The Cloud Pavilion

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Hirata nodded. He shared Sano’s principles, if not to the same degree.

  “Besides,” Sano said, “there’s a chance that we’re wrong about those men even though we don’t think so. If that’s the case, it would be a miscarriage of justice for Gombei and Jinshichi to die for the crimes while the real culprit goes free.”

  “Then we’ll find proof.” Hirata sounded just as determined to solve the case as Sano was. “Shall I go back to Shinobazu Pond and look for other witnesses?”

  Fukida said, “Marume-san and I could sniff around Zj Temple district.”

  Sano supposed that he himself could go back to Asakusa, but there must be some other way to quicker results. Into his mind popped a strategy he’d never had reason to use before.

  “Not just yet,” Sano said. “I have another plan.”

  Along the Sumida River northwest of the castle, upstream from the ware houses and docks, stretched a wide embankment planted with cherry trees. It was popular in springtime, when the trees were in flower and the people of Edo flocked to picnic in the pavilions, drink in the teahouses along the path, float in pleasure boats on the river, and admire the pink blossoms.

  But today the blossoms were long gone, the pavilions empty, the sky threatening more rain. The trees, in full summer leaf, shadowed the wet ground. Barges and ferries plied the river, which was brown and murky.

  Yanagisawa and Yoritomo were among the few people strolling the embankment. They’d shed their rain capes and hats; they wore dark-colored silk robes without identifying crests. Their entourage waited behind them at a distance.

  “What’s the matter?” Yanagisawa asked.

  “You look ill.”

  Yoritomo’s handsome face was pale and sweating; his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed convulsively. “I’m just nervous.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve never done this.”

  They were about to embark upon a rite of passage that Yanagisawa had never subjected his son to before. Yanagisawa wondered if he should have scheduled a few practice runs to put Yoritomo at ease. He hoped Yoritomo wouldn’t make a bad impression.

  “I don’t know how to act,” Yoritomo said, with shame, “I don’t have much experience with women.”

  That was true. Yoritomo had been sheltered as a child, had lived in an isolated country villa with his mother. She was a distant cousin of the shogun, and Yoritomo the product of a brief liaison between her and Yanagisawa. During his boyhood, Yoritomo had encountered few women except her attendants. Later, his relationship with the shogun had precluded love affairs. Yanagisawa knew that Yoritomo had never experienced sex with a female, but that was, Yanagisawa hoped, about to change.

  “Just be as respectful and dignified as you would on any other occasion,” Yanagisawa said.

  “All right,” Yoritomo said, but Yanagisawa could see him trembling. Yanagisawa felt pity for his son, and guilt. Yoritomo’s life had been far from normal, and Yanagisawa was largely to blame. “But what should I say?”

  “Don’t say anything unless somebody speaks to you. If you are spoken to, just try to sound like the polite, charming, intelligent person that you are.”

  Yoritomo squared his shoulders, bearing up under the weight of responsibility. “Yes, Father,” he said bravely. “I promise I won’t let you down.”

  Yanagisawa experienced a love for his son that was so strong his knees buckled. “I won’t let you down, either.”

  Ahead, in the distance, three figures appeared. Yoritomo gulped and said, “Here they come!”

  “Relax,” Yanagisawa said. “Don’t be afraid. We’re in this together.”

  The figures drew closer. “Lady Setsu,” emaciated and stern, and “Lady Chocho,” her plump, babyish companion, walked on either side of a younger woman. She was unusually tall; she towered over them. They wore dark, modest, but sumptuous silk garments; she wore a robe patterned with green leaves and grasses in brighter tones, appropriate for a samurai lady who was some twenty-four years old. Yanagisawa thought her plain in the extreme. She was all awkward bones. Self-conscious about her height, she had bad posture. Her makeup didn’t camouflage her beaked nose or heavy eyelids. Her one claim to beauty was her hair, dressed in a thick knot, shiny and lushly black.

  “Greetings,” Yanagisawa said as he and Yoritomo stopped face-to-face with the women.

  “Why, hello!” Lady Chocho exclaimed. As bows were exchanged, she batted her eyes at Yanagisawa and giggled. “What a surprise to meet you here!”

  “A wonderful coincidence,” Yanagisawa agreed.

