Flask of the Drunken Master

by Susan Spann

  Hiro’s mouth watered at the thought of fluffy grains, nicely steamed and mounded in a bowl. His stomach still felt pleasantly full from the recent bowl of noodles, but no one could resist the aroma of plump, high-quality rice.

  A clerk approached and bowed to Hiro. His limbs had the gangly look of adolescence; they protruded from his tunic like sticks in a snowbank.

  An apprentice, Hiro thought, and, from his skinny state, a new one.

  “How may I help you?” the young man asked.

  “We have come to see Basho,” Hiro said.

  “I apologize,” the young man said. “My master is not here. I am his apprentice, Jiro. May I help you?”

  “We would rather see Basho,” Hiro said. “Do you expect him soon?”

  “One moment, please.” Jiro bowed and hurried toward a cloth-covered doorway at the back of the shop.

  He returned with a middle-aged woman in his wake.

  A layer of rice dust covered her clothes and enhanced the gray in her hair. Her eyes surveyed the shop with a confidence born of ownership. The set of her lips suggested little tolerance for fools.

  Jiro murmured something to the woman. She nodded, shifted her gaze to Hiro, and started toward the shinobi as Jiro turned to another customer.

  The woman bowed to Hiro and then, with equal deference, to Father Mateo.

  “Good afternoon,” she said. “I am Hama, Basho’s wife. May I ask your business with my husband?”

  She studied Hiro and then the priest as if sizing up bags of rice. If she came to any decision, she didn’t show it.

  “We wish to speak with Basho,” Hiro said.

  “He isn’t here.” Hama’s eyebrows drew together. Her lips turned into a frown. “In fact, I don’t even know where he is, myself.”

  Chapter 21

  “You don’t know where your husband is?” Father Mateo asked.

  “No,” Hama said. “He went to a teahouse with friends and didn’t return.”

  “A teahouse?” Hiro asked. “Does he sleep there often?”

  Hama’s frown deepened. “My husband doesn’t frequent the kind of teahouse that lets patrons stay the night.”

  As far as you know, Hiro thought.

  “Have you spoken with your husband’s friends?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro wished the priest had waited longer before asking. Too many questions in quick succession allowed for accidental omissions as well as conscious evasion.

  “They haven’t seen him,” Hama said. “At least, that’s what they told me.”

  Hiro thought it strange that Basho’s wife showed only frustration, and not distress, at her husband’s absence.

  “Has this happened before?” he asked.

  “What did you say you needed?” Hama gave them a searching look. “I reported the disappearance to the yoriki, but you don’t look like dōshin.”

  “That is true,” the Jesuit said, “we haven’t come from the yoriki’s office.”

  “And you haven’t come for rice.”

  Hama’s pause demanded an answer.

  “Not exactly,” Father Mateo said, with a dip of his head that suggested an apology. “I’m new to Japan and trying to learn about life in Kyoto. I hoped Basho might help me sample all the grades of rice. I will buy them, but I need to learn about them first.

  “You see, in my homeland, we only have one kind.”

  Hiro wondered when Father Mateo had changed his position on telling lies. He also wondered how the priest lied so well with so little practice.

  “One grade of rice?” Hama shook her head. “Can’t imagine such a thing. Unfortunately, my husband has disappeared and cannot help you.”

  “May we help you search for him?” Father Mateo asked.

  “Wouldn’t know where to start,” Hama said.

  “Was the teahouse in Pontocho?” Hiro asked.

  “He didn’t go to a brothel,” Hama said. “Basho does not waste money on prostitutes.”

  Father Mateo’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Hiro gave the priest a look that warned against further questions.

  “Thank you anyway,” Hiro said. “When Basho returns, would you let him know that Father Mateo, who lives on Marutamachi Road, would like to ask him questions about rice?”

  “Why does he want to learn about merchants’ work?” Hama spoke as if the Jesuit wasn’t there.

  Hiro shrugged. “Foreigners are curious—and in his land, any man can become a merchant.”

  “Truly?” Hama stared at Father Mateo. “I’d heard foreign lands were strange.”

  “Will she consider it odd that I haven’t offered to let her teach me?” Father Mateo asked in Portuguese.

