Loud drumming throbbed from a teahouse. Hirata peered under the doorway curtain and saw a group of men seated in a circle, clapping in time to the drummer’s beats. In the center of the circle, three young women dressed alike in red kimono minced, whirled, and gestured in a flirtatious dance. Their tense smiles and awkward movements told Hirata that they weren’t courtesans. They were odoriko—girls from peasant families who scrimped and borrowed to buy dance and music lessons for their daughters, then put them on display. The object was to attract rich men who would marry the girls or hire them as household entertainers. At the edge of the audience Hirata saw an older woman he recognized, a gossip who had her nose in all the business of Yoshiwara.
He entered the teahouse and knelt beside her. “Hello, Nobuko-san,” he said.
She turned a homely, pleasant face to him. “How nice to see you again,” she said with a bucktoothed smile.
“What brings you here?” Hirata gestured toward the dancing girls. “More daughters to marry off?”
“Yes, indeed,” Nobuko said with a gloomy sigh. “Why was I cursed with five girls? If they don’t marry soon, we’ll all starve.” She ventured hopefully, “Do you need a wife?”
“No, thank you. But I do need your help.” Hirata explained that he was investigating the murder of Lord Mitsuyoshi. “What have you heard?”
Though usually glad to share gossip, Nobuko hesitated. She held up her fan to shield her mouth, and whispered in Hirata’s ear: “They say that Lord Mitsuyoshi owed money all over Yoshiwara because his family cut off his spending allowance. But nobody could refuse to serve him, or force him to pay.”
Because he was a Tokugawa clan member and the shogun’s heir, thought Hirata. Had an angry proprietor killed Mitsuyoshi to punish him and stop his freeloading?
“Who in particular had a grudge against him?” Hirata asked.
Nobuko turned away and fixed her gaze on her dancing daughters. “I’ve already said too much.”
Clearly, she didn’t want to incriminate the owners of the establishments where her daughters performed. And although Hirata welcomed a new clue, his heart sank because pursuing this one would take him into dangerous territory. The shogun had forbidden Sano to investigate Lord Mitsuyoshi, and hunting the dead man’s enemies would constitute disobedience. Regretting the shogun’s orders, Hirata thanked Nobuko and left the teahouse.
Through the crowds ambled a man clutching a bucket filled with jars and cloth soap bags in one hand, and a wooden staff in the other. A bell hanging from the top of the staff tinkled as he stepped. His head was bald, his gaze sightless.
“Yoshi-san,” Hirata called. “Isn’t it a little late for washing hair? All the courtesans must be dressed by now.”
The blind shampoo man paused, and recognition illuminated his face. “Ah, it’s you, Hirata-san. I was just heading home. Is there something I can do for you?”
Hirata knew that Yoshi was privy to many secrets because he worked inside the brothels. The courtesans seemed to think blindness equaled deafness and talked in front of him. When Hirata asked him for news associated with the murder, the blind man replied with the same caution as had Nobuko.
“A certain young dandy made himself unpopular among my customers,” he said, avoiding the use of Mitsuyoshi’s name and protecting himself from accusations of treasonous slander. “He would promise to free a courtesan and take her home as his wife if she satisfied him. She would do her best, but when he tired of her, he would drop her.”
Hirata wondered whether Mitsuyoshi had tricked Lady Wisteria. Had she killed him in revenge for his faithlessness?
“I know tayu who must now spend years longer in Yoshiwara because they refused other clients to serve him,” Yoshi said.
“Give me their names,” Hirata said, and pressed coins into the blind shampoo man’s hand.
“Thank you, master. They are Lady Columbine, Lady Takao, and Lady Kacho.”
“Not Lady Wisteria?”
“I don’t know, master.”
Yoshi trudged off, his bell tinkling. Hirata bought rice dumplings from a street vendor and leaned against a wall, eating as he watched drunks flirt with courtesans seated in the window cages, and reviewed what he’d just accomplished. He’d identified three more suspects and could probably find others by canvassing the quarter; yet the shogun’s prohibition seemed like a stone wall protecting the murderer. Hirata must find a different path to the truth.
