The Hell Screen - [Sugawara Akitada 02]

by I. J. Parker

  Tora sneered. “Because she once slept with some fat bastard with a title? So have half the sluts in the Willow Quarter. Besides, the woman probably lies. Look at her! Who’d want to sleep with that? She’s as big as a bear and as bald as an egg. A man would be afraid she’d smother him if she got on top for the rain and the clouds.”

  Akitada had raised both hands to his head, which pounded viciously, and covered his ears.

  “You filthy-mouthed bastard!” Genba shouted, purple with fury. He rose with clenched fists.

  Tora shot up and bared his teeth in a snarl. “You call me that again and you’re a dead man.”

  “Enough!” roared Akitada, stepping between them. He winced at an excruciating stab of pain, closed his eyes, and waited until the throbbing abated. When he opened them, he saw Tora and Genba staring at him openmouthed. He said more quietly, “Sit down, both of you!” and gingerly returned to his cushion.

  They obeyed, and after regarding them bleakly, he said, “Tora, if your manners are as bad in public as they were here today, you are useless to me. Worse than useless, for your behavior reflects on me.”

  Tora blanched.

  “And you, Genba, seem to have allowed a casual acquaintance with a female of dubious background to get in the way of an investigation.”

  Genba flushed and hung his head.

  “Since neither of you can be trusted any longer, you will henceforth confine yourselves to duties around the house.”

  “Sir!” they both protested.

  “Please, sir. I promised to meet the little acrobat tonight,” Tora added.

  It was the last straw. “Get out!” Akitada ground out between clenched teeth, fixing Tora with such a look that he flinched back. “Get out of my sight! All you’re good for is chasing women. Go clean the stable. Perhaps that will remind you of your place in this household.”

  They trooped out with hanging heads, and Akitada sagged on his cushion, staring at his clenched hands. He slowly opened them and watched his fingers tremble. His heart pounded, and every heartbeat throbbed in his skull. He had lost control. The fact that he had passed a miserable day was no excuse.

  Reaching for some paperwork, long postponed, he tried to distract himself with figures and accounts, but he could not shed his sense of failure.

  Tora’s disparagement of actors resembled his own disdain for merchants and their kin. Tora’s attitude had severed the bond of friendship between himself and Genba, as he, Akitada, had destroyed the affection his younger sister had for him. The silent, pale young woman who had submitted to his commands today no longer looked at him with trust and fondness. He had seen resignation and fear in her eyes.

  The hours passed. Seimei crept in with the evening rice and replenished the coals in the brazier. But neither warmth nor food cheered Akitada. He pushed his tray aside untouched, unrolled his bedding, and tried to forget the onerous and painful responsibilities of being a husband and family head.

  * * * *

  FIFTEEN

  The Empty Storehouse

  Akitada woke up feeling exhausted and depressed. Nothing in his household seemed to be going right. They had barely returned from the long assignment up north when the very foundations of his life started crumbling. First Yoshiko got entangled with a commoner who was in jail on a murder charge. Then she rebelled against her brother’s authority and caused Tamako to take her side, the first rift in Akitada’s marriage. And now the quarrel between Genba and Tora further destroyed the peace and harmony he had hoped to feel after years of struggle and hardship.

  Akitada knew he had been too harsh with Tora and Genba. How could he expect them to be all business on their first night out in the capital? So what if after years of near abstinence, Genba had been attracted to a woman who, from all accounts, combined feminine wiles with an interest in competitive sports? Such a thing was natural and human. And Tora had pursued every available light-skirt in town because that was his nature. The quarrel had been provoked by the actor Danjuro, not Tora. A man like Tora could not tolerate insults; his respectability had been too hard-won. No, the fault for all this trouble lay with himself, with his cursed temper. Instead of dealing calmly with the strain produced by recent events, he had flared up and become judgmental and punitive.

  With a sigh, Akitada got up, folded his bedding, put it away, and started dressing. He felt old and tired. Apparently neither age nor experience had corrected his character flaws.

  He thought about the Nagaoka case, where he had made no progress whatsoever because of all the family distractions. The wretched prisoner remained in custody and at the mercy of the brutal guards and their bamboo whips. The man had not fit the image Akitada had formed of him, that of an upstart commoner who seduces unprotected daughters of the aristocracy in hopes of bettering himself, and so he had made a poor job of questioning him. The truth of it was that Akitada could not even dislike this Kojiro who had caused all the trouble in his home. The man had behaved with unexpected dignity and courage. And Nagaoka had proved to be a man of culture, well-read and knowledgeable. This did not, of course, clear him of suspicion in his wife’s murder.

  Akitada paced, considering the case against Nagaoka. Nagaoka took an interest in the theater, and actors stayed at the temple on the night of the murder. Nagaoka could have hired one of them to kill his wife when he discovered her infidelity. Tora, for all his prejudices, had been quite right about actors. An acting job, particularly with a traveling troupe, was often a cover for all sorts of criminals on the run from the authorities. What better place to find a killer for hire?

  It had been foolish to dismiss Genba and Tora before they had had time for a full report, and even more foolish to prevent Tora from getting information from the girl acrobat.

