“Sano-san!” Koemon came toward him, smiling. Bowing low, he said, “Good evening.”
Sano greeted his old friend. They’d grown up together, but as adults Koemon always addressed Sano with the respect due him as the master’s son. Now, seeing Koemon looking relaxed and confident in the world he himself had left behind, Sano experienced a twinge of envy. His past was closed to him; he couldn’t go back. The present, with its greater financial rewards and troubling conflicts, was all he had.
“So what do you think?” Koemon asked, gesturing toward the class.
Contemplating the students, whose faces were familiar, and the array of weapons, which was not, Sano nodded. “Times have changed,” he said.
He and his father and Koemon had debated for several years whether to include nontraditional weapons in the school’s curriculum. His father, a strict devotee of kenjutsu, had wanted to limit instruction to the art of swordsmanship.
“Nowadays a samurai must be prepared to face opponents armed with a variety of weapons, and besides, the school must offer something new to attract pupils.” Sano repeated the arguments that he and Koemon had used to counter the old man’s opposition. But seeing that the change had been made in his absence gave him an inexplicable touch of uneasiness that he forgot when he noticed the weapon that Koemon held.
“You teach the art of the jitte?” he asked.
Koemon shrugged. “The basics. I’m no expert at it.”
More out of curiosity than need, Sano had experimented with the jitte in the practice hall at the barracks. “Let’s try it now,” he said, shedding his cloak and hat and rolling up his sleeves.
With Koemon using a wooden sword in deliberate slow motion, Sano demonstrated how to deflect its blade, and how to deliver counterblows with the jitte.
“Parry like this,” he said, raising the jitte to block a cut to his shoulder. “Counterstrike before your opponent recovers- quickly, because his reach is longer than yours.”
He swung the weapon around to tap its slender shaft against Koemon’s arm. After blocking another cut, he thrust the blunt end at his friend’s neck.
“And when the time is right-” He arrested Koemon’s next slice by catching the blade in the jitte’s prongs. One sharp twist, and he’d wrenched the weapon from his friend’s hand. “With enough force, you can break your opponent’s sword in two.”
Then they exchanged weapons so he could demonstrate how to keep one’s blade free of the jitte‘s prongs and the footwork necessary to avoid getting thrown or hit once the blade was caught. Soon he was hot and sweaty, his energy flowing with the welcome exercise. It felt good to be back in the familiar practice room. He could almost believe he still belonged there.
When they’d finished, Koemon turned to the class, raising his voice over the din:
“That’s all for today!”
At his command, the pupils froze. Silence fell over the room. They bowed to their opponents and to Sano and their sensei, then filed toward the dressing-room door.
“Where is my father?” Sano asked when he and Koemon were alone. “Out on business?”
Koemon hesitated. “He didn’t come in today.”
Sano’s uneasiness returned. His father never missed a day of work. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Koemon avoided Sano’s eyes, indicating that he did know what was wrong, but either didn’t want to say or had been told not to.
Sano bid a hasty good-bye to his friend. Now the change in the school’s curriculum took on an ominous significance. Why had his father finally consented to it? With a knot of worry tightening in his stomach, Sano left the practice room. He led his horse around the corner, down the narrow side lane. There high fences shielded the rear lots of the businesses, where the proprietors’ living quarters were located. Through chinks in the fences, he could see the yellow flicker of lamps burning in gardens and hear the customary evening sounds: servants chattering, wooden buckets thunking their way up from wells, horses whinnying in stables behind the houses. The pungent odors of miso soup and garlic drifted from kitchens. But food was the farthest thing from Sano’s mind as he pushed open his parents’ gate.
He backed his horse into its space in the stable in the garden. Seeing the other stall empty increased his anxiety. His father had been predicting his own death for several years now. But the old man’s failure to replace his horse when it died a few months ago was a more eloquent and sobering statement that his life was nearing its end.
