Sano Ichiro 7 The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria (2002)

by Laura Joh Rowland

  These were distinct possibilities, given the circumstances, but Reiko said, “Just hope for the best. Don’t worry so much.” Though preoccupied with her own troubles, she tried to comfort Midori, and wondered why her friend was so upset.

  The exterior door slid open, letting in a rush of cold air. A somber, elderly maid entered. She announced, “I present the Honorable Lady Yanagisawa and her daughter, Kikuko.”

  Conversations died as everyone turned toward the newcomers who stepped hesitantly into their midst: a woman in her mid-thirties, and a little girl of perhaps eight years.

  “The chamberlain’s wife and child?” Midori whispered.

  “Yes.” Curiosity leavened Reiko’s spirits. “But why are they here? They’ve never attended these parties.”

  Lady Yanagisawa was utterly plain, with legs so bowed that they curved the skirt of her black brocade kimono, and a dour face so flat that all her features seemed to lie on the same plane. Her eyes were horizontal slits, her nostrils wide, her lips broad. In striking contrast, her daughter was a beauty, resplendent in a lavish pink kimono embroidered with silver birds. Kikuko had inherited her father’s tall, slender body., luminous black eyes, and sculpted features. She gazed at the assembly, her face oddly vacant.

  Womien hurried forward to welcome the pair. They seated Lady Yanagisawa and Kikuko in front of the alcove, where maids served them tea and snacks. As the women went up one by one to meet the exalted guests, Reiko eyed Lady Yanagisawa with covert fascination, because she’d always wondered about the wife of the man who had often schemed against Sano. When her turn came, Reiko took Masahiro by the handl and led him to the alcove. They knelt and bowed; an attendant introduced them.

  Lady Yanagisawa barely looked in their general direction. “It is an honor to meet you, Lady Reiko.” Her soft voice was rusty as if from disuse, her expression downcast.

  “The honor is mine,” Reiko said, noticing that Lady Yanagisawa wore no makeup, except for the brows drawn upon her shaven forehead, perhaps to show off her one good trait—smooth, flawless, moon-white skin.

  Masahiro gazed at Lady Yanagisawa with solemn childish scrutiny, and a fleeting smile rippled her somber aspect. He then thrust his chubby little hands toward Kikuko. “Hello,” he said.

  She giggled. Turning to her mother, she said in a high, sweet voice, “Mama, see boy. Nice boy. Funny boy.” Saliva welled in the corners of her lovely smile. Kikuko acted and sounded much younger than her years, and Reiko realized with a shock that Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s child was feebleminded. There was an uncomfortable silence until Reiko lit upon a topic for conversation.

  “Your daughter is very beautiful,” she said.

  “A thousand thanks for your kind compliment.” Lady Yanagisawa sighed as she watched Kikuko and Masahiro begin happily chasing each other around the room. “But alas, I fear Kikuko will never grow up.”

  Reiko felt a stab of pity for the woman, and ashamed of her own good fortune to have a normal child. “Masahiro is so glad to have Kikuko for a playmate,” she said.

  “. . . Yes.” Lady Yanagisawa’s gaze followed Kikuko. “I am glad to have her, too.” A fierce maternal love intensified her quiet voice. “Kikuko is a good, affectionate, obedient girl ... in spite of everything.”

  Could she mean, in spite of having Chamberlain Yanagisawa for a father? The chamberlain usurped the shogun’s authority; he’d slandered, persecuted, and assassinated his rivals. Did Lady Yanagisawa know? Did she wonder, as Reiko did, if his evils had damaged his child?

  Courtesy forbade Reiko to ask these personal questions. “Kikuko-chan is the image of her father,” she said, hoping that mentioning him would prompt revelations.

  “. . . Her father. Yes.”

  Lady Yanagisawa’s expression was ambiguous, her tone neutral. Reiko supposed that the marriage between Chamberlain and Lady Yanagisawa had been arranged for the same social, political, and economic reasons as most marriages, yet she wondered whether the woman loved her husband. Despite the chamberlain’s bad character, many women found him attractive, though it was no secret that he preferred men, and his status as the shogun’s longtime lover had elevated him to power. Certainly Lady Yanagisawa must know about his affair with Police Commissioner Hoshina, who lived with him. Yet she must share some intimacy with him, for the marriage had produced a child. The couple’s private life did indeed interest Reiko.

