Lady Ichiteru spoke in the trailing, mannered speech of a highborn woman: “…pleased to make your acquaintance…. Of course I shall help with your inquiry in any way I can…”
Her voice was a husky murmur that insinuated its way into Hirata’s mind like dark, intoxicating smoke. She raised a silk fan, covering the lower half of her face. By lowering her eyelids and inclining her head, she invited Hirata to sit beside her. He did so, with an absentminded glance at Midori when she took the tea tray from him and began passing out refreshments to the party, her face unhappy. Then Hirata forgot Midori completely.
“I—I want to know—” he floundered, trying to collect his wits. Lady Ichiteru’s perfume cloaked him in the potent, bittersweet scent of exotic flowers. Hirata felt horribly conscious of his cropped hair; the disguise that had saved his life in Nagasaki made him look more peasant than samurai. “What was your relationship with Lady Harume?”
“Harume was a pert little thing…” Ichiteru shrugged delicately, and her kimono slid further off her shoulders, exposing the tops of her full breasts. Hirata, wrenching his gaze back to her face, felt himself grow erect. “…but she was a common peasant. Hardly a person with whom a member of the imperial family …such as I…should have cared to associate.” Ichiteru’s nostrils flared in haughty disdain.
Through a haze of desire, Hirata recalled Madam Chizuru’s statement. “But weren’t you jealous when Harume came to the castle and—and—took your place in His Excellency’s, uh, bedchamber?”
The last word was no sooner spoken than he longed to snatch it back. Why couldn’t he have said “affections,” or some other polite euphemism for Lady Ichiteru’s relations with the shogun? Mortified by his own crassness, Hirata regretted that nothing in his police experience had prepared him for discussing intimate matters with women of high class. He should have let Sano question Lady Ichiteru! Now, against his will, Hirata imagined a scene in Tokugawa Tsunayoshi’s private suite: Lady Ichiteru on the futon, disrobing; and in place of the shogun, Hirata himself. Excitement heated his blood.
A hint of a smile played upon Lady Ichiteru’s lips—did she know what he was thinking? Eyes lowered meekly, she said, “What right have I…a mere woman …to mind my lord’s choice of companion? And if Harume had not succeeded me, someone else would have.” A shadow of emotion crossed her serene features. “I am in my twenty-ninth year.”
“I see.” Hirata recalled that concubines retired after that age, to marry, become palace officials, or return to their families. So Ichiteru was eight years older than he. Suddenly the chaste young girls he’d considered as prospective brides seemed dull, unattractive. “Well, ah,” he said, groping for the line of inquiry he’d begun.
A maid passed Lady Ichiteru a plate of dried cherries. She took one, then said to Hirata, “Will you partake of refreshment?”
“Yes, thank you.” Grateful for the distraction, he popped a cherry in his mouth.
Ichiteru pursed her lips and opened them. Slowly she inserted the fruit, pushing it in with her fingertip. Hirata gulped, swallowing his cherry whole. He’d often seen women eat this way, careful not to touch food to their lips and smear the rouge. But on Lady Ichiteru, it looked so erotic. Her long, smooth fingers seemed made for holding, stroking, and inserting into bodily orifices…
Shamed by his thoughts, Hirata said, “There were reports that you and Lady Harume didn’t get along.”
“Edo Castle is full of gossips who have nothing better to do than malign other people,” she murmured. Face averted, she daintily extracted the cherry pit from her mouth.
On its own volition, Hirata’s hand reached out. Ichiteru dropped the seed into his palm. It was warm and moist with her saliva. He gazed at her in helpless lust until the loud, insistent clacking of wooden clappers sounded. He looked up to see that the audience now filled the theater; the play was about to start. A man dressed in black walked in front of the stage and announced, “The Satsuma-za welcomes you to the premier performance of Tragedy at Shimonoseki, which is based upon a true story of recent events.” He recited the names of the chanter, puppeteers, and musicians, then shouted, “Tozai—hear ye!”
From behind the curtain came melancholy samisen music. A painted backdrop showing a garden appeared above the curtain. The chanter’s disembodied voice uttered a series of wails, then intoned, “In the fifth month of Genroku year two, in the provincial city of Shimonoseki, the beautiful, blind Okiku awaits the return of her husband, a samurai who is in Edo attending his lord. Her sister Ofuji comforts her.”
