Shinju (13 page)

“Continue to serve well and faithfully in your position,” he admonished, “and you will never lack a master. You must never become
rōnin
.”

His father had become a
rūnin
—a masterless samurai—when the third Tokugawa shogun, Iemitsu, had confiscated Lord Kii's lands forty years ago, turning the Sano family and the rest of the lord's retainers out to fend for themselves. His pride had never recovered from the blow of losing his master, his livelihood, and the hereditary position that had come down to him through many generations. But unlike other
rūnin
, he hadn't turned into an outlaw or rebel. Instead, he'd founded the academy and lived quietly, nursing his shame and sorrow. When Sano first heard as a child of the Great Conspiracy of four hundred
rūnin
who had tried to overthrow the government, he hadn't believed the story. As an adult, he was aware of the undercurrent of dissatisfaction that flowed beneath the country's peaceful surface, and of the Tokugawas' ongoing efforts to sniff out and contain the rebellions that arose among idle, unemployed samurai. But as a boy, he'd
mistakenly assumed that all
rūnin
were strict, law-abiding men like his father, who directed their energy and ambition toward making their sons succeed where they had failed. Now he felt a surge of guilt as he wondered what his father would think if he knew how Sano had risked disgrace and possible dismissal by disobeying his new master's orders.

At the same time, a spark of irrational anger kindled in him. Hadn't his father, however unintentionally, fostered the searching, inquiring nature that now placed his future at risk? Hadn't his father sent him to the temple school to study literature, composition, math, law, history, political theory, and the Chinese classics to supplement the military skills he learned at home? The monks had educated him far beyond the usual scope of the common foot soldier, now virtually obsolete in a country without war. They'd taught him to think rather than to blindly follow orders, as he would have to do in the high-level government position his father had desired for him.

“Now that you are on the path to glory, I can leave this world willingly, with a peaceful mind,” his father added softly, as if to himself.

Sano's anger died; guilt remained. He realized that his father had fought illness and held on to life just long enough to see him settled. Now the old man was giving up. How could Sano jeopardize the position that was supposed to secure the future his father wanted for him? How could he pursue a course that was bound to put him at odds with those who now controlled that future? The answer was simple enough: he couldn't. His father's spirit would never forgive him. The murder investigation wasn't worth that; truth and justice wouldn't bring Noriyoshi and Yukiko back to life. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he failed in the obligation that his own name set out for him.

Ichirō.
First-born son
.

And, since he was an only child, the burden of filial duty rested on him alone.

“T
he eighteenth day of the twelfth month, Genroku year one,” Sano dictated. “Record of the day's police activities.” He proceeded to summarize the reports given him by the
doshin
. “Total arrests: forty-seven. Seventeen for disorderly conduct, twelve for theft, eight for mistreating or killing dogs, six for assault, three for adultery, one for prostitution outside the licensed quarter.

“Two samurai—one disorderly conduct, one assault—were placed under house arrest. The commoners were remanded to Edo Jail. The heads of all three adultresses have been shaved, and their husbands granted divorces.”

When Tsunehiko handed him the finished report, he affixed his seal to it. “Take this to Magistrate Ogyu's office. Then you may go home. That's all for today.”

He suppressed a yawn, rubbing his eyes. They felt gritty and sore from lack of sleep. Last night he hadn't returned to the barracks. Instead he'd stayed at his parents' house, alternately sitting at his father's bedside, bathing the old man's face and administering herb tea to ease the pain, and lying awake listening to the coughs that shook the house.

Tsunehiko hovered in the doorway. “
Yoriki
Sano-
san
, we didn't do any investigating today,” he said. “What about tomorrow?”

“I'm afraid we won't be doing any more, Tsunehiko.” This
time the yawn escaped, and Sano covered his mouth. “Not tomorrow, or ever.”

Tsunehiko's face mirrored Sano's own unhappiness. “Why not? It was so much fun!”

