“Thank you,” she said, accepting. “It’s funny. When I’m a moga, men always light cigarettes for me. But as a geisha, all I do is light smokes.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he said, lighting a Golden Bat for himself. “How did a woman like you….a geisha and a moga, become the mistress of Masaru Ryusaki?”
“Would you prefer the long story or the short one?”
“A detective always wants details.”
Reiko took a long drag and thought back to that day back in March. She’d been at Harlem for hours and still no one had bought her a drink yet. She glanced over to a dapper mobo wearing a pin-striped suit and a deep-set frown. She felt smitten by his studious, handsome face, even though he looked like a man in mourning. The band struck up “The Japanese Sandman” and she asked him to dance. He accepted and began singing to her—in English.
“I met him at Harlem, right after you arrested him.”
“What were you two doing there?”
“What do you mean?”
“A jazz club is no place for a geisha or the leader of a patriotic society,” he said.
She took another puff and giggled. “Some detective you are. Haven’t you figured out that it’s all just an act?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not Masaru Ryusaki’s mistress because I’m a good geisha…I’m his mistress because I’m a lousy geisha.” Aizawa raised a perplexed eyebrow. “Look, have you ever seen that John Barrymore picture from a few years ago? Dr. Jeykll and Mr. Hyde?”
The Inspector gave a soft chuckle. “When I got back from Siberia, I took my little sister to see it. Scared the hell out of her.”
“Me too. I had nightmares for weeks. But that film is essentially Masaru Ryusaki’s life.”
Inspector Aizawa said nothing and took another drag, lighting his cigarette up like a firefly.
“You see, there are two Masaru Ryusakis. The Dr. Jeykll studied in San Francisco, speaks English, listens to jazz, watches Hollywood movies; he’s the epitome of a modern boy, a mobo. But he’s also a descendant of twenty generation of samurai. He’s seen Tokyo destroyed by the Great Earthquake and a depression ruin the economy. He feels ashamed for his love of modernity as if these calamities were somehow his fault. That’s why he created his own Mr. Hyde. This Masaru Ryusaki is a fiery patriot who must prove himself to his ancestors by assassinating politicians and overthrowing the government.”
“Giri and ninjo,” Aizawa said with a sigh.
She nodded and took another drag. Across the street, a pair of soldiers sauntered out of a theater while passersby stopped to offer them deep bows.
“Were you in the Army, Inspector?” she asked.
“Yes. I spent two years in Siberia, fighting Bolsheviks and snowstorms.” He flicked his cigarette into the snow. “And nobody bowed to us when we got back. Everyone gives a ‘banzai’ cheer to the Imperial Army today, but when I returned home, three university students surrounded me and demanded that I apologize for murdering fellow workers in Russia.” He shook his head. “When I tried to board a streetcar, the conductor sneered that he didn’t have any room for ‘imperialist soldiers’. As I stood there dumbfounded, a woman in flashy jewelry and a beret told me to take off my ‘shit-brown uniform’.”
“And did you?”
“I did, after a few more jeers of ‘imperialist assassin’ and ‘zaibatsu mercenary.’” He sighed. “Things were different back then. The people blamed the Army for the high taxes needed to pay for the Siberian Expedition. The Versailles Treaty had just been signed. Being a Communist was as fashionable as listening to jazz. Militarism was treated like a bad joke.”
“Not like today, huh?”
“Not like today.”
After a few moments of silence, Reiko took another drag and said, “Is that why you became a police officer? To teach the Reds a lesson?”
“Nothing so noble. I just needed work,” Inspector Aizawa said. “The economy was in a slump, not like today, but bad enough for the labor unions to block returning soldiers from decent jobs. But the Metropolitan Police needed men, especially veterans. I started a few months before the Great Earthquake.”
“Now that I remember. Before then, I spent whatever time out of school locked up in my parent’s cramped nagaya row house…which doubled for a textile factory. My father, mother, and I sewed and knitted stockings, socks, underwear, and kimonos. But whatever we sold was still never enough.” She swallowed hard, remembering that never-ending pile of silk. “My only pleasure was occasionally sneaking out to watch movies. I prayed that the gods would set me free…I guess they did, though they destroyed Tokyo to do it.”
