk deeper in your throat.”

  His parents were gone now, but his wife had taken over for them. She put more coals on the brazier and heated gruel, thick with fish and vegetables and lard. As she mixed his medicine, he said, “I don’t think I can eat.”

  “You must.”

  She urged him with kindness, but it was still a regimen he wished he could escape. Knowing he never could, he dutifully ate and drank. Afterward, she shaved him, oiled his hair, tied his topknot, and neatly trimmed the end. Unlike other men of his status, he didn’t have a valet. She helped him dress in his loincloth, white silk under-kimono, his formal black satin robe ornamented with gold family crests, his black trousers, and black padded coat. On his feet she put socks she’d laundered herself, and high-soled sandals. She checked every detail of his appearance so thoroughly that he didn’t need a mirror.

  “There,” she said with a satisfied smile. “You’re ready for the shogun.”

  Ogyu took small comfort in knowing that he looked the perfect scholar. His headache stabbed, each thrust deeper. Involuntary tears stung his right eye. The pain was as bad as during the most stressful occasions of his life.

  One of those was the day he’d had his first lesson with his tutor, at age six. Up until then, the only people he knew were his parents and their servants. They’d kept him at home, not allowing him to mix with other children; they had no friends or visitors. But they wanted him to have a good education, necessary for their family’s advancement. At great expense they’d hired the tutor-a strict, humorless scholar from the shogun’s court. The tutor was the first stranger that Ogyu had had to impress. For years he toiled to learn math, literature, history, and Confucian philosophy while practicing everything his parents had taught him. He excelled at his studies, but that only created a new challenge.

  When Ogyu was twenty, his tutor took him to Z o j o Temple. It was his first venture into public without his parents. The magnificent buildings, the crowds, and the noise terrified him. In front of the main hall, Confucian scholars gathered to show off their talents. They took turns lecturing to each other and whoever happened by. As Ogyu waited for his turn, his head ached so badly that he could hardly hold it upright. His vision speckled the scene around him with black spots one moment, dazzling lights the next. When he mounted the stairs, he was almost blind with pain, almost too weak to stand. But his days of writing, rewriting, and rehearsing his lecture paid off. He delivered it perfectly and received enthusiastic cheers.

  Soon afterward, he was invited to visit the shogun at Edo Castle. Determined to make the most of this opportunity, his parents drilled him on his speech, manners, and comportment. They made him study for extra hours, preparing to discuss Confucianism with the shogun. Such excruciating strain and headache did the pressure bring upon Ogyu! But his suffering was worthwhile. He became the shogun’s favorite scholar. Important people began courting his favor. He managed to overcome his nervousness enough to enjoy his new position.

  Then his parents decided he must marry. A man in his position needed a wife, an heir. High-ranking families offered their daughters to Ogyu. The very thought of marriage made him sick with dread. His mother and his nurse were the only women he knew. Unlike other young men, he’d never patronized brothels. The idea of sexual relations was terrifying. So was the idea of meeting prospective brides and their families. Ogyu feared being accepted as much as he feared rejection. But his parents told him to trust them; they would find him the perfect wife.

  Now his wife fretted over him, smoothing his clothes, adjusting the swords at his waist. “You’ll come back soon?” Even before the earthquake and the murder investigation, she’d hated any separ
ation.

  When they’d met at their miai, he’d immediately seen that his parents had chosen well. His own personal torment made him sensitive to it in other people, as if it were a smell they gave off. She’d reeked of it. Her lavish kimono had only emphasized her plainness. She’d been rejected by other clans and her parents were eager to get rid of her-facts that Ogyu’s parents knew. And her shame was obvious. She’d stood with her head ducked, shoulders hunched, hands fidgeting. After the miai, Ogyu agreed to marry her. She would be in no position to complain when she found out that he wasn’t the powerful, confident man he seemed.

