Death on an Autumn River (A Sugawara Akitada Novel)

by I. J. Parker

  He finally fell asleep and slept well.

  When he returned to the Otomos the next morning, dressed for the trip to Eguchi, the professor’s wife received him. Her eyes were reddened and her hands shook as she apologized for Otomo’s absence, saying, “My husband is distressed that he cannot see you today. He became quite ill last night and keeps to his bed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” said Akitada. “Is it serious? Should I go for a doctor? Please tell me how I can be useful.”

  She bowed. “You’re very kind, sir, but it is merely some trouble with his belly. Something he ate, he says. He took a laxative.” She blushed. “I hope Your Excellency is not inconvenienced?”

  Akitada looked at her. She seemed more upset than her words suggested. “Not at all. I trust your husband will soon be better. Please tell him that my business will take me out of town, but I should be back tonight or tomorrow.”

  *

  Akitada did not believe that the professor suffered from an upset stomach. Most likely, he wanted to avoid going to Eguchi with him. This sudden change of mind was extremely irritating, and Akitada thought he deserved a dose of laxatives.

  He returned to the harbor and purchased passage on one of the regular boats between the river towns. The weather was still clear, but there was a new chill in the air, and the cries of flying geese overhead told of the coming cold season. Akitada was glad that the oppressive heat of the last weeks had gone. The cool air seemed to give him new energy.

  Even at this relatively early hour, Eguchi’s main street was already busy. Akitada tried in vain to suppress his distaste for this particular crowd. Slatternly older women swept before the doors of the brothels, while the younger inhabitants emerged to trip off to the temple up the street. The religious fervor of females in this profession was legendary. They were superstitious, worshipped phallic gods, prayed to the Buddha to cleanse them of their sins and send them wealthy patrons, and lived forever in the hope of miracles. The wine shops were mostly still closed, but a few drunks still lay around in doorways, snoring or eyeing the day blearily. Food vendors did a good business, shouting out their dumplings and noodles and greeting the passing harlots with obscene comments.

  Somehow all this did not match up with his image of the young, beautiful, and very dead girl. Shaking his head, he turned his steps toward the bamboo grove and the shack of Furuda and Harima.

  He heard the clucking of chickens before he got to it, and when he emerged from the bamboo thicket, he saw that there were many more fowl than last time. The garden, too, had doubled in size. A new section was freshly dug, and already some young plants were growing in rows.

  “Harima,” he called out, and she came to the door of the shack. Her face broke into a smile, quickly hidden behind a hand as she came to greet him. He admired again that inimitably graceful, swaying walk of the great courtesan. “I came for a little visit,” he greeted her.

  She bowed deeply. “Welcome, my Lord. Oh, how I wish Furuda were here! He’s delivering melons and vegetables in town. Oh, sir, you were so right. We are doing a lot of business with our garden. Did you see the new garden with the little cabbages and radishes and turnips? Please come sit under the tree. I’ll fetch a cushion, and if you’ll stay a little while, Furuda may return.”

  Akitada laughed. His heart warmed to this old couple all over again. “I’m very happy to hear you’re both well. By chance, might there be a melon left?”

  “For you, of course. Oh, sir, we owe it all to you.” Her eyes shone and she forgot to cover her mouth as she smiled at him. “A moment, sir.” Hurrying back to the shack, she returned with a cushion for him and went to cut a melon.

  Akitada sat under the tree, watched the chickens scurry out of her way, noted that the shack had a new roof and a door, brushed aside a late bee, and felt cheerful.

  The melon was as sweet as last time. He asked her to share it with him, but she shook her head. “It would not be seemly. May I offer you something else? We have no wine here, I’m afraid. Furuda has sworn off it. But I could run to town and be back very shortly.”

  He could not imagine making someone of her age run such an errand for him. She was in her seventies, surely, and while she was still slender and moved with great grace, she also moved slowly. He thought of Seimei and how painful had been his final years because of the many chores he had insisted on performing to the end. Tears rose to his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, “but I don’t drink wine this early and I don’t want you to deprive me of your charming company.”

