Shinju (16 page)

A wave of panic extinguished Sano's anger like a splash of icy water. Ogyu was threatening to dismiss him! For his father's sake, he couldn't let it happen. But he couldn't relinquish the investigation without one last plea.

“Magistrate Ogyu,” he began.

Ogyu accepted more tea from the servant. He did not offer Sano any: the interview was over. Reluctantly Sano rose and bowed. He crossed the room on unsteady legs.

“
Yoriki
Sano?”

Hand on the door catch, Sano turned.

“Might I expect to see your final report on the
shinjū
this morning?” Ogyu asked mildly. “When I see Lady Niu at Miss Yukiko's funeral in the afternoon, I should like to tell her that the matter has been resolved.”

Sano bowed again, opened the door, and walked out, letting Ogyu interpret his silence in any way he chose.

K
eeping his gaze focused straight ahead, Sano hurried along the street toward police headquarters and the haven of his own rooms. Men passed him; he avoided their eyes. He couldn't stand the thought of talking to anyone or going to his office, where he would have to see Tsunehiko and the rest of his staff. Not with his body still trembling with impotent rage. He needed time alone to master his emotions.

“Good morning,
Yoriki
Sano-
san
,” someone called.

Sano sped past without replying. At last he reached headquarters. But when he got to the barracks, he saw floor mats and bedding hung out to air on the veranda railings. He heard women's voices. All the doors stood open; in his room, a maid was scrubbing the floor. He'd forgotten that the barracks were cleaned thoroughly once a week at this time. Frustration adding to his anger, he ran to the back garden. To his relief, it was deserted.

Solitude brought him no peace. Seeking to vent the anger he couldn't express to Magistrate Ogyu, Sano looked around and saw a fist-sized rock at his feet. He picked it up and hurled it into the pond with all his might.

It hit the water with a satisfying
splash!
Instantly he felt better. He chuckled wryly at himself. Such a childish gesture! Just like one of his young pupils having a temper tantrum. He squatted beside
the pond, gazing at the pine needles floating on its surface as he pondered his next move.

Now that his rage had cooled, he could better understand Ogyu's position. Yukiko's and Noriyoshi's deaths had looked like suicide. The magistrate could hardly justify a murder investigation on the strength of a questionable bruise on Noriyoshi's head, or the fact that Noriyoshi hadn't liked women and had made enemies. Sano admitted the mistake he'd made by approaching Ogyu with such flimsy evidence. He couldn't blame Ogyu for resorting to extreme tactics to avert what he considered a potential disaster. What he needed was to find indisputable proof of the murders. Proof that neither Ogyu nor the Nius could brush aside, and which they would ultimately be grateful to have.

Sano rose with a sigh. To find proof, he would have to disobey Ogyu's orders again. And perhaps, while seeking it, he would find evidence of the Nius' involvement in the crime, and Ogyu's collusion in covering it up. The prospect dismayed him, with its promise of danger for him and his family. But somehow, almost without his noticing, his sense of personal duty toward finding the truth had burgeoned until it rivaled the obligation he owed to his father, his patron, and Ogyu. Added to it was a vague but strong feeling of indebtedness toward Wisteria and Dr. Ito. Wisteria's testimony and lovemaking and Ito's dissection had cost them each something; he couldn't let their actions count for nothing. With a shock, he realized that he would risk almost anything to fulfill his personal duty. His desire for the truth fueled an inner reserve of strength and daring he hadn't known he possessed. This frightened him more than the threat of losing his position. To depart from the Way of the Warrior, from its code of unswerving loyalty and obedience, must have consequences that he hadn't begun to imagine.

He headed for the stables, reassuring himself that this particular inquiry needn't cause him any ill consequences. Questioning
Kikunojo should put him in no danger. With luck, Magistrate Ogyu and Lady Niu wouldn't hear of his actions until he had some results.

He tried to ignore his suspicion that they would oppose an investigation no matter what proof he laid before them.