  “On the contrary,” Hiro replied in the Jesuit’s language, “she would consider it strange if you did.”

  Hama smiled with a hint of discomfort, as people often did in the presence of languages they didn’t understand. “I will give my husband the message—when, and if, I see him.”

  “I hope he comes home soon,” Father Mateo said.

  “Soon enough.” Hama folded her arms across her chest. “And when he does, he’ll spend more time on business and far less on expensive sake.”

  Hiro thought, in Basho’s place, he might not come home at all.

  “If you know he’s coming home,” the Jesuit asked, “why report him missing?”

  Hama uncrossed her arms and rested her hands on her hips. “I wanted the dōshin to bring him home. He deserves it, for trying to escape a scolding by leaving me here to worry. The first time, yes, but I’m wise to his tricks by now.”

  * * *

  Hiro and Father Mateo headed home along the path that paralleled the Kamo River.

  “Why do you think Matsunaga-san has so many samurai guarding the city?” Father Mateo asked. “Shogun Ashikaga never used this many guards.”

  “Matsunaga-san has controlled the city for only two months,” the shinobi said. “You heard the guards. He is looking for spies.”

  “Spies would justify guards at the city boundaries and the gates, not samurai at the entrance to every ward.” Father Mateo thought for a moment. “Do you think the Ashikaga clan will challenge Matsunaga Hisahide’s claim to the shogunate?”

  Hiro found the Jesuit’s guess surprising but not startling. Father Mateo paid attention to local Japanese politics, and generally remembered what he learned.

  “The Ashikaga blame Matsunaga-san for the shogun’s recent death.” Hiro offered a simpler truth in place of the deeper problem. “They do not believe the shogun committed suicide.”

  “I wondered,” Father Mateo said. “It struck me as odd that Hisahide announced himself as the shogun’s chosen successor. Matsunaga Hisahide serves the Miyoshi daimyo. Why would Shogun Ashikaga name another lord’s retainer to succeed him?”

  Hiro knew the truth about the shogun’s reported suicide, but he would not break an oath to satisfy the Jesuit’s curiosity. Not when the words would cost the priest his life.

  Instead, he focused on the larger issue. “The Ashikaga no longer possess the strength to defend Kyoto against Lord Oda. Matsunaga Hisahide has the power, and the allies, to keep the city safe.”

  “Provided the Ashikaga do not rebel.” Father Mateo nodded. “These samurai guards are a show of force. Matsunaga Hisahide wants to send a message to the Ashikaga clan.”

  “Yes,” Hiro said, “and also to Lord Oda. Hisahide will not tolerate threats to his bid for the shogunate.”

  Father Mateo stopped walking. “We made a mistake. We forgot to ask the names of the friends who went to the teahouse with Basho.”

  “You forgot,” Hiro said. “I decided not to ask. Hama would not have remembered the names.”

  The Jesuit gave the shinobi a cautious look. “You mean, she would have lied.”

  “She lied already,” Hiro said. “No woman shows so little concern about her husband’s disappearance.”

  “Unless she caused it,” Father Mateo said.

  Hiro gave the priest a di
sbelieving glance. “Especially if she caused it. No, I think she knows where Basho went.”

  “Then why say otherwise?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro smiled. “Because she doesn’t want us to find him.”

  Chapter 22

  Father Mateo hurried along the path to catch up with Hiro. “Why would Basho’s wife not want her husband found? Do you think he was involved in Chikao’s murder?”

  “His disappearance raises suspicions,” Hiro said, “but, so far, no facts connect him to Chikao.”

  “Except that one is dead and the other is missing,” Father Mateo said.

  Hiro didn’t answer.

  “I don’t think Ginjiro killed Chikao,” the priest continued, “and I do not think Yoshiko killed him either. Both of them would want him alive, because he paid Kaoru’s debts.”

  “Perhaps,” Hiro said, “but remember, Chikao might have died by accident.”

  “Accident?” Father Mateo raised his hand and pantomimed a downward strike. “You don’t beat an unconscious man to death by accident.”

