Sano Ichiro 9 The Perfumed Sleeve (2004)

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “There’s a banquet for the important people in Senior Elder Makino’s funeral procession,” Yasue said. “You can help out.”

  She sat Reiko at a table where maids furiously chopped vegetables. She handed Reiko a knife, then left. Reiko was dismayed, for she’d not expected to do kitchen labor. A manservant hurled a bunch of huge white radishes at her. Never having learned much about cooking, she clumsily sliced a radish. The knife slipped and cut her finger; her blood stained the radish. The maids working beside Reiko ignored her. They were both older women, their faces hardened by toil.

  “I heard that the master of this house was murdered,” Reiko said. “Did you see or hear anything?”

  They frowned, skillfully wielding their knives. One woman said, “We’ve been ordered not to talk about that. Don’t mention it again—you’ll get somebody in trouble.”

  More rules to thwart her aims! Reiko sighed in frustration. She wiped sweat off her face and grimly hacked the radishes. After what seemed like hours, Yasue reappeared.

  “The ladies have ordered meals,” she told Reiko. “You can help serve them.”

  Reiko was delighted to leave the kitchen with two other maids also assigned to the task. Carrying trays laden with covered dishes, they filed across the walkway to the private chambers. The guards let them inside. Excitement tingled through Reiko. Here she might discover the truth about Senior Elder Makino’s death.

  “You go to Lady Agemaki,” one of the other maids told Reiko. “Her room is that way.”

  They turned a corner, vanishing from sight. Reiko carried her tray along the corridor and came to an open door. Through it she saw the widow sitting alone. Reiko started to walk in, but suddenly a hand seized her arm in a fierce, startling grip.

  “Kneel when you enter a room!” Yasue hissed in her ear.

  She cuffed Reiko’s head, then withdrew. Reiko stood, her ears ringing from the blow, shaken because she’d forgotten the protocol for maids and she’d not known Yasue had followed her. The old woman moved as stealthily as a cat. Reiko knelt and hobbled across the threshold of the chamber. Agemaki stared into space, absorbed in her own musings. Thrilled to get close to the object of her interest, Reiko rose, crept toward Agemaki, and set the tray beside her.

  Agemaki remained silent; she didn’t look at Reiko or the food. Reiko wondered if she should dare initiate an acquaintance. Was Yasue loitering about, watching to make sure she obeyed the rules? Reiko began removing the covers from the dishes on the tray while she awaited some cue from Agemaki.

  “You can go now,” Agemaki said in a remote voice.

  Reiko’s hands faltered.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Agemaki said. “Get out.”

  Although Reiko hated losing a chance to spy, she meekly obeyed. She hesitated outside the door, reluctant to leave without accomplishing anything. From somewhere came the sound of samisen music, a man’s voice singing, and women giggling. Reiko crept down the corridor and peeked into a room where the actor Koheiji was entertaining the concubine Okitsu and the maids. Reiko told herself that no one would miss her if she took a moment to examine the scene of the murder. Maybe she would find something that Sano and his detectives had overlooked.

  She hurried down the corridor to the room she identified as Senior Elder Makino’s. She eased open the door, slipped inside, then slid the door shut and appraised her surroundings. Cold and bare of furniture, they had the eerie atmosphere of a place in which death has recently occurred. A shiver passed over Reiko as she gazed at the platform where Makino’s body had lain. She opened the cabinets along the wall only to find empty compartments: Someone had cleared out the dead man’s possessions. Then she noticed a narrow, vertical gap between two sections of shelves.

  Alerted by quickening instinct, Reiko inserted her finger into the gap. She found an indentation on the side of one section of shelves. She pressed, and the section pivoted, one half swinging outward, the other into a dim space beyond the room. She’d found a secret chamber! Eagerly she peered inside.

  Human figures stared back at her. Reiko stifled a scream. But the figures didn’t move or make a sound. A second look showed her that their heads lolled at unnatural angles, and their limbs dangled inside their robes. They were life-sized dolls, suspended from hooks. Puzzled, Reiko ventured into the chamber, which smelled of sweat and stale breath. Now she counted ten dolls, all female. They had beautiful faces made of skillfully carved and painted wood; they all wore elaborate wigs and expensive patterned silk kimonos. Reiko noticed characters written on the wall above each figure. She read, “Takao of the Great Miura,” “Otowa of the Matsuba”… They represented courtesans from the Yoshiwara pleasure quarter.

