The Cloud Pavilion

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “He says Jinshichi and Gombei work for you.”

  Nanbu shrugged, unfazed. “He must have me mixed up with somebody else.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sano said. “I think you hired Jinshichi and Gombei to kidnap women for you to rape.”

  “Begging your pardon, but you’re the one who’s mistaken now!” Nanbu regarded Sano with shock that gave way to dawning comprehension and offense. “I heard that your cousin and some other women had been kidnapped and you were trying to find out who did it. And now you want to pin it on me.”

  His men’s expressions turned hostile. His dogs sensed his animosity toward Sano. They barked and growled an ugly chorus of warning.

  “With all due respect, I didn’t do it,” Nanbu declared.

  Sano could have spent the day hurling accusations that Nanbu would refute, but he didn’t like wasting time, and he was tired of the kennels’ horrific smell.

  “Fine,” Sano said. “Then you won’t mind submitting to an inspection by the women. We’ll let them decide whether you’re guilty.”

  “Fine,” Nanbu echoed with a smug smile. “Whenever you want.”

  “You seem very sure that the women won’t identify you as their attacker,” Sano said.

  “They won’t,” Nanbu said. “Because I’m not.”

  Maybe he was bluffing. Even if he were the rapist, he would know that the victims had been drugged or otherwise rendered unfit to have observed him well enough to recognize him again. But he couldn’t know that they hadn’t forgotten everything.

  Sano decided to try another ploy. “Take your trousers off. Your loincloth, too.”

  “What?” Nanbu’s lewd mouth dropped in surprise.

  He and his men stared at Sano as if he’d gone mad. Detective Marume guffawed.

  “Do it,” Sano ordered.

  Nanbu recovered, laughed, and said, “Does this mean you’re interested in me, Honorable Chamberlain? I didn’t know you liked men.”

  There was no stigma associated with manly love, and the remark didn’t bother Sano. “I’m interested in finding out if you raped those women. One look at your private parts should do the trick.”

  “I’m not giving you a look.” Nanbu seemed uneasy for the first time since the subject of the crimes had come up. His chest and stomach had deflated a bit and his arms hewed closer to his sides.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  “You should be glad to cooperate,” Sano said. “This is your chance to exonerate yourself.”

  Nanbu folded his arms and glared. “I already told you I didn’t do it.” Sano saw sweat droplets on his forehead. “I give you my word, on my honor. I’m not taking off my clothes.”

  “Your word’s not good enough,” Sano said, “and I didn’t ask you to undress, I ordered you to do it.”

  “Want us to help him out of his clothes?” Marume asked.

  He and Fukida dismounted and advanced on Nanbu. Nanbu pursed his thick lips and whistled. The twelve dogs grouped around him in a tight, snarling huddle.

  “You’ll have to get past them,” Nanbu said, “and you wouldn’t dare.”

  He was right, as much as Sano hated to admit it. The dogs were a living wall around Nanbu, an army more fierce and loyal than any samurai troops. If Sano and his men tried to penetrate it, they would surely kill dogs in the process; and the shogun wouldn’t excuse even Sano, his dear friend and trusted chamberlain, for harming a dog, not when he believed that his chances of getting an heir depended on protecting dogs and earning fortune’s grace.

  “You win for now,” Sano said. He might have risked taking on Nanbu’s dogs, if not for his family. If he couldn’t talk his way out of the punishment later, Reiko and the children and his other relatives—including the Kumazawa clan—would share it. “But you’re in trouble even if you didn’t rape those women.”

  “What are you going to do, cut my head off?” Nanbu laughed recklessly. “You can’t touch me. Now get out.”

  He advanced on Sano. The dogs moved with him, panting for a fight, a taste of blood. Sano and his men had no choice except to mount their horses and let Nanbu and the dogs herd them out the gate.

  “What do you think you’re going to do?” Sano said, almost angry enough to do something he would regret. “Barricade yourself inside the kennel?”

  “That’s right,” Nanbu said. “If you try to get at me, you’ll be the one in trouble.”

  “You can’t hide behind your dogs forever,” Sano said.

