Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller

by GP Hutchinson

  “I’ll take care of that. Just get her to walk you and the other girl to that part of the garden.”

  “When?”

  “In one hour. It’s got to be while your father is gone. And if they’re watching you more carefully after what you tried yesterday, I doubt they’ll let you and Hiroko take a stroll—even within the walls—once it gets dark.”

  Naoko hesitated. “This is so risky.”

  “We don’t have much time, Naoko. You’ve got to find the other girl.”

  “Where will you take us?

  “To people who will keep you safe, I promise.” He tried to communicate compassion with his face and tone of voice as much as with his words.

  She took a minute. “Go, Hideo. If you don’t see me coming over the wall at three forty-five, get out of the neighborhood fast, for your own good. Now, go.”

  Naoko took him by the arm and led him to the kitchen door. She motioned for Hiroko. “Please show Hideo out,” she said. “Then come to my room to pick up the tea tray you left.”

  Hiroko nodded and escorted Hideo to the door. Naoko hurried to her room.

  Hideo appraised the look on Hiroko’s face and wondered what thoughts might be hidden behind that benign mask. He bowed. “Arigatou, Hiroko-san. Dewa mata.” [Thank you, Hiroko. See you later.]

  A few minutes later, Hiroko entered Naoko’s room. Naoko signaled her to close the door.

  “Please fill the ofuro for me, Hiroko. I think I’ll bathe now.”

  Hiroko left the tray she had come to recover and went to the bath. Naoko followed her.

  Once the water was running, Naoko sat on the edge of the ofuro close to Hiroko and whispered, “Do you know where my father is holding the other girl?”

  Hiroko’s eyes widened.

  “Please act normal, Hiroko,” Naoko urged her maid. “Act like we’re just talking about clothes or school—anything normal.”

  “Hai, Naoko-chan,” she said. “The girl is in a storage room near the kyudo dojo.”

  “Is she guarded?”

  “Not always. But the door is locked.”

  Naoko pondered. It was another electronic lock with a four-digit code.

  “What are you planning, Naoko?” The maid was clearly worried.

  “Hiroko, I can’t stay here any longer. I’ll die here. I’m leaving this afternoon…and I’m going to try to take the girl with me. I want you to come, too.”

  “It’s impossible!” Hiroko hissed.

  “Iie, it can’t be impossible. It has to be possible.”

  “The cameras. The guards.”

  “You’re going to take me for a walk in the garden at three thirty. We’re going to pass the east wall. I’m going over the wall.”

  “Do you know what your father will do to me?” Hiroko clutched her stomach.

  “You’re coming with me.”

  “I can’t climb that wall.”

  “We’ll help you, Hiroko. Please,” Naoko begged.

  Hiroko looked down into the roiling bath water. “How do I free the girl?”

  Naoko looked up and wrung the towel she held. She finally said, “Try pressing 4-9-4-9.”

  “But that’s—”

  “I know, death and bad luck. But wouldn’t my father wish both on anyone who’d unlock that door against his wishes?”

  Hiroko considered Naoko’s pleading face. She nodded slowly. “I will do it. Now give me your dirty clothes.”

  Naoko looked at her questioningly.

  “I need an excuse to linger near the dojo entrance. The laundry gets me close enough.”

  Naoko undressed and handed Hiroko her clothes.

  “I’ll be back here by three fifteen. Dress practically. Wear sports shoes.” Hiroko gazed into Naoko’s eyes reassuringly. Then she turned and left.

  40

  On that Saturday afternoon, midway through the May Grand Sumo Tournament, Yamada Hideyoshi, Haruta, and Yamashita arrived at the Kokugikan at three fifteen to give themselves ample time to find their choice seats in the lower level. Spectators filled the arena to capacity. Before settling in for the matches, Yamada made the obligatory rounds, greeting associates, potential clients, and sycophants.

  Glad to be done with that, he thought as he at last headed for his seat. I cannot stomach sniveling parasites today.

  He turned toward the raised clay dohyo in the center of the arena floor. Soon all this would be his to control. Under his management, the sport of sumo—only slightly modified—would begin to flourish once again.