The audience cheered as two female puppets with painted wooden heads, long black hair, and bright silk kimonos made their entrance. One had a sad, pretty face; her eyes were closed to indicate Okiku’s blindness. While she simulated weeping, the chanter’s voice altered to a high, feminine pitch: “Oh, how I miss my dear Jimbei. He’s been gone so long; I shall perish of loneliness.”
Her sister Ofuji was plain, with a frown slanting her brows. “You’re lucky to have such a fine man,” the chanter said in a lower tone. “Pity me, with no husband at all.” Then he informed the audience, “In her blindness, Okiku does not see that Ofuji is in love with Jimbei, or that her sister envies her good fortune and wishes her ill.”
Okiku sang a sad love song, accompanied by samisen, flute, and drum. The audience stirred in expectancy; a loud buzz of conversation arose: silence during performances was not a habit of Edo theatergoers. Hirata, still clutching Lady Ichiteru’s cherry pit, forced his thoughts back to the investigation.
“Did you know that Lady Harume was going ta tattoo herself?” he asked.
“…I was not on such intimate terms with Harume that she would confide in me.” From behind her fan, Ichiteru favored Hirata with a glance that slid over him like a warm breath. “I have heard shocking rumors…. Tell me, if I may be so bold to ask…. Where on Harume’s person was the tattoo?”
Hirata gulped. “It was on her, uh,” he faltered. Did she really not know the location of the tattoo? Was she innocent? “It was, uh—”
The faintest amusement curved Lady Ichiteru’s lips.
“Above her crotch,” Hirata blurted. Shame washed over him like a tide of boiling water. Had Ichiteru deliberately manipulated him into using the crude term? She was so provocative, yet so elegant. How would he ever finish this interview? Wretchedly, Hirata stared at the stage.
Okiku’s song had ended. Now a sly, handsome samurai puppet sidled onto the stage. “Jimbei’s younger brother Bannojo is secretly in love with Okiku and wants her for himself,” the chanter narrated. Bannojo beckoned to Ofuji. Unobserved by the blind Okiku, the pair conspired. Jealous Ofuji agreed to let the covetous Bannojo into the house that night. The music turned discordant. Murmurs of anticipation swept the audience. Hirata grasped at the shreds of his professional demeanor. “Had you been in Lady Harume’s room prior to her death?” he asked.
“It would degrade one to enter the chamber of a vulgar peasant. One just…” insinuation filmed Ichiteru’s covert glance “…doesn’t.”
If she hadn’t gone into Harume’s room, did that mean she couldn’t have poisoned the ink? Despite his police training, Hirata was unable to think clearly or follow the logic of the interrogation, because Lady Ichiteru’s remark had pierced the heart of his insecurity. He felt vulgar in her presence; it seemed she was rejecting him, as she had Harume, as unworthy of her regard. Humiliation edged his desire.
Onstage, a new backdrop appeared: a bedchamber, with a crescent moon in the window to indicate night. Beautiful Okiku lay asleep while Ofuji let Bannojo into the room. Warning cries came from the audience.
Okiku stirred and sat up. “Who’s there?” The chanter made her voice high, frightened.
“It is I, Jimbei, home from Edo,” the chanter answered for Bannojo. Then he explained, “His voice is so like his brother’s, and her longing for her husband so great, that she believes his lie.”
The couple sang a joyous duet. Then they tugged each other’s sash
es loose. Garments fell away, revealing her large breasts, his upright organ. This was the advantage of puppet theater: scenes too explicit for live actors could be shown. Bawdy cheers filled the courtyard as Okiku and Bannojo embraced. Hirata, already too aroused, could hardly bear it. His manhood fully erect now, he feared that Lady Ichiteru and everyone else would notice his condition. Trying to sound businesslike, he said, “Have you ever seen a square, black lacquer bottle of ink with Lady Harume’s name written in gold on the stopper?”
An involuntary gulp caught in his throat. While Ofuji watched from outside the door, Bannojo mounted Okiku. Amid sinuous music, the chanter’s moans, and the audience’s raucous exclamations, the puppets simulated the sexual act. Hirata squirmed, but Ichiteru viewed the drama with tranquil detachment.
“When one sees a fancy container of ink…one naturally assumes that it is for writing letters …” Another veiled glance. “Perhaps letters of…love.”