Having spent the entire night convincing himself of the rightness of dropping the investigation, Sano didn't want to think or talk about it. So he only said, “Because duty and obligation dictate otherwise,” knowing that Tsunehiko, with his own samurai upbringing, would accept this explanation without question.

After Tsunehiko had left, Sano cleared his desk, then crossed the courtyard to the barracks. The weather had turned warmer, bringing the promise of spring. The late afternoon sun shone golden from a sky filled with puffy white clouds. In Yoshiwara, the nightlong festivities would have already begun. The
yūjo
—those exquisite, expensive prostitutes—would beckon customers from the windows of the pleasure houses. One, he knew, Wisteria of the Palace of the Heavenly Garden, held the key to Noriyoshi's and Yukiko's murders.…

Sano resolutely forced the thought away. He would go right to bed, without even eating dinner. When he entered his room, however, he hesitated before the cabinet that held his bedding. Tired as he was, he knew sleep would elude him while he wondered about Wisteria. Slowly he opened the cabinet and took out the futon and quilts, but stopped short of spreading them on the floor. He reminded himself of all the reasons he should not go to Yoshiwara. His father. His future. Duty, honor. But his desire for knowledge only grew stronger, until he could no longer deny it satisfaction. With a sudden recklessness, he dropped the bedding and went to the cabinet where his clothes were stored. He donned a long gray cloak and a wide, face-concealing straw hat. He gathered up all his cash—not only because spending time in Yoshiwara could get expensive, but because he might have to bribe someone for the information he wanted. Then he walked to the
stables to get his horse. He would take the faster land route this time, instead of the slow ferry.

As he mounted his horse, he realized that, despite his firm resolutions, he'd meant to do this all along. Today he'd carried out his administrative duties without deviation from procedure or custom. But the one thing he hadn't done was complete the report that would close the investigation into Noriyoshi's and Yukiko's deaths.

“One last interview can't hurt,” he rationalized aloud, surprising the grooms. “After this, I'll stop.”

Still, he couldn't quite shake his guilt or his premonition of impending disaster.

Nighttime Yoshiwara more than lived up to Sano's memories. Beneath a fading crimson sunset, Naka-no-cho glittered with life and excitement. Lanterns blazed from the eaves. Restaurants, their doors thrown wide open, emitted the delicious smells of all possible foods—fried noodles, grilled fish and shrimp, and sweet cakes among them—to tempt the strolling crowds. Raucous laughter erupted from the teahouses; each window framed a tableau of joking, posturing men tossing back cups of sake. Beautiful
yūjo
in gaudy kimonos filled the window cages of the pleasure houses like so many exotic butterflies, with groups of hungry-eyed men loitering before them. The women flirted with the men in shrill voices. From the lighted rooms behind the women, samisen music issued: a few lucky men had already chosen their companions, and the parties had begun.

Sano found the Palace of the Heavenly Garden without difficulty: it was the largest house on the street. With its carved beams and pillars painted red and accented with yellow and green, it resembled a Chinese temple. Above the entrance, two resplendent dragons held between them a red banner that announced the house's name in gold characters. Sano pushed through the crowd
that stood three deep in front of the window and saw that the women inside were even more beautiful than the others.

“Honorable lady, where can I find Wisteria?” he called to the nearest, a very young girl dressed in a red kimono printed with white, lucky characters. According to custom,
yūjo
were treated with the high respect usually accorded to noblewomen.

Red Kimono pouted daintily. “The Lady Wisteria, master? What can she offer you that I cannot?” Her stilted, formal style of speech was the same one all Yoshiwara prostitutes used to their customers. “Surely a warrior as masculine and discerning as yourself would prefer a delicate maiden who has just reached the flowering of her womanhood?”

She fluttered her fan, coyly shielding her face with it in a manner just as clichéd as her speech. The other women giggled, waiting for Sano's response.