  They had to act as if this were a chance encounter. That was the custom for a miai, the first meeting between a prospective bride and groom and their relatives. If one side didn’t want to go any further, both sides could pretend the miai had never happened and save face.

  Yanagisawa was determined to see this miai through to the marriage.

  “What a fine place for walking on a day like this.” Lady Setsu lifted the water-stained hem of her robe off the ground. “But I suppose the inconvenience couldn’t be helped.”

  They’d had to pick a location with few people to observe them, where they would be unlikely to meet anyone they knew.

  “Will you introduce me to your companion?” Yanagisawa said to Lady Setsu.

  She was looking at Yoritomo. The right side of her face wore an involuntary, pained wince. The eye on the normal left side scrutinized Yoritomo closely as she said, “May I present the Honorable Tsuruhime.”

  The young woman stepped forward, graceless and shy. Eyes downcast, she murmured, “It is a privilege to make your acquaintance.”

  “And this must be your son.” Lady Chocho minced over to Yoritomo, beheld him, and gasped. “You look just like your father! My, you’re handsome!”

  Yoritomo ducked his head, clearly mortified. Lady Chocho exclaimed, “Isn’t that sweet, he’s blushing!” She tittered and pinched his cheek. “Oh, your skin is so soft! Just like a baby’s bottom! If I were younger, I would eat you up!”

  Yoritomo cast a pleading glance at Yanagisawa, who sent him a look that warned him not to rebuff Lady Chocho or do anything else that would offend the women.

  “Yes, this is my son Yoritomo,” he said.

  Lady Setsu’s gaze registered shock as it moved from son to father. “ ‘Yoritomo’?” she repeated.

  “Meet my daughter,” Lady Chocho said, and pushed Tsuruhime at Yoritomo.

  They bowed to one another. Tsuruhime wore a sad, resigned expression. Yoritomo regarded her with the look of a man who has come upon a snake that he knows will bite him and wonders if it’s poisonous. Not one hint of attraction did Yanagisawa see. But attraction was unnecessary. Yoritomo and Tsuruhime would learn to love each other or not. Other considerations were more important in this marriage that Yanagisawa wanted.

  “This boy is the one?” Lady Setsu said in disbelief. “Him?”

  Yanagisawa realized that this miai wasn’t going as well as he’d expected. He said, “Why don’t we let our two young people go off by themselves and get acquainted.” That was allowed by custom, as long as the prospective bride and groom remained within their chaperones’ sight. “We can talk things over.”

  Yoritomo shot Yanagisawa a glance filled with panic. Yanagisawa nodded encouragingly at him. Yoritomo and Tsuruhime set off down a path through the cherry trees. She went meekly. Yanagisawa had seen happier faces than his son’s on condemned men going to the execution ground.

  Lady Chocho clasped her hand to her bosom and sighed. “Don’t they make a lovely couple?”

  “Can you really mean to marry him to my stepdaughter?” Lady Setsu stared with shock at Yanagisawa.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Yanagisawa said. Her reaction was far from flattering, but he hid the offense he felt. “What objection do you have to Tsuruhime marrying a son of mine?”

  “I don’t,” Lady Chocho said, dimpling at him. “If you were to become my daughter’s new father-in-law, I would get to see y
ou all the time.”

  “No objection against your sons in general,” Lady Setsu said, “just that one.”

  “Why?” Yanagisawa asked.

  She laughed, a sour cackle. The muscles on the distorted side of her face tightened. “It should be obvious.”

  It was, and Yanagisawa knew that if he were in her position, he would feel the same disapproval, but he said, “This marriage is a matter of survival—for Tsuruhime as well as you and Lady Chocho and me and my son.”

  “Why not one of your other sons?” Lady Setsu said.

  Yanagisawa didn’t love them as much as he did Yoritomo. They were inferior in looks, and their personalities were less malleable; he couldn’t control them the way he could his favorite son. Also, Yoritomo deserved compensation for being the shogun’s male concubine. But these reasons wouldn’t convince Lady Setsu; they didn’t matter in the political scheme of things.

  “Because Yoritomo has the right bloodline,” Yanagisawa said. “The others don’t.”

