Shinju

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Yes, yes, that’s me. But everyone calls me Cherry Eater.” With a self-deprecating laugh, the proprietor touched his birthmark.

  Sano thought the name had a second, lewder meaning, as the man’s sly glance seemed to suggest.

  Cherry Eater pulled a print from the nearest rack. “Perhaps you prefer classical art, sir?”

  Sano winced when he saw the print, a crude copy of the ancient painting He-gassen, “Fart Battle.” In it, two samurai on horseback blew farts at each other from bared buttocks. The artist had rendered the farts as huge, colored clouds of fumes.

  “A fine tribute to your heroic ancestors,” Cherry Eater suggested.

  “No, thank you.” Sano, nettled by the implied insult, eyed the proprietor for signs of irony or deliberate malice, but met with only a polite, bland gaze. “Actually, I’ve come to talk to you about your employee, Noriyoshi.”

  Before he could introduce himself, Cherry Eater exclaimed, “Ahhh! Why didn’t you say so?” With a knowing nod, he ushered Sano to a display rack at the rear of the shop. “Sadly the great artist Noriyoshi has departed from this world. But I have here his most recent work. His best work, I might add. You like it? Yes?”

  Looking at the prints, Sano immediately understood how the Okubata Fine Arts Company made its money: by selling shunga—erotic art—to a select clientele. The other prints were nothing but window dressing. Noriyoshi’s work showed amorous couples in every possible position and setting: In a bedchamber, with the man on top of the woman; in a garden, with the spread-legged woman seated in the fork of a tree and a standing man thrusting into her. Some pictures included third parties, such as maids assisting the couples, or voyeurs peeping through windows at them. Noriyoshi had depicted costumes, surroundings, and genitalia in great detail. A large print showed a reclining samurai, his swords on the floor next to him, his robes parted to expose a huge erection. With one hand he fondled the crotch of the nude maiden lying beside him; with the other, he drew her hand toward his organ. The caption read:

  Indeed, indeed

  With all their hearts

  Sharing love’s bed:

  Caressing her Jeweled Gateway and taking

  The girl’s hand, causing her to grasp his

  Jade Shaft: what girl’s face will not

  Blush, her breath come faster?

  All the prints were technically superior to the works at the front of the shop. The colors were clear and harmonious, the drawing masterful. In addition, they had a sensuous grace not usually found in common shunga. Sano felt himself growing aroused against his will.

  “Perhaps Noriyoshi’s pictures can assist you in your romantic endeavors,” Cherry Eater said helpfully.

  This jab at his sexual prowess, whether or not intentional, jolted Sano out of his reverie. The proprietor was either a very subtle wag, or too thoughtless to realize how his remarks might affect his customers. Turning away from the prints, Sano said sharply, “That’s none of your business. And I’m not here to buy.”

  When he introduced himself, he watched with some satisfaction as Cherry Eater’s face blanched so that the birthmark stood out like a fiery rash. The proprietor’s eyes flew toward the pictures. The absence of round red censors’ seals clearly identified them as contraband, their sale or possession illegal.

  “I’m not concerned about your merchandise, either,” Sano hastened to add. “I’d like you to answer some questions about Noriyoshi.”

  Color flooded back into Cherry Eater’s face. “If I can, sir. Ask me anything at all.” He grinned, expansive in his relief.

  To put the man at ease and avoid provoking his suspicion, Sano began with an innocuous question. “How long did Noriyoshi work for you?”

  “Oh, not long enough.”

  Despite Cherry Eater’s innocent smile, Sano began to understand that the proprietor’s jabs and wisecracks were indeed intentional, delivered in an apparent earnestness that would fool most people. Annoyed, he frowned a warning.

  Mischief lit Cherry Eater’s eyes as he counted on his fingers. “Noriyoshi was with me six … seven years.”

  Long enough for them to know each other well, Sano thought. “What kind of man was he?”

  “Much like any other. He had two eyes, a nose …”

  Sano’s annoyance grew. He glared at Cherry Eater, touching his sword to underscore the threat.

  Cherry Eater’s insectile eyes goggled; his smile vanished. Obviously realizing that he’d gone too far, he amended quickly, “Oh, Noriyoshi was a very capable artist. Very prolific. His work sold well. I’ll miss him.”

