Sano Ichiro 7 The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria (2002)

by Laura Joh Rowland

  A flush of pleasure and guilt enflamed her as she recalled lying naked with Hirata beneath pine trees at dusk. How much she’d wanted to satisfy him, and to experience the rapture of having him! And how much she now wished they’d exercised self-control, for soon afterward had come the cessation of her monthly blood, a continual nausea, a fullness in her abdomen. Midori had threaded a needle with red thread and stuck it in the wall of the privy, hoping that this ancient folk remedy would cause the blood to come, but to no avail. She was pregnant.

  Now she listened to her companions exchanging courteous pleasantries. None of them knew her problem, not even Hirata. She hadn’t told anyone. She couldn’t admit her shame, or admit that if she and Hirata didn’t marry, she would bear an illegitimate child, disgrace her honor, and ruin herself.

  “Your family has a proud tradition, does it not?” Lord Niu said to Hirata’s father. “I understand that your people have served the shoguns since the Kamakura regime four hundred years ago.”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  Hirata’s father looked stern and intimidating to Midori, but also gratified that the daimyo recognized his heritage. She relaxed as she began to think that her father would continue to behave properly.

  “And you’ve made a name for yourself in the police force.” Lord Niu smiled his peculiar half smile. “It’s men like you who’ve kept society under control and made Edo the great capital it is.”

  “That’s high praise, coming from the ruler of an entire province,” Hirata’s father said, obviously warming toward the daimyo. “Your kindness is more than I deserve.”

  Lord Niu gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Oh, I’m just the humble overseer of a country estate that the Tokugawa deemed fit to give me.”

  He turned to Hirata. “So you’re chief retainer to the shogun’s sōsakan-sama.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Hirata sat stiffly, his expression serious. Midori felt a rush of tenderness toward him for trying so hard to appear a suitable husband for her.

  “That the sōsakan-sama trusts you with so much responsibility at your youthful age speaks highly of your character,” said Lord Niu. His left eye studied Hirata; his right wandered. “And I hear you’re looking into Lord Mitsuyoshi’s murder. What have you discovered so far?”

  Blushing, Hirata gave an account of the investigation, mentioning the suspects and the missing courtesan and pillow book.

  “Cunning and initiative,” Lord Niu said jovially. “That’s exactly what I expected to find in you.”

  Hirata’s parents beamed with pride. Captain Segoshi smiled. Midori and Hirata exchanged quick, elated glances.

  “I understand that your daughter is a favorite lady-in-waiting of His Excellency’s mother,” Hirata’s father said to Lord Niu, then addressed Midori: “Can you play music?”

  Midori tensed, realizing that he wanted to know whether she possessed the accomplishments required of a lady, and that this was a test she must pass. “Yes,” she said, hesitantly, “I’ve played the samisen since I was a child.”

  “Have you learned calligraphy and flower arranging and tea ceremony?”

  “To the best of my humble ability.” Midori chewed her fingernail; seeing her grandmother frown, she dropped her hand and tried to look the modest, feminine, perfect daughter-in-law.

  Hirata’s father nodded, and she could tell she’d favorably impressed him. Giddy delight filled her.

  Then Lord Niu said, “Yes, my, daughter is a prize. And you would steal her from me the way the Tokugawa stole my family’s ancestral lands after the Battle of Sekigahara.”

  He spoke with a sudden rancor that completely dispelled the harmonious atmosphere. Midori saw puzzlement on the faces of Hirata and his party, and consternation on those of her grandmother and Okita. Her heart sank, for this was exactly what she’d feared would happen.

  Lord Niu, a shrewd, competent leader of his subjects, had one eccentricity—his unreasonable obsession with injustices done to his clan. Now Midori realized that his compliments to Hirata’s family had been veiled expressions of hostility toward them, and he’d meant from the beginning to oppose the marriage.

  “You should be satisfied that your ancestors helped the Tokugawa trample my clan in the dust,” Lord Niu said bitterly to Hirata and his father. “You should be satisfied that the bakufu extorts millions of koban in taxes from me every year. But no—you greedy louts want my flesh and blood!”