A stout man dressed in a thick padded cloak and wicker hat rushed by. Fast on his heels followed a younger, smaller man with a wiry frame and pugnacious expression.
“Get lost, you scum!” the first man shouted over his shoulder.
“There’s only one way to get me off your tail,” the second man shouted back.
Hirata recognized the pursuer as a “following horse”—a debt collector hired to hunt down people who owed money in Yoshiwara and chase them day and night until they paid. And he recognized this one as his old friend Gorobei.
The following horse grabbed hold of the debtor, who turned and began throwing punches. While they scuffled, pedestrians gathered round, egging them on. Hirata, anxious to prevent a brawl, wrenched the combatants apart. The debtor escaped into the crowd, and Gorobei faced Hirata.
“You let him get away!” he said, his jaw jutting in rage. “I’ve just lost my commission.” Then, as he recognized Hirata, dismay came over his face. “Oh. It’s you. What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Maybe not this time.” Hirata had once arrested Gorobei for his sideline occupation—selling stolen goods. Gorobei made a habit of carrying small items on his person, in case he happened to meet a customer, and Hirata noticed an unnatural bulge at Gorobei’s waist, under his coat.
“What have you got in there?” Hirata said.
Gorobei leapt away from Hirata’s reaching hand. “Nothing. I’m just getting fat in my old age.”
“Give it over.” Hirata yanked on Gorobei’s coat, and out dropped a gold Buddha statue. “Ha! Either you’ve just given birth to the Buddha, or you’re up to your old tricks.”
“I bought and paid for that with my own hard-earned money,” the following horse exclaimed, picking up the Buddha and dusting it on his sleeve.
“A likely story. You’re under arrest.”
Panic gleamed in Gorobei’s eyes. “Can’t you give me a break this time?”
Hirata wasn’t really interested in small-time theft, or in arresting Gorobei. The following horse collected something else besides debts: information that he picked up around town.
“That depends on you,” Hirata said.
Gorobei’s expression turned cunning. “I can give you something you need more than my pitiful self.”
“Oh?”
“Your master wants to find the person who killed the shogun’s heir, doesn’t he?”
“So what if he does?” Hirata feigned indifference, but his heartbeat quickened.
Gorobei thrust out his jaw and looked wise. He spoke in a low voice so passersby wouldn’t hear: “Maybe I can tell you something about that.”
“Then tell,” Hirata said, “before I haul you off to jail.”
Holding out his palm, Gorobei said, “A man’s got to live.”
The nerve of him, expecting payment in addition to his freedom! “Well, I’ve got the law to uphold,” Hirata said, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Come along.”
“Wait! What I have is so good, you should be glad to pay what it’s worth.” Gorobei added slyly, “If you don’t, I bet Police Commissioner Hoshina will.”
Hirata puffed out his breath. Clearly, Gorobei knew about the rivalry between Sano and Hoshina. If Hirata didn’t pay, Hoshina would jump to buy information that might help him solve the case before Sano did. Hirata couldn’t let that happen. Nor did he want to leave Yoshiwara empty-handed.
“All right,” he said grudgingly.
They went into an alley behind a cookhouse where men labored over steaming
pots, preparing food for brothels. Smoke that smelled of garlic and roasting fish drifted through the alley. Hirata and Gorobei haggled over the price. The following horse insisted Hirata pay cash in advance. Hirata reluctantly agreed; coins changed hands.
“This had better be good,” he said.
Gorobei rummaged inside his coat and removed a wad of papers, which he handed to Hirata.
In the dim light from the cookhouse doors, Hirata examined the papers. They consisted of small pages of fine white rice paper, covered with black characters and folded in half. When Hirata unfolded them, he saw that their edges were ragged, as though they’d been torn out of a binding. Oily stains blotched the outer sheet.
“A beggar I know found it the morning after the murder,” Gorobei said, “while he was scavenging food out of the garbage containers behind the Owariya.”