  She smiled at him with her eyes and acknowledged the compliment with a little bow, still so practiced that he felt subtly flattered. by her attention. She had moved close to him to serve him bites of melon. It was ridiculous to feel attracted to a woman old enough to be his mother, or even grandmother, but so it was.

  Putting his mind firmly to the purpose of his visit, he said, “You’re very kind, Harima. That’s why I came to ask you a favor.”

  “If it is in my power, sir, I shall do it.”

  “I need some information. Your past life has given you knowledge about the way the local brothels are run.”

  She flushed and turned her head away. “It has been a very long time since I was a part of that, but please ask your questions,” she said.

  Inwardly cursing his blunt language, he said, “The day before I came here the first time, a young girl had drowned in the river. Do you remember?”

  She nodded, her face sad. “Yes. She was very young. It can be a difficult life for the young ones. I grieved to hear of it.”

  She seemed calm, but he noticed her hands, folded now, pressing against her waist. Even work-roughened and twisted by age, they were still graceful and expressive. The gesture suggested grief, pain, and pity for the dead girl.

  “I was told that she was not Japanese, that she had been brought here from Koryo,” he said.

  “That must be a false rumor, sir. There are no foreign girls in Eguchi. Unless . . .” She paused, frowning.

  “Unless what?”

  “We have many sailors here. One of them may have brought a woman from that far place, but I never heard about it.”

  “The rumor also maintained that not just the one, but a number of young women— mere children—had been taken from Koryo and sold into the trade here because there was a special demand for them.”

  Now her eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, no. That would be a very cruel thing to do.”

  “Yes.But you must know that there are men who find children, both boys and girls, attractive in that way. The dead girl I saw looked as young as thirteen.”

  She shook her head. “I have known of such men, but not recently. This particular girl was young, but not quite so young. And she was one of our people.”

  This was news! Akitada took the amulet from his sash. “She was wearing this around her neck when she was found. It’s Korean workmanship.”

  She looked at it and shook her head. “I don’t know where she got this, but she was not from Koryo.”

  “Then you knew her? Or knew of her?”

  She said simply, “I was a choja once. Some of the girls still visit me sometimes to ask my advice. They tell me about their hopes and fears and about their hardships and jealousies. She was never here, but several others talked about her.” She sighed. “You must understand that women compete with each other, and since they pin all of their hopes on finding a generous client who will buy them out, they often blame each other when they fail.”

  That raised an interesting point. “Then do you think she was driven to commit suicide, or . . . could she have been murdered by a rival?”

  Spreading her expressive hands, she said, “I don’t know how she died, and neither do my young friends. There’s gossip, of course, but I don’t want to spread lies. I’ve found that you cannot always believe what these young women say.” She smiled a little sadly.

  “Nevertheless, will you trust me?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “The de
ad girl was a shinju, that is, she was still in training. Her name was Akogi. She lived in the Hananoya, the House of Blossoms. The Hananoya is the biggest of the Eguchi houses.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “It’s an unhappy house, I think, and yes, there was jealousy there, but I don’t think it led to murder. More likely, she found her life too hard. It cannot have been a happy one for her. The others thought she had gone into the river herself.”

  And that proved once and for all that Professor Otomo, that nice and caring man, had lied to him. Had lied to him repeatedly with his stories about the kidnapped and possibly murdered Korean girls. The only conceivable reason he could have had for such an elaborate fabrication was to send him away from Naniwa and from his investigation into piracy. It made perfect sense. First they had distracted him with the disappearance of Sadenari, then they had tried to send him on a wild goose chase after kidnapped Korean girls, and finally, when all that had not worked, they had attacked his family in the capital.

  But there remained the fact of the dead girl. Akitada was puzzled by what Harima had said. It did not add up. He said, “If she was still in training, why were the other girls jealous of her?”

  “Sometimes the owner of a house shows favor to a particular girl and allows her privileges others don’t enjoy. Akogi was fourteen or fifteen and being groomed for a special presentation.”