  The wedding ceremony had been an ordeal for both of them. Despite the pain in his head, he felt sorry for her because she was as terrified as he. She trembled so hard that when they took the ritual sips of sake that bound them together as husband and wife, she almost spilled the cup. Tears glistened on the white powder on her face. After the banquet, after the guests had left and Ogyu was alone with her for the first time, there came the part of the ordeal he’d dreaded the most. They’d knelt in the bedchamber, the bed between them, not looking at each other. Ogyu could hear her breathing, fast and ragged with panic. He’d forced himself to go to her, take her cold, damp, trembling hand in his, and speak. He was the husband. It was his duty to prepare her for the realities of their marriage.

  And he discovered that she had her own troubles, which their marriage forced her to confess. They talked, and by morning they were united in a special way that other couples weren’t. To their amazement and gratitude, their marriage brought them the love and happiness they’d never dared to hope for because it seemed so impossible.

  Now Ogyu tenderly caressed her cheek. “Of course I’ll come back soon. Nothing can separate us.”

  But fear, like a chisel made of ice, drilled the pain deeper into his head. The murders, and the consequences, had the potential to destroy them both, and their beloved children.

  He vowed that he would die before he would let that happen.

  23

  Walking uphill through the passages inside Edo Castle, Sano sidestepped fallen stones from the walls. He came upon a tall samurai with a roguish expression and one eyebrow higher than the other, who jostled him. The samurai apologized, bowed, and passed. Sano went on to the guesthouse, where a servant told him that Priest Ryuko was visiting the shogun’s mother. On his way there, Sano met Lord Ienobu outside the palace construction site. They exchanged polite, wary greetings.

  “How is the earthquake recovery progressing?” Ienobu asked.

  “As well as can be expected,” Sano said.

  “Didn’t I see you with Lords Hosokawa, Mori, Date, and Maeda yesterday?”

  It cost Sano an effort to keep his expression placid. “Yes. Lord Hosokawa is a good friend of mine. What were you doing out in such bad weather?”

  “I needed a little change of scene. And I’m glad I went. Sometimes one sees interesting things when one steps out of one’s usual routine.” Ienobu’s smile was sly, private. “As I’m sure you are aware.”

  “Indeed,” Sano said.

  A whole, unspoken world of thoughts accompanied their exchange. Sano could see that Ienobu wondered what that meeting with Lord Hosokawa was about but didn’t dare to come out and ask. He could also see that Ienobu knew he would rather not say, and Ienobu didn’t want to offend him. Although Ienobu resented the fact that the shogun relied on Sano, Ienobu needed Sano’s support for a bid for the succession.

  “Well, I won’t keep you from your work,” Ienobu said.

  He shuffled off. Sano watched him for a moment, then went to the women’s quarters. He arrived just as Priest Ryuko was coming out. Ryuko’s expression was a smooth skin stretched over turbulent emotions. He paused, bowed, said, “Good morning,” then started to walk past Sano.

  Sano could tell he wanted to pretend that yesterday’s clash had never happened. Falling into step beside him, Sano said, “I’ll walk with you.”

  “Your company does me an honor.” Priest Ryuko’s courtesy sounded forced.

  They walked in silence along the path through the snow-frosted grounds. Sano didn’t broach the subject of Madam Usugumo’s murder. He sensed that all he had to do was wait. Priest Ryuko had the air of a man with a scab he wanted to pick even though he knew better.

  “You’re not going to ask me about my former incense teacher again, are you?” Priest Ryuko sounded vexed that his impulse had won out over wisdom.

  “I wasn’t,” Sano said, “but since you brought her up, is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “No.” Ryuko’s air vibrated with his need to know if Sano had any new information.

  “I did wonder if you’ve heard the rumor about her that I heard.”

  “What rumor?” Ryuko said too quickly.

  “That she had learned secrets about her pupils, and she was blackmailing them.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard.” Priest Ryuko walked faster, as if to escape Sano. “Who told you that?” He blurted the question out as if unable to hold it back, then frowned at his mistake.

  Sano fabricated a story. “It was Hirata- san. I sent him to check on conditions at the jail. Madam Usugumo’s apprentice is a prisoner. Korin has evidently been telling tales on her, in an attempt to get himself pardoned for cheating earthquake victims.”

  Priest Ryuko looked straight ahead, his profile taut, his face moist. “Detestable.”

  “Whom do you mean? The apprentice? Or Madam Usugumo?” When Priest Ryuko didn’t answer, Sano asked, “Was she blackmailing you?”