  Masahiro had picked up a chopstick, and he wielded it like a sword, darting about on his short legs while Kikuko giggled and applauded.

  Lady Yanagisawa said, “Your son is the image of his father.” An inflection in her voice suggested to Reiko that Lady Yanagisawa was interested in her life, too. “I hope the sōsakan-sama is well?”

  “He is, thank you,” Reiko said. How much did Lady Yanagisawa know about her husband’s relationship with Sano? This was another subject not easily broached. Kikuko and Masahiro began wrestling together, rolling on the floor and laughing. To fill the awkward silence, Reiko said, “Look at them—they’re friends.”

  “As I hope we can be,” Lady Yanagisawa murmured, and gave Reiko a look of cautious appeal. “In spite of everything.”

  Reiko realized that the woman did know about Sano and her husband, and had a sudden flash of insight. Lady Yanagisawa obviously had no charm to attract friends, and she must be quite lonely if she welcomed an association with the wife of a man who had a history of conflict with the chamberlain. Reiko’s heart wait out to her, and to Kikuko.

  “I hope so, too,” Reiko said.

  A timid smile and a flush of pleasure illuminated Lady Yanagisawa’ s plain face. “May I call upon you someday?”

  “I would be honored. And Masahiro would love to see Kikuko again,” Reiko said. But although she welcomed a chance to satisfy her curiosity about the woman, misgivings tempered her enthusiasm.

  Lady Yanagisawa inclined her head, signaling her dismissal of Reiko, who politely withdrew. After the introductions concluded, the musicians began playing again, and the party resumed; but Lady Yanagisawa’s presence inhibited festivity. The women made stilted small talk instead of discussing the murder, because everyone feared the powerful chamberlain and didn’t want to say anything about a controversial subject that might get them in trouble if his wife reported it to him. Lady Yanagisawa maintained her dour countenance, only spoke when directly addressed, and showed no interest in anyone. She sat isolated in the crowd.

  “Why did she come, if she thinks she’s so superior to us?” Midori whispered to Reiko.

  “I think she wants company, but is too shy to join in the party,” Reiko said.

  Presently, Lady Yanagisawa rose to leave and called to her daughter. As soon as they’d gone, the women burst into eager conversation about them. Masahiro, bereft of his playmate, hurled himself into Reiko’s lap and pouted.

  “Lady Yanagisawa is rather dull,” Midori said. “Do you really want to see her again?”

  “It might be better not to,” Reiko said.

  “Why?” Midori asked.

  Reiko hesitated to speak of delicate matters in public, but the other women were talking loudly and paying no attention to her and Midori. “Even though my husband and hers are at peace for the moment, I don’t trust anyone associated with the chamberlain,” Reiko said. “And my husband might not approve of my befriending Lady Yanagisawa.”

  The Black Lotus case had taught her that an unwise attachment could wreak havoc upon a marriage.

  “I hope Hirata-san’s family approves of me, and mine approve of him,” Midori said, her attention focused on her own problems. “But what harm could the friendship do to you?”

  “Maybe the war between my husband and Chamberlain Yanagisawa is about to begin again. Lady Yanagisawa could be a spy for her husband, and trying to get close to me, as part of a new plot against my husband.”

  “Maybe my family and Hirata-san’s will become friends at the miai tomorrow.” While pursuing her own train of thought, Midori said, “But I didn’t notic
e any sign that Lady Yanagisawa is mean enough to hurt you.”

  Nor had Reiko. But the Black Lotus had conditioned her to disbelieve what her own eyes, ears, and intuition told her. She’d begun to perceive threats everywhere, and hidden malice in everyone. Now Reiko experienced a stab of fear. How could she ever be a detective again, if she couldn’t distinguish between imagination and reality?

  The room around her suddenly seemed too small and full of noisy women. Was this trivial, petty, feminine world to be her whole life from now on? Fear turned to panic in Reiko; she involuntarily clutched Masahiro, until he yelped in protest. The craving for adventure remained in her blood, even after she’d faced her death at the Black Lotus Temple. She almost thought she would rather face death anew, in a thousand different ways, than resign herself to her present uneventful, suffocating existence.

