Bundori:: A Novel of Japan

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Then an intriguing alternative occurred to Sano. The killer, whoever he was, would want his ancestor’s precious, incriminating sword back—Chūgo or Matsui to avoid punishment, Yanagisawa to avoid scandal and bother. The killer seemed to know it was Madam Shimizu who had seen him, and to fear she would report him. Sano saw a way to use this knowledge, and the circumstances at hand.

  “I need a favor from you,” he said to Madam Shimizu as he rewrapped the sword.

  Her plump chin trembled, and she looked at him fearfully. “Haven’t I given you enough already? Why must I do you a favor?”

  “Because if you don’t, I won’t keep silent about your trip to the temple and what you saw there. I’ll make you testify at the killer’s trial, and everyone—including your husband—will know what you did.”

  Even as he pressured Madam Shimizu, Sano hated his treatment of this miserable, helpless woman. With sudden frightening insight, he realized that this was how one rose within the bakufu. You used your knowledge and position to bend others to your will, to achieve your purposes. Until one day you ended up like Chamberlain Yanagisawa.… Sano’s quest had brought him this understanding of his enemy, and of how much similarity existed between them. Now he swallowed his self-disgust, telling himself that his goal justified the means—as Yanagisawa probably did while he dominated the shogun, ruined lives, and squandered treasury funds.

  “I see I have no choice but to honor your wishes,” Madam Shimizu was saying.

  Then, to Sano’s surprise, she lifted her chin and smiled. She laid a hand on his arm, gazing coquettishly up at him. A strange mixture of fear and gratitude filled her eyes. Sano saw with pity that she thought he wanted her to service him sexually. Furthermore, she welcomed his request as proof of her desirability, and to assuage the pain of her husband’s rejection.

  “I’m sorry, Madam Shimizu, but I couldn’t force myself on you,” he said gently, putting her hand away from him in feigned regret.

  And, while her expression changed from disappointment to surprised alarm, he told her how she could help him deliver the Bundori Killer to justice.

  32

  When he got back to town, Sano found Hirata riding back and forth along the promenade outside the castle gate.

  “Sumimasen—I’m sorry to report that I couldn’t follow Chamberlain Yanagisawa because he hasn’t come out,” Hirata said gloomily.

  “Never mind. Let’s go.” Sano slapped his horse’s reins.

  Hirata hurried to catch up. “Where? Why?”

  “We’re going to set a trap for the Bundori Killer.”

  They rode through the daimyo district, into Nihonbashi. Sano told Hirata what he’d learned from Madam Shimizu, and about the sword now hidden in his saddlebag. But he couldn’t specify the details of his plan until they’d scouted the location.

  Once across the Nihonbashi Bridge, Sano led the way east, then north up the wide firebreak along the Sumida River, past warehouses and through the crowds around the teahouses, food stalls, and entertainment halls at the foot of the Ryōgoku Bridge, to the Kanda River—an aqueduct that emptied into the Sumida.

  “Here,” Sano said, turning left onto the path bordering the Kanda. Hirata, looking puzzled, followed.

  The path sloped upward to run along the top of the river’s vertical, stone-faced bank. On Sano’s left rose affluent merchants’ houses with balconies overlooking the river. To the right, a wooden rail shielded the drop to the water. Docks jutted out from the path. At the end of these floated pleasure boats, all of which faced east toward the Sumida, with sloping gangplanks lowered from their decks. A wooden bridge gave access to the Kanda’s opposite side, which offered a similar scene.

  “I don’t understand,” Hirata said.

  By the fourth dock, Sano dismounted and tied the reins to the rail. “This is Madam Shimizu’s boat,” he explained. “We’ll set the trap here.”

  At the villa, Madam Shimizu’s mention of the romantic boat trips she’d once enjoyed with her husband had inspired Sano. The boat’s location was near the city center, convenient to all three suspects, and yet relatively isolated, preventing interference from passersby. The layout, with its enclosed cabin and limited means of access and escape, would allow him to capture Chūgo or Matsui—or kill Yanagisawa and himself. He’d persuaded Madam Shimizu to let him set his trap on the boat, because if the Bundori Killer was indeed looking for her, then he would come here willingly to find her. Now Sano saw how well he’d chosen.