Hirata read the beginning of the top page:
Life in Yoshiwara can be such a bore. Even though I am Lady Wisteria, the favorite of the quarter, I see the same people and do the same old things time after time. But last night, something interesting happened.
A thrill of excitation coursed through Hirata. This was a segment of the missing pillow book.
12
The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria
Life in Yoshiwara can be such a bore. Even though I am Lady Wisteria, the favorite of the quarter, I see the same people and do the same old things time after time. But last night, something interesting happened.
I was at a party, playing cards with the guests, and I was tired and wishing I could just go to bed, when I felt someone watching me. I looked up and saw a man standing in the doorway. He was so handsome that my heart began beating fast and hard. I stared at him. He stared back, with a little smile on his face. I turned away because I was ashamed that this stranger had seen my feelings. But I can tell when a man wants me, and I knew he did. While I dealt cards, I waited for him to approach me.
“Who is that man in the doorway?” I whispered to one of the other courtesans.
“What man?” she said.
When I looked up again, he was gone.
I have seen him often since that night. Three days ago he was standing on a balcony, watching me promenade to the ageya. Two days ago he came to another party where I was entertaining. Yesterday, while I was dressing in my room, I looked out the window and saw him pacing the street in front of the house. But he always vanishes as soon as he knows I’ve seen him! He never speaks to me. No one seems to know who he is, and I’ve asked everyone. What does his strange behavior mean? I fear him, but not as much as I want to know him. I, who have known so many men and never cared about any of them!
Today I was shopping with my yarite in the marketplace, when I sensed him near me. Instead of looking at him, I turned and hurried away through the stalls. I heard him following, but I didn’t look back. I didn’t stop until I reached the alley inside the back wall. I turned around. There he stood, so handsome and strong, his smile so mysterious.
“Who are you?” I said, frightened and out of breath. “Why are you doing this?”
“I am the Herd Boy,” he said in a strange accent. “You are the Weaver Girl. Today we finally meet on the River of Heaven.”
He was referring to the legend about two constellations that are supposed to be lovers. They cross once a year in autumn. Well, I’ve heard a lot of poetic speeches from men, including that one. Usually I just laugh inside because they sound so silly. But there was something about him that made my legs go weak and my heart pound. We stood there gazing into each other’s eyes. Then I heard my yarite calling me.
“I must go,” I said.
He nodded and bowed, and I left.
But we had already fallen in love.
He’s from Hokkaido, in the far north, and that’s why his accent is strange. I won’t write his name, because someone might read this, and I would rather keep him as much to myself as I can. I don’t want every nosy gossip in Yoshiwara chattering about us. Since that day in the alley, we’ve been meeting often, always in secret, because he has no money for appointments with me. I sneak out of parties to the alley where he waits. When my clients fall asleep, I steal downstairs and let him in the back door. We make love behind the screen in my room, careful to be quiet so we won’t wake up my client.
Yesterday, after we’d finished and were lying together in the moonlight, he whispered: “When winter comes to Hokkaido, the snow piles up in deep drifts that almost bury the houses.”
He ran his hand along my hip. “Your body is as white and pure and beautiful as those snowdrifts. I wish I could show them to you. How would you like to see Hokkaido?”
My heart filled with joy, because I knew he was asking me to go away with him.
“In Hokkaido you’ll be my wife,” he said. “You’ll never come back to this place of shame and suffering.”
“But you can’t afford to buy my freedom,” I said. “And there’s no escape from Yoshiwara.”
“Love will find a way,” he said, and he smiled.
Tonight is the night. All our plans are made. I will put the sleeping potion in Lord Mitsuyoshi’s wine. After he’s asleep, I will steal outside to my beloved. We will flee Yoshiwara forever. I know this is a dangerous undertaking. But he’s clever. He has friends to help us. There’s a man who owns a teahouse in Suruga. He’ll let us stay there until I can buy new clothes and my beloved gets money and provisions for the journey. If the teahouse turns out to be unsafe, there’s a noodle shop in Fukagawa that will take us in. But we won’t stay around Edo for long. Soon we’ll be on the northern highway, bound for the snows of Hokkaido.
