The Crane Pavilion (8 page)

She had ended it by saying very clearly and loudly, so everyone could hear, “You and I are nothing to each other.”

And he had actually considered marrying the woman. He had finally allowed a female to get close to him. He had trusted her, and this was what she did to him. Over a blind shampoo girl!

When Shokichi walked away from him, leaving him standing in the street, Saburo turned and started walking home, anger in his heart and the conviction that he would never find love or companionship.

The realization of what lay ahead in the Sugawara household depressed him further. He was still the outsider there. Both Tora and Genba had wives, and the master had at least his children. Only he, Saburo, had nothing.

Nothing but the raw pain of having been rejected again.

Then the thought of showing Shokichi what she had so casually thrown away occurred to him. Yes, he owed it to himself to prove that he was worth any number of her girlfriends. And the best way of doing this was to solve the murder of the moneylender Nakamura. Then Shokichi would be ashamed and would come to thank him and beg him to forgive her, and he would tell her quite coldly that she had been right all along: they had nothing in common and no future together.

Saburo walked back to the wine shop near the Daikoku-yu where he had intended to take his beloved only a few hours ago. Now he was a single man again, and there was no reason why he should be deprived of the meal and a few cups of wine while he thought about the moneylender.

After a bowl of tasty fish stew and some very decent
sake
, he had worked out a plan of sorts. His past training suggested surreptitious surveillance of suspects, but he had no suspects yet, merely suspicions.

Among those suspicions was that one of Nakamura’s customers had resorted to murder to close out a debt he could not pay. Another possibility concerned the heirs of a man who was, by all accounts, very wealthy.

Saburo had a low opinion of men who would lend money to the poor at very high interest. He considered them excessively greedy and assumed that their relatives were not much better.

Having paid for his food and wine, he set out briskly for the Daikoku-yu. By now it was the middle of the day, the slackest time for bathhouses and people who did not work. He was not surprised to see Jinzaemon standing outside, chatting with a couple. His expressions and gestures showed that the subject was the bloody murder committed on his premises.

Gossips gather at more places than wells, Saburo thought, and they were not all women. In this case, they were an old man and a middle-aged housewife. He sidled up and listened.

“Four years she’s worked here off and on,” Jinzaemon said to the old man who was leaning on his stick, listening avidly. “Four years I let her make money from my customers, and this is what she does to me? Nakamura was one of my best customers, regular like clockwork every morning for his shave and shampoo, and regular every night for his bath. Not many men take such good care of themselves.”

“I bet he came to ogle the women,” said the woman, who was quite fat and unattractive. “Some men cannot get enough. And that blind girl was young.”

The old man chortled. “And couldn’t see what an ugly bastard he was.”

Jinzaemon frowned at this. “Now hold it right there. There was never anything like that between them. I keep a decent place.”

His listeners burst out laughing. Even Saburo laughed. This caused Jinzaemon to notice him.

“You’re back again?” he said sourly but decided he now had a witness to the damage he had suffered. He told his listeners, “This man was here this morning when the police came. He saw Nakamura’s body and what the room looked like. We scrubbed for hours to get it looking halfway decent again.” He pulled Saburo forward. “Tell Genzo and Mrs. Ozaki about all the blood. Tell them what that stupid girl did. They won’t believe me.”

The old man and the fat woman looked at Saburo expectantly.

“There was a lot of blood,” Saburo acknowledged, “but the blind girl said she didn’t kill him. I’m for keeping an open mind. What do you think happened?”

Jinzaemon snorted his disgust, but the woman had thought the matter over. “You’re right. Sachi’s a slight little thing. No meat on her bones. Not much strength either. I don’t see her killing him. A woman needs strength to deal with men.”

The old man cackled. “What’s she need strength for? She had a sharp knife in her hand and her hand on his neck.”

She rounded on him. “Why would the blind girl ruin herself by killing a customer?”

He said, “ Nakamura’s a man and he’s got eyes. And hands. And something else. He could see she was young and pretty. A girl doesn’t need eyes to make love. Most of you wait until it’s dark anyway. A man can always find what he’s looking for. Even in a dark garden, the jade warrior can find the cinnabar cave, right?” The old man winked at Saburo.