  Made of cedarwood, the boat was perhaps fifty paces long. Both ends swooped gracefully up out of the water. At the stern, the deck tapered to a high viewing platform. The bow bore the boat’s figurehead—a likeness of a younger, lovely Madam Shimizu, lips smiling, long hair rippling. The cabin had a red shingled roof with upturned eaves. A single sail, furled around its tall mast, rose from the foredeck. Along the railed gunwales stood poles for hanging lanterns or banners. With its shallow draft, single pair of oars, and open rudder chamber, the boat was not a seaworthy vessel—the bakufu, to keep citizens from leaving the country, forbade the building of private craft equipped for rough waters. But the boat would suit Sano’s purpose admirably.

  Sano turned his attention to the surroundings. Like Madam Shimizu’s, most of the other vessels were deserted; the boating season wouldn’t begin for another month or so. Sano squinted up at the sky, where the strengthening wind had blown more clouds in from the sea to the east.

  “Not much chance of anyone setting sail tomorrow if this keeps up,” Sano remarked with satisfaction.

  He was equally glad to see only a few people about: a maid hanging laundry on a balcony; a street vendor carrying a load of baskets across the bridge, where an old man stood fishing. The Shimizu boat was far enough from the Sumida’s heavy water traffic and the crowded firebreak so that any activity here would go unobserved.

  “We’ll come early tomorrow and clear the area,” Sano told Hirata. “Your assistants can keep everyone away while we wait for the killer.”

  Hirata’s face brightened with comprehension. “Aboard the boat.”

  “Right.” Sano crossed the dock and ascended the creaking gangplank onto the boat, circling the deck. Not being a sailor, he made only a cursory inspection of the bow, where he found the anchor—a large, multipronged iron hook lying atop a heap of straw cable—near the sail. Then he more thoroughly examined the features of the boat that most concerned him. Beneath the hatch on the aft deck, in front of the tiller, he found coiled ropes, folded sails, a toolbox, lanterns, lamps, candles, water-tight metal containers of matches, and ceramic jars of water, oil, and sake. He opened the cabin door and entered a spacious, low-ceilinged compartment lined with silk-cushioned benches. Windows, equipped with slatted shutters that could be adjusted to let in light and air, overlooked the port and starboard decks. Sano’s search of the cupboards turned up folded bedding and clothes. Drawers under the benches held dishware, napkins, chopsticks, chamberpots, soap, toiletries, and bundles of dried fish, seaweed, and fruits. Madam Shimizu, hoping in vain for her husband’s love to return, had kept the boat provisioned for a trip they would probably never take.

  Behind Sano, Hirata spoke. “What do we do if—when—the killer comes?”

  Sano stalled by going to the window and opening the shutters. He hated to involve Hirata in his dangerous quest for justice and honor, but he needed the doshin’s help.

  “If the killer is Matsui or Chūgo, you and your assistants will help me capture him—alive so he can be tried and punished for his crimes,” he said, pretending an interest in the view. “We’ll tie him with ropes from the hold and take him to Edo Jail.”

  “But we believe Chamberlain Yanagisawa is the killer.” Hirata sounded puzzled. “What then?”

  To delay voicing the inevitable, Sano walked out the door and stood on the windy deck, staring upriver. On the bridge, the old fisherman jerked his line out of the water. On its end, a large, glistening fish writhed.

  “If it is the chamber
lain,” Sano said to Hirata, who had come to stand beside him, “then you and your men will do nothing. I will kill Yanagisawa, then commit seppuku.” He forced himself to turn and face his assistant.

  Eyes round and mouth agape, the young doshin’s face presented a perfect picture of shock, horror, and reluctant admiration. He started to stammer in protest. But an order was an order; finally, his bleak nod and sigh signaled his acceptance. Then he squared his shoulders and said in a thin but brave voice, “Let me have the honor of acting as your kaishaku.”

  “No, Hirata. I can’t let you be my second. It will be awhile before the shogun realizes he’s better off without Chamberlain Yanagisawa. In the meantime, you would be punished for what he’ll see as your role in the murder of his companion. If Yanagisawa comes tomorrow, you and your men must leave the scene and report to the authorities news of what I’ve done. I’ll give you additional orders after we leave here.”