The last word, spoken on a whisper, sent a shiver through Hirata. Lady Ichiteru raised her hand to her temple, as if to brush away a stray hair. Without looking at him, she lowered her hand, letting the wide sleeve of her kimono fall across Hirata’s lap. His loins throbbed at the sudden pressure of its heavy fabric; he gasped. Had she done it by accident, or deliberately? How should he respond?
He tried to concentrate on the continuing drama onstage, where morning had come, bringing the unexpected-arrival of Okiku’s husband, Jimbei. Ofuji triumphantly informed him that his wife and brother had betrayed him. Jimbei, the stern, noble samurai, confronted his wife. Okiku tried to explain the cruel trick played upon her, but honor demanded revenge. Jimbei stabbed his wife through the chest. Ofuji begged him to marry her, swearing eternal love for him, but Jimbei stormed off in search of his duplicitous brother.
Under cover of her sleeve, Lady Ichiteru’s hand moved onto Hirata’s thigh. She began to massage it. Hirata felt her touch as if against his naked flesh, warm and smooth. Breathing hard, he hoped the audience was too engrossed in the play to see. Lady Ichiteru’s impassive expression didn’t change. But now he knew that her provocation was intentional. She had maneuvered their whole encounter to this point.
In the city marketplace, Bannojo learned of Okiku’s death. He rushed to the house and slew the treacherous Ofuji. Just then Jimbei arrived. Accompanied by wild music, the chanter’s cries, and shouted encouragement from the audience, the brothers drew their swords and fought. Hirata, almost oblivious to the drama, felt his own excitement rise as Lady Ichiteru’s hand crept stealthily to his groin. This shouldn’t be happening. It was wrong. She belonged to the shogun, who would have them both killed if this dalliance became known. Hirata knew he should stop her, but the thrill of forbidden contact held him immobile.
Ichiteru’s finger circled the tip of his manhood. Hirata swallowed a moan. Around and around. Then she grasped the rigid shaft and began to stroke. Up and down. Hirata’s heart thudded; his pleasure mounted. Onstage, the wronged husband, Jimbei, delivered the fatal slash to his brother. Bannojo’s wooden head flew off. Up and down moved Ichiteru’s hand, her movements expert. Tense and breathless, Hirata approached the brink of climax. He forgot the murder investigation. He no longer cared if anyone saw.
Then Jimbei, overcome with grief, committed seppuku beside the corpses of his wife, brother, and sister-in-law. Suddenly the play was over, the audience applauding. Ichiteru withdrew her hand.
“Farewell, Honorable Detective …this has been a most interesting meeting.” Eyes modestly downcast, fan shielding her face, she bowed. “If you need my further assistance …please let me know.”
Hirata, denied the release he craved, gaped in helpless frustration. From Ichiteru’s demeanor, the incident might never have taken place. Too confused to speak, Hirata rose to leave, struggling to recall what he’d learned from the interview. How could a woman he wanted so much be a cold-blooded killer? For the first time in his career, Hirata felt his professional objectivity slipping.
From behind the stage curtain, the chanter’s solemn voice intoned, “You have just seen a true story of how treachery, forbidden love, and blindness caused a terrible tragedy. We thank you for attending.”
11
Eta corpse handlers placed the shrouded body on the table in Dr. Ito’s workroom at Edo Morgue. Sano and Dr. Ito watched as Mura unwrapped the white folds of cloth from Lady Harume. Her eyes had dulled, and encroaching decay had blanched her skin. The foul, sweet odor of rot tainted the air. She still wore the soiled red silk dressing gown; blood and vomit still smeared her face and tangled hair. Hirata had indeed made sure that no one tampered with the evidence. Having known what to expect, Sano experienced only a momentary pang of revulsion, but Dr. Ito seemed shaken.
“So young,” he murmured. As morgue custodian, he had examined countless bodies in worse condition; yet lines of pain deepened in his face, aging him. He said in a bleak voice, “I had a daughter. Once.”
Sano recalled that Ito’s youngest child had died of a fever at about the same age as Harume. He’d also lost contact with his other children upon his arrest. Sano and Mura stood silent, heads bowed in respect for their friend’s grief, so seldom expressed. Then Dr. Ito cleared his throat and spoke in his normal brisk, professional manner. “Well. Let us see what the victim can tell us about her murder.”