Sano's spirits rose considerably by the time he reached the Saru-waka-cho theater quarter near the city's Ginza district, named for the silver mint that the Tokugawas had built there. Yesterday's balmy weather was holding, and the pleasant ride reminded him of childhood holidays when the whole family, along with various friends and relatives, would spend a day at the theater. They'd arrive when the performances began at dawn and stay until the last one ended at sunset. His father, who, like many older samurai, preferred classical No drama, would complain about the melodramatic Kabuki plays, even while enjoying them. Sano also remembered more recent excursions, when the theater offered a chance for him and other young men to flirt with the young women who also attended. However, during the last five years, work had left him little time for such diversions. Now he studied the district with nostalgia.

Saru-waka-cho sparkled with familiar color and activity. Bright signs plastered over the walls of the four main theaters announced the current play schedules. An occasional burst of song or cheering from the open upper-story windows signaled a play in progress. In square towers perched high on the rooftops, drummers beat a steady bass rhythm to summon theatergoers from distant parts of the city. People of all classes and ages crowded the wide streets, lining up at the ticket booths, seeking refreshment at the many teahouses and restaurants that occupied the spaces between the theaters, or pausing to exchange greetings. Sano knew some of them had waited all night to get a good seat to see their favorite actors.

“Where is Kikunojo performing?” he asked the attendant at the public stable where he left his horse.

The attendant pointed in the direction of the largest theater. “The Nakamura-za,” he said.

Sano made his way through the jostling crowds. When he reached the Nakamura-za, he saw signs posted across the front of the building: “
Narukami
, starring the great Kikunojo!” To his disappointment, there was no line outside. The performance had already started.

“Can I still get in?” he asked the ticket seller without much hope.
Narukami
—the story of a princess who saves Japan from a mad monk who has used magic to keep the rains from falling—was a popular attraction. And Kikunojo would fill the theater no matter what the play.

But the ticket seller nodded. He took Sano's money and handed over a ticket, saying, “There are seats left, sir. The play has been running for a month now; most everyone has seen it already.”

Entering the theater, Sano paused for a moment to get his bearings. The vast room, lit only by windows in the roof and along the upper gallery, was dim because fire laws prohibited the use of indoor lighting. When his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could make out the unlit lanterns hanging from the rafters, each bearing the crest of an actor who had performed in the Nakamura-za. Women and commoners occupied the less desirable seats along the walls. Raised dividers separated the space before the stage into square compartments, where the shaved crowns and upright sword hilts of the samurai predominated. Refreshment sellers ran up and down the dividers carrying trays of food and drink. The incessant chatter and restless movement of the audience almost drowned out the sound of the musicians' wooden clappers. Sano climbed the nearest divider and walked along it until he spotted a compartment near the front with an empty space. Kneeling on the mat with five other samurai, he turned his attention to the stage.

The play was nearing its end. Against a painted backdrop of mountains and clouds, the actor playing the mad monk Narukami sang about the havoc he would wreak upon the country by withholding the rains. Exaggerated black eyebrows and whiskers gave him a demonic appearance. The brilliant red and gold cleric's mantle that he wore over his brown monk's robe caught the dim light. He bellowed each word in a resounding voice designed to carry over the noise of the audience, stamping, pacing, and gesticulating to hold their attention. The musicians seated at the side of the stage played a cacophonous accompaniment on their clappers, flutes, and samisens.

The song ended, and the music with it. A hush fell over the theater. Heads turned toward the back of the room.

“He's coming,” someone whispered.

The clappers sounded again, rapid, frantic. Sano felt a ripple of anticipation pass through the audience.

A woman was walking slowly and daintily down the gangway that extended from the back of the theater to the stage. Princess Taema, dressed in a magnificent purple satin kimono printed with white chrysanthemums, was coming to free the rains and save her people. Her face was strikingly beautiful with its stark white makeup and scarlet mouth. Long black hair, pulled back at the sides, hung down to her waist.

“Kikunojo.” The name, spoken on a collective sigh, echoed through the room. “Kikunojo.” Then the audience burst into wild cheers.