  Hirata shook his head, politely insistent. “It’s my duty to help you. I don’t care if I’m punished. You’ll have your chance to prove your loyalty to your master. Let me have mine. Accept me as your retainer.”

  Sano was trapped. He couldn’t refuse another samurai the right to serve honor, nor could he deny that he needed Hirata’s help. He wasn’t at all sure he could make the first cut to his abdomen, let alone the subsequent, fatal ones. He would need a helper to sever his head, ending his agony and his life. Against his wishes, he would have to pull an innocent young man down with him.

  “All, right, Hirata-san.” Sano bowed his appreciation. “Thank you.”

  The ardor in Hirata’s eyes pierced Sano’s heart. He was young, zealous; in his first joy at gaining his chosen master, he didn’t yet comprehend the enormity of what he might have to do. Sano gazed with sorrow at his new retainer, whom he felt proud to have. Were the two of them doomed soldiers, destined to die without ever realizing the potential of their partnership?

  Hirata spoke first, in a voice strong with new maturity and confidence. “Now we must lure the killer into the trap.”

  Sano nodded sadly. “Yes.”

  Duty and honor demanded they set into motion the events that would determine their fate.

  Traveling through Nihonbashi, they entered the first stationer’s shop they found, where the proprietor knelt amid his wares—rice paper, inkstones, brushes, carved seals, spools of cord, scroll cases—writing a letter dictated by an illiterate peasant. When he finished, his wife took the peasant’s money while he greeted his two new customers.

  Sano chose four sheets of paper, three of plain quality and one of the finest, four scroll cases, three of bamboo and one of decorated lacquer, and the appropriate grades of silk cord. “Can your wife write?” he asked.

  The proprietor nodded, and Sano dictated his first message to the woman, whose feminine calligraphy he hoped the Bundori Killer would take for Madam Shimizu’s.

  If you want your sword back, bring five hundred koban to the Kanda River’s south docks. Come at noon tomorrow, alone. Board the fourth pleasure boat from the mouth of the river. I will be waiting.

  The Lady from the Temple

  Sano had the woman prepare three copies on the plain paper. Then, taking the brush from her, he drew the sword’s skull-shaped guard at the bottom of each copy. He blotted the ink, rolled and tied the scrolls, and sealed them inside the bamboo cases.

  “Write ‘Urgent and Personal,’ ” he instructed the woman, after telling her to put Matsui’s, Chūgo’s, and Yanagisawa’s names on the address labels. Then he took her place at the writing desk and held the brush poised over the finest, smoothest paper as he sought the proper phrasing for what could be the last, most important message of his life.

  Genroku Year 2, Month 3, Day 25

  To His Excellency the Shogun Tokugawa Tsunayoshi:

  To my great regret, I must inform you that my investigation has revealed that the Bundori Killer is none other than your own Chamberlain Yanagisawa.

  Your Excellency, I have seen how Chamberlain Yanagisawa manipulates yourself and your government for his personal gain. Now he has revealed the true extent of his evil nature by coming to pay blackmail in exchange for the sword he left at Zōjō Temple when he murdered the priest, his most recent victim. Motivated not by loyalty to Your Excellency, but by his need to satisfy a blood score that his ancestor, General Fujiwara, swore against the Araki and Endō clans more than one hundred years ago, he has slain three descendants of those clans, and would likely have killed more if not stopped.

  Rather than allow Chamberlain Yanagisawa to escape punishment by subverting the legal system he controls, I have appointed myself the agent of justice. I have executed Chamberlain Yanagisawa, and committed seppuku not only to avoid capture and disgrace, but to pledge my eternal loyalty to your person, and to honor a promise to my father that I make of myself the living embodiment of Bushido.

  I hope history will remember me as the member of my clan who freed the Tokugawa regime from Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s corrupting influence and restored Your Excellency as rightful ruler of the land.

  Your humble servant, Sōsakan Sano Ichirō.

  Sano stamped the letter with his personal seal, then enclosed the scroll inside the fine lacquer case and paid for his purchases. Outside in the street, he gave Matsui’s bamboo scroll case to Hirata.