Memories of that day were spotty and fragmented. But certain images would never dull. Her parents underneath a pile of wood, smashed into bloody smears. Her crawling out of her shattered nagaya like an earthworm wriggling through the dirt. People with burnt skin wandering about and moaning for water. A squad of firefighters trying to extinguish the fire department building. Worst of all was the enormous tornado of fire that whirled through Tokyo, incinerating anything in its path. She tossed her Golden Bat next to Aizawa’s to smolder in the patch of glowing snow.
“After the earthquake, I wandered the streets looking for food. One day, I recognized a geisha who had bought kimonos from my parents. Desperate, I threw myself at her feet and begged for help. She smiled, patted my head, and took me back home out of sympathy,” Reiko spread her gloved hands, “or so I thought. All she actually wanted was an apprentice since her last one had burned to death. She became my oneesan, my big sister, and I took on a new name: Harutora.”
“Spring Tiger?”
Reiko couldn’t suppress a swelling pride. “It’s tradition to take the first part your geisha name from your big sister. Hers was Haruhana, Spring Flower. She named me ‘tiger’ for my personality.”
“How fitting,” the Inspector remarked.
She figured that was a compliment and smiled. “Very. Haruhana taught me everything from tea ceremonies to fan dancing and how to attract a client.”
“A client? Like a—”
“No, not like that Inspector. A geisha needs a main client to pay for her lavish lifestyle. The kimonos, the makeup, the training…it isn’t cheap. I was only a child, but already indebted to Haruhana’s geisha house. Without a steady client, I’d be doomed to forever entertain at New Year’s celebrations and retirement parties.”
“It sounds like a terrible fate,” Inspector Aizawa said.
“Worse than hell itself. My oneesan had a steady client, a stock trader who worked in Marunouchi.” She sighed. “Then came the financial crisis in 1927. You remember that April, don’t you Inspector? The cherry blossoms were in full bloom and our banks were spiraling into the abyss. I still don’t understand what caused the panic but my oneesan’s client soon lost his entire fortune.”
“A lot of people were ruined during the crisis,” Inspector Aizawa said mournfully.
“Regardless, a year later I became a full-fledged geisha and my oneesan retired. Soon after, she and her client committed shinju, love suicide.”
“Every Japanese woman’s fantasy…”
She scoffed. “If there’s one thing I learned from the Great Earthquake, there’s no beauty in dying.”
Inspector Aizawa gave a slow nod. “You’re right. Siberia taught me that.”
“So there I was, Inspector. A newborn geisha with no clients and no oneesan to help me find one. I wandered the streets in a daze, just like after the earthquake, hoping a rich playboy would save me. I went to Harlem and drowned myself in gimlets and jazz. But the gods must have guided me there because I found my true self in that club. The geisha Harutora became the moga Reiko Watanabe.”
“Mogas,” Aizawa grumbled. “When I was promoted to inspector, one of my first cases involved a modern girl who stabbed a foreign businessman in the crotch. Her excuse was that he’d fondled her and didn’t pay the price they had agreed upon.”
“She
should have gotten the money up front. I probably ran into her at Harlem once or twice. You see, I drank and danced with everything Tokyo had to offer. Stock traders from Marunouchi, yakuza bosses, and mobo playboys. After a year as a moga, I paid off my debts to the geisha house and never looked back.”
“Is the moga your Mr. Hyde and the geisha your Dr. Jeykll? Or is it the other way around?”
Reiko ran a gloved hand along her chin. “I haven’t figured that out yet.” A gust of wind howled through the street and bit into her cheeks.
“And this Harlem club was where you met Masaru Ryusaki?”
Reiko nodded. “After the depression hit, nobody had money to spend. Not for a geisha or even a moga mistress. I looked for a job, but when men can’t find work, there’s little choice for a woman other than the brothels.” She shuddered at the thought. “Do you visit Yoshiwara, Inspector?”