Princess Taema reached the stage. The audience quieted as she began to sing. Sano sat transfixed. Although he knew that Kikunojo was Edo's foremost
onnagata
—specialist in female roles—he couldn't believe that the figure onstage was not a real woman. Voice, posture, expression, and movements were all completely feminine. Not even the kerchief of purple cloth that covered the actor's shaved crown could detract from the illusion. Sano watched, fascinated, as Princess Taema began to seduce Narukami.

Any effeminate man could be dressed up to resemble a beautiful woman, but Kikunojo's genius lay in his ability to project emotion. Sano could feel the sexual current flowing from Princess Taema to Narukami, and he knew the rest of the audience could, too. How could Narukami resist her ploy?

He couldn't. With much song and gesture, he yielded. Princess Taema cut the magic rope that held back the rain. The musicians produced the sound of falling water. Japan was saved amid cheers, whistles, and clapping from the audience.

Sano remained in his seat until most of the crowd had left the theater. Then he headed down the divider and onto the stage, where Kikunojo held court before a group of female admirers.

The
onnagata
was bigger than he looked from a distance. He stood taller than Sano, head and shoulders above the women crowded around him. The actor who played Narukami must have worn high-platformed sandals to top him. As Sano moved closer, he spotted more signs of Kikunojo's true sex. The long, graceful hands, white with the same powder that covered the
onnagata
's face, had large knuckles and bony wrists. His features, though delicate, lacked the softness of a woman's. The tricks he used to disguise his masculinity were obvious: the long, trailing ends of the special sash that made him seem shorter, the way he kept his chin lowered to hide his adam's apple.

But none of this bothered Kikunojo's admirers. In fact, the spectacle of male sexuality hidden beneath a woman's hairstyle and clothing excited them to a fever pitch. They flushed and giggled as they shyly advanced one at a time to offer tributes to him: a prettily wrapped package, a stammered compliment. Each of these Kikunojo accepted with an ethereal smile and a graceful bow. He placed the gifts on a small table evidently intended for that purpose.

“Go on! I dare you!” The woman next to Sano nudged her companion, a grandmotherly matron.

Grandmother darted forward and stood on tiptoe to touch
Kikunojo's purple kerchief. Her wrinkled face full of glee at her own audacity, she scurried back to her place. The other women howled with laughter.

Sano smiled. The government had tried to reduce the sexual appeal of
onnagata
by requiring them to shave their crowns, but many women found the kerchiefs just as erotic as a full head of hair.

He waited until the last admirer had departed, then introduced himself. “Kikunojo-
san
, may I have a word with you in private?”

Kikunojo produced a silk fan from the folds of his kimono. Hiding the lower half of his face with it, he murmured, “Honorable master … my duties … errands … another performance soon … many apologies, but I have no time now … perhaps another day …?” The gesture, the high, sweet voice, and the vague, trailing speech perfectly mimicked those of a noble lady.

“It's about Noriyoshi,” Sano said. “We can either talk here, in public, or somewhere else. Your choice.” Impressive though the act was, he didn't intend to let Kikunojo get away.

Awareness widened Kikunojo's eyes before his lids slipped down again. He nodded demurely and said from behind the fan, “Come with me.”

Sano followed Kikunojo's stately figure through a door near the stage and down a dim passage to the
onnagata
's dressing room. They left their shoes outside the curtained doorway, and Sano noted with amusement that Kikunojo's were bigger than his own. In the tiny cubicle, bright kimonos hung from standing racks. Five wigs on wooden heads occupied one shelf, while others held fans, hair ornaments, shoes, and folded undergarments. Brushes, powder puffs, and makeup jars littered the dressing table; silk scarves were draped over the large mirror. A table held packages similar to the ones Sano had just seen Kikunojo receive, probably gifts from other admirers. Had Niu Yukiko been one of them? The suicide note suggested a connection between her and the Kabuki
theater, even if she hadn't written it. And Lady Niu had commented upon the theater's bad influence on young girls.