Kill the Shogun

CHAPTER 15

Hanzo rushed into the theater. He made his way past the half-empty floor and up to the stage, going behind the curtain. “All of Ningyo-cho is blocked off!” he exclaimed to Goro and Kaze. “Soldiers are going from building to building, searching them!”

“What are they looking for?” Goro asked.

“Obviously, me,” Kaze said.

The two peasants looked at the ronin with wide eyes. “If you were going to collect on that reward, now is the time to run to the soldiers and tell them I’m here,” Kaze continued. “If you help conceal me, you will become conspirators with me, and will be putting yourself in as much danger as I’m in.”

The two peasants looked at each other. Peasants were supposed to be masters of guile, and Kaze knew from contact with them that most peasants could be secretive and ruthless. These two seemed incapable of guile, however, and Kaze could see a whole range of emotions stream across their faces: surprise, fear, greed, uncertainty, and, finally, resolve.

“You are the only samurai who has ever treated us like men,” Hanzo said. “All others of your class have treated us as creatures lower than the beasts in the fields.” Looking at his partner, Hanzo said, “What do you say, Goro? Let’s help Kaze-san.”

“Hai! I agree!”

Hanzo looked around. “Maybe we can cover you with some of those costumes and baskets,” he said. “We can do it in a private corner when the actors are busy putting on their costumes.”

Kaze shook his head. “No. Under a pile of baskets or costumes is the first place they’ll look.” He glanced over at the low chests of makeup used the by actors. “I have a better idea.”

The squad of soldiers marched down the street, two or three of them breaking ranks to check each shop and house. Darkness had fallen, and the street was illuminated by the warm glow of torches and lanterns. The soft yellow light clashed with the hard reflections thrown off by spear blades, armor plate, and drawn swords. The curious gathered on the street to gape at the unusual sight. Curious or not, each person, whether on the street or in a building, was looked at by the soldiers. If a man of the right age and build was discovered, he was led to a nearby group with one of the soldiers who had seen Kaze at Inatomi’s house.

A runner approached the leader of a squad marching down the street toward Goro and Hanzo’s theater. “Anything to report, sir?” the runner asked.

The captain shook his head and winced. It was the officer whom Kaze had hit with the stick, and his atama, his head, still hurt. “No. Tell Yoshida-sama we haven’t found anyone suspicious yet, except the usual collection of whores and gamblers.” The runner scurried off to report as the squad approached the theater.

“Ka-bu-ki,” the captain read off the cloth banner over the door. “What’s that?”

“This is where the loose women were dancing, sir. Remember? We closed them down two weeks ago. They’ve reopened with new owners. I looked at them, and they seem to be doing some kind of plays, but none of the women are dancing lewdly.”

“Women onstage!” The captain shook his head, uncertain of what was becoming of the world, then regretted it. He held his head steady for a few seconds, until the dizziness and pain subsided. “I’ll take a squad in here myself. I know what the dog looks like, and it will be easy for me to identify him if he’s hiding here.”

The captain entered with a half-dozen spearmen. In the lobby, he met a nervous peasant who apparently was the manager or owner of the theater.

“Your name?” the captain demanded.

“I am called Hanzo, Captain-sama.” Hanzo bobbed up and down so low his head almost hit the ground. As a peasant, Hanzo didn’t have a last name. Only samurai and nobles were afforded the privilege of a last name. Watching the constant bowing of the peasant made the captain’s head hurt more. He aimed a well-placed kick at the peasant, hitting his leg and causing the fool to land with a yelp on the floor. Not bothering to see the result of his kick, the captain led his men into the theater.

The theater was sparsely populated. The floor was covered with a grid of low wooden walls, no higher than a man’s calf, forming box seats. Only a few of the boxes had people in them, sitting on tatami mats. Although the theater was nearly empty, the patrons who were there seemed fascinated by the action on the stage. Most of the boxes had food of some sort, either bought at the theater or carried in by the audience, but not a bite was taken, because all eyes were on the stage.

There a man and woman were center stage, with a shamisen player and tsuzumi drum player to the side of the stage, providing a musical counterpoint to dialogue being declaimed by the two actors.

The woman was dressed in a gaudy red-and-yellow kimono, and her face was covered in white makeup, with high, arched eyebrows painted on her forehead and painted red lips; redder than the brightest red tsubaki, camellia. She was kneeling on the stage. Even with the makeup, the captain could see this was no beauty, and he surmised that the women who were dancing lewdly at the theater had moved on to other, and more direct, occupations. Still, even though she wasn’t a beauty, there was something in the way she held her body and tilted her head that gave the captain the impression that she was strangely attractive. The pose of her body made the captain understand that she was playing a well-born young maiden.

The ability to communicate age and station in life with a few subtle gestures was extraordinary, but it was the other man onstage, dressed as a monk, who riveted the audience, and for good reason. The man wore a wig with black hair wildly flying up, and his face was painted pure white, like the maiden’s. On this white face was painted a bold pattern of black lines, intended to show the deep wrinkles of an old man. It was a surprising and flamboyant makeup, unlike anything the captain had seen before.

The monk shuffled across the stage, looking up to the sky and sniffing the air.