  Sano said patiently, “No, I mean what was he like as a person? Friendly? Popular?”

  Cherry Eater grinned. “Oh, not very popular. But he did have many friends, I would say.” He gestured toward the street. “All over the quarter.”

  “Tell me their names.” Except for having to accommodate the proprietor’s irritating nature, this was going better than Sano had expected.

  Cherry Eater mentioned several, all men who worked as artists or in Yoshiwara’s teahouses or restaurants.

  Sano committed each name to memory. “No women?” he asked.

  “No, sir, none that I know of. Except for the young lady who died with him.”

  A movement caught Sano’s eye. He looked down. Although Cherry Eater’s expression hadn’t changed, he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. This, along with the unexpected straight answer, told Sano that the art dealer was lying. His body and manner were betraying him.

  To throw Cherry Eater off guard, Sano changed the subject. “Did Noriyoshi have any family in town?”

  The feet stopped shifting. “No, sir. But plenty in the spirit world. He told me they all perished in the Great Fire.”

  “Who were Noriyoshi’s enemies?”

  “He had no enemies, yoriki,” Cherry Eater answered blandly. “He was very well liked.”

  Sano waited for a wisecrack; it never came. He watched the art dealer’s shifting feet. “You may as well tell me,” he said. “If you don’t, I’ll find out from someone else. Are you so sure you can trust your friend—” he recited the list of names Cherry Eater had given him “—not to talk?”

  “I am most sorry to say that I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.” Shift, shift. The floorboards creaked under Cherry Eater.

  “Who is Noriyoshi’s woman friend?”

  Cherry Eater folded his arms across his concave chest. “With all due respect, yoriki, I do not like the way you are addressing me. You’re calling me a liar.” Evidently his decision to bluff had calmed him; his feet stood firm. “Either arrest me and take me before the magistrate, or else please leave my shop!”

  Sano closed his eyes briefly. Self-disgust withered him. Inexperienced as he was, he’d mishandled the interview. Cherry Eater wouldn’t tell him anything now. He could hardly arrest the man for refusing to answer questions about what was officially a suicide, and he didn’t even dare arrest him for selling contraband artwork or insulting a police officer. Magistrate Ogyu had already made it clear that he didn’t want his yoriki doing doshin’s work. Besides, he couldn’t let Ogyu learn that he was investigating the deaths of Noriyoshi and Yukiko until he could prove they were murders.

  “I didn’t intend any offense,” he said, hating to offer apologies in return for insults and teasing, but hoping to placate Cherry Eater enough to let him see where Noriyoshi had lived. He wanted to get some feeling for the man and an idea about what could have driven someone to kill him. “I didn’t come to arrest you or demean your character. I only want information for my records, and you’ve been most cooperative. Now I ask you to grant me a small request. May I see Noriyoshi’s living quarters?”

  “Of course, sir.” Cherry Eater seemed glad for an excuse to stop talking about Noriyoshi’s women and enemies. He slid open a section of the wall to reveal a dim passageway. “This way.”

  Sano followed him down the passage and out into a narrow dirt courtyard. One sid
e was bounded by the wall of the shop next door. Along the other ran a flimsy shedlike building with a narrow veranda. At the back, a privy, a woodpile, and a row of ceramic storage urns stood against a bamboo fence. The bitter, acrid smell of ink overlaid the more familiar odors of sewage and sawdust. Cherry Eater led him past the shed. Through its open doors, Sano could see three identical cubicles. In each, an artist knelt at a sloping desk. One was cutting lines in a block of wood with a metal gouge. A second inked a finished block and pressed it against a sheet of white paper. The other was adding color to a finished print.

  Cherry Eater stopped before the closed door of a fourth cubicle. “Noriyoshi’s,” he said, sliding it open.

  Sano entered, stepping around the two pairs of wooden sandals on the veranda. His head grazed the low ceiling. Like the others, the room was very small; the desk against one wall took up much of the floor and left just enough space for a man to sleep. Frayed, sawdust-strewn mats covered the floor. Beside the desk a wooden toolbox lay open, revealing a collection of knives, picks, and gouges. A fresh block of wood sat on the desk. Next to it was an ink sketch, and a pot of crusty, dried wheat paste with a brush stuck in it. Noriyoshi had evidently been preparing to transfer the drawing to the woodblock for carving. Sano did a double take when he looked at the sketch. It was a shunga piece, in the same style as those in the shop, but featuring two men.