The woman gave him a push that sent him stumbling. “You’ve got a dirty mouth, Genzo. Maybe that Sachi’s a good girl. She didn’t want to sell herself.”

Jinzaemon snorted. “A good girl, you say? She thought she was too good for a man like Nakamura-san. Maybe he tried to get a little feel, and she cut him? Has that occurred to you?”

The woman blinked, and Saburo seized the opening. “So this Nakamura chased the girls? Did he make a point of asking for Sachi?”

Jinzaemon flushed. “Nothing of the sort. He’d heard she was good at massaging the scalp and wanted to try her.”

The old man guffawed. “His scalp? Is that what they call it now?” He skipped aside when the woman slapped at him.

The bathhouse owner glared. “What if Nakamura did have an eye for girls? What if he wanted something extra now and then? He always tipped the girls. They were glad enough to make themselves pleasant. But not this one. Oh, no!”

“I take it,” said Saburo, “that it was the first time Sachi … er … waited on him?”

Jinzaemon chewed his lip. “I wish I’d sent for someone else, but I thought she could use a bit extra. Who would think that a blind shampoo girl would kill a grown man?”

“So did this Nakamura expect special services from the shampoo girl?”

“Of course, he did,” cried the old man gleefully. “That one never missed a chance. In the quarter, they call him a champion. He’s a real bull, that man.”

That meant Nakamura was a steady and well-known customer in the amusement quarter. Apparently, his interest in women carried over to bathhouses.

The fat woman gave the old man another push. “Men are all alike,” she said, making a face. “Their minds are always in the gutter. A real bull? That skinny runt wasn’t young enough to get it up, let alone get a reputation.”

Her companion rubbed his arm. “What do you know, woman? Do you spend time in the quarter? Do you listen to the women talking? I tell you, he was always there. Every day! He has his favorites and goes regularly to some of the houses. He’s got the money. Why shouldn’t he?”

The conversation was getting away from Sachi. Saburo said, “Come on, Jinzaemon. You haven’t answered. Did Nakamura ask for Sachi because he wanted her to perform sexual services?”

The bathhouse owner said sullenly, “He asked for her. I don’t know what he wanted. I told you, I run a decent establishment.”

The other two promptly giggled again. The old man told Saburo, “Jinzaemon has an arrangement with some of the women from the quarter. If one of his customers asks for something special—he waggled his eyebrows—he sends for them and puts them in a private room. The girls share their fees with him, and the customers tip him generously.”

Jinzaemon flushed with anger. “That’s a lie, Genzo! Don’t you go about telling such tales, you sorry piece of shit!”

He started for the old man, but Saburo caught his arm. “Hold on. Jinzaemon. You don’t need any more trouble today.”

Jinzaemon glared, muttered something, and went back into his place of business. The old man and the woman looked pleased with themselves. They had come for a gossip and had enjoyed it. No doubt, they would carry the information with them to entertain friends and neighbors. And gradually the story would become ever more outrageous. Saburo almost felt sorry for Jinzaemon.

Still, those two had little to fill their days. The old man could not work any longer and spent his time talking to the women in the amusement quarter, no doubt a vicarious pleasure at his age. And the woman probably had a daughter-in-law or two at home and could leave the housework to them. It is said, if you gossip about a person, his shadow will appear. In this case, they knew a good deal about the victim, and Saburo wanted information about Nakamura. He asked, “Where did this Nakamura live?”

“Above his shop on Gojo-Bomon,” the woman said promptly. “He’s a curio dealer, but that’s mostly just for show. Why do you want to know?”

Saburo saw rekindled interest in her eyes and laughed. “Maybe I just want to see where the famous bull resided. Or maybe I want to pick up some tips on getting women.”

They chuckled. Genzo said slyly, “My throat got dry from all this talking on a hot day. What say we have a cup of wine?”

Saburo agreed eagerly. “I’m pretty dry myself. Allow me to invite both of you.”

They looked at each other and grinned. The threesome walked to the same wine shop where Saburo has eaten and sat down outside on one of the benches.

They proved how parched they were from all the talking by consuming three flasks of strong
sake
each, but the wine oiled their tongues amazingly. Putting aside their squabbles, they took pleasure in regaling Saburo with Nakamura’s habits, background, family, and business methods.

