The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Stifling his resentment, Sano addressed Ohgami: “Is there another suspect that you want to bring to my attention?”

  “Oh, no,” Ohgami said mildly. He regarded his ashes with the air of an artist contemplating his creation. “My only purpose here is to help my colleagues help you.”

  Sano’s resentment turned to indignation because he understood Ohgami’s real purpose. Ohgami was battling Senior Elder Makino for control of the Council. He must have promised his two colleagues that he would help them destroy their enemies if they allied with him. Hence, he’d brought them here, safely away from Makino and the shogun, to draw Sano into his scheme.

  “Many thanks for your concern,” Sano forced himself to say.

  He wasn’t surprised that his ally would exploit him so callously, for self-interest dominated all relationships in the bakufu. Yet a powerful rage clenched his hands on the empty tea bowl he held. Sano stared at his guests, sitting smugly confident before him. He’d saved them and the entire city from the Black Lotus, but they would use him as if he were a rag for cleaning up messes, then crumple him and throw him away! Hatred tinged his vision with blood.

  But his habit of maintaining outward calm was so strong that the men seemed to notice nothing amiss. They took their leave, and Sano sat alone, immobilized by fury, until a sharp pain in his left palm startled him. He looked down and saw that he’d crushed the fragile porcelain tea bowl. Blood oozed from his cut hand.

  “Excuse me, Ssakan-sama,” the manservant said, bowing and entering the room.

  “What do you want?” Sano said. His rage dissipated, leaving him shaken by his near loss of control. Since the Black Lotus case, his temper had gained a force that he found increasingly harder to discipline.

  “More visitors are here to see you.”

  The women’s quarter of the palace hummed with the chatter and bustle of the concubines and ladies-in-waiting as they bathed, dressed, and groomed themselves. Midori sat in the chamber of the shogun’s mother, Lady Keisho-in. While other attendants combed Keisho-in’s hair, Midori applied a mixture of white rice powder and camellia wax onto the old woman’s face. Her hand automatically smeared and dabbed the makeup, but her thoughts centered on her urgent need to see Hirata. He’d not come to her last night, and the hours since she’d seen him at the miai yesterday seemed like an eternity.

  “Aaghh!” Lady Keisho-in cried, recoiling from Midori; her round, wrinkled face bunched up in pain. “You’ve gotten makeup in my eye again. Can’t you pay attention to what you’re doing?”

  “I’m sorry!” Midori snatched up a cloth and wiped at her mistress’s eye, but Lady Keisho-in shoved her away.

  “You’re so absentminded lately,” Keisho-in complained. “I can’t bear to have you around me.” She made a shooing gesture. “Get out!”

  Glad of a reprieve from duty, Midori fled the palace. She was racing across the garden when she saw Hirata coming toward her.

  “Hirata-san!” she called. He smiled; she hurled herself into his arms. As they embraced, she burst into tears. “I thought you would never come. I was so afraid you’d changed your feelings about me.”

  “Why would you think that?” Hirata said, his voice roughened by affection.

  In this chill early morning, they had the garden to themselves, but he drew her into the pine grove where they’d met so many times before. The air was redolent with the clean, tangy scent of resin, the ground covered with a soft blanket of pine needles upon which they’d lain.

  “You’re shivering,” Hirata said. He wrapped his own cloak around Midori and held her tight.

  She basked in his nearness, sobbing. “After what my father said to yours, I was sure you must hate me.”

  “Nothing can change my love for you.” Hirata held her shoulders and gazed at her with a sincerity that banished her fear. “What happened at the theater wasn’t your fault.” As she wept in relief now, he said, “Please believe that my family means no harm to yours. Why does your father think we’re his enemies?”

  Overcome by shame, Midori pulled away from Hirata, averting her face. “He gets all upset when it comes to the Tokugawa or anyone associated with them,” she whispered. “Because of what they did to our clan in the past.”

  “I see.” Hirata’s dubious tone said he didn’t understand the eccentricity that made Lord Niu resent what other daimyo accepted. “Would he really try to kill my father?”

  A sob choked Midori.