  Yoritomo’s mother was a Tokugawa clan member, which made Yoritomo eligible for the succession, even though he was far down the list of candidates.

  Lady Setsu beheld Yanagisawa with such astonishment that both her eyes opened wide. “So it’s not just a rumor,” she said. “You do intend for your son to be the next shogun.”

  Yanagisawa put his finger to his lips. Airing such an intention was dangerous. He glanced around to see if anyone was listening. He saw a few other people strolling the embankment, none close by. “If that happens, it would be the best protection you and your family could have.”

  Lady Setsu watched Yoritomo and Tsuruhime march grimly side by side along the river, not speaking to each other. “If they marry, it would certainly move your son up in the ranks of the succession,” she said, her crisp voice turned acid.

  “So we both stand to gain from their marriage,” Yanagisawa said. “Perhaps you and yours have even more at stake than me and mine. Do you remember the story of Toyotomi Hideyoshi?”

  Some hundred years ago, that famous general had aspired to rule Japan but died before achieving his goal. He’d left behind a wife, and a son who should have inherited his rank, his troops, and his chance to be shogun. But his former ally, Tokugawa Ieyasu, had wanted to eliminate the widow and heir and clear the way for his own rise to power. Ieyasu had besieged their castle in Osaka. Hideyoshi’s widow and heir had committed suicide while the castle went up in flames.

  “I know that story.” Lady Setsu’s voice had lost some of its crispness, and Yanagisawa knew he’d scored a point.

  “I don’t,” Lady Chocho said. “How does it go?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” Lady Setsu turned to Yanagisawa. “I suppose you would expect the marriage to be consummated?”

  “Of course,” Yanagisawa said, although he wasn’t sure that Yoritomo was capable. “That’s the only way to produce an heir, which is the best guarantee for our future.”

  “They would make such pretty babies,” Lady Chocho said.

  Lady Setsu shook her head. “Your audacity takes my breath away.”

  “Better audacious than dead,” Yanagisawa said.

  “When should we have the wedding?” Lady Chocho asked eagerly.

  “Don’t get excited,” Lady Setsu snapped at her. “The matter is not settled yet.”

  “The dowry and other terms are negotiable, but this is the deal I’m offering,” Yanagisawa said. “Yoritomo marries Tsuruhime. Take it or leave it.”

  Lady Setsu frowned, insulted by his peremptoriness. “I require some time to think.”

  “We have to order Tsuruhime’s wedding clothes,” Lady Chocho said.

  “I’ll expect your answer by tomorrow,” Yanagisawa said.

  From his perch high in a cherry tree, Masahiro watched Yanagisawa and the three ladies walk off in opposite directions. The ladies climbed into palanquins. Yanagisawa and Yoritomo passed directly under the tree where Masahiro was hiding. He could have spit on their heads!

  Masahiro almost laughed out loud at the thought. They hadn’t seemed to notice him following them from the castle or climbing the tree. If they’d seen him at all, they’d probably thought he was just a boy playing. He’d stowed his messenger’s flag and pouch in his saddlebag along the way, and tied a blue cotton kerchief around his head. Now he watched Yanagisawa and Yoritomo mount their horses and prepared to follow them some more. He couldn’t wait to tell Father and Mother what he’d seen. He hadn’t heard anything, but watching Yanagisawa and the ladies was good detective work, wasn’t it?

  Masahiro scrambled down the tree and jumped to the ground. But as he hurried toward the pavilion where he’d tied his pony, a hand grabbed his arm. He yelped in surprise.

  The hand belonged to a samurai who’d stepped out from behind another tree. His face, his tattered wicker hat, and his worn cotton kimono and leggings were dark with soaked-in grime. His other hand rested on the hilt of his long sword. Masahiro froze and went dumbstruck with terror.

  This man was surely a rnin bandit who meant to rob him or kill him, or both.

  “Not so fast, Masahiro-san,” the rnin said.

  Astonishment replaced some of Masahiro’s fear. “How—how did you know my name?” The man was a stranger.

  “I’ve seen you at your father’s house,” the rnin said in a flat voice that didn’t match his scary appearance.

  “You’re a friend of Father’s?” Masahiro dared to feel relief.