Sano went into the house, leaving his shoes and swords in the entry way. In the large, earth-floored kitchen to his right, the elderly maid Hana knelt before the stove, stirring soup. Beside it, a pot of rice simmered. Vegetables lay on a wooden table beside the stone washbasin. Two black lacquer ozen stood near the wall, already set with bowls, chopsticks, and saucers. Sano nodded in response to Hana’s smiling bow. She’d worked for the family since before his birth; normally he would have paused to chat with her, but a deep, barking cough sounded from inside the main room. Sano slid open the door.
His father sat huddled beneath a voluminous quilt. Bent over double, he coughed wrackingly into the cloth that Sano’s mother held to his mouth. Then he drew a shallow, gasping breath and began to cough again. Sano’s mother made soothing noises. With her free hand, she pulled the end of the quilt over the brazier, so that its warmth might reach her husband. An oil lamp on the floor beside them cast their shadows against the walls of the small room and highlighted the lines of suffering on the old man’s emaciated face.
“Otōsan!” Sano cried in dismay.
For a long time now, his father’s health had been poor without ever seeming to get worse. Now Sano was shocked to see how much his father had deteriorated in just one month.
Both parents turned simultaneously to look at him, his father’s cough subsiding.
“Otōsan, why didn’t you tell me you were ill?” Sano demanded, kneeling beside his father.
Spent, eyes closed, the old man shook his head. One thin hand came out from under the quilt and feebly waved away Sano’s question.
Sano’s mother answered for her husband. “He didn’t want to worry you, Ichirō-chan,” she said. “And anyway, he’s much better today. He’ll be fine soon.” Her voice and smile were bright, but her careworn face told the truth. She looked down at the cloth she held. Seeing the bloodstains, she hastily hid it in her lap.
“Has he seen the doctor?” Sano asked her, trying not to show impatience with her self-delusion. She had always denied the existence of problems, both because she hoped that to do so would make them go away, and because her upbringing had taught her to always present an untroubled facade to the world. He couldn’t force her to confront the gravity of his father’s illness; time and nature would do that. Pity for her nearly overshadowed his own grief.
“No doctor,” Sano’s father rasped. He coughed again-a mercifully short spell this time-then said, “It grows late. We will eat now. Omae, bring the food. Our son must not go hungry.”
Sano’s mother rose obediently and left the room.
With an aching heart, Sano noted another ominous change in his father. The old man had never liked to talk about his symptoms- the cough, the pains, the fever, the difficulty in breathing. Still, he’d willingly consulted doctors and tried their remedies; he’d visited fortune tellers to find out how long he had to live; he’d gone to both Shinto and Buddhist priests for prayers that might convince the gods to spare his life. Now, though, he was accepting his illness and its inevitable result with stoic resignation. Sano’s eyes burned with unshed tears. Not wanting his parents to see them, he bent his head over the damp washcloth that his mother brought him. He could not meet her eyes as she gave his hand a brief caress.
Hana placed food-laden ozen before Sano and his father. They ate in silence, as usual strictly observing the custom of no conversation during meals. With nothing to distract him, Sano couldn’t help noticing how little his father ate, and how slowly. A fe
w spoonfuls of miso soup, a fragment of pickled white radish, and a sliver of fish, with tiny sips of tea between bites. His mother, who usually plied Sano with more food than he could eat, instead devoted her whole attention to constantly refilling her husband’s dishes in a futile effort to make him eat more. Sano resolved to bring up the subject of doctors again when the meal ended.
But when the ozen were removed and the smoking tray brought, his father spoke first.
“I have found a prospective bride for you, Ichirō,” he said. “She is Ikeda Akiko, nineteen years old, with a dowry of four hundred ryō.”
Sano kept his face expressionless. His father persisted in making proposals on his behalf only to the daughters of wealthy samurai. This was why Sano remained unhappily single at the advanced age of thirty. He didn’t want to contradict his father, but he hated to see him suffer yet another humiliation when, predictably, the proposal was rejected.