  “A presentation?”

  Harima’s lips quirked a little at Akitada’s puzzlement. “Some man pays a great deal of money to be the first one. There’s a kind of celebration with special gowns and musical entertainments.”

  Akitada shuddered. He was repelled by the whole flesh trade that tempted men with foolish and expensive perversions. And surely the desire to initiate a mere child was a perversion of the sexual act. Fourteen or fifteen! The child had no choice in the matter, and that made it repulsive.

  They sat in silence for a while. Chickens clucked, the wind rustled in the bamboo, and the honey-sweet smell of the melon slices lingered in the air. Harima’s head was bent, her hands clenched tightly. It occurred to him that she, too, had once been used in the same way. It was his belief that most of the women in the trade became corrupted by it. Their only aim was to enrich themselves and thus triumph over their past servitude. Harima had not followed that path. He respected her for it.

  Furuda returned while he was searching for words to express his regard and sympathy to her. Akitada saw her face light up and the joy in Furuda’s when their eyes met, and felt a pang of envy. His own marriage was again stable, and he was very fond of Tamako, but neither of them was demonstrative. And neither was so completely absorbed by the other. He had his work, and Tamako had a child and her household to tend. These two people had only each other.

  Furuda slipped off the empty willow basket he had carried slung over his shoulders, and came to greet Akitada with the same warmth Harima had shown him.

  “What a happy day, Your Honor,” he said, bowing several times. “I’ve been worrying how to let you know that you’ve given us back our lives. We’re doing very well now, Harima and I, and it’s all thanks to your lordship.” With a wide smile, he gestured to the garden and to his empty willow basket. I get more orders than I can fill. Everything I took this morning is sold and they are begging for more.” He dug a handful of coins from his heavy sleeve, showed them to Akitada and then passed them to Harima, who cried out with pleasure.

  “Oh, Furuda, that will pay for firewood this winter. How wonderful!” She hurried off with their wealth.

  Furuda looked after her fondly and said, “She handles the money. I’ve got no head for it. I’d waste it on useless things. How smart she is! Firewood, of course. We nearly froze to death last winter.” He shook his head in wonder at Harima’s management of their affairs.

  Akitada’s eyes moistened. It took so very little to make these two happy: a bit of simple food and some warmth during the coldest part of the year. He said, “Husband and wife share the labors. It is right that it should be so. You work very hard at growing food and selling it.”

  Furuda shook his head. “She won’t marry me. No wonder. I’m nothing and she is a choja. It’s truly a miracle she stays with me. I wake up sometimes at night and fear that she is gone. That’s a terrible feeling.”

  Such confidences were beginning to make Akitada uncomfortable. To change the subject, he asked to see the new garden. Furuda led him eagerly to the new section, pointing out the different kinds of cabbage plants striving toward the sun, all looking healthy.

  Squinting at the sky, he said happily, “The weather is changing. We’re getting rain. I won’t have to carry the water up from the river tomorrow.”

  Akitada had not noticed the change in the light. The sun had withdrawn behind clouds that were moving in rapidly. The breeze had strengthened and turned colder. It would mean an uncomfortable day for him, but he said nothing. Instead, he admired eggplants, deep purple among the leaves, and lengthening cucumbers, the sweet potatoes and turnips in the mature part of the garden. Their season would soon be over, and Furuda would only have the cabbages left. Perhaps the two old people would manage to get through the winter, but it seemed doubtful. “What will you do, when the snows come?” he asked.

  “I’ll find another job. If the restaurants don’t need me, perhaps one of the great houses could use some help. I’m not proud. I’ll clean their privies. It will be good for my garden.” He stopped and looked abashed. “I beg your pardon for mentioning such a dirty thing.”

  Akitada laughed. “I suppose even great houses use their privies. Speaking of great houses, do you happen to know anything about the River Mansion?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s the very large house on the river.” He pointed toward the east. “Not a chance there for me. The majordomo doesn’t like local help. They bring all their servants from the capital.”