I tremble with excitement.
How can I bear to wait the long hours until night, when my beloved will come for me?
Ah, freedom!
The excerpt from the pillow book lay in Sano’s office, on the desk where Sano, Reiko, and Hirata had placed it after reading Lady Wisteria’s story. They sat in silence, looking expectantly at each other.
“This could be the key to finding Lady Wisteria and solving the case,” Sano said as his hope vied with caution.
“Just when we need it most,” Hirata said.
Sano had come home from Yoshiwara late that evening to find Reiko waiting for him. Hirata had arrived moments later, and they’d discussed the other results of their inquiries, which had reached a dead end. Sano had questioned the owner and employees of the Owariya, and they’d confirmed Fujio’s story that he’d left the party for only an instant—not long enough to go upstairs, stab Lord Mitsuyoshi, and abduct Wisteria. Detective Fukida had turned up witnesses who’d seen Treasury Minister Nitta on the street in Yoshiwara, but none besides Fujio who could place Nitta near the Owariya after he’d left the party. Detective Marume had learned that Nitta was patron to many courtesans besides Wisteria. Sano had searched Fujio’s home in Imado and found nothing. He and Hirata had reluctantly agreed that they couldn’t pursue the leads on Lord Mitsuyoshi’s enemies without angering the shogun. And since Reiko’s efforts had failed to produce clues, the discovery of the pillow book was a welcome development.
“It seems almost too good to be true,” Reiko said, voicing the thought on everyone’s mind. “And we’ve encountered false clues in the past.”
“I did think it was too coincidental that I ran into Gorobei and he happened to have the pages,” Hirata said. “But after I bought them, I showed them to people at Wisteria’s brothel. They thought the pages resembled what they’d seen in her book, but she was careful to keep anyone from getting a close look at it. Besides, most of the courtesans there can’t read. Nor can any of the servants. They wouldn’t recognize the text. But there’s no reason to believe the pages aren’t from Wisteria’s book.”
He spoke as if trying to convince himself in spite of the lack of proof, and Sano guessed why Hirata wanted so much for his clue to be genuine. They’d not yet talked about the miai, but Hirata’s careworn face told Sano that the marriage negotiations had gone wrong. Hir
ata must be anxious to make up for taking time off from his duties, and to succeed at his work even in the midst of a personal crisis.
Reiko held a page closer to the lantern, examining it carefully. “The language is simple. The calligraphy is crude. And look at all the crossedout mistakes. This is what one would expect of a peasant woman who’d learned a little reading and writing but had no formal education.”
Sano heard uncertainty in her voice. In the past Reiko had been quick to make up her own mind, and he realized how much self-doubt the Black Lotus case had instilled her. During that investigation he’d battled her convictions and wanted her to yield to his; yet he now regretted that she was deferring to his judgment at a time when he needed an independent opinion. Sano wished he could be sure of the pillow book’s authenticity, for he had his own doubts about it.
“Would you please read a page aloud?” he said to Reiko.
She complied. Sano listened, frowning because what he’d noticed while reading the words grew more apparent upon hearing them. They didn’t sound like Wisteria, though he couldn’t define exactly why not.
Reiko ceased reading. “What is it?” she said, looking curiously at Sano.
What he’d omitted telling Reiko about the case now enmeshed him in a thickening tangle of deceit. He couldn’t voice his concerns about the pillow book without admitting he’d known Wisteria. If he did admit he’d known the courtesan, Reiko would ask why he hadn’t said so before. And if she learned the reason now, his evasiveness would hurt her more than honesty would have at the start.
“It’s too bad the pages came without the cover,” he said. “That would have been easily recognized by people who’d seen Lady Wisteria’s pillow book.”
Reiko wore a quizzical expression that told him she knew he hadn’t said what he was really thinking and wondered why. But she didn’t ask. Sano saw Hirata watching him. Hirata had known about Sano’s relationship with Wisteria since Sano had told him on the way home from Yoshiwara that first day, and Sano was glad he could trust Hirata to keep the secret, even from Reiko.
The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria Page 11