  Priest Ryuko plodded to a stop and faced Sano. He had the look of a man who’d buried a cesspool that had fermented underground and just exploded onto him-appalled, furious, and eager to push the mess off onto someone else. “You told me you weren’t investigating the murder, but I know otherwise. I also know why you’re interested in it. After we spoke yesterday, I made a few inquiries myself. I sent my assistant to Madam Usugumo’s house. He talked to the neighborhood headman and found out that she wasn’t the only person who was poisoned. Two of her pupils died with her. They belonged to the Hosokawa clan, which you knew because you were there when the bodies were found.” Priest Ryuko finished with a triumphant glare. “My assistant also discovered that Lord Hosokawa’s two daughters are dead. You are investigating the murders on behalf of Lord Hosokawa.”

  Sano was dismayed that his secret investigation wasn’t a secret any longer. “It’s none of your business whether I’m conducting an investigation or not.”

  Priest Ryuko smiled a thin, sardonic smile. “It is if I’m a suspect, which you obviously think I am. But why the secrecy? Why not make the investigation official?”

  “All right-let’s make it official,” Sano said. “I’ll tell the shogun that you’re under suspicion for killing Lord Hosokawa’s daughters. I’ll tell Lord Hosokawa, too. He’ll be interested to know. He’s out for blood revenge.”

  Priest Ryuko’s face was dripping now, and sickly pale. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I will, unless you answer my questions truthfully,” Sano said.

  “Very well.” And if I ever get an opportunity to retaliate, then woe betide you! said Ryuko’s expression.

  Sano regretted sealing their enmity, but it was better than failing at the investigation and bringing down the consequences. “Did Madam Usugumo blackmail you?”

  “No,” Priest Ryuko said, adamant. “I haven’t any secrets for her or anybody else to use against me. My life is as transparent as water.”

  Sano thought of the Sumida River, polluted with debris from the earthquake. “Then why were you so upset that you quit your incense lessons?”

  Priest Ryuko flinched at this mention of a fact he hadn’t expected Sano to have learned. He admitted through clenched teeth, “Because she tried to blackmail me. During my last lesson. It didn’t work. I washed my hands of her after that.”

  At last Sano was getting somewhere. “Tell me what happened.”

  Priest Ryuko sighed, venti
ng the emotion from his body. He spoke in a leaden voice. “I went to Madam Usugumo’s house. She served me tea before the lesson, which was typical. The tea tasted odd, though, and I asked what was in it. She said it was a new blend from China. I drank it, and while she set out the things for the lesson, I started feeling dizzy and drowsy. She lit different samples of incense, and she talked to me about the ingredients and where they came from, and the special aspects of the odors. She held the burner under my nose, and she told me to breathe deeply and concentrate on the voice of the incense.

  “After the first three or four samples, I actually started hearing it, which was strange because ‘the voice of incense’ is just a figure of speech; smells don’t really produce sounds. It was like a whispering in my ears. I started to get nervous. I said I thought I might be ill and we should stop. But Madam Usugumo said it was a breakthrough-I had reached a new level of my education. So I kept going.

  “Her voice began to blend with the whisper of the incense. I couldn’t tell who was speaking. She, or it, told me to raise and lower my arm. I obeyed without intending to.” Priest Ryuko demonstrated. “It just floated up and down, as if it were attached to a string that someone had pulled. Then the whisper told me to say my name, and my mother’s name, and where I’d been born. The words just flowed out of me. I wanted to ask Madam Usugumo what kind of ritual this was, but my tongue was paralyzed except when the incense allowed me to speak.

  “Then it asked me questions and commanded me to answer each one truthfully: Did I gamble? Did I bed the courtesans at the Yoshiwara pleasure quarter? Or boy prostitutes? I said no. I started getting angry. What right had anyone to ask me such personal questions? I was shaking and fuming, but I couldn’t resist. Then it asked me if there was something that I didn’t want anyone to know. Had I done something I was ashamed of, that I was afraid could get me in trouble? It said, ‘The secret is a stone you carry on your back. It’s getting heavier and heavier.’