  “Oh? Who owns it?”

  “I’m not sure. They say it belongs to the great chancellor, but he never comes here. He has a splendid palace in Uji.”

  “Yes, but I’m told someone lives there, a woman perhaps, and that there are parties with many guests.”

  Furuda nodded. “Sometimes there are parties. But the guests come from the capital in boats. One time the place where I worked was asked to send food. I was one of the waiters who carried all the dishes. Grilled sea bream in black sauce, pickled vegetables, grilled eels, pike wrapped in persimmon leaves, even blowfish. A huge feast. That was when I met the majordomo. They took everything from us at the gate and sent us back.”

  “Very odd. What about the local brothels? Do they send courtesans?”

  “Harima would know more, but yes, I think sometimes they send for the choja and perhaps others.”

  Akitada turned to look at the pitiful hut. The vines that covered it still bore a few flowers, but soon they would die. It did not offer much protection against winter storms, yet Harima had found more peace and protection here than she had had in her past life of luxury.

  For him there was no peace, at least not yet. He must return to Naniwa and finish his assignment. Now that he knew Otomo was a part of the conspiracy, he would force the truth out of him. It was time, he and Tora got home to his family.

  He glanced up at the sky. The clouds were still gathering and moving quickly eastward. He should hurry back to Naniwa. Tora would report either today or tomorrow. But he was strangely reluctant to leave Eguchi. Whatever had happened to the girl Akogi, he had come this far, and he would make one more call before putting her from his mind.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Pirate Ship

  Hanae would not stop screaming, and Tora jerked into partial wakefulness: he lay on strange and uncomfortable bedding and the screaming continued.

  Opening his eyes on darkness, he made out the chinks of a door. The smell and touch of his rough bedding registered. He was in the Hostel of the Flying Cranes, and there was a real woman screaming outside his door.

  He cursed and scrambled up. At the door, he re
membered the demon and hesitated with his hand on the bar, but another blood-curdling scream overcame his fear. He lifted the bar, flung the door open, and looked out at the moonlit night.

  The screams came from the shack near the back fence. He could just make out a shadowy figure struggling with a smaller one. The smaller one was a woman. Some brute trying to rape her? With a shout Tora rushed to the rescue.

  The man was big. He let go of the female, who scurried away, and turned to Tora with a welcoming smile. The smile was unexpected, and Tora almost stopped, but it was already too late. Dark figures rose up beside him, behind him, surrounding him as if they had sprung from the earth. His last thought was that he had walked into a whole gathering of demons. A short, sharp pain to the back of his head wiped out any other reflections.

  *

  He came half-awake to swaying and bobbing motions. He was wet, and there were strange noises, scraping of wood, splashing of water, rhythmic breathing. The back of his head hurt abominably, and he turned it a little. Nausea rose. He retched, then vomited and vomited again. This woke him completely. Still retching, he tried to sit up and failed because he was trussed up tightly, his feet tied together and his arms caught under loops of rope that passed around his chest. Above him was a dark and hazy sky. It was dawn or dusk—he did not know which— and when he moved his sore head a little, he made out the backs of four men rowing. They were in a boat, and all around was gray mist and black water.

  It made no sense.

  The boat hit a larger wave, rose up and plunged back down, and Tora’s head bounced against the bottom of the boat with such force that he passed out again.

  He came round next because he was being manhandled into an upright position. He heard grunts and curses and felt rough hands on his body. Someone above him shouted, “Hurry up, you lazy bastards.”

  He was still tied up but instinctively kicked out against the men who had hold of him. There were more curses and ringing slap to his head that made him see stars where there should not have been any, and then the bonds tightened around his chest, the hands fell away, and he rose up into the air, pulled by a rope attached to his back. It was daylight. As he swung, he saw first the side of a ship and then the open water and men in a boat below. And when he looked up, there were, against the pale sky, the outlines of dark heads peering down at him. Like a pendulum, he swung and rose, sometimes out over the angry waves below him, sometimes painfully against the rough timbers of the ship’s bow.