Claws of the Cat

by Susan Spann

  Father Mateo started to protest but Hiro bowed and said, “Thank you. We will come back later.”

  Mayuri stood up to lead them out. Father Mateo gave Hiro a confused look. The shinobi shook his head slightly and followed Mayuri without argument.

  When they reached the front of the teahouse Hiro said, “Since the other girls cannot speak with us, perhaps you can tell us where to find Umeha.”

  Mayuri’s smile disappeared. Her lips parted in surprise, but she recovered almost immediately. “I’m afraid I don’t know that name.”

  “You are afraid because you do,” Hiro corrected, “and either you tell me where to find her, or I let it slip to our friends in the yard that she has information about Hideyoshi’s death that you have tried to hide. We’ll see how long it takes them to find her for me.”

  “They already know where to find her.” Mayuri’s smile faded and her expression hardened as she looked past Hiro at the dōshin standing in the yard. “You can find her at the House of the Floating Plums in Pontocho.”

  Father Mateo said nothing until they reached the bridge. As they crossed the river he said, “Why did we leave? We need to talk with the other women. Someone must have heard something.”

  “Do you think they would tell us the truth?” Hiro didn’t wait for a response. “Mayuri is hiding something and her women will back her up, at least until we know enough to persuade them otherwise.”

  “Well, at least Mayuri helped us find Umeha,” the priest said, “though I’m not sure why you want to know.”

  “When a dead man’s heir has violent tendencies, it’s helpful to find out how deeply they run.”

  * * *

  The House of the Floating Plums lay deep within the shadows of Pontocho, a tiny two-story teahouse squeezed between seedy-looking brothels. The overhanging upper floors of the buildings kept the earthen road in near-perpetual twilight, making it difficult to read the signs that identified businesses. Sunset would transform the dingy alley into a glittering paradise of paper lanterns, silk kimonos, and painted faces, but daytime Pontocho reminded Hiro of an aging prostitute without her makeup on.

  “This is it?” Father Mateo asked as they paused before the door.

  Hiro tried to see the teahouse as it looked through the Jesuit’s eyes. The pine façade had weathered to brownish-gray, with darker patches of rot beneath the eaves. The second story hung over the alley, almost touching the upper floor of the brothel across the street. No stone dogs or cherry trees adorned the entry. Instead, a hand-painted board read FLOATING PLUMS.

  “This is a brothel,” Father Mateo said.

  “Probably.” Hiro didn’t share the priest’s dismay.

  He knocked. Footsteps approached on the inside and a woman opened the door. Her plain blue kimono and narrow sash identified her as a servant. She bowed deeply at the sight of Hiro’s swords. As she straightened, she noticed the priest. Her mouth fell open in shock and her eyes grew wide. She covered her surprise with a second bow, though it didn’t give her quite enough time to recover her composure.

  “Is this the House of the Floating Plums?” Hiro asked.

  “Yes, sir, but I am sorry to say we do not open until evening. A thousand apologies. The girls are resting now.”

  “We are not customers,” Hiro said.

  The woman clasped her hands and bit her lower lip. Hiro understood her inner turmoil. She could not invite them in without incurring her mistress’s wrath, but leaving a samurai and a foreigner on the doorstep showed an appalling lack of hospitality.

  “We are here on official business,” Hiro added. “Please fetch your mistress.”

  The woman bowed and scurried away.

  “That was a lie,” Father Mateo said.

  Hiro raised an eyebrow at the priest. “Not as big as the one you told Nobuhide. Besides, I am on official business. Nobuhide is an official and I want to know his business.”

  The priest did not return his smile.

  Hiro grew frustrated. “I went along with your lie back at the teahouse.”

  “That was different. I told it to save Sayuri’s life.”

  “Which makes it all right with your god?”

  Father Mateo didn’t answer.

  Hiro laughed and the tension fell away. “I thought as much.” Then he grew serious. “I didn’t ask to get involved in this, and I still disagree with your decision, but we are involved now, and I will do whatever it takes to ensure that your head stays on your shoulders. A lie is only the beginning.”