  “Pay a messenger to deliver this immediately,” he said, handing over the necessary coins. “I’ll see that Chūgo and Yanagisawa get theirs.” Then, with a heavy spirit, he gave Hirata the lacquer case. “If all goes … as expected tomorrow, give this to the authorities.” He mounted his horse. “I’ll meet you at the boat at daybreak.”

  “Yes, sōsakan-sama.” Hirata cleared his throat. “Sumimasen … after the messages are delivered, would you please be my guest at dinner?”

  Sano was touched by the offer. Hirata, kind as well as loyal, didn’t want to leave his new master alone to dwell upon death, or let what might be the last night of his life pass without ritual.

  “Thank you, Hirata-san,” he said with sincere regret, “but I’ve urgent personal business to attend to.”

  In Hirata’s eyes he saw understanding and sympathy. The young doshin, his fellow samurai, knew exactly what that business was.

  33

  When a samurai planned to commit ritual suicide, custom required him to bid farewell to the important people in his life and express gratitude for the services they’d done him, the kindnesses they’d shown him, and the privilege of associating with them.

  Sano found Dr. Ito in the Edo Jail guard compound, practicing the medical skills he’d acquired before being sentenced to lifelong service as morgue custodian. There grim, dingy barracks formed a second enclosure within the jail’s towering walls. Outside the barracks, a prison guard sat on a stool, with Dr. Ito bending over him. As Sano approached, Ito pulled down the man’s lower lip, revealing a huge, ugly blood blister surrounded by pus-engorged flesh. Upon this Ito placed a shiny brown leech. The patient winced and closed his eyes as the leech sucked the poisoned blood.

  “Sano-san! What a pleasant surprise.” Dr. Ito’s stern features relaxed in a smile as he looked up. “I presumed you had received my messages about finding no clues on the murder victims’ remains, and so would have no reason to visit soon.” Then his expression altered to concern when he saw Sano’s face. “Something is wrong?”

  For the first time, Sano felt awkward with his confidant and mentor. “I have to talk to you,” he blurted.

  “Of course. One moment.”

  Ito turned back to his patient. He waited until the leech swelled to twice its original size, and the blister had shrunk. Then he plucked the leech off the patient’s lip and sealed it inside a small ceramic jar attached to his sash.

  “Rinse your mouth with saltwater every hour to prevent further festering,” he told the guard. He handed over a paper packet. “Drink this turmeric in your tea tonight, for the pain and swelling. You’ll feel much better by tomorrow.”
/>   “Thank you, Ito-san,” the patient mumbled.

  Then, apparently recognizing Sano’s need for privacy, Ito said, “Come. Let’s go to my quarters.”

  They left the compound and entered a passage, where Sano stopped. He didn’t want to cut short what might be their last meeting, but he must get this ordeal over with before he lost his resolve.

  “I can’t stay,” he said abruptly. “I—I just want to thank you, Ito-san. For everything you’ve done for me.”

  Ignoring his friend’s puzzled frown, Sano rushed on. “Your wisdom and support have guided me through times of trouble. Your courage, dedication, and integrity have been a source of inspiration to me.” Used to expressing respect with formal rituals of bowing, gift-giving, and other oblique gestures, he found this blunt speaking unbearably gauche and melodramatic. But he forced himself to continue. “It’s been an honor and a privilege to associate with you.”

  He bowed deeply, as if to a superior rather than the commoner and criminal that Ito was. “Now I—I must say good-bye,” he ended in a breathless fever of shyness, embarrassment, and grief.

  “ ‘Good-bye’?” Though he shook his head in confusion, Dr. Ito obviously recognized this as no ordinary parting. “Sano-san, what is the meaning of this?”

  Sano compressed his lips against the outpouring of terror that threatened to spill from them: I don’t want to die! Please, save me! If Ito offered any sympathy, he was lost. He longed to flee. But an explanation was the least he owed his friend. With frequent pauses to control his emotions, he related his plan, and its probable outcome. “I may die tomorrow, Ito-san. That’s why I came to say good-bye, and say—what needed saying.”

  The lines in Dr. Ito’s face deepened. His penetrating gaze lost its edge; his eyes were dark with shock. “But why must you even consider doing this—this thing?” he demanded.