  “Oh.” Hirata paused. “Is he always like that?”

  “Not always.” Midori couldn’t bear to tell Hirata that Lord Niu’s bad spells were often worse. “Is your father still angry, do you think?” she ventured timidly. “Is he very much against the match?”

  “…I didn’t have much chance to talk to him.”

  She could tell Hirata was trying to shield her from painful truth, and panic filled her because their marriage seemed even more impossible than ever, despite the increasing necessity of it. Every day Midori suffered from nausea; every day her body swelled larger with the new life growing in her.

  “What are we going to do?” she cried.

  “Maybe if we wait awhile,” Hirata said, “the whole thing will blow over.”

  He spoke without hope, and the idea of delaying alarmed Midori. “How long should we wait?”

  “At least a few days. Or maybe a month would be better.”

  “A month!” By then the pregnancy would be apparent to everyone. Midori feared that her disgrace would make both families even less amenable to the marriage. “That’s too long!” Her voice rose in hysteria. “We have to do something now!”

  “Forcing the issue right away would only hurt our chances.” Hirata looked puzzled by her agitation. “We must be patient.”

  “I can’t!”

  “It’s no use getting so upset,” Hirata said. Taking her in his arms, he caressed her hair, her face, her bosom; passion strengthened his grip. “Calm down.”

  The amorous attentions she’d once welcomed now alarmed Midori. “No! Don’t!” She tore free of Hirata.

  “I’m sorry,” Hirata said, chastened. “Forgive me.”

  She saw that he didn’t understand why she’d rejected him, and she’d hurt his feelings. But she was scared to tell him about the child, or let him touch her and guess. Although refusing him now wouldn’t protect her from what had already happened, she couldn’t bear more forbidden intimacies.

  “I should go,” he said, backing out of the pine grove.

  “No. Wait!” Midori lurched after Hirata and clung to him, weeping again.

  He held her cautiously, but he spoke with a determination that gave her hope: “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to make everything all right.”

  Hirata climbed off his horse beside a wooden notice board that stood at the foot of the Nihonbashi Bridge. As pedestrians streamed across the bridge, he pinned up a notice that read, “Anyone who has seen, heard of, or knows any man from Hokkaido, presently living in or formerly a resident of Edo, is ordered to report the information to His Excellency the Shogun’s Ssakan-sama.”

  Contemplating the notice, he frowned in frustration, because he’d already spent hours searching teahouses in Suruga for Lady Wisteria and her lover, but found naught. He began to doubt that the many notices he’d posted along the way would bring success. Tired, cold, and hungry now, he bought tea and a lunchbox of sushi from a passing vendor and perched on the bridge’s railing.

  Barges drifted down the canal below him. Crowds thronged the lanes and stalls outside the fish market on the bank. The smell of rotting fish permeated the moist, gray air; seagulls winged and squawked in the overcast sky. As Hirata ate, the problems of love and work weighed upon his spirits. He had little hope that time would heal the offense caused his father by Lord Niu, and if he didn’t find Wisteria’s lover, he and Sano might never solve the murder case.

  A commotion on the bridge diverted Hirata’s attention from his gloomy thoughts. He looked up to see
what was happening, and his spirits rose. The man walking toward Hirata had coarse black hair that sprang from his head and grew in a thick beard upon his cheeks, chin, and neck. Beady eyes peered from under shaggy brows. He wore a padded cotton cloak that was too large for his small stature. His pawlike hand held one end of a rope. The other end circled the neck of a large, snarling brown monkey with a red face. As man led beast along the bridge, pedestrians laughed, pointed, and exclaimed.

  “Rat!” Hirata called, beckoning.

  The man ambled up to Hirata and grinned, baring feral teeth. “Good day,” he said in an odd, rustic accent. He bowed, and at a command from him, the monkey followed suit. “How do you like the latest addition to my show?”

  The Rat operated a freak show that featured peculiar animals as well as deformed humans, and he roamed all over Japan in a continuous search for new attractions.

  “He’s amazing.” Hirata reached out to pet the monkey’s head. “Where did you get him?”