  Hiro and Father Mateo stepped inside and seated themselves on the built-in wooden bench that ran along the left wall of the entry. Yellowish paper lined the wooden lattices. A smell of greasy smoke hung in the air, reminiscent of cheap food cooked too quickly and left out overnight.

  Ten minutes elapsed. Hiro passed the time by finding patterns in the stains on the walls.

  “I don’t think anyone is coming,” Father Mateo said at last.

  “The mistress would need time to dress and fix her makeup,” Hiro said. “She was probably still asleep.”

  A faint sound made Hiro look to the inner door. Moments later, a woman appeared in the doorway. She wore a silk kimono adorned with hand-painted butterflies. A purple silk obi glowed at her waist, and butterfly ornaments glittered in her graying hair. Her makeup did not quite hide the wrinkles around her eyes, though her cheeks and neck were smooth.

  Hiro bowed. “Good morning.”

  The woman frowned at the visitors. “You are not from the shogun or the magistrate. This establishment does not open until evening.”

  She gestured toward the door as though expecting them to leave.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience,” Hiro said. “We would like to see Umeha.”

  “Did Nobuhide send you?” she asked.

  “Are you expecting him?” Hiro countered.

  Her face revealed nothing. “I didn’t say that.”

  “We are investigating a murder,” Father Mateo said. “We need to speak with Umeha.”

  Hiro fought the urge to cover his face with his hand. The foreigner had a good grasp of Japanese culture, but had not yet mastered the art of indirection. At times he reminded Hiro of an impulsive toddler or an elderly woman devoid of self-control.

  “Murder?” The woman’s left hand crept to her throat. “There’s been no murder. Nobuhide was fine when he left this morning.”

  “Then Nobuhide was here,” Hiro said. The priest’s words may have been bullheaded, but they provided an opening the shinobi would not waste.

  She nodded. “He spent the night with Umeha. A messenger came for him a few hours ago. He was alive and well when he left. Whatever happened, it didn’t happen here.”

  “May we speak with Umeha,” Hiro asked, “to confirm your story?”

  “Wait here, I will get her for you.”

  Chapter 9

  As they waited to see Umeha, Hiro examined a parchment on the wall. Many teahouses placed decorative scrolls in the entry. In a high-class house the hanging might contain a poem or a landscape. At the House of the Floating Plums, it displayed a list of names. They appeared in no obvious order, though Hiro knew the most expensive girls usually appeared near the top.

  Umeha’s name appeared about halfway down the list, not close enough to the top for a pure entertainer though not necessarily low enough to indicate a prostitute.

  The establishment called itself a teahouse, but its location near the brothels at the center of Pontocho, as well as the scroll of names, suggested that its clientele could purchase more than merely drinks and singing. Umeha’s transfer provided a further clue. High-end houses preferred pure entertainers, women who might accept a single patron but who did not sleep with men for money as a normal enterprise. A woman defiled against her will lost value and desirability. Only a house of lesser status could accept her without losing face.

  Hiro decided to treat Umeha as a high-class entertainer and pretend that he knew nothing of her past. He needed inf
ormation, and flattery loosened feminine lips.

  The girl appeared in the doorway. She wore a pink kimono with a red-and-white-striped obi that highlighted her pale skin and delicate features. Although not as strikingly beautiful as Sayuri, she had an honest face and large, childlike eyes. She looked at most fifteen, though she had to be at least three or four years older. That, too, came as no surprise. Women in the pleasure districts treasured their youth and held it well. Their income depended on it.

  Umeha startled in surprise at the sight of Father Mateo, but quickly turned the movement into a bow.

  “Good morning, Honorable Gentlemen,” she said. She struggled with silence, then blurted out, “Has something happened to Nobuhide?”

  “No, he is well,” Hiro said.

  Umeha’s forehead wrinkled with concern. “Madame said…”

  “I’m afraid that was a ruse.” Hiro gave an embarrassed bow. “I wanted to speak with you, so I might have allowed her to think Nobuhide was killed.”

  Umeha looked from Hiro to the priest. She clasped her hands at her waist, the universal gesture of teahouse women trying to keep still. “I don’t understand.”

