The Toyotomi Blades (Ken Tanaka Mysteries Book 2)

by Dale Furutani

  “We did further research and we discovered that two of the maps matched against temples that were built after 1650.” He grabbed two of the papers and moved them to one side. “Since the treasure must have been hidden before the final defeat of the Toyotomi in the early 1600s, we reasoned that they couldn’t be the temples shown on the blades. We know from the dates on the handles the blades were forged in 1614. That leaves us with these two possible locations.” He shoved the remaining two pieces of paper over to me. They were computer maps drawn on a plotter. Modern roads and mountains were drawn in color on the maps, along with the location of major buildings and temples. Superimposed on each map was a red pattern of temples, mountains, and streams, which represented the patterns found on the blades. The match between the red blade patterns and the map features was not exact, but they were both remarkably close.

  “This map is a location to the east of Osaka. This second map is to the north of Osaka, near Lake Biwa. Lake Biwa is now a resort area, but it’s also an ancient part of Japan. Hideyoshi Toyotomi built or repaired bridges and temples there, including Enryaku-ji temple, which is one of the temples we matched on the map.

  “Both areas seem very good prospects. One is close to the Toyotomi’s main castle in Osaka and the other is near an ancient place in Japan with ties to the Toyotomis.”

  “This is great,” I said, and I continued with effusive praise for Nissan, Kiyohara, Kiyohara’s team, and even Kiyohara’s boss. What the hell, I thought, I’d include the old windbag along with the deserving. Kiyohara returned the compliment, praising my ideas on how to match the blade patterns with one blade missing and how to try all the possible different sequences that the blades could fit together. All this mutual praise was part Japanese custom, but it was also heartfelt, at least on my part. I was so much further ahead of where I thought I’d be when I accepted the challenge and I wouldn’t look like an idiot on the upcoming show. My ass was on the line and now it was saved. Or, in Japanese terms, I had saved face. I don’t know which anatomical part is correct, but I was pretty happy from top to bottom.

  As the News Pop crew was packing up I asked Kiyohara-san, “How did you handle that mysterious line on my blade?”

  “We didn’t know what it was, so we just ignored it.”

  I thanked Kiyohara again and walked over to Junko, who was supervising the camera crew’s breakdown of the lights.

  “So what’s next?”

  “I suppose we’ll scout out the locations on the two maps and send camera crews to get film if we think it warrants it. Why?”

  “I’d like to go with whoever looks over the site at Lake Biwa.”

  “You know something,” Junko said.

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Another hunch?”

  “More than a hunch. I think it’s likely that the treasure is buried at some place indicated on the third or fourth blade, because that’s the center of the map. The third blade has some type of rock in the shape of an M in the dead center of the blade, so if that’s accurate, I think we can pinpoint the probable location of the treasure pretty closely.”

  “But why do you want to go to Lake Biwa?”

  “You know that long line on my blade? The one we were trying to figure out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kiyohara-san didn’t use that in his computer match because he couldn’t figure out what it was, either, but now that I’ve seen the Lake Biwa map I think the line represents the lake shore. Kiyohara said the Toyotomi were active at Lake Biwa?”

  “Yes they were. There are several shrines and bridges built by Hideyoshi at Lake Biwa. I’m not a historian, but I have visited the lake and know that much.”

  “The Osaka site is closer to the Toyotomi base of operations, but if I was going to hide an emergency cache of treasure, I’d want to place it away from my main base, not next to it.”

  Junko got excited. “Look,” she said, “can you do me a favor?”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t tell anyone else what you think about the Lake Biwa site. I want to be the one who goes there, and if Buzz finds out that it’s likely to be the treasure site, he’ll pull strings to get me sent to Osaka while he goes treasure hunting. I want to make sure the reverse happens.”