He said, “The Ikedas rank far above us, Otōsan. I don’t think they would want me for a son-in-law.”
“Nonsense!” His father’s exclamation set off another coughing fit. “Our go-between will send gifts and contact them to arrange a miai. I am sure they will consent. Especially now that you are a yoriki.”
Yoriki or not, the Ikedas would never agree to the miai-a formal meeting of him and Akiko and the two families-Sano knew. They would probably send the gifts back by return messenger.
“Yes, Otōsan,” he said, afraid his father would cough again if he disagreed. Surely that frail body could not stand much more strain.
Satisfied, his father changed the subject. “Does your work go well, my son?” he asked, lighting his pipe from the metal basket of embers on the tray. He took a puff, coughed, spat into a napkin, and set the pipe down.
Sano decided to say nothing about Magistrate Ogyu’s reprimand or the illicit murder investigation. Instead he described his office, his duties, and his living quarters, presenting each in as favorable a light as possible without boasting. He didn’t mention his colleagues’ coldness or his own unhappiness.
The gleam of pride in his father’s eyes was his reward. The old man sat straighter, and Sano could see the warrior who had once stood against entire classes of samurai in practice sword fights.
“Continue to serve well and faithfully in your position,” he admonished, “and you will never lack a master. You must never become rōnin.”
His father had become a rōnin-a masterless samurai-when the third Tokugawa shogun, Iemitsu, had confiscated Lord Kū’s lands forty years ago, turning the Sano family and the rest of the lord’s retainers out to fend for themselves. His pride had never recovered from the blow of losing his master, his livelihood, and the hereditary position that had come down to him through many generations. But unlike other rōnin, he hadn’t turned into an outlaw or rebel. Instead, he’d founded the academy and lived quietly, nursing his shame and sorrow. When Sano first heard as a child of the Great Conspiracy of four hundred rōnin who had tried to overthrow the government, he hadn’t believed the story. As an adult, he was aware of the undercurrent of dissatisfaction that flowed beneath the country’s peaceful surface, and of the Tokugawas’ ongoing efforts to sniff out and contain the rebellions that arose among idle, unemployed samurai. But as a boy, he’d mistakenly assumed that all rōnin were strict, law-abiding men like his father, who directed their energy and ambition toward making their sons succeed where they had failed. Now he felt a surge of guilt as he wondered what his father would think if he knew how Sano had risked disgrace and possible dismissal by disobeying his new master’s orders.
At the same time, a spark of irrational anger kindled in him. Hadn’t his father, however unintentionally, fostered the searching, inquiring nature that now placed his future at risk? Hadn’t his father sent him to the temple school to study literature, composition, math, law, history, political theory, and the Chinese classics to supplement the military skills he learned at home? The monks had educated him far beyond the usual scope of the common foot soldier, now virtually obsolete in a country without war. They’d taught him to think rather than to blindly follow orders, as he would have to do in the high-level government position his father had desired for him.
“Now that you are on the path to glory, I can leave this world willingly, with a peaceful mind,” his father added softly, as if to himself.
Sano’s anger died; guilt remained. He realized that his father had fought illness and held on to life just long enough to see him settled. Now the old man was giving up. How could Sano jeopardize the position that was supposed to secure the future his father wanted for him? How could he pursue a course that was bound to put him at odds with those who now controlled that future? The answer was simple enough: he couldn’t. His father’s spirit would never forgive him. The murder investigation wasn’t worth that; truth and justice wouldn’t bring Noriyoshi and Yukiko back to life. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he failed in the obligation that his own name set out for him.
Ichirō. First-born son.
And, since he was an only child, the burden of filial duty rested on him alone.
Chapter 7
The eighteenth day of the twelfth month, Genroku year one,” Sano dictated. “Record of the day’s police activities.” He proceeded to summarize the reports given him by the doshin. “Total arrests: forty-seven. Seventeen for disorderly conduct, twelve for theft, eight for mistreating or killing dogs, six for assault, three for adultery, one for prostitution outside the licensed quarter.