  The skin around the rnin’s eyes crinkled with amusement underneath the grime. “You could call me that.”

  Masahiro was suspicious and wary nonetheless. He tried to tug his arm free, but the rnin held on tight.

  “I didn’t know Father had friends who look like you,” the boy said.

  “Your father has all sorts of friends you don’t know.”

  That remark didn’t comfort Masahiro. “How did you recognize me?”

  “I saw you leave the castle dressed as a messenger boy. A while later, I noticed you in a different outfit.” The rnin flicked his finger against Masahiro’s head kerchief. “I took a closer look, and I thought, ‘That’s Chamberlain Sano’s son.’ ”

  “Nobody was supposed to know.” Masahiro was disappointed that his disguise hadn’t been as good as he’d thought. “How did you?”

  “You were riding the same black-and-white pony.”

  “Oh,” Masahiro said, chagrined.

  Suddenly he noticed that the rnin’s fiercely slanted eyebrows were drawn on his face with charcoal, like those of actors in Kabuki plays. A thought struck Masahiro: He wasn’t the only one wearing a disguise. And the rnin was better at noticing things than most people.

  “Did you come to visit Father yesterday?” Masahiro asked.

  “Yes . . .” Now the rnin looked startled, displeased, and amused all at once. “You were eavesdropping.”

  The rnin was the spy named Toda.

  “But I don’t recognize you,” Masahiro said. “You look so different today.”

  “Well, that’s the purpose of a disguise.” Toda added, “I’ve learned a few more things besides those I inadvertently taught you. Here’s one: When you’re watching somebody, don’t assume that nobody is watching you.”

  Toda had seen him following Yanagisawa. Masahiro felt foolish because he’d thought himself invisible and hadn’t noticed Toda doing the same thing. Now Masahiro realized that Yanagisawa was getting away from them both.

  “Excuse me,” Masahiro said. “I have to go.”

  Toda restrained him. “Oh, no, you don’t.”

  “But we’re going to lose Yanagisawa!”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?” Toda said with a sarcastic laugh. “I am the spy. You are just a child. I’m taking you home.”

  “But Yanagisawa—”

  “No buts,” Toda said, “and forget Yanagisawa. If I let you keep playing spy, and something should happen to you, your father would kill me. Come along now.”

  Sano returned to Edo
Jail that afternoon with his cousin Chiyo and with Reiko. As he rode across the bridge over the canal that fronted the prison, the women followed in a palanquin. Major Kumazawa had insisted on coming along, and he trailed them with his troops and Sano’s. The procession halted at the gate.

  Inside the palanquin, Chiyo said, “I’m afraid.”

  “You’ll be all right,” Reiko said soothingly.

  But she was worried about Chiyo, who seemed even frailer than yesterday. Shadows under her eyes bled through her white makeup. When she spoke, tears trembled in her voice. Under her brown silk kimono, her body was gaunt, hunched like an old woman’s; she’d aged years overnight. Reiko didn’t know how any woman could recover from kidnapping, rape, and the loss of her children. She was afraid that what Sano had asked Chiyo to do would make matters worse, even though Chiyo had willingly agreed to cooperate.

  She heard horses’ hooves clattering over the bridge. She looked out the window of the palanquin and saw Detectives Marume and Fukida ride up to Sano.

  “Where is the nun?” Sano asked.

  “She didn’t want to come,” Fukida said. “When we tried to take her out of the convent, she became upset.”

  “ ‘Upset’ is putting it mildly,” Marume said. “She cried and threw a fit. We thought we’d better just let her be.”

  “You did the right thing,” Sano said, although Reiko could see that he was disappointed. “We’ll manage without her.”

  “Am I the only one?” Chiyo said, alarmed.

  Across the bridge came another procession: Hirata on horse back, accompanied by a few troops, escorting another palanquin. “No,” Reiko said. “Here’s one more.”

  The troops dismounted, reached into the palanquin, and pulled out Fumiko. Her kimono had new rips and new streaks of mud. Her face was bunched in a murderous scowl.

  “She put up quite a fight, but we got her,” Hirata said. Fumiko’s hands were tied behind her back and her ankles loosely bound together with rope so that she could walk but not run. “I hated to do this, but otherwise she’d have gotten away.”