The picture that emerged was very unpleasant. Saburo developed an intense hostility toward Nakamura. Men like that deserved killing. In fact, the killer had done his fellow citizens a big favor by ridding the world of the man. Perhaps a few, like Jinzaemon and a handful of aunties and harlots regretted his passing, but for the rest things must be looking up.

And even the women in the quarter might feel a relief. According to Genzo. Nakamura had enjoyed inflicting pain. Mrs. Ozaki was well-informed about Nakamura’s household. He lived in the fourth quarter in a fine merchant’s house he had bought a few years ago. A small curio shop in the front catered to the nobility by offering high-priced art objects, but Nakamura’s money mostly came from the loans he extended to people.

“Any chance he might have creditors among the good people?” Saburo asked Mrs. Ozaki.

“Creditors?”

“People who owe him money.”

She looked vague. “Maybe. I wouldn’t know.”

Genzo said, “He did most of his business in the quarter and on the market. The shop is run by his son.”

“What about his family? A rich man has many wives and sons. What are they like?”

Mrs. Ozaki downed another cup of wine. “No wife. She died. At his age, he likes the harlots much better. He has a son and three daughters. The son’s married. They say the daughters are very ugly, but two have husbands. I expect that cost him dearly. The third keeps house for her father. It’s not a big job. He’s never home. In the daytime he goes about making money, and the night he spends with the whores.”

Genzo chuckled. “What a life!”

Mrs. Ozaki snapped, “It got him killed, didn’t it? So you’d best think again.”

Genzo protested, “It wasn’t the money or the sex that got him killed. It was a clumsy shampoo girl. He should’ve grown a beard.” He felt his own clean-shaven chin. “Maybe I’ll grow one myself.”

They laughed at him. Mrs. Ozaki cried, “Too late for you, unless you can grow more than hair.” This amused her so much she fell into choking giggles and had to have her back thumped by Saburo.

Genzo raised an admonitory finger. “Don’t trust a woman, Saburo, even if she’s borne you seven children.”

Struck by the truth of this saying as much as by the fact that his guests were getting into a drunken quarrel, Saburo paid for the wine and left.

9
The Tides of Life

The next morning, Akitada felt a great yearning to go to Tamako’s room and sit there, thinking of her, talking to her, perhaps telling her about the suicide of Lady Ogata and about the strange characters he had met that day.

Alas, it was not to be. Even this intangible bond with his wife was denied him. He went to his own room when he got home. It was blessedly empty of Saburo, but here the deepest darkness seemed to reside, a loneliness so profound that he could not bear it any longer.

He stepped out onto his narrow veranda. The weather had turned. The sky was clouded over and the scent of rain hung in the air. The garden was still lush with foliage, a small bird darted at a worm and flew off, and a few gnats still danced above the fish pond. It was late in the year, and soon the bird would huddle on a branch, shivering in the cold. A fish jumped for the gnats, but the pond, too, would become still and dark, and the fish would burrow into the muddy bottom.

He spotted something white on the side of the pond and went to investigate. It was a dead
koi
. He bent to pick it up by its tail and saw that it was a female. Laying it gently among some of the ferns, he took it as another omen that death would walk beside him from now on, that, even though at a great distance from Tamako when she died, he had become contaminated by death. His Shinto faith forbade physical closeness to death and dying, but it struck him that a physical closeness between two people in life must necessarily mean that one person’s death would touch the other. So it had been when he had lost his first son.

He stared at the dead fish, then went to move one of the rocks behind the pond. Using his bare hands to make a shallow hole in the soft earth underneath, he laid the fish in it. Then he replaced the rock.

He had missed Tamako’s funeral.

The day they returned from Kyushu, his sister Akiko and her husband Toshikage had arrived before Akitada had been able to do more than greet his children and flee to his room. In the weeks of travel, he had tried to prepare himself for this homecoming. He had built a shell around his heart, impervious to the raw emotions he would encounter and feel. It had not worked. When he had stepped out onto the veranda, grief had seized him so violently that he had been forced to grasp hold of the support beam or his knees would have buckled.