  Still feeling languid and vaguely ill, though the headache was much better, Akitada thought some tea might help. It was early and Seimei was probably still asleep. Making his way to the kitchen, where the sleepy-eyed maid Kumoi was just starting the water for the morning rice gruel, he made himself a pot of tea and took it back to his room.

  Sipping on the veranda outside his study, he looked at his garden. It was barely dawn, but the clouds seemed to be clearing. In the pine, some sparrows rustled, chirping softly. The fish were sluggish. He must get them some food.

  Seimei appeared suddenly. He glanced at the teacup in Akitada’s hand and apologized for having overslept, adding, “Genba is outside, sir. He begs for a moment of your time.”

  “Good! Ask him to come!”

  Genba came to him hesitantly, head still hanging low. He stood for a moment, awkwardly clenching and unclenching his big fists, then said hoarsely, “We are very sorry, sir.”

  “Sit down, Genba.” Akitada made his tone friendly. “I have been too harsh and forgot that neither you nor Tora have had any leisure since our return. You have both served faithfully during the long years of hardship up north and on the strenuous journey back. Then you got back and had to deal with ruined stables and a funeral. I should have been more appreciative. Instead I lost my temper. Please forgive me, and take the rest of the day and the night off. Tomorrow we will discuss your new assignments.”

  Genba’s face broke into a wide grin. “Whew!” he cried fervently. “Thank you, sir. But you were quite right. We shouldn’t have quarreled. Well, I came to tell you, we’ve made up. Tora’s been worried because you wouldn’t let him go see the little acrobat. He told her to meet him in the Willow Quarter, which is not a good place to send a nice young girl on her own.”

  “I am sure she came to no harm.” Akitada wondered why Tora should be concerned about the reputation of a girl who had agreed so readily to sleep with him on first acquaintance. “You said very little yesterday. Do you have anything to add to Tora’s report?”

  Genba scratched his head. His once-shaven pate was once again covered with a thick brush of hair not yet long enough to twist on top. Genba attempted to make it lie down flat by wetting it periodically and plastering it as close to
his skull as he could. But as it dried, stubborn sections of hair popped up again. Having disturbed the careful arrangement, he quickly patted it back down. Watching him, Akitada noticed for the first time that Genba was turning gray. He had never asked his age but guessed that Genba must be well into his forties.

  “About Tora’s worries, sir. Miss Plumblossom, the lady who runs the training hall, is very concerned about some villain who’s been going around slashing prostitutes. Her maid’s one of the bastard’s victims. She must’ve been good-looking until she lost her nose and part of her upper lip. Her whole face is a mess, what with all the knife scars. Being disfigured like that, she couldn’t work anymore and was starving. She was going through the refuse behind the training hall when Miss Plumblossom found her.”

  Akitada frowned. There seemed to be many stories of disfigurement recently, but the matter hardly concerned him. “It is horrible, of course, but prostitution provokes abnormal behavior in some men,” he said carelessly. “Has she identified her attacker to the police?”

  Genba shook his head. “Prostitutes don’t complain to the authorities. And she may not have got a good look at him. Probably met him on a dark street and went home with him. Miss Plumblossom says some people found her half dead in an abandoned temple. They thought she’d been attacked by demons.”

  This sounded familiar, but Akitada could not immediately place it and put it from his mind. “A terrible tale,” he said, “but I don’t see that it helps us with the actors. We know they spent the night at the temple. Did they talk about the murder?”

  “No. And that’s a bit queer. Tora says nobody would talk to him after Danjuro warned them off. By the way, the maid was spying on Tora and his girl and he grabbed her. She bit his hand and ran off screeching that she’d been attacked.”

  “Not surprising under the circumstances,” Akitada said dryly.

  “There’s some trouble between the actors and Danjuro. Seems Uemon recently turned over the running of the troupe to Danjuro, who’s come into some money.”

  “Hmm.” Akitada slowly shook his head. “I don’t see that any of this gets us closer to the Nagaoka case. Well, perhaps Tora will have better luck with his girl tonight. If he turns up nothing, either, we will have to start interviewing the monks.”

  Having made his peace with Tora and Genba, Akitada decided to speak to his wife.

  Tamako was up, peering into a large round silver mirror. The shutters of the room were still closed, but daylight seeped in. Only a single candle was burning next to her, and in the golden light and the soft rosy glow from the glowing coals in the brazier, she looked ethereal. She was still in her undergown of white silk, which alternately clung and floated as she moved, revealing and concealing the soft curves of her body. Akitada felt a strong surge of desire, and an even stronger need to hold and touch her.

  She barely looked up. “Forgive me, Akitada. I am hurrying to get dressed. It was a long day yesterday, and I overslept. Do you mind terribly if I go on with my makeup?”

  Crushed, he turned to go. “No,” he mumbled, “of course not. I just came to ... talk.”

  She caught up with him before he reached the door. “Wait.” Peering up at him, she cried, “What is wrong? Are you ill?”

  “No. Just tired. And worried about Yoshiko.”

