by I. J. Parker
“Yes,” said Akitada. He was intrigued by the maid’s warning. Evidently Kaibara had anticipated his visit and cautioned the servants. He wondered what he had told them, but decided not to press the old man. “Thank you, Koreburo,” he said. “If you remember anything else, you must come to the tribunal.”
He turned next to the woman who had spoken, though he expected little from her or her companion. But precedence had to be followed here, too. “And who are you?” he asked.
“This person is called Chiyo, your Excellency.” She bowed and pointed to her companion, “Mika and me, we were sweeping the corridor and we saw Hideo. He was running from the old master’s room and then a little while later he was running back. That’s all we saw of him that night, your Excellency.”
“When was that?”
The two women exchanged puzzled glances. “I can’t say, your Excellency,” the first one stammered. “It was getting dark outside.”
The second woman nodded. “The banquet was half over. They were taking in the pickled salmon and plums. We left then to lay out Lord Makio’s bedding.”
“Did Hideo speak to either of you as he passed?”
They shook their heads, and the second one said, “He looked so worried, I don’t think he saw us. It wasn’t his usual time to leave his master. Maybe he was sent for.”
“No, Mika,” chided the other one. “Don’t be stupid. We’d been cleaning the end of that corridor. If somebody’d gone to fetch Hideo, we would’ve seen him. Nobody went down that corridor except Hideo.”
Akitada looked at her attentively. “And later?”
They exchanged glances again. “We were in Lord Makio’s room then,” said the first woman.
“But,” cried Mika, “the door was open. I heard footsteps, and then I saw Master Kaibara going past.” She paused. “But I did wonder about the paper.”
“Mika!” said her companion reproachfully. “Don’t talk about unimportant things. Only about Hideo.”
“Sorry.” Mika put both hands over her mouth.
“Let her speak,” said Akitada.
“It’s stupid, really,” stammered Mika. “I thought Hideo must have the runs. He had a sleeve full of paper and he was running back to the gallery and that leads to the latrines.”
There was a stunned silence, and Mika put her hands over her face.
“You are very observant.” Akitada remembered his own visit to the convenience that night. He had not seen the unfortunate Hideo, but that meant nothing. “If that is all, then perhaps this young woman has something to add?”
The red-cheeked girl cast another glance over her shoulder, then bowed and said quickly, almost as if she feared being interrupted, “This humble person is called Sumi and has served at Takata for five years. I look after the children when their parents are busy with their duties. Hideo’s grandson Toneo has been in my charge since his parents died four years ago. The morning after Lord Maro died, very early, at dawn, Toneo came to my room and woke me. He said his grandfather had not slept in his bed and he couldn’t find him. I got up, and we went to look for him. There was much confusion because the old lord had died during the night, but Hideo was nowhere and nobody had seen him. Finally in the afternoon we went to Master Kaibara. Master Kaibara said Hideo had been so sad that he had gone to the mountains to pray for the old lord’s soul.”
Akitada had hoped for more than this. “Thank you,” he said. “I met Hideo’s grandson at the funeral. The boy told me about it.”
“Oh,” she cried. “I didn’t know if Toneo was telling the truth. He said the governor himself would help him find his grandfather.” A gate slammed, and she tensed.
Akitada followed her eyes and saw that Kaibara was back. “Was there anything else on your mind?” he asked quickly.
“Yes, Excellency,” she whispered, twisting her hands in her lap. Akitada bent forward to hear her. “I am worried about Toneo. He’s gone.”
* * * *
ELEVEN
THE MERCHANT SUNADA
H
itomaro found Genba in front of the Temple of the War God, amusing himself by taking on street urchins who wished to test their strength against the big wrestler. He had removed his bright red quilted jacket and was jumping about in shirt, knee-length pants, and wrapped legs.
“New clothes?” Hitomaro asked sourly. In his present mood, he felt neither admiration nor tolerance for Genba’s unexpected rise to fame among the local people. He regarded Genba’s occupation as a liability that interfered with his job.
Genba chuckled. “Presents from my fans.” A new contender flung himself at him.
“Stop that and let’s go!” Hitomaro pulled Genba’s sleeve. “There’s work to be done.”
“Of course, brother.” Genba removed the clutching arms of a skinny youngster from his massive thigh and swung him high into the air with a shout. The lad screeched with delight, his fellows waiting hopefully as Genba set him back on the ground. “Practice!” he told them, waving an admonishing finger, “and eat everything your mother gives you.”
There was a chorus of protests when he snatched up his red jacket. Hitomaro strode off down the street.
“What’s so urgent?” Genba, in spite of his bulk, caught up easily.
“We have work to do. What news do you have?”
“Not much. I think there’s not much more to be had. The judge is said to be in Sunada’s pay. That’s why his thugs act the way they do. Every time they’re in trouble, Hisamatsu dismisses the charges.”