  “A special edition for a special client, heh, heh.” Cherry Eater hovered at Sano’s elbow, grinning and rubbing his hands together. “Samurai often have an interest in such things, no?”

  Sano ignored the hint. Although he had never practiced manly love, nor wanted to, he shared the prevailing opinion of this and other sexual matters: whatever people do in private is all right as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else. Besides, he was tired of the art dealer’s innuendos and didn’t much care what Cherry Eater thought of him or his class. He turned to a battered wooden cabinet that stood against the wall opposite the desk.

  The mended garments, worn bedding, chipped crockery, and collection of inks, brushes, charcoal sticks, and sketches he found inside told him nothing he didn’t already know: that Noriyoshi had been an artist of some talent and limited income. Sano was finishing a cursory inspection of some cotton kimonos when his hand touched something hard. He pulled out a small drawstring pouch. Its weight surprised him—until he opened it and saw the gold koban inside. There must have been at least thirty of the shiny oval coins, enough to keep a large family in comfort for a year. Surely too much for a poor artist to possess, or to earn by legitimate means.

  “Do you know where this came from?” Sano asked Cherry Eater.

  With amazing swiftness, Cherry Eater’s hand flicked out and snatched the pouch. He tucked it into his coat, saying, “It’s mine. Noriyoshi sometimes collected payments for me.”

  Sano looked from the proprietor’s innocent face to his feet. Frustration mounted as he watched them shift: Cherry Eater was lying again. Sano resisted the impulse to beat the truth out of the man. His better instincts told him to have patience and seek another path to knowledge. If he didn’t find it, he could always come back to the shop.

  “Thank you for your kind cooperation,” he said. “May I have a word with your employees now?” Maybe they could tell him more about Noriyoshi’s activities.

  A short time later, Sano walked back through the passage to the shopfront more frustrated than ever. The three artists, all at least twenty years younger than Noriyoshi, had not known their colleague well. They’d only worked there for a year since coming to Edo from the provinces, they said; he hadn’t spent much time with them, and they didn’t know where he went or with whom he associated during his leisure hours. Sano questioned each man alone, and he thought they were telling the truth. If Noriyoshi’s friends proved as close-mouthed as Cherry Eater, he would have to canvass the whole quarter in search of someone who could and would give him more information. Maybe Tsunehiko could help, he thought without much hope. He wondered where the boy was.

  When he reached the shop, he found Cherry Eater talking to a frail, bald man who stood outside in the street. The man carried a long staff in one hand and a wooden flute in the other. Their voices were low, urgent.

  Cherry Eater, seeing Sano, abruptly stopped talking. He said to the man, “Go now. We’ll talk again later.”

  But the man reached out a hand to Sano. “Master samurai! I am Healing Hands, the best blind masseur in Edo! Do you have pains, or nervous complaints? Allow me to relieve them for you! My skills are legendary, my price low.” He cast his sightless eyes up at Sano. Cloudy and pale, they resembled those of a dead fish.

  Sano wondered how the blind man knew he was a samurai. Cherry Eater must have told him, or maybe Healing Hands had smelled his hair oil. The blind did have sharp noses.

  “I can entertain you with stories while I work, master,” the masseur went on. “Would you like to hear an example?”

  Without prompting, he launched into his narrative. “‘The Dog Shogun.’” His scratchy voice took on a sing-song quality. “Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, although an able ruler and a great man, has so far failed to produce an heir. His mother, the Lady Keishoin, sought the advice of the Buddhist priest Ryuko. He told her that in order for Tsunayoshi to father a son, he must first atone for the sins of his ancestors. Together Lady Keisho-in and Ryuko persuaded Tsunayoshi that since he was born in the Year of the Dog, he should do this by issuing an edict protecting dogs.

  “Now stray dogs must be fed and cared for. Fighting dogs are separated not with blows, but with a splash of cold water. Those who injure dogs are imprisoned; anyone who kills a dog is executed. And we must treat all dogs with respect. Like this!”