“Two samurai-one disorderly conduct, one assault-were placed under house arrest. The commoners were remanded to Edo Jail. The heads of all three adultresses have been shaved, and their husbands granted divorces.”
When Tsunehiko handed him the finished report, he affixed his seal to it. “Take this to Magistrate Ogyu’s office. Then you may go home. That’s all for today.”
He suppressed a yawn, rubbing his eyes. They felt gritty and sore from lack of sleep. Last night he hadn’t returned to the barracks. Instead he’d stayed at his parents’ house, alternately sitting at his father’s bedside, bathing the old man’s face and administering herb tea to ease the pain, and lying awake listening to the coughs that shook the house.
Tsunehiko hovered in the doorway. “Yoriki Sano-san, we didn’t do any investigating today,” he said. “What about tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid we won’t be doing any more, Tsunehiko.” This time the yawn escaped, and Sano covered his mouth. “Not tomorrow, or ever.”
Tsunehiko’s face mirrored Sano’s own unhappiness. “Why not? It was so much fun!”
Having spent the entire night convincing himself of the rightness of dropping the investigation, Sano didn’t want to think or talk about it. So he only said, “Because duty and obligation dictate otherwise,” knowing that Tsunehiko, with his own samurai upbringing, would accept this explanation without question.
After Tsunehiko had left, Sano cleared his desk, then crossed the courtyard to the barracks. The weather had turned warmer, bringing the promise of spring. The late afternoon sun shone golden from a sky filled with puffy white clouds. In Yoshiwara, the nightlong festivities would have already begun. The yūjo-those exquisite, expensive prostitutes-would beckon customers from the windows of the pleasure houses. One, he knew, Wisteria of the Palace of the Heavenly Garden, held the key to Noriyoshi’s and Yukiko’s murders…
Sano resolutely forced the thought away. He would go right to bed, without even eating dinner. When he entered his room, however, he hesitated before the cabinet that held his bedding. Tired as he was, he knew sleep would elude him while he wondered about Wisteria. Slowly he opened the cabinet and took out the futon and quilts, but stopped short of spreading them on the floor. He reminded himself of all the reasons he should not go to Yoshiwara. His father. His future. Duty, honor. But his desire for knowledge only grew stronger, until he could no longer deny it satisfaction. With a sudden recklessness, he dropped the bedding and went to the cabine
t where his clothes were stored. He donned a long gray cloak and a wide, face-concealing straw hat. He gathered up all his cash-not only because spending time in Yoshiwara could get expensive, but because he might have to bribe someone for the information he wanted. Then he walked to the stables to get his horse. He would take the faster land route this time, instead of the slow ferry.
As he mounted his horse, he realized that, despite his firm resolutions, he’d meant to do this all along. Today he’d carried out his administrative duties without deviation from procedure or custom. But the one thing he hadn’t done was complete the report that would close the investigation into Noriyoshi’s and Yukiko’s deaths.
“One last interview can’t hurt,” he rationalized aloud, surprising the grooms. “After this, I’ll stop.”
Still, he couldn’t quite shake his guilt or his premonition of impending disaster.
Nighttime Yoshiwara more than lived up to Sano’s memories. Beneath a fading crimson sunset, Naka-no-cho glittered with life and excitement. Lanterns blazed from the eaves. Restaurants, their doors thrown wide open, emitted the delicious smells of all possible foods-fried noodles, grilled fish and shrimp, and sweet cakes among them-to tempt the strolling crowds. Raucous laughter erupted from the teahouses; each window framed a tableau of joking, posturing men tossing back cups of sake. Beautiful yūjo in gaudy kimonos filled the window cages of the pleasure houses like so many exotic butterflies, with groups of hungry-eyed men loitering before them. The women flirted with the men in shrill voices. From the lighted rooms behind the women, samisen music issued: a few lucky men had already chosen their companions, and the parties had begun.
SI1 Shinju (1994) Page 9