  “No,” Hiro said, “but accidents happen. Perhaps Yoshiko confronted Chikao in the alley and threatened to hurt him unless he paid the debt. Chikao refused. Yoshiko struck him in the face, the way she apparently did Basho. Chikao might have threatened to report her—the magistrate frowns on violence in collections—and Yoshiko may have struck him again as he turned to walk away.”

  “But why would she kill him?” Father Mateo asked. “That seems unlikely.”

  “True,” Hiro said. “She probably struck in anger. Either way, if her second attack knocked Chikao senseless, Yoshiko would have a serious problem.”

  Father Mateo shook his head. “The woman is a samurai. She wouldn’t murder an innocent man to prevent a report to the magistrate. Everyone knows the magistrates favor nobles.”

  “Angry samurai make foolish choices,” Hiro said, “and a commoner turning his back on a samurai is a grievous insult.”

  “Grievous insults do not justify murder,” Father Mateo said.

  “There is another option,” Hiro offered. “What if Yoshiko struck Chikao several hours before he died, but he didn’t succumb to his injuries until later?”

  “You mean, he just dropped dead in the alley?” Father Mateo squinted in disbelief. “That happens?”

  “It can happen,” Hiro said. “I’ve seen it once before. A blow to the head can cause a man to bleed inside his skull. If he bleeds enough, he just drops dead, sometimes hours later.”

  Father Mateo started to speak, but Hiro raised a hand for silence.

  Someone was approaching on the path.

  Hiro turned to see Jiro, the clerk from Basho’s shop, hurrying toward them along the river road. The clerk slowed to a rapid shuffle when he saw the shinobi turn, but his red face and heaving shoulders indicated he’d been running hard.

  “Is it wise to let him approach?” Father Mateo asked in Portuguese.

  Hiro replied in kind. “A man who intended harm would never make so much noise.” He had barely finished speaking when Jiro reached them.

  The young man bowed from the waist—an awkward gesture made much worse by Jiro’s skinny arms and heaving chest.

  Hiro nodded, granting permission for the clerk to speak.

  “I wanted to tell you … not to waste time … looking for Basho,” Jiro panted. “He left Kyoto yesterday.”

  “Left the city?” Father Mateo asked. “Where did he go?”

  And why did you run to tell us? Hiro wondered.

  The skinny clerk looked eastward as he fought to recover breath. “Up the Tōkaidō Road … to Edo. Hama believes … he was drinking in Pontocho, but that isn’t true.” Jiro gave Father Mateo an apologetic bow. “I am sorry. He won’t be able to answer your questions now.”

  “Pardon my inquiry,” Father Mateo said, “but why did he leave the city?”

  Hiro didn’t mind the Jesuit’s question. Basho’s apprentice would surely lie, but Father Mateo might ask about something Jiro wasn’t prepared to answer, and the clerk might accidentally say something useful.

  Jiro looked at the ground and mumbled, “He owes a debt he cannot pay.”

  “To someone in Pontocho?” Hiro asked.

  Jiro shook his head.

  “It’s all right,” Father Mateo said. “You can tell us. We’ll keep your secret.”

  Hiro smiled. “Hama doesn’t know where Basho actually spent his evenings, does she?”

  Jiro’s head whipped up. He gave the shinobi a pleading look. “Please don’t tell. She’ll fire me the moment she learns I knew…”

  “Then why did you come to tell us where he went?” the Jesuit asked.

  Hiro suspected he already knew the answer.

  “I was afraid,” Jiro said. “You are a foreigner, an important man. If you ask, the yoriki will investigate. The dōshin will learn about the debt, and Hama will be so angry…”

  “Tell us the name of the teahouse,” Hiro said, “or we tell Hama everything.”

  Jiro’s eyes grew wide. “No! Please…”

  “Then give me a name,” Hiro growled.

  “The Golden Buddha.” Jiro wrung his hands. “Lately, Basho went to drink at the Golden Buddha in Pontocho. Until last month, he preferred a house on the other side of the Kamo River—a nice one, the Sakura. Those are the only two I know.”

  Hiro had never heard of the Golden Buddha in Pontocho, but the Sakura was Yoshiko’s house—and the name he expected to hear.

  “How do you know Basho was headed for Edo?” Hiro asked.