“We can’t all be mobo playboys,” he snapped.
Reiko held up supplicating hands. “Sorry. I only meant to say that the women there aren’t getting rich. But after almost a year of dwindling finances and few romantic prospects, that was where I was headed for. But in March of this year, I met Masaru Ryusaki.” She sighed. “He was different then…like my childhood crushes, Sessue Hayakawa and Rudolph Valentino, rolled into one. So kind-hearted and well-traveled. He’d tell me stories about speakeasies and jazz clubs in San Francisco, more magical than any fairy tale I heard growing up.”
“You met a different Ryusaki.”
“Yes, I met the Dr. Jeykll. You see, your arrest scared him out of politics. He didn’t care about saving the nation from corruption anymore. All he wanted to do was write stories, stroll through Ueno Park, take me shopping in Ginza, and listen to jazz. It was heaven on earth.”
“Was he your ‘steady client’?”
“In a sense.” She gave a wistful sigh, full of more melancholy than intended.
“Sounds like you fell for him.”
Reiko didn’t say anything but glanced up at the glittering lights of the Denkikan’s marquee. How many nights had Masaru taken her here, during those blissful months of frivolity? What she wouldn’t give to have one more night like that.
“Whatever we had, it didn’t last long. It ended one night late in October. We’d just come back from seeing Sword of Justice when an Army officer was waiting outside of Masaru’s machiya.”
“Hajime Nakajima?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” She shivered, but not because of the cold. “Over tea, he explained how their recent attempt to overthrow the government had failed and—”
“Wait, there was another attempted coup?” the Inspector asked. “In October?”
Reiko nodded. “Only Army officers were involved this time. No civilians. Regardless, just like the March Incident, this one was called off too. Lack of support, Nakajima explained. But the Lieutenant said that they had a new plan and needed Masaru’s help. He begged Masaru to reactivate the Kusanagi Society. I’d never even heard of it or anything else he’d done in politics until that moment. I didn’t even know that he had served in the Diet until then!”
Inspector Aizawa chuckled. “Did he tell you the story when he appeared at a session in full samurai armor and threatened other Dietmen with his sword?”
That earned a deep laugh. “No, but I believe it. That’s Masaru’s Mr. Hyde. And like some magic potion, Nakajima’s visit turned him back into the fiery patriot that he is today. At first, Masaru tried to decline but Nakajima kept ranting about the corruption in the government, our soldiers fighting in Manchuria, and the famine ravaging the Tohoku region. Poor Masaru couldn’t stand the shame and agreed to help. You see, that rice farmer is everything Masaru Ryusaki wants to be…a selfless patriot, totally devoted to the Emperor.”
“And very different from the man you met,” Aizawa said.
Reiko nodded. “Masaru had to change in order to save face in front of Lieutenant Nakajima. No more jazz music, no more Hollywood films, and no more moga mistress. An esteemed patriot couldn’t fall in love with a creature of Western decadence. But he knew I had once been a geisha, and the geisha is a living piece of Japanese art. He bought me a kimono, makeup, and a wig. What choice did I have, Inspector? Go out into the world alone without any source of income? Or continue on as a geisha and do my best to pry Masaru away from Nakajima?”
“Is that why you called me, Watanabe-san?”
A flurry of answers flooded Reiko’s mind. Her love for Masaru and fear of a lack of income had been the main motivation. But this desperate attempt to keep her romance alive had failed, so why did she continue to help the Inspector? The reason presented itself in memories of that horrible September day when the Imperial capital died. It wasn’t for Masaru, the Inspector, or even herself. It was for Tokyo, her home.
“I saw what Masaru was planning…I couldn’t let this beautiful city of ours become drenched in blood.”
Aizawa sighed. “I understand...”
A few moments passed by in silence until a band of musicians in colorful samurai costumes sauntered through, led by a woman in a light green kimono. They stopped on a street corner and began playing old folk songs but with a jazzy twist, as if led by Cab Calloway himself. A typical night for Asakusa. She bit her lip. How she would miss this place.