  They worry that I will rob sumo of its traditions, he brooded. Ridiculous. He eyed two yobidashi—ushers—sweeping the surface of the dohyo in preparation for the dohyo-iri, the grand entrance ceremonies of the high-ranking sumotori. Their yellow and green livery was essentially as it would’ve been two hundred years ago. This would not change. Ushers, announcers, and referees would still be in costume in the new era of sumo. The dohyo-iri would go on, just as it always had.

  He scanned the arena’s mezzanine, thinking about how he’d have to remodel that level to accommodate betting windows. Soon he’d suggest the need for an entirely new facility—one built by his associates, who would pay him a handsome fee for the privilege of winning the contract.

  Just then a yobidashi approached. He smiled courteously and used the most courtly language. “Yamada-sama,” he said, “A formal invitation has been extended to you. Please grace us by serving as guest of honor this afternoon. A front-row seat at the base of the dohyo awaits you.”

  “By whom exactly am I being invited?” Yamada asked.

  The yobidashi again smiled. “The yokozuna Hashimaru humbly asks you to honor him by taking this seat for his dohyo-iri performance.”

  With eyebrows raised, Yamada looked first at Yamashita then at Haruta. He even allowed a slight smile to crease his face. “Well, at last,” he said, “it appears the Mongolian has finally seen things my way and entered our camp.”

  Haruta returned Yamada’s gleam. “Congratulations, Yamada-sama. Having a yokozuna in our camp should prove to be very persuasive.”

  Yamada said to the yobidashi, “I assume Hashimaru understands that Haruta-san and Yamashita-san always accompany me when I attend the grand tournament.”

  The yobidashi nodded. “Of course. Please follow me, gentlemen.” He led Yamada and his men to three thick, red cushions in the very front row. Once Yamada, Haruta, and Yamashita were comfortably seated at ringside, the yobidashi retreated.

  “Excuse me,” Haruta said to a nearby sumo official. “Which yokozuna will perform his dohyo-iri first?”

  “Hitachinoumi first, then Hashimaru,” the official answered.

  Haruta turned to his boss and smiled. “They’re saving Hashimaru for last today. How appropriate. An honor for him and for you, Yamada-san.”

  Yamada nodded with controlled enthusiasm.

  In due time the curtain drew back and the dohyo-iri began. A yobidashi led the procession, rhythmically clapping the customary lacquered wooden blocks. Next entered the junior tate-gyoji, clad in a bold, blue silk costume. He ritualistically ascended the steps to the dohyo while holding his wooden judge’s fan parallel to the ground. The gyoji stepped to one side of the ring and assumed a squatting stance.

  The junior and senior tate-gyoji alone bore the right and the responsibility of wearing a tanto—a samurai knife—visibly tucked into the waist sash. According to legend, if a gyoji made a bad call in a bout between two yokozuna, the gyoji would be honor bound to commit ritual suicide. In modern sumo, the tate-gyoji would merely be required to submit his resignation papers before the end of the day.

  Yamada smiled at the thought of accepting the resignations of the two current tate-gyoji so his men Mori and Sasaki—similarly armed—could rule over matches.

  Following the referee came the yokozuna Hitachinoumi’s best friend, who acted as the sword-bearer for the ceremony. Clothed in a colorful, fringed silk apron that matched that of the yokozuna, the sword-bearer held up the yokozuna’s per
sonal ceremonial katana, providing a direct link to the samurai roots of Japan’s official national sport. Then came the yokozuna Hitachinoumi himself. Finally, dressed to resemble the sword-bearer, came Hitachinoumi’s dew sweeper, another close friend who symbolically upheld the role of the Shinto religion in sumo. Together the yokozuna and his two attendants ascended the dohyo.

  Yamada had witnessed the pageantry countless times. It moved him little anymore. But he was interested in how the paying audience perceived the spectacle. His gaze drifted through the crowd.

  The arena grew nearly silent as the yokozuna Hitachinoumi assumed his wide stance at the edge of the ring. He clapped twice with broad, slow sweeps of his mighty arms. Striding to the center of the ring with his back to the referee, he gave two more enormous handclaps.

  Then, shifting his weight first to one side and then to the other, Hitachinoumi gave three consecutive ritual shiko—the classic stomps meant to drive away evil spirits. Each stomp involved lifting his straightened leg out to the side, all the way to shoulder height, before dropping his foot to pound the clay of the dohyo with an impressive thud.