  24

  We piled out of the Nissan Patrol as soon as Junko stopped the engine. The Jeep-like Patrol might be fine for acting like a mountain goat, but it was not my idea of the ideal vehicle for the long drive from Tokyo to Lake Biwa. Mariko and I were plenty glad to escape the confines of the vehicle to work out the kinks from our bodies.

  The producers of News Pop had been ecstatic over the results obtained. They generously offered to pay for Mariko to go with me to Lake Biwa, along with Junko. The plan was for us to scout locations for a day. Then Nagahara-san would show up to film some location shots and an on-the-scene promo. Yukiko-chan was doing the same thing with Sugimoto at the Osaka location. Then the network planned to promote the hell out of a special News Pop show that centered around the blades and the treasure. Junko told me the producers were positively giddy over the ratings possibilities for the show.

  The four of us were staying at a small village near the center of the map. The village was several kilometers north of the main town of Ostu and had a small main street of bars and a couple of clubs that catered to vacationing tourists. We were staying at a ryokan, or Japanese-style inn, that was located on a side street off the main road. I was surprised to see that the inn looked very much like a farmer’s hut and wondered what I was getting myself into after the pampered care of the Imperial.

  The ryokan had a low tile roof and a porch made of a dark, weather-stained wood. In front of the inn were sliding shoji screens with a band of clear panels halfway up the screen. A little wooden sign with Japanese characters hung near the door. We walked up to the shoji screen and slid it back. Junko stuck her head into the opening and said, “Sumimasen,” or excuse me.

  There was a scurrying of feet inside the inn and a short, square-faced woman wearing a brown kimono greeted us. The woman stood about five feet tall and her hair was pulled back into a glossy bun. She bowed and she and Junko exchanged greetings. They talked for a few minutes and the woman bowed again, motioning for us to walk into the entryway of the inn.

  “What about the bags?” I asked.

  “She says her son will get them from the car,” Junko said, handing over the car keys to the woman.

  “This is the only Japanese-style inn in this village,” Junko said. “We were lucky to get rooms here.” She sat down on a bench near the door and took off her shoes. The woman took slippers out from a bookcaselike shelf near the side of the entrance and handed them to Junko. Mariko and I followed suit.

  Junko and the woman talked for a few more minutes, then Junko said to us, “She says we’re going to share the best rooms in the inn. Shows you the power of television.”

  We followed the woman to a door at the back of the lobby. When I walked through the door I was surprised to see that we were outside and there was a covered walkway leading to the next structure.

  Junko talked to the woman as she scurried past us in the hallway to lead us into the next structure and to our room. “She says that her family has owned this inn for about one hundred twenty years. The original building, the one with the lobby, is actually about three hundred years old. Over the years, her family has bought up surrounding houses and added the passageways and that’s how they’ve been able to expand. She says our rooms will open up into a private garden.”

  The woman led us further down a passageway and stopped, sliding back a shoji screen. Junko entered, followed by Mariko and me. We were standing in a plain, rectangular room of wood, paper, and grass tatami mats. The woman crossed the room and opened up the shojis on the back wall. Before us was a beautiful miniature garden of dark rock, bamboo, and green moss.

  Junko sucked in a breath of surprise and walked over to the open shoji. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it,” she sa
id.

  I walked over and looked out. The garden was no more than twelve feet across and four feet deep. In one corner was a grove of bamboo, and in the middle was a sloping hillside covered with a thick blanket of moss. Jagged rocks were artfully arranged on the hillside, giving the illusion of looking out on a vista with distant mountains. The moss had a golden haze from the late afternoon sunshine, and it formed a rolling carpet around the rocks and up around the base of the bamboo.

  Mariko said, “This is going to be great. I’m really glad we came. Even if we don’t find any treasure, this will be a wonderful vacation for us. Should we tip the lady?”

  Junko shook her head. “No. Her name is Mrs. Sakurai and we certainly shouldn’t tip her. The tip will be added to our bill as a service charge. We should, of course, thank her.” Which she proceeded to do, bowing and saying her thanks in Japanese. I could see Mariko didn’t like the tone of Junko’s correction.