  For as long as Midori could recall, her family had carefully avoided mentioning the Tokugawa or the Battle of Sekigahara to Lord Niu, for fear of rousing his violent temper. But they couldn’t prevent him from thinking of those topics at inopportune times and angering himself. And although his relatives limited the time Lord Niu spent in public, lest his behavior shame them or create problems, they couldn’t always restrain him. Once, after the Tokugawa revenue agents had collected a large tribute from him, Lord Niu had mounted his horse and ridden through a village, shrieking and cutting down innocent peasants. The clan had so far managed to hush up his bad spells, and neither the bakufu nor the general public knew of them—yet. What a disaster that his obsession should interrupt the miai!

  “Master,” Okita said cautiously to Lord Niu, “perhaps this isn’t a good time to dwell on the past.”

  Ignoring his retainer, Lord Niu again addressed Hirata and his companions: “It’s clear to me that you are plotting with the Tokugawa clan to take over my province, steal my money, and destroy my whole clan.”

  Hirata and his father gaped in shock. Midori huddled in fear, and her grandmother sadly shook her head. Hirata’s father blurted, “With all due respect, Honorable Lord Niu, that’s absurd. We came in peace, to consider the possibility of joining our families together through a marriage between your daughter and my son.”

  Midori longed to explain the daimyo’s behavior and beg the forgiveness of Hirata and his family, but she was too afraid to do anything but watch helplessly as Lord Niu stood.

  “I’ll never allow a daughter of mine to marry the spawn of a scoundrel like you!” he shouted at Hirata’s father. People in other compartments fell silent and stared at Lord Niu. His skewed face twitched; his eyes glittered with hatred. “You’re a dirty thief, and a treacherous sneak, and a foul murderer!”

  Hirata’s mother and Captain Segoshi looked aghast. Hirata’s father surged to his feet. “How dare you insult me?” he demanded. Anger reddened his complexion. “I’m a man of honor, and I’ll not tolerate this disgraceful treatment from an outside lord. Take back what you said, or I’ll—”

  Sneering in contempt, Lord Niu smacked Hirata’s father on the cheek. Then the two men were wildly hitting and kicking each other. Midori and the other women cringed away from the combatants. Hirata cried, “Father, stop!” while Okita begged, “Master, please control yourself.”

  The musician onstage halted his performance as the audience stood up to watch the commotion. Lord Niu jumped up on a divider and drew his sword. Hirata’s father also drew his weapon, but his bad leg hindered his climb onto the divider. Men in the audience stamped on the floor, shouting, “Fight! Fight!”

  Hirata grabbed his father, and, with Segoshi’s help, pulled him back inside the compartment and restrained him. Okita wrestled Lord Niu, grappling for the sword. The audience booed.

  Lord Niu yelled, “I’ll get you yet, you despicable villain!”

  Okita, panting from his effort to hold the daimyo, addressed Hirata: “You’d better go.”

  As Hirata hurried his family out of the theater, he looked briefly back at Midori. His face reflected the despair in her heart. She buried her face in her hands and wept.

  * * *

  9

  Sano, accompanied by Detectives Fukida and Marume and some troops, again rode to the pleasure quarter, this time in pursuit of the entertainer whom Treasury Minister Nitta had implicated in the murder. Arriving in late afternoon, Sano found that Yoshiwara had undergone a striking change since his last visit.

  Gone was
the dismal atmosphere. The rooftops gleamed bronze in the light of the descending sun, while in through the gates swarmed hundreds of men eager for sensual delight. Some wore basket-shaped rush hats that concealed their faces. Sano recognized these as samurai, whom the law prohibited from visiting Yoshiwara. Though many samurai disregarded the law, and virtually no one cared, the most upstanding or cautious came in disguise. Along Nakanochō, the lanterns on the eaves burned brightly. Courtesans sat in the window cages of the brothels. Visitors ogled the courtesans, jammed the teahouses, and thronged shops that sold souvenirs and guidebooks to the quarter. As Sano entered Yoshiwara with his men, he imagined all the money that would change hands in the morning, when the customers paid the exorbitant fees that the brothels charged for food, drink, service, and women.