Hitomaro nodded. “Makes sense. I spent hours at the garrison yesterday, talking to Ogai’s fellow recruits. Goto told the truth about his brother being absent without leave. The punishment is such a cruel caning that some don’t survive, so his disappearance is either involuntary or he’s deserted. I figured you could help me talk to some of the neighbors. People seem to open up to you. We need an unbiased account of that fight between Ogai and Kimura.”
Genba glanced dubiously at Hitomaro’s neat blue robe and official black cap. “You didn’t wear your old clothes.”
“Not much point in it. We’re past that charade.”
Genba gave him a startled glance but said only, “I’ll try my best to help.”
They passed through streets of modest dwellings. It was cold in spite of the sun that reflected blindingly from patches of snow that lingered on roofs and in yards where bare trees made traceries against the pale blue sky. Lines of frozen laundry hung stiffly and icicles dripped from the eaves. A skinny dog sniffed and licked the icy street where a woman had just emptied steaming kitchen slops.
But even on these side streets, business was transacted in the open air. Smoke curled from portable cookers and ovens, and tattered straw matting protected food stalls. These were of considerable interest to Genba, who stopped and peered periodically, much to the ill-concealed irritation of Hitomaro.
“Brother,” Genba finally said with a worried look at his friend’s face, “are you feeling quite well? I would’ve thought you’d be over that beating by now, but you look ill.”
Hitomaro’s “illness” had nothing to do with Boshu but he had no intention of discussing it with anyone. He glared. “Seeing you drooling into every pot since we left the Temple of the War God would turn anyone’s stomach. Come on. We must be near that fishmonger’s place.”
They turned down a narrow, dirty backstreet. Across from them was a small wineshop. In spite of the cold weather, the owner had placed a rickety table and stools in the street. Three bare-legged laborers perched on them soaking up the feeble rays of the sun and the harsh and potent brew of the establishment.
Genba stopped. “Close enough. Let’s talk to them.”
“How do they stand this cold without shoes or leggings?” asked Hitomaro, shaking his head.
“Used to it. Also, they’re very hairy people hereabouts. Some look more like monkeys than men.” He sniffed the air. “Do you smell fried fish?”
“No time for food. We have work to
do.” Hitomaro crossed the street and asked the drinkers, “Anyone here know Kimura? He’s a plasterer and lives around here.”
The three men looked at his neat blue robe and black cap, then at each other. To a man, they shook their heads.
Hitomaro frowned. “I don’t believe you. This is official business. It concerns a case before the governor. We need Kimura’s testimony.”
The hairy men stared back and shook their heads again.
Genba came and took a precarious seat on one of the stools. He nodded to the men and called for service. “Sit down!” he told Hitomaro. “I’m thirsty. Tagging along with you is hard on a man. Wish you were in some other business.” Turning to the three men, he added, “He’s with the tribunal, but he’s not a bad fellow when you get to know him. Pay no attention to the official manner. I’m Genba, by the way. Wrestler by profession. I’m in the competition this year.”
They broke into excited chatter, asking about his bouts, feeling his muscles, and offering to pay for his wine.
“Ho, ho!” laughed Genba. “I knew I’d like this town. Never met nicer people in my life. But this round’s on me. And if one of you knows where that delicious smell is coming from, I’ll buy the snacks, too.”
Hitomaro sat down with a heavy sigh and waited while the owner carried out flasks of wine, and one of the guests disappeared around the corner, returning with a large basket filled with skewers of fried seafood.
While Hitomaro sat, arms folded across his chest and a pained expression on his face, Genba and the others ate, drank, exchanged simpleminded jokes and laughed uproariously at them.
Finally, when all the fish was gone and the flasks were empty, Genba patted his belly and said, “Well, it’s too bad, but we must be on our way. My friend here has this assignment, and at his rate, it’ll take all day and night to find this Kimura fellow.”
A brief silence ensued. Then one of the men muttered, “That Goto’s a big liar.”
Hitomaro said quickly, “If you want to help Kimura, tell us what you know.”
They looked at each other again. Then the man who had spoken asked, “How do we know we won’t get in trouble?”
“Because I vouch for him,” Genba announced grandly and belched.
“Well...”
“Go ahead. Tell him,” said a skinny man who had been very impressed with Genba’s muscles.
The first man said, “Kimura lives right around the corner. I was there when he and Goto’s worthless brother were shooting dice and got into an argument. Ogai’s a lazy soldier. He picked the fight on purpose. Kimura wouldn’t raise a hand against anybody if he wasn’t forced into it. Ogai kept pushing him against the wall till Kimura pushed back. Then they got into a slugging match. Mind you, Kimura’s no slouch when he gets started. He got a black eye, but Ogai lost two teeth. Him”—he pointed to the skinny man—”and me, we stopped the fight and took Kimura home. We know Kimura doesn’t hold a grudge. He told Ogai he was sorry about the teeth, but the bastard just made a fist and cursed him.”
“What do you mean, Ogai picked the fight on purpose?” Hitomaro asked.