  Nanbu responded by closing the gate in the faces of Sano and his men. Sano, Marume, and Fukida shared looks that brimmed with ire and frustration. Marume said, “That didn’t go quite as well as we hoped.”

  “At least we know one thing we didn’t before we came here,” Sano said. “Nanbu is hiding something.”

  “Sores, or a mole?” Fukida wondered.

  “That I don’t know, but I’m sure he raped at least one of the women. I’m going to find out which.”

  “Even if he did, how are we going to get the bastard?” Marume said.

  Sano told three of his troops, “Stay here and keep watch on Nanbu. If he comes out, arrest him. He won’t get away with what he’s done.”

  Masahiro meant to be a good boy.

  While he ate his breakfast and studied with his tutor, he was serious and obedient. He was careful not to pout while Father’s soldiers stood around guarding him as if he were a prisoner in jail. He wanted to convince Father and Mother that he’d learned his lesson, and they would surely ask his tutor and his guards whether he’d behaved himself. But now, as his tutor pointed out mistakes in the arithmetic test he’d just finished, Masahiro itched with frustration.

  How he hated being cooped up inside the house! He wished Toda hadn’t caught him yesterday. He wished that when he’d spied on Yanagisawa and the ladies he’d learned something so important that Father and Mother would have forgiven him. If only he could help them instead of staying home and doing nothing!

  The arithmetic lesson ended. His teacher departed. Masahiro fidgeted while he waited for his reading tutor. The soldier on guard duty this morning was a young samurai named Hayashi, who looked as bored and restless as Masahiro was.

  “How about if we play outside for a little while?” Hayashi suggested. “I won’t tell your parents.”

  “All right,” Masahiro said.

  The words escaped before he could stop them. He couldn’t take them back, could he? Because he didn’t want to disappoint Hayashi. That was what Masahiro told himself as he followed Hayashi out the door.

  The sky was gray and the day warm and humid. Masahiro ran across the garden, enjoying the squishy wetness of the grass that soaked his socks through his sandals. He batted at the low foliage on the trees and laughed as water droplets showered onto him. A teenaged garden boy stood on a ladder propped against the wall. He’d removed his short blue kimono and his floppy straw hat, which lay on a rock near the ladder. Clad only in a loincloth, he pruned the pine trees. Hayashi threw a ball to Masahiro. As they played catch, two young, pretty maids came out of the house, batted their eyes at Hayashi, and giggled. Hayashi dropped the ball and went over to talk to them. Masahiro was left alone. He watched the garden boy climb down the ladder and go off on some errand, leaving the ladder and his discarded clothes. Masahiro’s heartbeat quickened; he moved toward the ladder.

  Wouldn’t it be fun to climb up so high?

  First Masahiro picked up the clothes and wadded them under his arm. He didn’t stop to think why. He mounted the ladder. The pungent, sharp-needled boughs of the pine tree concealed him from anyone below. When he reached the top rung of the ladder, he couldn’t see over the wall because he was too short. He set the garden boy’s clothes on the wall. While he grabbed the top of the wall in both hands and scrambled his way up, he heard Hayashi chatting with the maids. His feet bumped the ladder, which fell away from him and hit the ground with a soft thud. Horror filled Masahiro as he crouched at
op the narrow wall and wondered how he was going to get back down.

  “Masahiro! Where are you?” Hayashi called.

  Startled, Masahiro lost his balance. He tried to steady himself, but his scrabbling hands found the garden boy’s clothes instead of the wall’s solid stone. His fingers slipped. He toppled off the wall and landed on his back in a pile of sand on the other side. The hat and kimono plopped onto his face. Masahiro lay, the breath knocked out of him, stunned.

  He cautiously wiggled his body. Although the fall had jarred every bone in him, the sand had cushioned his landing, and nothing seemed broken. He flung the clothes off his face, looked up at the wall and the overhanging pine boughs. He heard Hayashi on the other side, saying, “Where did he go? Chamberlain Sano will kill me!”

  Dread flooded Masahiro. When Father hears about this, he’ll kill me, too. Father would never believe that he hadn’t meant to climb over the wall, that he’d fallen off by accident.