  “We’ll stop in a teahouse and ask where we can find Fujio,” Sano said to his detectives. “He’s sure to be performing somewhere.” Sano wasn’t personally acquainted with Fujio, but he’d watched the hokan play at parties and knew his reputation as an acclaimed entertainer.

  Just then, two boys marched up the avenue, beating drums. “Hear the magnificent Fujio play at the Atami Pleasure House tonight,” they called.

  Spared the trouble of hunting the suspect, Sano and his men walked to the Atami, located on Edocho, a side street bordered by rows of brothels. The recessed entranceway of the Atami held a low table. On it sat three folded futon, a quilt, and a coverlet, all made of rich colored silk.

  “Tsumi-yagu no koto,” Sano said.

  This was the practice by which a courtesan showed off her patron’s wealth and devotion. The patron would supply a small fortune for the courtesan to buy elegant bedding. She would place it outside her brothel for all to admire. Even if the women would prefer to use their patrons’ money to pay their debts and shorten their term of service, Yoshiwara custom required them to display a carefree, impractical attitude. A courtesan who didn’t spend lavishly would appear stingy, become unpopular, and never free herself.

  Sano glanced at the paper label attached to the quilt, which bore a date three days before the murder, and an inscription. “ ‘This bedding was presented to Lady Takane by the Honorable Nitta Monzaemon,’ ” Sano read.

  “Then the treasury minister is patron to at least one other courtesan besides Lady Wisteria,” said Detective Marume. He fingered the coverlet. “Pretty expensive goods.”

  “Maybe he’s not really in love with Wisteria,” Sano said. “A client devoted to a particular woman will usually confine his spending to her.”

  “Maybe he dallies with other women to cover his feelings for Wisteria,” Fukida suggested.

  “Or maybe Senior Elder Makino lied,” said Marume.

  This was a real possibility, given Makino’s nature. “If he did, and Nitta told me the truth,” Sano said, “then Nitta had no apparent reason to abduct Wisteria or kill Lord Mitsuyoshi.” And Nitta had seemed like a promising suspect this morning. “Marume-san, check into Nitta’s relations with the courtesans and find out whether he does spread his attention around. The Introducing Teahouses would be a good place to start.” These establishments matched clients with courtesans, arranged appointments, and negotiated fees.

  “Fukida-san, look for witnesses who saw Nitta on the night of the murder,” Sano said. “We want to know everything he did. I’ll handle Fujio myself.” He hoped that if his case against Nitta dissolved, the hokan would prove to be the culprit.

  The detectives bowed and departed. Leaving his troops outside, Sano went into the pleasure house. A guard stationed in the entryway greeted him.

  “Welcome, master,” the guard said. “Have you an appointment with one of our ladies?”

  Sano introduced himself, then said, “I’m looking for Fujio.”

  “He’s about to perform in the banquet room.”

  Sano walked down the corridor toward the sound of voices and laughter. In the banquet room a party of samurai and courtesans lounged and chatted. Kamuro served roasted sardines, salted ferns, quail eggs, steamed clams, and sake to the men. As Sano paused in the doorway, a man strode through a curtained entrance at the far end of the room. He carried a samisen in one hand and a large folding fan in the other. He snapped the fan shut with a loud, ritualistic flourish, and all heads turned toward him.

  “Thank you, everyone, for your favor,” Fujio said.

  The party cheered. As Fujio knelt, positioned his samisen, and played a cascade of notes, Sano studied the hokan. Fujio was perhaps thirty-five years old, tall and slender, and handsome in a raffish way. He had bold, sparkling eyes, a mischievous set to his features, and sleek hair knotted at his nape. He wore the traditional hokan’s black coat printed with crests, over a beige kimono.

  “With your kind permission, I shall perform my new song, ‘The Mysterious Flood,’ ” he announced.