  The crowd roared with each shiko stomp. Yamada observed and nodded.

  Returning to the side of the ring, Hitachinoumi gave two final symbolic claps of the hands. Followed by his attendants, he then exited the ring and floor to await his bout at the end of the evening. The junior tate-gyoji followed the sleek giant out of the ring.

  Haruta and Yamashita briefly commented to one another on how well Hitachinoumi had performed the dohyo-iri. Their observations were cut short, however, by Yamada’s raised hand as the clacking wood blocks sounded once again, announcing the entrance of the yokozuna Hashimaru.

  Now this entrance ceremony did interest Yamada. An appropriate measure of appreciation should be displayed, he thought, to the first yokozuna to help pave the way to the inevitable new era of sumo.

  41

  Hiroko hurried to the storage room door just up the hall from the laundry room. She had asked Yuki, the woman at the security console, to remain near Naoko just while she ran to the laundry room and back. Yuki had reluctantly agreed.

  Hiroko’s hand hovered over the keypad. She believed she had only three tries to get the code right. A third incorrect attempt would set off an alarm.

  She pressed 4-9-4-9. The LED light on the pad went from solid red to flashing red. Hiroko’s stomach churned.

  What should she do? The LED returned to solid red. What other number would Yamada-sama use? Naoko’s birthdate? She deplored Yamada’s treatment of Naoko. At the same time, she understood that, to Yamada, Naoko was like a family heirloom—like a valuable piece of property. He obsessed over being able to possess and control her.

  The third of May. Hiroko punched in 0-3-0-5. The LED flashed red again. Her heart thumped fearfully. Time was running out. Yuki would soon return to the control panel.

  Hiroko turned toward the laundry room. No, she thought. I have to try once again.

  Returning to the keypad, she drew a deep breath and entered 0-5-0-3.

  The LED turned green. A metallic click followed.

  She let out a sigh of relief.

  Hiroko pushed open the door. There on a futon on the floor was the girl. Disheveled, a bandage on her shoulder, uncertain, but apparently OK.

  “I don’t know your name,” Hiroko whispered, “but you must come with me. Quickly!”

  “Shiori,” she said. “My name is Shiori. Where—”

  Hiroko put up a finger to silence her. “Naoko-san wants to help you escape from here. You must come with me immediately.”

  Shiori frowned. “Is that true?”

  Hiroko nodded, took Shiori’s hand, and helped her up. Peering both ways outside the door, she hurried Shiori to the end of the corridor and into the archery dojo.

  Shiori moved along cooperatively until entering the dojo. There she planted her feet and tugged against Hiroko’s grasp. “Iie. Where’s Yamada-san?”

  “He’s gone to the sumo tournament. This is your chance, Shiori. You must trust Naoko-san.”

  Shiori resisted again. “Where is Naoko?”

  “She’s going to meet you in the garden. You’ll be all right there until she comes.”

  Peering into the gloom of the dim dojo, Shiori at last gave in. She clung to Hiroko.

  Hiroko guided her along to the dojo’s long gallery doors. She slid one of the doors open, but only a few feet. It was from the gallery that Yamada had launched the arrows at Shiori while she had been tied up in the matoba target structure across the lawn. Hiroko coaxed Shiori to the opening.

  Shiori froze. “What about Yamada’s guards?”

  Hiroko whispered into her ear. “Do you see the bamboo just beyond the irises? Run to the bamboo and hide, Shiori. Naoko and I will be there in a few minutes. Just stay there. Trust me. We will come to you. Now run!”

  Shiori still wavered. Hiroko began to worry that the plan might start to collapse already.

  Suddenly Shiori dashed from the door across the lawn, making a straight line for the bamboo thicket.

  Hiroko realized she was still holding onto Naoko’s laundry. She closed the gallery door and retraced her steps to the washing room. Over the washing machine, she steadied herself. Her arms and legs wanted to tremble violently. How would she calmly dismiss Yuki to return to the console?

  By the time Hiroko reached the bedroom wing, she had drawn enough deep breaths to face Yuki. She only hoped her face wasn’t too flushed.

