The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria (17 page)

“Give me their names,” Hirata said, and pressed coins into the blind shampoo man’s hand.

“Thank you, master. They are Lady Columbine, Lady Takao, and Lady Kacho.”

“Not Lady Wisteria?”

“I don’t know, master.”

Yoshi trudged off, his bell tinkling. Hirata bought rice dumplings from a street vendor and leaned against a wall, eating as he watched drunks flirt with courtesans seated in the window cages, and reviewed what he’d just accomplished. He’d identified three more suspects and could probably find others by canvassing the quarter; yet the shogun’s prohibition seemed like a stone wall protecting the murderer. Hirata must find a different path to the truth.

A stout man dressed in a thick padded cloak and wicker hat rushed by. Fast on his heels followed a younger, smaller man with a wiry frame and pugnacious expression.

“Get lost, you scum!” the first man shouted over his shoulder.

“There’s only one way to get me off your tail,” the second man shouted back.

Hirata recognized the pursuer as a “following horse”—a debt collector hired to hunt down people who owed money in Yoshiwara and chase them day and night until they paid. And he recognized this one as his old friend Gorobei.

The following horse grabbed hold of the debtor, who turned and began throwing punches. While they scuffled, pedestrians gathered round, egging them on. Hirata, anxious to prevent a brawl, wrenched the combatants apart. The debtor escaped into the crowd, and Gorobei faced Hirata.

“You let him get away!” he said, his jaw jutting in rage. “I’ve just lost my commission.” Then, as he recognized Hirata, dismay came over his face. “Oh. It’s you. What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Maybe not this time.” Hirata had once arrested Gorobei for his sideline occupation—selling stolen goods. Gorobei made a habit of carrying small items on his person, in case he happened to meet a customer, and Hirata noticed an unnatural bulge at Gorobei’s waist, under his coat.

“What have you got in there?” Hirata said.

Gorobei leapt away from Hirata’s reaching hand. “Nothing. I’m just getting fat in my old age.”

“Give it over.” Hirata yanked on Gorobei’s coat, and out dropped a gold Buddha statue. “Ha! Either you’ve just given birth to the Buddha, or you’re up to your old tricks.”

“I bought and paid for that with my own hard-earned money,” the following horse exclaimed, picking up the Buddha and dusting it on his sleeve.

“A likely story. You’re under arrest.”

Panic gleamed in Gorobei’s eyes. “Can’t you give me a break this time?”

Hirata wasn’t really interested in small-time theft, or in arresting Gorobei. The following horse collected something else besides debts: information that he picked up around town.

“That depends on you,” Hirata said.

Gorobei’s expression turned cunning. “I can give you something you need more than my pitiful self.”

“Oh?”

“Your master wants to find the person who killed the shogun’s heir, doesn’t he?”

“So what if he does?” Hirata feigned indifference, but his heartbeat quickened.

Gorobei thrust out his jaw and looked wise. He spoke in a low voice so passersby wouldn’t hear: “Maybe I can tell you something about that.”

“Then tell,” Hirata said, “before I haul you off to jail.”

Holding out his palm, Gorobei said, “A man’s got to live.”

The nerve of him, expecting payment in addition to his freedom! “Well, I’ve got the law to uphold,” Hirata said, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Come along.”

“Wait! What I have is so good, you should be glad to pay what it’s worth.” Gorobei added slyly, “If you don’t, I bet Police Commissioner Hoshina will.”

Hirata puffed out his breath. Clearly, Gorobei knew about the rivalry between Sano and Hoshina. If Hirata didn’t pay, Hoshina would jump to buy information that might help him solve the case before Sano did. Hirata couldn’t let that happen. Nor did he want to leave Yoshiwara empty-handed.

“All right,” he said grudgingly.

They went into an alley behind a cookhouse where men labored over steaming pots, preparing food for brothels. Smoke that smelled of garlic and roasting fish drifted through the alley. Hirata and Gorobei haggled over the price. The following horse insisted Hirata pay cash in advance. Hirata reluctantly agreed; coins changed hands.

“This had better be good,” he said.

Gorobei rummaged inside his coat and removed a wad of papers, which he handed to Hirata.

In the dim light from the cookhouse doors, Hirata examined the papers. They consisted of small pages of fine white rice paper, covered with black characters and folded in half. When Hirata unfolded them, he saw that their edges were ragged, as though they’d been torn out of a binding. Oily stains blotched the outer sheet.