“Well, the dice weren’t the real reason. It’s a family thing. Goto has a quarrel with Kimura over a piece of land. It was Kimura’s father’s land, but the old man couldn’t pay the taxes on it for a few years. When he died, nobody bothered Kimura for the taxes, so he forgot about them. Then, one day, Goto puts up a fence and the argument starts. Goto says Kimura’s father sold the land to him. Kimura says Goto’s a liar, that his father would never have sold that land, especially not to Goto. He didn’t like him, and besides he’d had a better offer.”
“That should be easy enough to prove,” Hitomaro said. “Just have Kimura come to the tribunal and file a complaint against Goto. His Excellency, the governor, will untangle the matter fast enough.”
There was a chorus of angry curses at that.
“Forget it,” the spokesman sneered. “Kimura tried that. Poor people can’t get justice at the tribunal. The judge gave the land to Goto. Seems the sneaky bastard’s been paying the taxes. But Kimura had the last word. He dammed up his stream and diverted it. That’s what made Goto so mad. Now he’s got a piece of barren land.” They all laughed.
Hitomaro opened his mouth to argue, but Genba touched his arm. “Well, thanks for clearing that up,” he said. “We’d better be on our way, but it’s been a real pleasure.” He tossed a handful of coins on the table. “Have another flask on us, fellows.”
“What do you think?” Genba asked when they were out of earshot. Hitomaro turned and walked rapidly toward the tribunal. “Hey, where are you going?”
“I want to pay that bastard Chobei a visit.”
“But what about having a talk with the plasterer first?”
Hitomaro stopped and glowered at him. “Any fool knows that Kimura will tell the same story. I don’t have time to waste, but you do as you please.”
Genba’s cheerful face fell. “What have I done, brother?” he called after Hitomaro, who was off again. Hitomaro did not answer, and Genba galloped after him and pulled his sleeve. “What’s wrong, Hito?” he asked. “Why are you so angry? Has something happened?”
“You’re wasting time on games when the master’s in trouble—and we along with him.”
“Is that what the master said?”
“No, it’s what I say.”
Genba looked unhappy. “All right. We’ll do it your way.”
They heard the sound of drums and gongs and the voices of street musicians long before they reached the market stalls. The market was crammed with crowds of shoppers clustering around acrobats and dancers or bargaining with shopkeepers.
“What’s going on?” Hitomaro asked.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” Genba tossed a coin to a vendor and took a steaming paper envelope of roasted chestnuts. “It’s the last market day of the year. The farmers won’t be coming to town again till the snows melt next summer. So everyone’s having a party. Isn’t it nice? Here, have some hot chestnuts. Put them in your sleeves and warm your hands on them.”
Ignoring the offer, Hitomaro said, “If Chobei is in this crowd, he’ll be about as easy to find as an ant in an ant hill.” Cursing under his breath, he climbed on an empty basket to peer over the bobbing heads of the crowd. As far as he could see down the main street with its overhanging thatched roofs, people milled, eddying in streams past stalls and around groups of performers. The steam from a hundred cook pots hung in clouds about them, and the noise from laughter, chatter, and snatches of music was deafening.
He climbed down and found that Genba had attracted his own audience. A small group stood around him, admiring his enormous size and bulk and asking questions about the coming match. Men felt his muscles, and women held up their baby boys to touch him, hoping that his strength would pass from him to their sons.
A dumpling seller was offering his wares nearby, and an admirer pressed Genba to accept a small snack.
“What do you think you’re doing now?” Hitomaro asked testily.
Genba chewed and smacked his lips. “Good. The bean paste might be sweeter. But,” his round face split into a wide grin, “these dumplings are light as a feather and larger than any I’ve had. Hey,” he called out to the dumpling man, “a couple more, if you please.”
“We have to find Chobei, you mountain of lard!” Hitomaro gritted out.
Genba’s fans glared at him. The dumpling man bobbed a bow and passed over the dumplings. “Master Genba must keep up his strength,” he said reprovingly to Hitomaro.
To Hitomaro’s annoyance and the noisy approval of the bystanders, the dumpling man began to gyrate and chant, “Tie ‘em into knots—ooh, ouch!—pick ‘em up, and throw ‘em down—whoosh!—kick ‘em off their feet—whack!—knock ‘em down and fall on ‘em—splat!” He concluded with a brutal knockout punch into the air, followed by a comical pratfall. The crowd loved it, and when the dumpling man bounced back up, they cheered and bought dumplings. With a grin, h
e tended to his business.
Genba chuckled until Hitomaro cursed wrestling matches and bean paste dumplings roundly and eloquently. Shoving the rest of the dumpling in his mouth, Genba chewed and swallowed. “I’m sorry, brother,” he said. “What would you have me do?”
But Hitomaro had turned his back and walked away.
When Hitomaro stopped to look after a well-dressed female, Genba caught up. “Hey,” he said. “You’re not looking for Chobei. You’re looking at pretty women.”