  “Nobuhide’s father is dead.” Hiro didn’t care about spreading the news. Word traveled fast in the floating world of the teahouses, and the Sakura’s location outside Pontocho made little difference where gossip was concerned. Every entertainer in Kyoto would know about the murder by evening, whether Hiro mentioned it or not.

  Umeha flushed, then paled.

  “He spent the night with me while his father was dying?” She covered her mouth with her hands and then tilted her head down so her fingers covered her face. Her shoulders heaved with sorrow, and possibly fear.

  “It is very sad,” Hiro said. “I am sorry to bear bad news.”

  He found the girl’s reaction curious, mostly because it seemed genuine. A courtesan or a prostitute would normally show more restraint. It suggested Nobuhide meant more to her than just a purse—which, in turn, suggested that Umeha had not been Nobuhide’s victim three years before. At least, not an unwilling victim.

  The girl removed her hands from her face. Her eyes were red but free of tears.

  “No, I’m glad you came.” A lopsided smile played at the corner of her lips despite her attempts to control it. “Akechi-san left so quickly when the messenger came. He barely spoke. I thought I made him angry by drinking too much last night. I did drink too much. I even fell asleep before…” She caught herself. “I fell asleep too early.”

  She raised a hand to her chest. “I shouldn’t feel better knowing his father is dead, but I hated thinking Nobuhide was mad at me.”

  “Is he often angry?” Hiro asked. He didn’t expect an honest answer, so it surprised him when Umeha shook her head vehemently and without hesitation.

  The lopsided smile returned, too, and this time she made no attempt to hide it. “Not at all. Nobu isn’t like that. He’s a wonderful patron. I don’t see anyone else. Last night he even undressed me and put me into bed.” She laughed. “My dress was so muddy! We must have gone to every bar in Pontocho.”

  “Do you remember which ones you went to?” Hiro asked.

  “I don’t remember anything after dinner.” She giggled. “But then, I never remember anything when I drink like that.”

  Her forehead furrowed. “I hope he isn’t angry, though.”

  Hiro gave her a reassuring smile. “I don’t think anyone could stay angry with you for long.”

  She smiled. “He did say he would come back tonight if he could.”

  “Does he visit you often?”

  “Every—” A red flush darkened her cheeks and crept across the bridge of her nose, like a little girl caught stealing candied plums. She shook her head. “I’m not supposed to talk about my patron. You know that.”

  “True enough,” Hiro said with a smile. “You caught me.”

  “I’m so sorry his father is dead,” Umeha said. “Nobuhide slept so well last night. I was sad to wake him when the messenger came, and now I’m even sadder.”

  “You did the right thing,” Hiro said, less to comfort Umeha than to extract himself from a conversation that had already served its purpose.

  Nobuhide’s alleged rape now sounded more like an affair discovered, after which Umeha claimed attack to avoid admitting that she had provided unpaid services on the sly. After her transfer to a less expensive house, they had formalized their arrangement, apparently to their mutual satisfaction.

  Umeha looked at Father Mateo and murmured, “I’ve never seen a foreigner. He’s not as pale as I thought a ghost would be, and he dresses almost like a real person.”

  “He speaks like one too,” Father Mateo said.

  Umeha’s jaw dropped open. Her hands flew up to hide her astonishment and she bowed repeatedly from the waist.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I apologize.”

  Father Mateo laughed. “Please, think nothing of it.”

  Hiro didn’t find it funny at all. If Umeha mentioned the priest to Nobuhide, the yoriki would know they had misled him about the Jesuit’s language skills.

  “Thank you for your time,” Hiro said. “Again, I apologize for the unnecessary fright.”

  Umeha’s smile returned. Open joy seemed to be her usual expression. “I don’t care,” she said, “as long as Nobu is all right.”

  “And as long as he’s not angry,” Hiro said.

  Umeha nodded.

  “I’m glad you don’t mind me bringing Father Mateo along,” Hiro added, “most people consider foreigners as unlucky as foxes and ghosts.”

  “Unlucky?” Umeha’s forehead furrowed. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Hiro said. “It’s not true, of course, but some samurai are superstitious. Nobuhide, for example. He thought the priest would defile his father’s body just by entering the room.”