“But we failed, Inspector. Tokyo will become a bloodbath. I’m...I’m considering leaving town.”
“What? You can’t leave!”
“Of course I can. There’s a late-night express at Tokyo Station.”
“You can’t run from this, Watanabe-san.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. In that bruised and blackened squared face was the conviction of a Shinto priest performing an exorcism. “You called me for a reason.”
“I was trying to get Masaru away from politics again. Now I realize how strong Nakajima’s influence is.”
He loosened his grip and let his arms drop. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that since you didn’t catch Masaru tonight, he’s bound to figure out I’ve been helping you eventually and when he does—” Reiko rose her hand and chopped the back of her neck.
Inspector Aizawa shook his head. “This isn’t about you or me, Watanabe-san. The entire nation is at stake. Take a look.” He gestured to the samurai band, now playing the children’s song “Cherry Blossoms, Cherry Blossoms” as a jazz standard. “Do any of those fools realize how close Japan is to becoming a dictatorship?”
“Would they even care?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Aizawa said. “Japan is a nation of laws. It is my sacred duty to the Emperor to enforce them.”
“I thought you only joined the Department because you needed a job.”
“Maybe, but I later learned what a police officer’s duty meant from a man I used to admire.”
“Do you mean from Superintendent Shimura?” Reiko asked.
Aizawa ignored the question. “Watanabe-san, I swear that I will protect you. But I need your help.” The Inspector ended his speech with a deep bow, arms stiff at his side.
No man had ever shown her such respect with a bow that low. The firmness in his tone suggested a sincerity that she seldom saw. But then again, surely that’s what Baron Onishi must have thought. Those horrific photographs flashed through her mind.
“I’ll think about it.”
Inspector Aizawa straightened up and pulled out a pen along with his meishi. After writing something on it, he presented the card with both hands. An address was scribbled on the back.
“If you find anything out, where Ryusaki is staying, who he’s seen lately…anything, then please contact me there. It’s my home address. Memorize and destroy it.”
“No more phone calls?” Reiko asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t own a personal telephone and…Superintendent Shimura might have bugged my office. If you have anything to report, just take a one-yen taxi so we can speak in person.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Watanabe-s
an—”
“Call me Reiko.”
“Reiko-san…thank you.”
She studied the address on the meishi before putting her lighter to it. A small flame consumed the card and Reiko tossed it to the ground. She stared at the smoldering ash for a few moments before looking up at the samurai band. The woman had stopped playing her trumpet and started to sing.
“Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms,
Across the spring sky,
As far as you can see.
Is it a mist or clouds?
Fragrant in the air.
Come now, come now!”
Reiko sighed and stared at the snow on the ground. Spring needed to come soon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Only after Lieutenant Nakajima entered the boarding house did the numbness fade from his body. The journey from the Dragonfly Tea House to his quarters in the eastern Honjo Ward was a misty haze. The image of General Sakamoto’s headless body dominated his mind. The severity of what he had done set in and felt strangely liberating. In this war against evil, he was a shock troop for purity and patriotism.
Nakajima began tugging off his boots when the landlord trotted up.
“Oh, Lieutenant…welcome back,” he said with a bow. “Working late at the Army Ministry?”
Nakajima nodded but didn’t speak.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I allowed some visitors into your room,” the landlord said.
“Visitors?” Nakajima asked.
“Yes, Ryusaki-san and Kuroki-san. They said they knew you.”
A tightness gripped Nakajima’s stomach. Ryusaki-sensei would never pay him a visit so late at night unless something was wrong. He finished removing his boots and dashed down the hallway. Opening his room’s shoji door, he found Kuroki and Ryusaki-sensei, katana in hand, kneeling beside his futon in silence. Several bandages, dotted with blood, were wrapped across Kuroki’s forehead. Ryusaki-sensei looked a little better but dark rings hung under his puffy, reddened eyes.
“Get in here and close the door,” Ryusaki-sensei ordered.
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