He walked around the table, studying Harume’s corpse. “Dilated pupils; muscular spasm; vomiting of blood—symptoms that confirm my original diagnosis of poison by Indian arrow toxin. But perhaps there is more to learn. Mura, would you please remove her garment?”
Despite his unconventional nature, Dr. Ito followed the custom of letting the eta handle the dead. Hence, Mura performed most of the physical work of examinations, under his master’s supervision. Now he took a knife and cut the robe away from Harume’s rigid form. The dark nipples and tattoo contrasted harshly with her waxen pallor. Her limbs were smooth and shaved hairless, her skin without blemish. Sano felt rude to violate the privacy of this woman who had obviously taken care over her personal grooming.
Dr. Ito bent over the corpse’s midsection, frowning. “There’s something here.” He spread a white cotton cloth over Lady Harume’s abdomen, then pressed his hands against her, the cloth shielding him from the polluting contact with death. His fingers palpated and squeezed.
“What is it?” Sano asked.
“A swelling. It may be an artifact of the poison, or some other unrelated abnormality.” Dr. Ito straightened, his expression grave as he met Sano’s eyes. “But I’ve treated many female patients in my medical career. Unless I’m mistaken, Lady Harume was in the early stages of pregnancy.”
A heavy weight of dismay thudded inside Sano’s chest like an iron clapper in a temple bell. Pregnancy would have serious ramifications for the murder case, and for Sano as well.
Dr. Ito’s gaze conveyed unspoken concern and understanding, but he was not a man to shy away from the truth. “A dissection is the only way to tell for sure.”
Sano drew a deep breath and held it, containing the fear that burgeoned within him. Dissection, a procedure associated with foreign science, was just as illegal as when Dr. Ito had been arrested. During other investigations, Sano had risked banishment and disgrace for the sake of knowledge. So far the bakufu hadn’t discovered his involvement in taboo practices—even the most avid spies avoided Edo Morgue—but Sano feared that his luck would run out. He dreaded verification of Harume’s condition, and the consequential danger. However, a pregnancy offered myriad possible motives for Harume’s murder. Without exploring these, Sano might never identify her killer. And he never evaded the truth, either. Now he exhaled in resignation.
“All right,” he said to Dr. Ito. “Go ahead.”
At a nod from his master, Mura fetched a long, thin knife from a cabinet. Dr. Ito removed the cloth from Lady Harume’s abdomen. In the air over it, he sketched lines with his forefinger: “Cut here, and here, like so.” Carefully, Mura inserted the sharp blade into the dead
flesh, making a long horizontal slash below the navel, then two shorter, perpendicular cuts at each end of the first. He drew back the flaps of skin and tissue, exposing coiled pink bowels.
“Remove those,” Dr. Ito instructed.
A strong fecal odor arose as Mura cut away the bowels and placed them in a tray. Nausea clutched Sano’s stomach; the unclean aura of ritual contamination enveloped him. No matter how many times he observed dissections, they still sickened his body and spirit. He saw, within the cavity of Lady Harume’s corpse, a fleshy, pear-shaped structure about the size of a man’s fist. From this extended two thin, curved tubes, the ends fanning out in fibrous growths resembling sea anemones, meeting two grapelike sacs.
“The organs of life,” Dr. Ito explained.
Shame exacerbated Sano’s discomfort. What right had he, a man and stranger, to look upon the most private parts of a dead woman’s body? Yet growing curiosity compelled his attention while Mura sliced into the womb, then laid it open. Inside nestled a frothy inner capsule of tissue. And curled within this, a tiny unborn child, like a naked pink salamander, no longer than Sano’s finger.
“So you were right,” Sano said. “She was pregnant.”
The child’s bulbous head dwarfed its body. The eyes were black spots in a barely formed face; the hands and feet mere paws attached to frail limbs. Threadlike red veins chased the skin, which stretched across ridges of delicate bone. A twisted cord connected the navel to the womb’s lining. The vestige of a tail elongated the diminutive rump. As Sano stared at this new wonder, awe overcame him. How miraculous was the creation of life! He thought of Reiko. Would their troubled marriage succeed and produce children who would survive, as this one had not? His hopes seemed as fragile as the dead infant. Then professional and political concerns eclipsed Sano’s domestic problems.
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