  “I must ask my husband if I can work with him again,” she decided.

  “I’ll be happy for you if he says yes, because I know how badly you want that.” Sighing, Midori contemplated the blood that welled from her bitten cuticles. “And you can be happy for me if my miai goes well.”

  Yet even as Reiko had spoken, opposing concerns agitated her. She yearned to resume her partnership with Sano, and she couldn’t bear to sit by while a difficult case threatened their lives. She had useful talents that might help him, as they had in the past. She wanted excitement instead of boredom, action instead of idleness, renewed passion with Sano instead of cautious restraint. But the terror of making mistakes, and shattering what remained of their marriage, hollowed out a dark, ominous void in her heart.

  “I hope Hirata-san and I can marry soon,” Midori said.

  Still, her samurai spirit wouldn’t let Reiko bow to fear, nor accept defeat without a struggle. She said, “I hope I can join the investigation into the murder of the shogun’s heir.”

  * * *

  4

  The hunt for Lady Wisteria led Hirata into areas of Yoshiwara that few visitors ever saw. Accompanied by the proprietor of the Great Miura—who would recognize Wisteria on sight—Hirata searched every teahouse, shop, and brothel.

  He saw tayu lounging in lavish chambers, and women of the lower ranks crowded into dingy barracks. He saw bathtubs of scummy water crammed full of naked females. Little girls toiled in kitchens, and courtesans wolfed down food in storerooms because they weren’t allowed to eat in front of clients. Most of the women looked sullen, miserable, or resigned to their lot. In one house, they quarreled bitterly among themselves, like caged cats; in another, a girl lay moaning on a futon while a maid washed blood from between her legs. An odor of squalid humanity pervaded the brothels, and Yoshiwara completely lost its glamour for Hirata. Everywhere he went, he crossed paths with Police Commissioner Hoshina’s men, engaged in the same mission, but Lady Wisteria was nowhere to be found. No one had seen her since her procession to the ageya last night. She’d apparently vanished without a trace, as had her pillow book.

  Discouraged, Hirata made his way up Nakanochō. The quarter had grown colder and darker as the day waned. Snow continued to fall; white drifts lay alongside the buildings. Windblown flakes stung Hirata’s cheeks and glinted in the light from windows. The streets were empty, except for patrolling police, because all the visitors, still imprisoned in Yoshiwara by the locked gates, had sought shelter indoors. Hirata approached the gate, where two guards paced, muffled in cloaks and hoods. They halted and bowed to him.

  “Were you on duty last night?” Hirata asked them.

  One guard was lean with rough-hewn features, the other solid and swarthy. Both nodded.

  “Did Lady Wisteria go out the gate?” Hirata said.

  The swarthy man laughed in disdain. “Courtesans can’t sneak past us. They try, but we always catch them. Sometimes they disguise themselves as servants, but we know everyone here, and they can’t fool us.”

  “Women have bribed porters to carry them through in chests or barrels,” the lean guard said, “but we search every container before it leaves. They know there’s little chance of escaping, but they keep trying.”

  After what he’d seen today, Hirata didn’t blame the women. “But since Wisteria’s not in Yoshiwara, she must have gotten out somehow.”

  He and the guards looked beyond the snow-laced rooftops at the wall that enclosed the pleasure quarter. It had a smooth, plastered surface, and alleys separated it from the buildings. “She would have had to climb on a roof, jump to the top of the wall, and cross the moat on the other side,” said the lean guard. “No woman has ever managed that.”

  “What do you think happened to Wisteria?” said Hirata.

  The men glanced at each other, then shook their heads. “We didn’t let her out,” the swarthy man said.

  “We’ll swear to it on our lives,” said the other.

  Their emphatic declarations didn’t hide their fear that they would be punished severely for the disappearance of a suspect in the murder. Hirata sympathized with them, for his own future was threatened. If he and Sano failed in their duty to catch the killer, he would be demoted, exiled, or forced to commit ritual suicide; he would never marry Midori. Hirata thought of their upcoming miai, and joy and apprehension entwined inside him.