  I gave an awkward bow and said, “Arigato,” which elicited some giggles from Mrs. Sakurai. She said something to Junko. “She said she thinks you’re really cute,” Junko said. “Mariko, Sakurai-san told me she has daughters as well as sons working here. Watch out!”

  Mariko sighed. “I don’t see what the attraction is, but I’m used to defending my investment in this guy.” That seemed a warning as much as a statement.

  Mrs. Sakurai left and Junko walked over to the wall and slid back one panel, revealing a row of shelves with pillows, linens, and blankets. “We’ve got two rooms, a tatami room and a Western-style room. I’ll take the Western-style room, if you don’t mind, and you can have the tatami room. The tatami room has a private bath with a Japanese-style o-furo bathtub.” She reached onto a shelf and held up a gray and white kimono, “We also have yukatas. They’re summer kimonos. Inns like this usually provide them for guests to wear, so they can be comfortable. It’s a little bit chilly for them, but I suppose we can increase the heat in the room, or I can call Mrs. Sakurai and ask her to send us some flannel ones, instead.”

  “This room has central heating?”

  “Yes. She said she had it added to this wing and the main entry wing. See, all the comforts of home. It just looks old-fashioned. What more could you want? You’re the king surrounded by two queens.”

  I looked around, “Well, I could ask for a bedroom, and for that matter a bed.”

  “Sakurai-san’s son will show up with the luggage any minute and we can eat dinner. We’ll have the dinner brought to our room, ryokan style. After that, someone will come and lay out the futons for you. Futons are sort of a padded mat. They roll right out on top of the tatamis. I think you’ll find them comfortable. I’ll be relaxing in a Western-style bed.”

  Ryokan living was a combination of camping out and being treated like Japanese royalty. We sat on cushions on the tatami floor as our dinner was served to us in the room by Mrs. Sakurai and one of her daughters. They didn’t go through all the folderol of the Kori-Mizu in Kyoto, but the atmosphere was warm, the food was delicious, and we had a good time. After dinner there was a lull in the conversation because I think we all realized we had a long evening to kill until we could start scouting treasure locations with the coming of the next day.

  25

  Junko announced, “I’m going to take a shower and then I’m going to bed.”

  “Are you sure? Mariko and I are going to play some hanafuda after our bath. You’re welcome to join us. We’re going to play for loose change, and I’m always willing to have another source of money in the game.”

  “Can you get hanafuda?”

  “Mrs. Sakurai will bring us some hanafuda. I managed to ask during dinner,” Mariko said.

  Hanafuda are Japanese playing cards. The name means flower cards. They’re printed on tiny pasteboards, about two and a half inches by one inch. They have suites with things like the moon, plum blossoms, bush clover, pine trees, or maple leaves. Some of the card designs are quite beautiful, with things like deer in a maple forest, birds flying across a full moon, or irises in the rain.

  “No, I really am very tired and I want to go to sleep. We should get an early start tomorrow,” Junko said.

  “Okay. If you’re going to use a Western-style shower, then Mariko and I will use the Japanese o-furo. We’ll see you in the morning for breakfast. Good night.”

  “Good night,” Junko said.

  When Junko left, Mariko and I went into the Japanese-style bathroom. The Japanese o-furo tub was a big wooden affair set along one side of the room. The tub was already full and there seemed to be a constant stream of hot water flowing through it from an opening set in the tub’s side. Two benches faced each other in the tub, so it was designed for cozy couples.

  I know about o-furos, but I had never actually been in one. I have some non-Japanese friends whose daughter married a Japanese national. When they went to Japan to visit their in-laws, they were offered use of Japanese-style bath first, which is the place of honor. When they were finished, they pulled the plug, draining all the water, which is a social faux pas because it takes so long to heat up the enormous tubs. This mistake was never mentioned by their in-laws, of course.