  Masahiro scrambled to his feet. He was in a passage that divided the mansion’s grounds from the rest of the estate. The path between two stone walls had been dug up. The passage was empty except for the sand pile, a stack of new paving stones, and a wheelbarrow. Luckily for Masahiro, the workers had taken a break, or they’d have caught him. But he would be punished no matter what he did next.

  Father and Mother would never let him outside again until he was grown up.

  Then Masahiro saw a bright spot amid his troubles. Now that he’d escaped, he had another chance to be a detective. What did he have to lose?

  He snatched up the garden boy’s clothes, which he hadn’t meant to steal but would certainly come in handy. Then he ran down the passage before Hayashi could figure out what had happened and come after him. Masahiro would make the most of his freedom. This time he would discover something so good that Father and Mother would be glad he’d broken the rules and he wouldn’t feel guilty about his disobedience.

  Masahiro didn’t let himself think that he must have meant to escape all along.

  Accompanied by his two top retainers, Hirata glanced over his shoulder as they rode through Kuramae—the area dubbed “In Front of the Shogun’s Store houses,” near the Sumida River. He thought he felt the now-familiar presence, but he wasn’t sure.

  He’d lain awake for most of the night, his senses straining to detect the slightest hint of his unknown foe. Several times he’d sat up in bed, his heart pounding. But nothing happened except that Midori had grown tired of being awakened. She’d flounced off to sleep in another room, telling Hirata that he was imagining things.

  Maybe he had been.

  Maybe he still was.

  Kuramae was known for its many shops, and particularly for toys. Hirata and his men steered their horses around pedestrians in streets devoted to dolls, kites, fireworks, and Dagashiya-san—“cheap-sweet shops”—that sold candy and inexpensive trinkets. Wandering peddlers hawked kokeshi dolls, and blowfish whistles. Hirata didn’t think of buying presents to surprise his children, as he might have another time. His mind manufactured threats where none existed. Every casual glance from a stranger, every movement or flare of emotion within the crowds, wound his nerves tighter.

  He knew that was exactly what his enemy wanted.

  The mind was a warrior’s most formidable weapon. When it was strong and steady, it could win battles against opponents with better combat skills. An expert martial artist could influence the mind of his opponent by instilling such fear that the opponent became weak, helpless, and easily defeated. Hirata had often used this strategy, but now he was its target. He felt his confidence draining away, his spirit weakening. Although he usually liked to travel alone, today he’d brought Detectives Inoue and Arai. Their company didn’t bring him a sense of security, however; indeed, his wish for protection made him feel more vulnerable.

  He and the detectives turned onto Edo Street, the main road that led to the northern highway. On the right, between the road and the river, stood the shogun’s rice ware houses. On the left side of the road were teahouses operated by fudasashi, merchants who delivered the rice to the shogun’s retainers for a commission, then bought the excess and sold it at a profit. They also loaned money, another business that made them hugely wealthy.

  Hirata dismounted outside the biggest teahouse, which bore the name “Ogita” carved on a discreet wooden placard by the door. Inside, male voices shouted numbers. Hirata and his men entered a room where a rice auction was in progress. Arms raised, waving frantically toward a dais at the back of the room, merchants called out bids. Hirata watched the man at the center of the dais.

  Ogita paced, shouted, and gestured like an actor in a Kabuki theater. He wasn’t more than average height, but he stood tall. His brown kimono, surcoat, and trousers were made of cotton, in accordance with the sumptuary laws that reserved silk for the samurai class, but his garments had the sheen of highest-quality fabric. His bald head and long, fleshy face shone, too—with grease from a rich diet. His eyes were narrow slits that glinted with intelligence and didn’t miss a thing as they darted back and forth, spotting bidders. He wasn’t fat, but he had a bulging double chin that seemed to amplify his voice as he repeated bids and demanded a better price. His energy aura was bigger and stronger than anyone else’s; he dominated the crowd. But as he studied Edo’s top rice broker, Hirata made a troubling discovery.

  He was usually good at reading people, but his sleepless night and his state of distraction broke the concentration he needed to assess Ogita. His fear had begun to affect his work. How was he going to handle this interrogation?