  “Don’t touch him—he bites,” the Rat warned, jerking on the rope as the monkey screeched at Hirata. “He’s from Tohoku. One might almost say our kinfolk are neighbors. I grew up in Hokkaido, you know.”

  Hirata had known of the Rat’s origin in that far northern island known for cold winters and the copious body hair of the natives. “Speaking of Hokkaido,” he said, “I’m looking for someone from there.” He wondered if Lady Wisteria’s lover was as hairy as the Rat, and shaved to blend with the Edo locals. “Have you come across any of your countrymen around town?”

  Because the Rat collected news and had served as a reliable informant in the past, Hirata hoped for a lead on Wisteria’s lover, but the Rat shook his head.

  “Haven’t seen or heard of any Hokkaido folk in these parts for years,” he said. “Far as I know, I’m the only one in Edo now.”

  An idea occurred to Hirata, and though it seemed ludicrous, he had to ask: “Have you been seeing a courtesan named Wisteria?”

  “Me? Why, no.” The Rat looked dumbfounded, then guffawed. “Oh, you’re joking. Even if I could afford Yoshiwara, those women would run screaming from me.”

  Hirata experienced discouragement, because if the Rat knew nothing of Wisteria’s lover, then the man had kept himself well hidden. Or perhaps the pages he’d bought from Gorobei were a false clue, as Reiko had suggested. “Let me know anything you hear about a Hokkaido man, particularly one traveling with a woman,” Hirata said.

  “Will do.” The Rat ambled away with his monkey.

  Impatient for action, Hirata decided to press onward to Fukagawa and search the noodle shops where Lady Wisteria and her lover might have taken refuge. But first he would visit his family and test the chances of his marriage to Midori.

  16

  A horde of bureaucrats paraded in and out of Sano’s mansion, all with the intent of heaping suspicion on their enemies. They besieged Sano with unsubstantiated accusations until his mind whirled. By midmorning he couldn’t endure any more self-serving attempts to manipulate him. Finally, during a break between calls, Sano donned his outdoor clothes and swords, then left the house in search of the one person who could tell him which rumors were true or false.

  The day was cold and bleak, the sky like raw, soiled cotton, the moist air gritty with soot. Below Edo Castle, the steel-gray river and canals carved a monotone cityscape. The hazy peaks of the hills outside town smudged the distance. Sano passed hurrying officials and patrolling troops as he ascended through the castle’s stone-walled passages. Everyone’s expression appeared as dismal as the weather. Sano walked faster, uneasy in the tension created by Lord Mitsuyoshi’s murder; he could almost smell the impending purge in the air. Entering the palace, he proceeded to a secluded area in which he’d first set foot a lifetime ago.

  Here, hidden within a labyrinth of corridors, government offices, and reception rooms, lay the headquarters of the metsuke. The Tokugawa intelligence service occupied a room whose mean proportions belied its power. In compartments divided by paper-and-wood screens, men smoked tobacco pipes and studied maps hung on the walls; they conversed together or pored over papers at desks laden with scrolls, message containers, books, and writing implements. As Sano passed, heads turned toward him, and voices lowered.

  Inside the last compartment knelt a samurai dressed in black. He looked up from reading a ledger and bowed to Sano. “Greetings, Ssakan-sama.”

  Sano returned the bow. “Greetings, Toda-san.”

  Toda Ikkyu was a senior intelligence agent, and of such nondescript appearance that Sano might not recognize him if they met anywhere else. Neither short nor tall, fat nor thin, old nor young, Toda had weary eyes set in a face that no one would notice in a crowd. Sano had consulted Toda on past cases, and Toda had once described how he’d spied on an official suspected of treason. The official never recognized Toda, although they both worked in the palace and passed each other in the corridors daily. He went to his death on the execution ground without knowing who’d sent him there.

  “Can you spare me a moment of your time?” Sano asked, imagining that he might someday find himself the unwitting prey of the metsuke agent.

  “Certainly.” Toda motioned for Sano to sit near him. His languid voice and gesture belonged to a man who seldom roused from a natural state of ennui. “I suppose this visit concerns your investigation of Lord Mitsuyoshi’s murder?”