  Umeha’s breathing grew shallow and her right hand crept to the base of her neck. “Really?” She looked terrified.

  Hiro bit his lower lip as though realizing the implication of his words. “I’m afraid he did.”

  Umeha looked as if she might start crying.

  Hiro raised a finger as though he had an idea. “I tell you what. I won’t mention our visit to Nobuhide. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  Umeha sighed with relief. “Thank you so much.”

  As Hiro and Father Mateo walked up the twisting alley away from the teahouse, the priest said, “I can’t believe you frightened that girl on purpose.”

  “I don’t want her to talk,” Hiro replied. “Nobuhide will be angry enough when he learns we were checking up on him. I’d rather not have him learn we lied as well.”

  “We did not lie,” Father Mateo said. “At least, I didn’t. I never claimed I didn’t speak Japanese.”

  “You went along with it,” Hiro replied, “and to samurai, that’s a lie.”

  They reached Shijō Road and turned right, toward the river.

  “At least we learned a little more about Nobuhide,” Hiro said. “I think his vicious streak was an act, concocted to save his purse from Mayuri’s wrath.”

  Father Mateo looked confused.

  “Men pay a higher rate for special services at a high-end house—much higher when the owner doesn’t want the girls to provide them, and astronomically high when the service and fee are not negotiated in advance.”

  Father Mateo nodded. “So Umeha claimed rape, and accepted dishonor, rather than confessing the affair.” He shook his head. “No woman should have to make such a choice.”

  Hiro didn’t answer. Despite the Jesuit’s interest in assimilation, the priest had several obstinate blind spots. Hiro had learned to ignore them when he could.

  A few paces farther down the road Father Mateo asked, “Wouldn’t Nobuhide have to pay for Umeha’s services anyway?”

  “Yes, but if Umeha claimed assault, Mayuri could only charge him for one night.”

  Chapter 10

  The sun stood
almost overhead by the time Hiro and Father Mateo returned to the church. As the priest stepped into the entry, an elderly female voice called, “Oi, Father Mateo, you’re back. I have your meal waiting.”

  Hiro followed the Jesuit inside as the woman rose from her bow. She had steel-gray hair and a dried-plum face that showed every one of her sixty-two years, along with a few that she hadn’t even lived yet. Her wrinkled cheeks creased in a smile that set her black eyes twinkling. Anyone could tell she adored the priest.

  “Have you had a nice morning?” she asked.

  “Very nice, thank you, Ana,” Father Mateo replied as he bowed.

  The elderly housekeeper had served as the previous owners’ nanny and maid and had stayed on when Father Mateo acquired the property. Her name was Ane, but she changed the pronunciation the moment she learned that Ana was a name in Portuguese.

  Her smile faded when she saw the shinobi.

  “Hiro,” she said. “I suppose you want rice?”

  She spoke like a parent addressing a child who spilled his food and asked for more, only to spill that too.

  “Thank you, Ana.” Hiro nodded respectfully. Samurai did not bend to servants, but the housekeeper inspired respect that transcended her station.

  “Hm.” She pointed to the hearth as she shuffled toward the kitchen. “Sit down.”

  Hiro and Father Mateo crossed to the hearth that dominated the oe, the large central room that functioned as a combination parlor and dining room. The sunken hearth sat six inches below the surrounding floor. It held a bed of dark sand upon which a small fire burned. A kettle hung over the fire, suspended on a chain that hung from a ceiling beam. Steam rose from the kettle and mingled with the tendrils of woodsmoke that curled toward the ceiling.

  The hearth fire could have cooked a meal, and did in smaller homes, but the priest’s house had a separate kitchen beyond the oe, where Ana did the cooking. Father Mateo initially tried to help, but the elderly woman resented any intrusion or assistance, particularly from a man whose efforts she viewed as a fire hazard.

  The priest knelt before the hearth, in the position facing the door. He knelt directly on the tatami, like a Japanese would, without any cushion or chair. Hiro took the place to Father Mateo’s left, on the side of the hearth normally used by the other members of a family.