  Outside Naoko’s bedroom door, Hiroko checked the time—3:14. She slid open the door. “Arigatou, Yuki. I must have left a load of laundry in the machine yesterday. I had to get that out of the way before starting another load.”

  Yuki asked, “Are you all right, Hiroko? You look pale.”

  Pale? she thought. This may work in our favor. “I may be catching a cold,” she said. “I’m all right, though.”

  “Then I’ll be going back to the console now. Naoko-san is still in the ofuro.”

  “Arigatou, Yuki. Arigatou.”

  Once Yuki had left and the door was closed, Hiroko breathed a sigh of relief.

  Naoko emerged wrapped in a towel. She snatched fresh underwear, a pair of jeans, and a pullover sweater from her closet. Returning to the bathroom, she dressed quickly. When she came out again, Hiroko handed her a pair of tennis shoes and socks.

  As Naoko bent to tie her shoes, Hiroko sat on the edge of the bed and murmured, “The girl is waiting in the bamboo grove. Her name is Shiori.”

  Naoko nodded subtly but said nothing.

  At three thirty Naoko and Hiroko stepped out of the bedroom. They paused at the doorway of the room where Yuki watched the closed-circuit TV monitors.

  “We’ll be in the garden for a little while, Yuki,” Hiroko said.

  Yuki frowned. “Did Yamada-sama say she’s allowed to leave her room?”

  Hiroko answered, “She needs fresh air…and I need some sunshine to fight off this cold. If I misunderstood Yamada-sama, I’ll be responsible for the consequences.”

  Yuki balked but ultimately accepted Hiroko’s pledge.

  Once out under the bright afternoon sun, Naoko and Hiroko were free to talk quietly without fear of being overheard or recorded. Though she ached to make a dash for the garden’s east wall and freedom on the other side, Naoko forced herself to walk slowly. To Yuki or any other employees of her father, this had to look like a casual stroll.

  “How is Shiori?” Naoko asked. She was curious about the girl from Shibuya 109 in light of Tatsuyama’s sudden bond with her. She also wondered about Shiori’s state of mind and how it would affect a clean escape.

  “For some reason her shoulder is bandaged,” Hiroko said. “And though she started out fine, she seemed to grow terribly afraid by the time we reached the dojo.”

  Both facts troubled Naoko. While being transported together in the limousine the day before, she hadn’t noticed Shiori favoring her shoulder. “Do you think she’ll hold us back?”
>
  “I don’t know. Waiting for us out here, she may have had time to collect her courage.”

  Naoko looked over her shoulder at the immense house where she had lived out the past ten years of her life, the years since her mother’s death. “I didn’t bring anything with me,” she said. “I thought it would look too suspicious. I left my whole life in that house back there.”

  While glancing back, Hiroko stumbled and recovered on the gravel path.

  “We can never come back, you know,” Naoko said.

  Hiroko nodded and clutched her stomach once again.

  The women crossed a tiny bridge over a shallow stream filled with purple irises. They paused, feigning admiration of a stone pagoda sculpture.

  Naoko scanned the garden, took a final glance toward the house, and then proceeded more purposefully to where the path wound between several stands of bamboo.

  “Shiori,” she whispered hoarsely. There was only the rustle of bamboo leaves above, punctuated by the periodic hollow clunk of one bamboo stalk against another.

  “Shiori, it’s me, Naoko,” she said, daring to raise her voice only slightly.

  Shiori stepped onto the path from behind a cluster of bamboo closer to the garden wall. “I’m here.”

  Naoko and Hiroko hurried to her. To Naoko, Shiori looked weary and guarded. But there was a wholesome attractiveness to her, a quality about her that made it easy to understand her allure to Tatsuyama.

  The two young women stood staring at one another.

  Naoko swallowed as she thought about the fear Shiori must have endured since going to Tatsuyama’s aid…and especially since going to Kitanomaru Park yesterday. I don’t blame her for not trusting me. Naoko didn’t even know why Shiori and Tatsuyama came to the park—whether they finally believed her or they wanted payback. A sense of guilt welled up from deep within. But I can’t let myself get emotional right now. And I don’t have time to explain everything.

  Finally she said, “What I did to Tatsuyama was wrong…but I tried to fix it. And each time I did, it got worse. Today I have the chance to escape from my father forever. And I want you to escape him too.”