  This difference in bath customs can cause problems in the other direction, too. When my friends had their Japanese in-laws visit them, the Japanese parents of their son-in-law were offered the use of an upstairs bathroom in my friend’s two-story house. This bathroom is tiled, just like most Japanese bathrooms. Unlike most Japanese bathrooms, however, it doesn’t have a drain in the middle of the floor, a detail the Japanese in-laws didn’t notice. My friends were sitting in their living room when they noticed their stairs had turned into an indoor waterfall. Rushing upstairs, they found water flowing from under the bathroom door. Their Japanese in-laws had used the handheld shower mas-sager to clean themselves off before getting into the tub, Japanese style, and the water had caused a flood.

  There must have been foreign tourists staying at the ryokan before, because I noticed with amusement that the drain plug on the bath had a little brass padlock on it, making it impossible for a guest to drain the bath. Because the bathwater is not drained between users, it’s tremendously bad etiquette to enter a Japanese tub dirty. I sat on a small plastic stool next to Mariko and soaped myself up and rinsed myself off using a small bucket and wash cloth. The water from this cleansing went into a drain set in the bathroom floor. The erotic possibilities of soaping up Mariko entered my head, and I helped her get clean with verve. Any visions of hot tub orgies I may have had, however, diminished as soon as I started to get into the o-furo.

  The water in a hot tub is pleasantly warm, but the water in an o-furo is scalding. It took me a good five minutes to lower myself into it, inching down into the steaming water by slow degrees. Mariko was able to plunge into the water in just a few seconds.

  “I feel like the featured dish in a Louisiana crab boil,” I complained.

  “Yeah, but after you get used to it, you’ll find the hot water tremendously relaxing. I could see falling asleep in here.”

  “If you did you’d be in the burn ward of the local hospital.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion. There seems to be a constant stream of scalding water coming into this tub.”

  “You’re supposed to like it. It’s cultural.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, culturally I’m American, not Japanese.”

  As soon as I said that I realized that I meant more than just my preferences in bath water. From the moment I came to Japan, when the customs agent spoke Japanese to me, I was trying to sort out what it meant to return to the land of my ancestors. I felt strangely comfortable in Japan. Sights, sounds, customs, and the faces of the people had a resonance with me that reminded me I come from Japanese stock. But this was an ease that came from preserved memories, not from actually fitting in. Foundations of culture transcend race, and I realized that my culture is American.

  No matter how much interest I might have in
Japan, no matter how much I learned about it from books and documentaries and even visits, I would never be Japanese. That might seem obvious, but like Buzz Sugimoto, who was dumbfounded when I pointed out that his symbols of rebellion over Japan becoming too Westernized were actually Western, I achieved resolution from a statement which should have been clearly apparent. No matter how uncomfortable I may sometimes feel in America as a minority, I will never fit in better elsewhere, even in Japan where I’m part of the racial majority.

  When Mariko and I got back to the main room, the hanafuda cards were waiting for us. We played a game called koi-koi, which is a simple matching game. You pick up cards on the table by matching them to cards of the same suite in your hand. You try to get the highest-scoring cards, and simple design changes on the cards, like a colored ribbon as part of the design, indicate the value of cards. It’s mostly luck, or at least that’s what I told myself as Mariko wiped me out in short order. If I had won, then I would have opined that koi-koi is a game of skill, of course.

  “Can I ask you something, Ken?” Mariko said as she leaned forward and scooped up the winnings from her latest hand. Her yukata was left open, revealing an expanse of skin and one breast. I don’t know if this was through negligence or if it was a ploy to distract me from the game. If the latter, it was working.

  “Ask me what?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “You mean playing cards? With the winning streak you’re on, I’m asking that myself.”

  “No, I mean getting involved in another mystery. You were sort of pulled into the first mystery, but with this one you seem to be the one pursuing things. You’ve been running some awful risks with those guys after you. You think some people have been murdered for those swords, and yet you push on.”