“A beggar I know found it the morning after the murder,” Gorobei said, “while he was scavenging food out of the garbage containers behind the Owariya.”

Hirata read the beginning of the top page:

Life in Yoshiwara can be such a bore. Even though I am Lady Wisteria, the favorite of the quarter, I see the same people and do the same old things time after time. But last night, something interesting happened.

A thrill of excitation coursed through Hirata. This was a segment of the missing pillow book.

12

The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria

Life in Yoshiwara can be such a bore. Even though I am Lady Wisteria, the favorite of the quarter, I see the same people and do the same old things time after time. But last night, something interesting happened.

I was at a party, playing cards with the guests, and I was tired and wishing I could just go to bed, when I felt someone watching me. I looked up and saw a man standing in the doorway. He was so handsome that my heart began beaming fast and hard. I stared at him. He stared back, with a little smile on his face. I turned away because I was ashamed that this stranger had seen my feelings. But I can tell when a man wants me, and I knew he did. While I dealt cards, I waited for him to approach me.

“Who is that man in the doorway?” I whispered to one of the other courtesans.

“What man?” she said.

When I looked up again, he was gone.

I have seen him often since that night. Three days ago he was standing on a balcony, watching me promenade to the
ageya
. Two days ago he came to another party where I was entertaining. Yesterday, while I was dressing in my room, I looked out the window and saw him pacing the street in front of the house. But he always vanishes as soon as he knows I’ve seen him! He never speaks to me. No one seems to know who he is, and I’ve asked everyone. What does his strange behavior mean? I fear him, but not as much as I want to know him. I, who have known so many men and never cared about any of them!

Today I was shopping with my
yarite
in the marketplace, when I sensed him near me. Instead of looking at him, I turned and hurried away through the stalls. I heard him following, but I didn’t look back. I didn’t stop until I reached the alley inside the back wall. I turned around. There he stood, so handsome and strong, his smile so mysterious.

“Who are you?” I said, frightened and out of breath. “Why are you doing this?”

“I am the Herd Boy,” he said in a strange accent. “You are the Weaver Girl. Today we finally meet on the River of Heaven.”

He was referring to the legend about two constellations that are supposed to be lovers. They cross once a year in autumn. Well, I’ve heard a lot of poetic speeches from men, including that one. Usually I just laugh inside because they sound so silly. But there was something about him that made my legs go weak and my heart pound. We stood there gazing into each other’s eyes. Then I heard my
yarite
calling me.

“I must go,” I said.

He nodded and bowed, and I left.

But we had already fallen in love.

He’s from Hokkaido, in the far north, and that’s why his accent is strange. I won’t write his name, because someone might read this, and I would rather keep him as much to myself as I can. I don’t want every nosy gossip in Yoshiwara chattering about us. Since that day in the alley, we’ve been meeting often, always in secret, because he has no money for appointments with me. I sneak out of parties to the alley where he waits. When my clients fall asleep, I steal downstairs and let him in the back door. We make love behind the screen in my room, careful to be quiet so we won’t wake up my client.

Yesterday, after we’d finished and were lying together in the moonlight, he whispered: “When winter comes to Hokkaido, the snow piles up in deep drifts that almost bury the houses.”

He ran his hand along my hip. “Your body is as white and pure and beautiful as those snowdrifts. I wish I could show them to you. How would you like to see Hokkaido?”

My heart filled with joy, because I knew he was asking me to go away with him.

“In Hokkaido you’ll be my wife,” he said. “You’ll never come back to this place of shame and suffering.”

“But you can’t afford to buy my freedom,” I said. “And there’s no escape from Yoshiwara.”

“Love will find a way,” he said, and he smiled.

Tonight is the night. All our plans are made. I will put the sleeping potion in Lord Mitsuyoshi’s wine. After he’s asleep, I will steal outside to my beloved. We will flee Yoshiwara forever. I know this is a dangerous undertaking. But he’s clever. He has friends to help us. There’s a man who owns a teahouse in Suruga. He’ll let us stay there until I can buy new clothes and my beloved gets money and provisions for the journey. If the teahouse turns out to be unsafe, there’s a noodle shop in Fukagawa that will take us in. But we won’t stay around Edo for long. Soon we’ll be on the northern highway, bound for the snows of Hokkaido.