  “You look terrible. Yoshiko will get over it. Fortunately, both Toshikage and Akiko agreed with me and we convinced her to obey you in this matter. Come sit down.” She led him to the bedding, which still lay spread out, and made him loosen the upper part of his robe. He submitted meekly, marveling at how he had misjudged her. She had been on his side all along.

  Kneeling behind him, Tamako massaged and stroked his neck and shoulders with her strong, gentle hands until he felt his muscles ease and allowed himself to relax, closing his eyes and sighing with pleasure.

  He did not know how it came about, but at some point he caught one of her hands and kissed it gratefully. She paused for a moment, then moved around in front of him to slip his robe off his shoulders. Her fingers touched his skin like the wings of butterflies, or like the mouths of the fishes in the pool last night, moving over his chest, down to his waist, and back again. His breath caught in his throat. He looked at her, hoping she would read the naked hunger in his eyes.

  Tamako extinguished the candle, and helped him out of his clothes.

  * * * *

  Later, when he was back at his desk, warm and happy, Seimei brought fresh tea along with the morning rice. Akitada thought the old man looked pale and drawn. The tray seemed almost too heavy for him. Eating the thick rice gruel, he watched Seimei pour a cup of the tea with a hand that shook so badly that he spilled a few drops. Akitada lowered his bowl. “Are you feeling quite well, Seimei?”

  “Yes. Fine, sir. Fine. Sorry about this.” Seimei dabbed at the drops of tea with the sleeve of his dark cotton robe. Then, instead of leaving quietly, he remained, his eyes downcast.

  “Is anything else wrong?”

  “Nothing wrong—precisely—sir. Only...”

  “Only what?”

  “I wondered if all is well with Miss Yoshiko, sir? Her ladyship mentioned to me that the policeman had brought some very disturbing news. I couldn’t help worrying.”

  “Heavens. I thought you knew.” Akitada tried to remember: had Seimei somehow missed being told? He realized that this was the first time he had not discussed family matters or a case with the old man. He set down his bowl. “I am sorry, Seimei. I should have kept you informed, but so much has happened lately that I forgot. Please take a seat, for this will take a while.”

  Seimei obeyed, his eyes suddenly moist. Akitada told him of Yoshiko’s relationship with Kojiro, her trips to the prison, and Kobe’s assumption that Akitada had used her to get to the prisoner. Then he explained the agreement he had reached with Kobe and the present status of the case. When he was done, Seimei nodded and dabbed his eyes.

  “Why, what is the matter now?” Akitada asked.

  Seimei smiled a little. “Nothing now, my lord. I’m overcome with gratitude. I was afraid that I had lost your confidence.” He made Akitada a deep bow. “I shall do my utmost to be always worthy of it.”

  “You are and will be.” Akitada’s conscience smote him. In his pique he had slighted the old man and hurt his feelings. “It was just an oversight, Seimei. Stop worrying so much. Er, how is Yori doing? Are you still teaching him his brushstrokes?”

  Seimei sat up a little straighter. His smile widened. “The young master is improving. It is said that one is never too young or too old to learn the way of the brush. He is not always as patient as you were at his age, but he has a steadier hand, I think.”

  Akitada chuckled, relieved to hear the old Seimei quoting his wise sayings again. “I am sure,” he said, “that you have reminded him that even the poorest archer will hit the target with enough practice.”

  “Ah, yes. I did mention that, and also the one about a drop of water piercing a rock if repeated often enough. He did not care for that one too much. But the day he complained of his fingers being too cold to hold the brush, I explained that a turning waterwheel does not have time to get frozen. He worked quite industriously after that.” Seimei chuckled.

  With a lighter heart, Akitada reached for his gruel. On second thought, he carried it out into the garden and fed grains of rice to the fish. They rose eagerly to the surface, twisting and splashing for the bits of food. Their excitement pleased him and he laughed.

  “You remind me, my old friend, that I have neglected other duties,” he said, turning to Seimei, pleased to see the quick flush of joy the familiar form of address brought to the old man’s cheek. “I’m afraid that I have also not been much of a father lately.”

  Seimei smiled. “Impossible, sir. A parent’s love for his son is greater than the son’s for his father.”

  “Well, I hope Yori does not think too badly of me.” Akitada looked at the sky. It was still slightly overcast, but here and there a patch of bl
ue showed and the sun shone fitfully. Two squirrels chattered in the pine and then chased each other up and down the trunk. The air smelled fresh and clean. “What do you say, shall we have a game of football in the courtyard? Tora and Genba can use some exercise, I expect, and you can keep score for us.”

  Seimei clapped his hands. “Excellent, sir. The young master will be happy. A man may be known for his sportsmanship as much as his erudition.”

  Akitada found Yori with his mother. The boy greeted the suggestion with whoops of joy, crying “kemari, kemari” while he looked for the leather ball. Father and son sat down together on the veranda steps to put on their leather boots and then ran out into the courtyard. Yori’s excited shouts brought Tora and Genba from the stables. Their playing field, ten feet square, was quickly marked out in the gravel. Four potted trees marked the corners, and the players, booted and their trousers tied up, arranged themselves between them.