  Comprehension banished Reiko’s puzzlement. She’d heard stories about men who owned “shapes”—effigies of women with whom they’d enjoyed sexual relations. They relived their pleasures by making love to the shapes. A rolled futon in the corner, and a look under the robes of one doll, confirmed Reiko’s belief that Senior Elder Makino had practiced this strange habit. The doll’s body, fashioned from stuffed leather, had an opening at the crotch that was filled with boiled, mashed radish used to simulate the texture of female genitalia.

  Reiko wrinkled her nose at the sour smell of the radish as she imagined Makino coupling with a shape on the futon. She noticed a shelf filled with numerous scrolls. Opening some, she found that they were pictures of couples engaged in erotic acts. Stains discolored the pictures.

  Below the shelf stood two lacquer chests. Reiko looked inside them. One contained wooden clubs padded with leather, atop coiled ropes. Makino’s habits must have included ritual violence during sex. The other chest contained nine phalluses of different sizes, each realistically carved from jade and resting in a slot in the chest’s padded lining. A tenth, empty slot had once contained a huge phallus. Reiko recalled what Sano had told her about the examination of Senior Elder Makino’s corpse. Could the missing phallus have inflicted the anal injury—and the fatal beating? If so, then somebody who’d known about this chamber had killed Makino.

  Perhaps that somebody was one of the women upon whom Reiko had come to spy.

  Suddenly Reiko heard stealthy footsteps approaching along the corridor. She froze in alarm. The door of Makino’s room slid open. She mustn’t let anyone find her here! She yanked on the shelves, closing the entrance to the secret chamber, sealing herself inside. The footsteps padded across the floor. Reiko saw a finger protrude between the shelves and press the indentation. Her heart lurched as the secret door swung open. Quickly she stepped behind it.

  A samurai strode into the chamber, carrying a long bundle. Reiko held her breath, peered cautiously around the door, and watched him kneel before the chest that contained the jade phalluses. He lifted the lid, then unwrapped his bundle. It was a quilt folded around a cylindrical object. This he set inside the empty slot in the chest. Then he shut the lid and rose. Leaving the room, he passed very near Reiko. She recognized him from Sano’s description of Tamura, chief retainer to Senior Elder Makino. The shelves pivoted shut. Reiko breathed a sigh of fervent relief as she listened to Tamura leave the room.

  On her first day here, she’d already discovered evidence that pointed away from the warring factions and toward the suspects in Makino’s inner circle. If the phallus was the weapon used on Makino, then Tamura’s behavior suggested that he was the killer. He could have hidden the weapon after his crime and thought that now was a good time to replace it. Reiko couldn’t wait to tell Sano.

  But now she noticed that the music had stopped. She could no longer hear the maids giggling—they must have gone. She mustn’t linger.

  She slipped out of the secret room and pivoted the shelf back into position. When she left the private chambers, the guards eyed her suspiciously. She hurried along paths, between buildings, in the direction of the kitchen, so elated that the prospect of more toil barely fazed her. But as she crossed a garden, Yasue appeared so suddenly that she seemed to materialize out of thi
n air. She scowled at Reiko, grasped her arm, and demanded, “Where have you been?”

  “I got lost,” Reiko lied.

  Yasue snorted in disbelief. “Snooping around, I’d say.”

  She yanked the stick from under her sash and smote Reiko three hard blows across the back. Reiko fell on hands and knees, crying out in pain and angry protest.

  “I’ll be watching you,” Yasue said. She grabbed Reiko’s collar and hauled her to her feet. “Remember that when you get the urge to snoop again.” Her stick prodded Reiko along the paths. “Now I’ll give you enough work to keep you too busy to cause trouble.”

  She’d already made an enemy, Reiko realized unhappily. She hoped she could last long enough here to discover the truth about Senior Elder Makino’s death.