  Healing Hands hurried over to a dog that was trotting along the street in front of the shop. He must have smelled the animal, or heard its nails clicking against the hard earth. Bowing low, he cried, “Greetings, O Inu-sama, Honorable Dog!” Then he turned to Sano. “I know many other tales, master. Would you like to hear them while you enjoy a most beneficial massage?”

  Sano smiled, wondering if Healing Hands’s massages were any better than his stories. The one about the Dog Shogun was old news; everyone had heard it when Tokugawa Tsunayoshi had issued his first Dog Protection Edict two years ago. The nation’s shock and bewilderment had given way to unvoiced resentment of the money wasted on dog welfare, and the outrageous penalties inflicted on people who abused them.

  “Not today,” he said. Then, on impulse, he asked, “Did you know Noriyoshi?”

  Cherry Eater broke in before Healing Hands could answer. “Yoriki, my friend here has an urgent appointment soon.” To Healing Hands he said, “Had you not better hurry?” His feet began to shift, and his fluttering hands told Sano how anxious he was to have his friend gone.

  Healing Hands ignored the hint and leaned comfortably on his staff. “Oh, yes, master,” he said. “Noriyoshi was a kind man. He sent much business my way. He knew everyone, you see—great lords, wealthy merchants.”

  “Who was his lady friend?” Sano asked. Thanks to the masseur’s garrulity, he might learn something today after all.

  “Oh, you mean Wisteria? She works in the Palace of the Heavenly Garden, on Naka-no-cho. She—”

  “Shut up, you fool! Say the wrong thing, and he’ll have the doshin throw you in jail!”

  At Cherry Eater’s sharp outburst, the masseur fell silent. Sketching an apologetic gesture at Sano, he said uneasily, “I must go now, master.” He turned and shuffled off down the street, tootling on his wooden flute to attract customers.

  Sano took his leave of Cherry Eater and hurried after Healing Hands. He asked about Noriyoshi’s enemies, and if any rumors about his death had reached the masseur’s ears.

  But Healing Hands had taken Cherry Eater’s warning to heart. “Go and see Wisteria,” was all he would say.

  Sano gazed at the masseur’s retreating back. This trip, while disappointing, hadn’t been a total loss. He’d learned the names of
Noriyoshi’s associates and lady friend, that the artist had indeed had enemies and had somehow come by a large amount of money. Any of these facts could lead to Noriyoshi’s murderer. Sano and Tsunehiko would have to stay in Yoshiwara until nightfall, when the Palace of the Heavenly Garden and the other pleasure houses opened. They could catch the late ferry back to Edo.

  Then Sano remembered. Tonight was to be his first visit to his family since he’d left home. At once the burden of obligation crushed him with all its suffocating pressure. He couldn’t bear to postpone his inquiry just when it seemed most promising. Neither did he relish the thought of facing his parents while knowing he was defying his master’s orders and risking the secure future they desired for him. To disappoint his parents—especially his father—was to fail in his duty as a son.

  Sighing, he headed down the street to find Tsunehiko and tell him it was time to return to the city.

  A little before the dinner hour, Sano arrived in the district where his parents lived on the edge of Nihonbashi nearest the castle, among other samurai families who had gone into trade and merged with the townspeople.

  He rode through the gate that led to their street, nodding a greeting to the two guards stationed there. A short bridge took him over the willow-edged canal. At its opposite side, the road ran through a strip of debris-strewn ground where a recent fire had destroyed two houses on either side of the road. Sano looked upon the sight with sorrow. His father’s last letter had told him about the fire, which had killed members of all four families and destroyed their businesses. As he continued down the street, he wondered what other changes had come about since he’d moved away. He passed the grocer’s, the stationer’s and several food stalls, coming to a stop at the corner, outside the Sano Martial Arts Academy.

  The academy occupied a long, low wooden building that stood flush with the street. Dingy brown tiles, the same color as the walls, covered the roof. Plain wooden bars screened the windows. A faded sign announced the academy’s name. The place seemed both older and smaller than when he’d last seen it only a month ago. He dismounted in the gathering dusk, tied his horse’s reins to the railing that bordered the narrow veranda, then entered. A wave of nostalgia swept over him.