  The audience eagerly settled down to listen. Fujio played a gay tune and sang in a smooth, vibrant voice:

  “A big spender from Ōsaka,

  Weary of the pleasures of his hometown,

  Came to Yoshiwara with his entourage

  To pluck some fresh blossoms.

  All eager for conquest,

  The men courted the best tayu,

  Sake flowed, and they made flattering talk, but alas!

  The proud beauties scorned them.

  But the men would not accept disappointment,

  For thirty nights they engaged the same courtesans,

  Attempting to win favor,

  For thirty nights they failed, their desire thwarted.

  At last they decided to return to Ōsaka,

  But so aroused were they,

  That they paused by the Dike of Japan,

  And each caressed his own manhood, spurting a mighty fountain of seed.

  The torrent overflowed the dike,

  The peasants in neighboring villages beat the flood-warning drums,

  For many years they wondered,

  What caused a flood on that rainless night?”

  The samurai in the audience guffawed; their female companions tittered; Sano smiled. Lewd songs were Fujio’s specialty, and he performed with sly humor. The hokan bowed to enthusiastic applause. Then he caught sight of Sano. Recognition and stark fear erased his smile.

  “Please excuse me,” he said to the audience.

  Dropping his samisen, he fled out the curtained exit, amid protests from the samurai. Sano hurried after Fujio, but so did the courtesans, who clustered at the exit, crying, “Come back!”

  By the time Sano pushed past them into the corridor, Fujio was gone. A door stood open to the night. Sano sped outside and found himself in a shadowed alley that ran along Yoshiwara’s eastern wall. He saw the hokan running past stinking privy sheds, toward the back of the quarter. Sano took off in pursuit, his feet skidding on the damp, slimy paving stones.

  A small crowd of women gathered in the distance. They surrounded Fujio, crying, “Come with me, master, and I’ll make you happy!”

  This area of Yoshiwara was known as Nichome—“Wicked Creek”—a name derived from a legend about a warrior attacked by an ogre. Here, low-class courtesans, desperate for customers, would accost men, pull them into squalid brothels, and service them in rooms shared by many couples. Now they clutched at Fujio, who shouted, “Let go!”

  Sano caught up with the hokan, grabbed him by the front of his coat, yanked him away from the women, and shoved him against the wall. The women scattered in fright. Fujio flung up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “No need to hurt me, Sōsakan-sama,” he said, flashing the smile that had charmed many female admirers. “Whatever business you have with me, we can settle it without a fight.”

  Sano released Fujio, but stood ready to catch him should he flee again. “Why did you run when you saw me?”

  “I was afraid,” Fujio confessed sheepishly.

  “Afraid that you were wanted for the murder of Lord Mitsuyoshi?”

  “Well, yes.” Fujio laughed, making
a joke of his predicament, though Sano perceived how much he wished he’d gotten away. “If you’re looking for the killer, you’ve got the wrong fellow.” His mobile face assumed a humble, sincere expression. “But I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.”

  There was something irresistibly likable about Fujio, and Sano couldn’t be angry at his obvious attempt to beguile his way out of trouble. “In that case,” Sano said, “you can tell me what were your relations with Lord Mitsuyoshi.”

  “He was a patron of mine. I performed for him and his friends here, and in town.” A hokan lived on money from his patrons and depended on them to recommend him to new customers. “So you see that Lord Mitsuyoshi was worth more to me alive than dead,” Fujio said, turning his palms up as he smiled. “I wouldn’t kill him, and I didn’t.”

  His nimble, eloquent hands pantomimed innocence, and Sano remembered hearing that Fujio had once been a Kabuki actor. “But you hated Lord Mitsuyoshi because he was your rival for the affections of Lady Wisteria,” Sano said.

  “That would have been true once, when I was madly in love with Wisteria. She made me jealous by carrying on with samurai in front of me. But someone is telling you ancient history.” Condescension tinged Fujio’s smile. “I ended that affair last year, when I married the daughter of the proprietor of the Great Miura. Now I couldn’t care less about Wisteria.”