  * * *

  15

  If you must investigate that actor, shouldn’t you start at the place where he performs?” Ibe asked Sano as they and their entourage rode through the Saru-waka-cho theater district. “We just passed the Nakamura-za, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  He gestured toward a theater on the avenue. Signs on its façade pictured Koheiji and proclaimed the title of the play: Amorous Adventures of an Edo Samurai. Men and women lined up at ticket booths there and at the other theaters. Song, laughter, and applause issued from upper-story windows.

  “We’ll start at the place where Koheiji started his career,” Sano said.

  He had an intuition that he would learn more there, but he didn’t bother trying to explain this to Ibe or Lord Matsudaira’s men, who wouldn’t want him chasing hunches instead of pursuing the suspects they wanted him to incriminate. He led the group into Kobiki-cho, a lesser theatrical quarter. Here, the theaters were small and shabby, the audiences exclusively male. Men crowded the teahouses, drinking sake, playing cards, and wagering on cockfights. Drummers led more men through the streets in search of amusement. Teahouse proprietors rushed out to greet Sano and his entourage.

  “Would you like a companion for the night?”

  “I can set you up with the handsomest actors!”

  “One piece of gold, and he’s yours from the final curtain until daybreak of the morning after!”

  The Kobiki-cho district was famous as a gathering place for devotees of manly love, Sano knew. It generated more revenue from male prostitution than from ticket sales. Boys in their teens swarmed the street, offering free tickets, luring men to their plays. Men called propositions to youths who leaned out second-story windows. Sano politely declined all offers, although a few of his companions eyed the boys with interest. Maybe some actors enjoyed manly sex as much as did their suitors, but Sano knew that young, unknown performers earned so little that if they wanted to eat, they must sell themselves. Hence, Kobiki-cho was a carnal paradise for wealthy men who craved boys.

  At the Owari Theater, Sano and his party dismounted; stableboys took charge of their horses. Police officers loitered outside the dingy wooden building, ready to quell the riots that often occurred when men quarreled over their favorite actors. Entering the theater, Sano found a play in progress. On a raised stage lit by skylights and decorated with a painted backdrop of a forest scene, an actor in peasant garb sang a soulful duet with an onnagata—female impersonator—dressed as a courtesan. Musicians played an off-key accompaniment. Men filled the seats along the walls and compartments in front of the stage. Raucous cheers burst from the audience. Smoke from tobacco pipes fouled the air.

  As the actors sang, a samurai in the audience rose. “Ebisuya-san!” he called. “Here’s a token of my love for you!”

  He drew his dagger, hacked off his little finger, and hurled it at the onnagata. He tried to leap onto the stage, but the police hauled him away. No one seemed much bothered by the incident, which was not uncommon in Kobiki-cho. The performance continued without pause. Afterward, the audience straggled out of the theater. Sano led his watchdogs and detectives to an elderly man who stood below the stage.

  “Are you the proprietor?” Sano asked him.

  “Yes, master.” The man had shoulders drawn up to his ears; white tufts of hair circled his bald pate. He yelled at the actors lounging and smoking on the stage: “Don’t just stand there—change the set for the next performance!”

  The actors, who apparently doubled as stagehands, moved the backdrop. Ebisuya, the female impersonator, clenched his tobacco pipe between his rouged lips as he worked. The proprietor said to Sano, “What can I do for you?” He spoke courteously, but his expression was sour.

  Sano introduced himself. “I’m investigating the affairs of the actor Koheiji. I want your help.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know any actor by that name.”

  “Yes, he does,” Ebisuya told Sano. He’d dropped his ladylike falsetto voice, and his deep, male tone contrasted bizarrely with his female costume. He jerked his chin toward the proprietor. “His memory’s gone to rot. Koheiji worked here before he moved to the Nakamura-za and switched from girl roles to samurai roles.”

  Sano was interested to learn that Koheiji had once been an onnagata. Did he still impersonate women, perhaps in private if not onstage? The torn sleeve at the murder scene had come from a kimono belonging to Okitsu, but who had worn it the night Makino died?

  “My memory is just fine,” the proprietor said angrily. Pointing at Ebisuya, he said, “You watch your mouth, or I’ll throw your lazy behind out in the street.”