“Lo, these many years I have stayed in the mountains,” the monk declaimed. “I was brought to the mountains by my revered Sensei when I was but a child. He taught me the holy sutras and the ways of the ascetic. I have never known the company of others, save for the few men who have visited me on this mountain. I have lived a holy life, pure and chaste, and far from the temptations of the flesh, and I know little of the ways of men. It has been a lonely life, and one without company, save for a few wandering monks and an occasional woodcutter.”

The soldiers stepped over the low walls that made up the box seats in front of the stage. Surprised patrons looked up as the soldiers methodically went from enclosure to enclosure, looking each patron in the face to make sure none matched the description of Kaze. The performance didn’t stop, and if the actors and musicians were surprised to see the soldiers in the audience, they didn’t show it.

The monk crossed the stage and stumbled across the kneeling woman. Reacting in surprise, the monk looked at the audience and said, “But wait, what kind of man is this? His face is fairer than any other I have seen. His hair is long and thick and silky and it smells of flowers. His kimono is colorful but oddly shaped and soft. He is unlike any other man I have seen in my lonely mountain retreat. Who are you, stranger?”

The maiden made no reply and modestly hid her face. A few members of the audience snickered, and even the captain smiled.

“Now this is a strange fellow!” the monk continued. “I wonder why he is so oddly shaped and lumpy. Could he be concealing something under his robes? I must investigate!”

The audience started giggling as the monk walked up to the maiden and stood behind her. She maintained her silence, demurely looking at the ground.

“Can you tell me why you are here, stranger? Are you fleeing someone, or perhaps you are lost?” the monk asked. The girl remained silent.

“Well, then perhaps you will not object if I search you, to see what you are carrying under those robes. Those objects may give me an idea of who you are and why you have disturbed the solitude of my mountain.”

The monk bent and placed a hand on the maiden’s neck. He looked up at the audience. “This is interesting. The stranger has skin as smooth and fragrant as the petals of the botan. It is not rough and coarse as my own skin or the skin of other men.”

He dipped his hand into the maiden’s kimono, cupping a breast. “Unusual! This man has a large lump growing on his chest!” He shifted his hand as the audience broke into laughter. “There are two lumps on this strange man’s chest! Whatever could they be?”

After fondling the maiden for a moment, the monk said, “More and more puzzling! There are tiny nubs on the tips of these mounds of flesh, hard as pebbles and curiously pleasing to rub!” Even the soldiers searching the audience kept glancing up at the stage, laughing along with the crowd.

“Ah, by the Gods, I must investigate this situation further!” The monk dropped to one knee so he could insert his hand deeper into the maiden’s kimono.

“Yes, this man has a flat stomach with no further lumps, but it is soft as a downy futon and not hard as my own is. Now to investigate further!” The monk pushed his hand even deeper into the kimono of the woman and assumed a look of total shock and befuddlement, the outrageous makeup on his face amplifying his amazed expression. The audience was near tears from laughter.

“Oh terrible fate! Oh calamity! This man must have been the victim of a dreadful accident! Deep in his groin I feel the proper hair of a man, but the poor fellow is missing his chinchin!” At the use of childhood slang, the audience burst into a new wave of laughter. The soldiers had stopped even making a show of questioning the audience, and were standing around, looking at the stage and laughing.

The monk stayed frozen, a look of complete befuddlement on his face. After the laughter died down, the maiden finally broke her silence.

“Ah, gentle hermit, I can see you are not familiar with the ways of the world! I am an onna, a woman, and what you are feeling is my bobo.” The country vulgarity set the audience to howling again.

When the laughter subsided, the monk stood and said, “This is a most wondrous thing, this woman! But why would the Gods make woman so different from man?”

The maiden turned her head to look at the monk. From her kneeling position, when she turned she was staring pointedly at the monk’s crotch, her nose just inches away. She waited for the audience’s laughter to build at her close inspection. Finally, when the laughter subsided, she cleared her throat and said, “I may be missing a chinchin, but I see your futomara is large enough for both of us.” At the use of a colloquialism for a large penis, the wave of laughter from the audience, which had subsided temporarily, suddenly reached a new crescendo. When the audience had quieted enough for her to be heard, the maiden said, “With such a futomara, the jade gates of the bobo may provide one with a new and pleasurable way to find enlightenment. It can be a new way to heaven.”

“Can that be true? Can finding enlightenment be as simple as the difference between man and woman? How can that be done?”

“Show me to your hermit’s hut and I will demonstrate the process,” the maiden said. “I have been fleeing from an unhappy love affair, but I see now that the Gods have guided me to this remote spot so I can do charity work! It will be a blessing to enlighten this innocent monk in the ways of men and women.”

The monk helped the maiden up. Taking his hand, the maiden led the befuddled monk off, stopping to give the audience a sly and knowing look before continuing offstage. The laughing audience gave the performers a hearty round of applause.

Despite his headache, the captain was laughing as hard as the rest of the audience. Pulling himself together, he gruffly shouted to his men, “Come on! We don’t have time for this foolishness!” He turned and stomped out of the theater. Reluctantly, the men followed.