  “Yes,” Sano said.

  “And you’ve come to me because you’re deluged with rumors.”

  Sano chuckled, because the extent of Toda’s knowledge never ceased to amaze him. Toda also chuckled.

  “It never ceases to amaze me how far you’ve risen in the world since we first met,” Toda said.

  They’d met during Sano’s first murder case, when Sano had discovered a plot against the shogun and had come to Edo Castle to report it to the metsuke.

  “To go from renegade policeman on a personal crusade to Most Honorable Investigator for His Excellency is no small accomplishment,” Toda said. “That you’ve kept the post for four years is a miracle, considering all the troubles you’ve had.”

  “Is it any more a miracle than that you’ve kept your post in spite of all your troubles?” Sano couldn’t resist saying.

  Toda had disbelieved Sano’s story about the plot, and later, the shogun had punished the entire metsuke for failing to take the threat seriously. Agents had been demoted, banished, and executed, yet Toda had somehow survived. Sano suspected that Toda knew the secrets of many members of the bakufu’s upper echelon, and had blackmailed them into protecting him.

  Now Toda smiled complacently. “We’ve both been fortunate,” he said.

  “Good fortune is an impermanent condition,” Sano said, “but perhaps we can maintain ours by working together.”

  Toda’s expression didn’t change, but Sano felt the man’s resistance to the hint that he’d better grant the favor Sano was about to ask. Metsuke agents had a habit of hoarding facts. They liked to know things that others didn’t, they jealously guarded their unique power, and they wanted sole credit for keeping Japan under the bakufu’s control. But sometimes their habit backfired on them.

  After the Black Lotus crisis, a disturbing fact had come to light: The metsuke possessed years of records that described the sect’s illegal practices, yet had not only failed to prevent the sect from gaining an immense, dangerous following but had withheld their records from the Minister of Temples and Shrines, who’d tried to thwart the Black Lotus and asked the metsuke’s help. Further investigation revealed sect members within the ranks of the metsuke. Toda had survived the purge that ensued, but even he wasn’t invincible. The murder of Lord Mitsuyoshi was such a politically sensitive issue that for Toda to refuse to cooperate with Sano’s investigation equaled suicide.

  “What can I do for you?” Toda said with weary capitulation.

  “Let’s start with Treasury Minister Nitta,” Sano said.

  The agent looked around the office, then rose and said, “Let’
s go elsewhere, shall we?”

  Soon they were walking along the Edo Castle racetrack. In summer, this was the scene of samurai riding horses at a furious pace, while palace officials cheered. But now the track was a bare strip of earth, the benches vacant; only a faint smell of manure lingered. An empty meadow, surrounded by pine trees and stone walls, isolated Sano and Toda.

  “Is it true that Nitta embezzles from the treasury?” Sano said.

  Toda looked as though he’d guessed what Sano would say, but frowned, nonetheless perturbed. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Nitta seems to have mentioned it to Lady Wisteria, who told another client,” Sano said.

  “Well, he’s the subject of a highly confidential investigation,” Toda said. “I’m surprised that Nitta would incriminate himself, but men are sometimes careless about what they tell courtesans.”

  “Then Nitta was embezzling,” Sano inferred.

  Toda nodded, gazing over the walls at the rooftops of the palace stables. A flock of crows perched in the pine trees. “There have been discrepancies between tributes sent from the provinces and the money in the treasury accounts. After we investigated, our suspicion settled on Nitta. He’d always been honest before, but Yoshiwara is an expensive habit. We placed him under secret surveillance and observed him taking gold from the storehouse at night. He alters the entries in the account books to hide the missing money.”

  The agent gave Sano a sharp glance. “How does Nitta’s embezzlement fit into the murder case? Is he a likelier suspect because of it?”

  “That’s possible,” Sano said. “Maybe he killed Wisteria because he regretted telling her about his embezzlement and wanted to prevent her from reporting him. Even if she didn’t have proof, and she was just a prostitute, her accusation could have hurt him.”