  He had fancied himself in love many times during his twenty-five years, but never felt such affection or longing for any woman until Midori. They had come to believe they’d been lovers in a former life, and their souls destined to reunite. And spiritual affinity engendered physical passion. Desire for each other made them all the more impatient for marriage. However, marriage wasn’t so easily accomplished as falling in love. Hirata hoped the meeting between his family and Midori’s would have happy results, and feared that the case would prevent his attending the miai.

  Banishing personal worries, he concentrated on the problem at hand. Maybe Wisteria had turned invisible and spirited herself away; but Hirata favored simpler solutions. Whether she’d left the pleasure quarter alive or dead, someone must have devised a practical way to smuggle a courtesan out of Yoshiwara.

  “Lady Wisteria was last seen by her yarite sometime after the hour of the boar,” Hirata said. “Who left Yoshiwara between then and the time Lord Mitsuyoshi’s murder was discovered?”

  The guards’ postures stiffened. “No one did,” said the lean man. “The gates are locked after curfew at midnight. Everyone who’s inside Yoshiwara then has to stay until morning. It’s the law.”

  “But not everyone stayed last night, did they?” Hirata said, for he knew that enough money could buy a passage out of Yoshiwara after curfew. Seeing the guards’ expressions turn fearful, he said, “I won’t punish you for taking bribes, so just tell me: Who left the quarter last night?”

  The men exchanged leery glances; then the lean man said reluctantly, “There was Kinue the oil merchant, with some servants and friends.”

  Hirata knew that the merchant owned a major shop in Nihonbashi. “Who else?”

  “A group from the Mori clan, and their bodyguards,” said the swarthy man.

  This news piqued Hirata’s interest: The Mori were powerful gangsters, associated with trouble of all kinds.

  “And Nitta Monzaemon, the treasury minister,” said the lean guard, “with his retainers.”

  Hirata frowned, disturbed by the idea that high bakufu officials might be involved in Wisteria’s disappearance and Lord Mitsuyoshi’s murder. “How did all these people travel?”

  “Kinue’s party walked to and from the river ferries,” said the swarthy guard. “The Mori group rode the causeway.”

  Because the law granted only samurai the right to travel on horseback, the merchant had gone on foot. The Mori, however, were rōnin—masterless samurai—and could therefore ride. It seemed unlikely to Hirata that Lady Wisteria had accompanied either party. Women didn’t ride, and if Wisteria had done so last night, she would have risked notice by patrolling soldiers. A woman walking with a group of men would have been just as conspicuous. But a desperate fugitive cou
rtesan might have taken the risk, if she’d found willing accomplices.

  “Treasury Minister Nitta’s retainers also rode,” said the lean guard. “But he had a palanquin waiting for him outside the quarter.”

  Excitement warmed Hirata’s cold muscles. The palanquin made Nitta a more promising lead than the others. However Wisteria had gotten out of Yoshiwara, the palanquin could have afterward carried her off, in safety and privacy, to a destination known to the treasury minister. Hirata thanked the guards and trudged through the swirling snowflakes to find Sano.

  The twenty other guests who’d attended last night’s party at the Owariya were high-ranking bakufu members and their retainers. During a lengthy search of Yoshiwara, Sano and his detectives located six of the men, as well as the courtesans who’d entertained them at the ageya, and learned that they’d stayed together during the time when the murder occurred. Apparently, none of these people had left the party to slip upstairs, and none had reason to kill the shogun’s heir. Sano then tracked down five more guests at the Tsutaya teahouse.

  The Tsutaya occupied the ground floor of a building near the quarter’s rear wall. A cylindrical lantern over the doorway bore the characters of its name; light gleamed between the slats of the closed shutters across the front. Sano dusted snow off himself and entered. Inside the elegant room, an alcove held a porcelain vase of bare branches, and maids served drinks to the five men. Charcoal braziers emitted warmth, but when everyone turned to look at Sano, their unfriendly expressions chilled the atmosphere.

  A man seated before the alcove spoke: “Greetings, Sōsakan-sama.” Sano knelt and bowed. “Greetings, Honorable Senior Elder Makino.” The senior elder was one of five officials who advised the Tokugawa on national policy and comprised the bakufu’s highest echelon. He had an emaciated body, and his bony skull showed through the tight skin of his face; a black kimono accentuated his deathlike pallor. His retainers, who doubled as secretaries and bodyguards, sat grouped around him.