Gathering his patience, Sano said, “I meant no insult to you, my lady.” No matter how meaningless the courtesans' flattery or how brazen their invitations, one always replied with courtesy. To do otherwise ran counter to Yoshiwara tradition and invited the anger of their owners, who banned rude patrons from the pleasure houses. “But I need to talk to Wisteria.”

“Talk? He comes here to talk?”

More giggles.

Sano decided that the best thing to do was identify himself and state his business. “I am
Yoriki
Sano Ichirō from the police department. I must speak to Wisteria about an official matter. Can you send word to her that I am here?”

Red Kimono was unimpressed, and obviously piqued at having wasted her effort on a noncustomer. Dropping her flirtatious manner, she said, “In your own sphere, others must do your bidding,
yoriki
. But I am not your servant.” The other women giggled again. “Unless …”

Her disdainful gaze moved over him, taking in his simple cloak and hat. A haughty smile turned up the corners of her mouth.

Unless you have the money to pay, it implied, and I can see that you don't.

“Please,” Sano said. “It's very important. I have to talk to her about Noriyoshi.”

At the mention of Noriyoshi's name, Red Kimono's smile vanished. She nodded curtly. Turning to the room behind her, she beckoned. She whispered to a maid that appeared beside her. A moment later, the maid opened the door, bowing to Sano.

“Go with her,” Red Kimono said.

Sano stepped into the entryway of the Palace of the Heavenly Garden, where he removed his shoes. As he placed his swords on the rack, he remembered that safety, as well as etiquette, dictated that they must not enter the house. An unhappy
yūjo
might try to escape her enforced servitude by committing suicide with an unattended weapon.

In the large salon, women and their customers reclined on bright silk cushions scattered over the floor, chatting and laughing. A samisen player performed a popular love song. Maids circulated with plates of delicacies and poured sake. Coins clinked as lavish tips passed from the customers—rich merchants, by the look of their opulent clothing—to the maids. Sano followed his escort through this room and out a sliding door onto the roofed veranda.

The veranda faced a garden that must have been the site of many parties in spring, when its cherry trees dropped blossoms over the lawn, upon the stone lanterns, and into the ornamental pond with a small temple on an island in the middle. Now, with winter not yet gone, it was deserted. But lanterns burned from the verandas of the buildings that surrounded it—one above every door. Lights glowed through the windows. Laughter issued faintly from a few of the rooms, where some
yūjo
had already begun entertaining their customers in private.

The maid pointed to a door at the back left corner. “There, sir.”

Sano walked along the veranda to the door and knocked. He
waited. No laughter emanated from this room, only a listening silence. Then:

“Come in.” It was a woman's voice, forced cheerfulness evident even in the short phrase.

Sano entered, bowing to the woman who knelt before a lacquer dressing table. “Good evening, Lady Wisteria.”

She had turned a welcoming smile toward him; now it faded. “I was expecting someone else,” she said. “Who are you?” Unlike Red Kimono's, her speech was plain, uninflected Edo—perhaps because he'd surprised her.

Sano bowed again and introduced himself, while covertly studying Wisteria. She didn't fit his preconceived picture of Noriyoshi's lady friend. He'd imagined a woman long past her prime, who played the role of mother to her clients. But Wisteria was no more than twenty, and clearly a
yūjo
of the first rank. She wore a lavish black-and-white-checked silk brocade kimono with a bold pattern of lavender wisteria blossoms and pale green leaves spilling diagonally from her left shoulder to the hem. It was obviously expensive. Her eyes, unusually round, made her piquant face exotic, provocative. The large, airy room reflected her status and set off her beauty. It was filled with luxurious furnishings: silk quilt and futon, carved lacquer chests and cabinets, painted lanterns. The alcove held a branch of dried winter berries in a creamy celadon vase that was surely the work of a master potter, and a scroll bearing classic Chinese verse in the unmistakable hand of a famous Kyoto calligrapher.