  Ebisuya shot Sano a glance that said his employer was daft, but he wanted to keep his job.

  “I know who you’re talking about now,” the proprietor said to Sano. “I must have hired Koheiji ten or eleven years ago. I gave him his start in the theater, but he moved on to bigger and better things. What’s he done wrong?”

  “Why do you think he’s done anything wrong?” Sano said.

  “The shogun’s detective wouldn’t come asking about him otherwise.” Senile he might be, but the proprietor knew the ways of the world. “And all these actors are troublemakers.”

  “Koheiji is a suspect in a murder,” Ibe cut in, impatient.

  Another blank stare came from the proprietor. “Who was murdered?”

  “His patron. Senior Elder Makino.” Ibe spoke in the emphatic, disdainful tone reserved for addressing idiots.

  “Oh,” the proprietor said.

  “Did Koheiji meet Senior Elder Makino here?” Sano said.

  The proprietor’s expression turned vague. “Maybe. If not here, then in one of the teahouses. That’s the usual thing.”

  Sano began to doubt that the man had a true recollection of who Koheiji was, let alone anything else about him. What he said about Koheiji probably applied to many actors.

  “This is getting us nowhere,” Ibe said in exasperation.

  Lord Matsudaira’s men voiced their agreement that Sano should end the interview. On stage, Ebisuya adjusted a new backdrop. He caught Sano’s eye and tilted his head toward the back door.

  “We can go now,” Sano said, earning nods of approval from the Matsudaira contingent and a suspicious look from Ibe.

  Outside the theater, Sano told his detectives, “Go talk to people around the district and find out what they know about Koheiji.” The detectives split up and headed down the street; Ibe’s and Lord Matsudaira’s men dogged their heels. Sano said to Ibe, “Please excuse me a moment.”

  As if intending to use the privy, he strode down the alley between the theater and the neighboring teahouse. A young boy stood pressed against the wall, his kimono raised above his waist. A groaning, panting samurai thrust himself against the boy’s naked buttocks. Sano squeezed past the pair and turned the corner. Behind the theater were reeking privies in open wooden stalls. Near them slouched the onnagata. At first Sano didn’t recognize him—he’d removed his wig, female garb, and makeup. Ebisuya now sported black robes and cropped hair. Smoke rose from the pipe dangling in his fingers.

  “You have something to tell me about Koheiji?” Sano said.

  “I’ll help you if yo
u help me,” Ebisuya said.

  He was in his thirties—getting too old to have much hope of stardom. He held out his hand for money, and Sano saw scars on his arm—from self-inflicted cuts, meant to convince patrons of his love for them. Probably he, like many actors, had thereby sought to coax men into ransoming him from his contract with the theater that owned actors the way that brothels owned courtesan s. He was also getting too old to attract patrons much longer. His features were pretty but hard with the desperation that drove him to bargain with a Tokugawa official.

  “Talk,” Sano said. “If your information is worthwhile, I’ll pay.”

  Nodding sullenly, Ebisuya withdrew his hand. “I don’t like to tell tales on a fellow actor,” he said, “but I owe Koheiji a bad turn. I was an apprentice at the Owari when he was hired. Before he came, I had the best roles. Afterward, Koheiji played the lead parts that should have been mine.” Ebisuya’s eyes flashed resentment at his rival’s good luck. “He’s not more talented than I am—just better at sucking up to people.”

  “People like Senior Elder Makino?”

  “Him among others. Koheiji was a favorite with audiences, and not just for his performances onstage. He wanted to hook a patron who would buy his way into leading roles at a top theater.”

  So Koheiji engaged in manly love in the past, thought Sano. Perhaps he’d lied when he said he hadn’t had sexual relations with Senior Elder Makino. If so, he could also have lied when he’d claimed he hadn’t been with Makino the night of the murder.

  “He knew how to please men, even though he prefers women,” Ebisuya continued. “He gave his clients good sumata.”

  In sumata—the “secret thigh technique”—one man thrust his organ between another’s thighs, simulating anal intercourse. Thus had Koheiji satisfied his clients with minimal discomfort to himself.