  “He told me.” Jiro glanced over his shoulder. “The Sakura’s debt collector started making real threats. Basho couldn’t pay. He thought if he disappeared, the debt collector would leave his wife alone.”

  “You know that will not happen,” Hiro said. “Basho would know it, too. The law does not distinguish between a husband and his wife regarding debts.”

  “Yes,” Jiro said, “but magistrates show mercy on a woman when her husband runs away.”

  That, at least, explained why Basho hadn’t told his wife where he was going. Hiro didn’t want to be the one to tell her, either.

  “Please,” Jiro said, “do not tell Hama. My master isn’t an evil man. He made a mistake, and he didn’t want his family to suffer.”

  “We understand,” Father Mateo said.

  Jiro bowed and walked away. Every few paces, he turned around and gave them a pleading look.

  “That explains Basho’s absence,” Father Mateo said as they watched the apprentice leave.

  “Really?” Hiro asked. “Do you believe that boy sneaked out of a crowded shop without Hama knowing? Or that your status scared him into the truth?”

  “Why would he lie?” Father Mateo asked. “That makes no sense.”

  “It makes as much sense as the lie you told to Hama,” Hiro said. “Speaking of which, when did lies become acceptable to you?”

  “Lies are not acceptable.” Father Mateo paused. “I do want to learn about rice.”

  “And I’m really a woman dressed up as a man,” Hiro countered.

  “Yoshiko does it better,” the Jesuit said.

  “That isn’t funny.” Hiro turned around and started south along the road.

  “Where are you going?” Father Mateo followed. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Hiro looked over his shoulder at the priest. “I’m not upset—I felt a sudden need to see a dead man.”

  Father Mateo fell in step. “Back to the Lucky Monkey?”

  “Yes,” Hiro said. “We need to talk with Mina.”

  The Jesuit looked uncertain. “She’s in mourning and probably praying.”

  “Exactly,” Hiro said. “She also knows more than she’s told us. Now that she’s had some time to consider the consequences of her husband’s death and impending judgment, she may listen when you tell her that your god has mercy when a person tells the truth about a crime.”

  Father Mateo stopped walking.
“No. I will not use God’s love to trick a woman.”

  Chapter 23

  “It’s a tactic, not a trick,” Hiro said. “We need to learn what Mina knows.”

  “God has already judged Chikao,” Father Mateo said. “His wife’s confession cannot save his soul.”

  “Your god, perhaps,” the shinobi said. “Mina’s have not decided.”

  “That isn’t how it works.” Father Mateo ran a hand through his hair. “There is only one God, one judgment.”

  Hiro recognized the agitated gesture. He needed to take another tack, and quickly, or the priest might not cooperate at all. “Do you feel sad that Chikao died before you could tell him about your god?”

  “Of course,” Father Mateo said. “I don’t want any soul to suffer.”

  “Then when we arrive, you can ask to pray in the room where Mina’s husband lies. Use the time to tell your god how sorry you feel about Chikao—or whatever it is you say to him about the things that make you sad. Mina won’t know the difference, and, no matter whose gods will judge Chikao, it can’t do any harm.”

  Hiro tried to evaluate the success of his words, but Father Mateo’s expression revealed nothing. However, the priest didn’t turn away, and Hiro was willing to take the Jesuit’s silence as consent.

  * * *

  As they entered the stinking alley off Shijō Road, shouting echoed from the Lucky Monkey’s entrance.

  Kaoru stood in the brewery doorway, facing someone farther inside. “It’s my money,” he yelled, “the least you can do is leave something for me to inherit!”

  He yanked the door closed with a thump and stomped down the alley away from Hiro and Father Mateo.

  The Jesuit paused. “We should leave and come back later.”

  The Lucky Monkey’s noren parted. Mina appeared in the entrance. She stood in the doorway and watched her son disappear into the space beyond the buildings.

  Mina turned and noticed Hiro and the priest. “Good afternoon.” She bowed to cover her embarrassment. “Once again, I must apologize for my son’s behavior.”

  “May we speak with you inside?” Hiro asked.

  “Of course.” Mina stepped aside. “That is, if you do not object to entering a house of mourning. May I offer you tea?”