  The auction ended. Losing bidders left to try their luck at other houses. Ogita and the winners closed their deals by applying signature seals to contracts written up on the spot by his clerks. Servants poured ritual cups of sake. When the customers left, Hirata signaled his detectives to wait by the door while he approached Ogita.

  He introduced himself, then said, “I’d like a word with you.”

  The slits of Ogita’s eyes opened wider in surprise. “What about?”

  “I’m investigating a series of crimes,” Hirata said. “I need your assistance.”

  If Ogita was alarmed, Hirata couldn’t tell. “I’m at your service.” Ogita spread his hands in the gesture of a man who had much to give and nothing to withhold.

  “Then you’ll be happy to answer a few questions.” Bereft of the extra sense that usually aided him during interrogations, Hirata fell back on standard detective procedure. He asked Ogita his whereabouts on the days that Chiyo, Fumiko, and the nun had been missing.

  He’d expected Ogita to claim he couldn’t remember details from so long ago, but Ogita called to a clerk: “Bring me my calendar.”

  The clerk fetched a clothbound book and handed it to Ogita. Ogita paged to the dates Hirata had mentioned and reeled off a list of activities that included rice auctions at his teahouse, business meetings around the city, banquets, his son’s wedding, and drinking parties with customers, friends, and government officials. He smiled and asked, “Is that good enough?”

  “That only accounts for your days,” Hirata said. “What about your nights?”

  “I was at home with my family and my bodyguards.” Ogita added, “A man in my position has plenty of enemies, and I’m a target for thieves. My bodyguards stay near me wherever I am.”

  Hirata didn’t doubt that they would confirm his alibi. “May I ask why you’re so interested in my business?” Ogita spoke with mild curiosity, without the caution of a man who was guilty of crimes and threatened by the law. Hirata despaired because he couldn’t discern whether Ogita’s manner was an act or not. Used to relying on the powers gained from strenuous training and magic rituals, he felt as if he’d regressed to his days as a mere, ordinary human.

  “Three women were kidnapped, held prisoner, and raped during those time periods,” Hirata said.

  “And you think I’m responsible?” Ogita’s expression said he thought the idea was so absurd that he cou
ldn’t bother to be offended by it. “I am certainly not.”

  “You haven’t asked who the women are,” Hirata pointed out. He wasn’t so distracted that he hadn’t noticed the omission. “Maybe that’s because you already know.”

  Ogita glanced at the ceiling long enough to convey scorn. “No, I don’t know, but I suppose I should find out who’s been slandering me. Who are they?”

  Was Ogita pretending ignorance? Hirata only wished he knew that. “One is the gangster Jirocho’s daughter. The second is a nun named Tengu-in. The third is Lady Chiyo, wife of Captain Okubo and cousin of Chamberlain Sano.”

  The rice broker’s greasy face showed no recognition, except a frown at Sano’s name. “Well, my condolences to them, but I never laid a hand on them. I don’t even know them.”

  “You should be familiar with Lady Chiyo,” Hirata said. “Her father is Major Kumazawa. He’s in charge of guarding the ware houses that hold the rice you sell.”

  “I know him. Not his daughter.”

  Hirata couldn’t have said whether he was lying or telling the truth. “She grew up in the Kumazawa clan’s house, which isn’t far from here. You must have seen her.”

  “Seen her, maybe. Anything else, no.” Ogita made a negative, adamant, slashing gesture with his hand. Annoyance crept into his expression. “If I want a woman, I don’t have to kidnap or rape one. Here, let me show you something.”

  Ogita stalked to the dais and spread out the rice contracts that lay upon a table. He jabbed his ink-stained finger at the huge sums written on the contracts. “With what I earned today, I could buy ten women for each day of the year, to do whatever I want. You can’t really think I would stoop to kidnapping anybody, especially a relative of a man important to my business.”

  Hirata couldn’t deny that Ogita had a point. But a man could become sexually obsessed with a particular woman who was beyond his reach, and none other would satisfy. “There’s a witness to the effect that you did.”

  “Oh? Who?” Anger tightened Ogita’s double chin.